He loosed his hold, and his English heart

Took part with the dead before him;

And he honoured the brave who died sword in hand, As with softened brow he leant o'er him.

"A soldier's death thou hast boldly died,

A soldier's grave won by it:

Before I would take this sword from thine hand,

My own life's blood should dye it.

Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow,
Or the wolf to batten o'er thee;
Or the coward insult the gallant dead,
Who in life had trembled before thee."

Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth,
Where his warrior foe was sleeping;
And he laid him there in honour and rest,
With his sword in his own brave keeping!

L. E. Landon.

COUNT GERO OF MONTFORT.

It was De Montfort, age-worn knight,
Gaz'd on the lake's blue deep,
And mark'd the shallops float in light,
On the still wave asleep;

Earth, water, heaven, in dread repose;
And yearn'd to be at peace like those.

And, as he from that trance awoke,
He call'd his followers true,

And words of love and blessing spoke,
And bade a last adieu;

Took leave of lordship, towers, and land,
And rode to the far distant strand.

And lo! while there he listening stood,
Up sprang a freshening breeze;
And straight St. Peter's Abbot good
Upon the beach he sees.

A skiff with swelling sail lay nigh;
O, but his heart beat yearningly!

St. Peter's house, that stilly spot
Kiss'd by the rippling wave,
His soul, the fires of youth forgot,
Desires for home and grave.
All earthly gauds and joys laid by,
There will he serve his God, and die.

The Churchman blest that counsel wise;
On board the Count he bore,
And for the cloister, with his prize,
Push'd lightly from the shore.
Now float they on the exulting blue :

O, but the Count exulted too!

Much mov'd, he spake, "O, coulds't thou see, Lord Abbot, half my joy!

That water gazes up at me,

Like mother on her boy!

For know, by yonder rocky horn,
On shipboard I myself was born:

And, as I in this shallop lie,

Rock'd on the glittering deep,

I feel once more in infancy
On cradle couch asleep;

My mother's voice is murmuring nigh,
And fills my ear with lullaby."

Meanwhile the bark drives cheerly on;

They see the tall Horn rise;

The Count, with mingling thoughts foredone,

Closes his weary eyes;

And by the rudder's even play,

Stretch'd on the deck he slumbering lay.

And as the light bark sweeps along,

His natal spot they near;

Then fell his mother's cradle song
So softly on his ear!

He oped his eyes, and cried, "How deep,
O mother, was that blessed sleep!"

He droop'd his weary lids once more,
Yet deeper on to rest.

Stay, shallop, stay! thy course is o'er-
In haven is thy guest.

The Abbot kneels before him now,
And signs the death-cross on his brow.

Make in the holy house his grave;
Amid the chantry lay:

By the warbling wave, at first that gave,
And now hath ta'en away:

In gentle peace, secure from harms,
He slumbers in the blue lake's arms.

Rev. Henry Thompson.

GRIZZEL HUME.

Sir Patrick Hume of Polwarth, afterwards Lord Marchmont, was one of the leaders of the Jerviswood plot in the reign of Charles II. When this conspiracy was discovered, Sir Patrick, having narrowly escaped falling into the hands of those who were sent to arrest him, concealed himself in a vault in the churchyard of Polwarth, and remained there till his enemies had given up seeking for him in that neighbourhood. During his sojourn in this dark and melancholy lurking-place, his daughter Grizzel, a girl about eighteen years old, conveyed provisions to her father every night. She was obliged to go forth alone, at midnight, for this purpose; and great must have been her alarm and anxiety during each of these perilous expeditions; for had chance discovered her to any evil-disposed person, the secret of her father's hiding-place must inevitably have been discovered, and there can be but little doubt that he would have shared the fate of the noble Baillie of Jerviswood, who, having refused to purchase safety by becoming a witness against Lord Russell, suffered death about this time. Vide SCOTT's Tales of a Grandfather: 2nd series, vol. ii.

WHEN midnight flung o'er earth and sea
Her solemn veil of gloom,

All fearless and alone was she,
The Lady Grizzel Hume,—
Lighted beneath that sable sky
By her young heart's fidelity.

With eyes of hope, and peace, and truth,—

Violets half hid in snow; Wearing the glory of her youth

Upon a cloudless brow;

Oh, seldom hath the silent night
Look'd down upon so fair a sight!

She glides along the shadowy copse,
By field, and hill, and tree,
Light as the noiseless dew, that drops
When none can hear nor see;
Before her home at last she stands,
And lifts the latch with trembling hands.

"Oh, speak, my child, the night is dark, Thou comest pale and fast!"

"I heard the startled watchdog's bark
As his lonely lair I past,

And hurried on, in fear lest he
Should rouse some lurking enemy."

"And couldst thou pass the churchyard drear, Nor pause in chilly dread ?"

66

'Nay, mother, wherefore should I fear
The mute and peaceful dead?

I only thought, how calm they sleep
Who neither feel, nor fear, nor weep."

"Did not thy weary footsteps stray?
The path was dark and long."
"Oh, God was with me on my way,
And so my heart was strong;

I ever thought the stars did shed
A gracious blessing on my head."

"And didst thou see thy father's face ?".
(But here she paused to weep.)
'Ah, mother, yes! I pray for grace
His sweet behest to keep;

He bade me labour still to make
Thy spirit happy, for his sake."

"Bless thee, my comfort and my child !—
What said he further ?-speak!"
"He parted back my hair, and smiled,
And kiss'd my burning cheek,

And said I bravely did, and well,

To visit his forsaken cell."

"And look'd he pale?"

"Ay, somewhat pale,

But firm and blithe of cheer,

Like one whose heart could never fail,
Whose spirit never fear;

And calm and stedfastly he spake

Of things whereat my heart must break.

Yes, changeless was his aspect when
He said that he might die.

But he murmur'd Monmouth's name, and then
A tear was in his eye.

And he brake off, as though in fear
That sound of woe to speak or hear.

He bade me pray at morn and eve
That God would make him strong
Calmly to die, but never leave

The right, nor love the wrong.

I pray, sweet mother, join me thus,-
God give my father back to us!”

Mother and child knelt mutely there,

A sight that angels love;

The incense of their tearful prayer

Rose to the heavens above;

And softer sleep, and hopes more bright,
Came to their troubled hearts that night.

Full oft, when fairer days were come,
Beside a peaceful hearth
That father bless'd his God for HOME,-
The happiest place on earth;

And bent his head, and smiled to see

His daughter's first-born climb his knee.