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Nothiny great is lightly won, nothing won is lost;
Every good deed, nobly done, will repay the cost:
Leave to Heaven, in humble trust, all you will to do;
But, if you succeed, you must“ PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE !”.

ANON.

ROB ROY'S GRAVE.

A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood,
The English ballad-singer's joy!
And Scotland has a thief as good,
An outlaw of as daring mood;
She has her brave Rob Roy!
Then clear the weeds from off his grave,
And let us chant a passing stave
In honour of that hero brave!

Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart,
And wondrous length and strength of arm;
Nor craved he more to quell his foes,

Or keep his friends from harm.

Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave;
Forgive me if the phrase be strong-
A poet worthy of Rob Roy

Must scorn a timid song.

Say, then, that he was wise as brave-
As wise in thought as bold in deed ;
For in the principles of things

He sought his moral creed.

Said generous Rob,—“What need of books ?
Burn all the statutes and their shelves :
They stir us up against our kind;

And worses against ourselves.

We have a passion, make a law,
Too false to guide us or control !
And for the law itself we fight

In bitterness of soul.

And puzzled, blinded thus, we lose
Distinctions that are plain and few;
These find I graven on my heart-

That tells me what to do.

The creatures see of food and field,
And those that travel on the wind !
With them no strise can last; they live

In peace, and peace of mind.

For why? because the good old rule
Sufficeth them, the simple plan,
That they should take who have the power,

And they should keep who can.

A lesson which is quickly learned,
A signal this which all can see !
Thus nothing here provokes the strong

To wanton cruelty.

All freakishness of mind is checked ;
He tamed who foolishly aspires ;
While to the measure of his might

Each fashions his desires.

All kinds and creatures stand and fall
By strength of prowess or of wit ;
'Tis God's appointment who must sway,

And who is to submit.

Since, then, the rule of right is plain,
And longest life is but a day;
To have my ends, maintain my rights,

· I'll take the shortest way.”—

And thus among these rocks he lived, Through summer's heat and winter's snow ; The eagle, he was lord above,

And Rob was lord below.

Yet thou, although with some wild thoughts,
Wild chieftain of a savage clan!
Hadst this to boast of-thou didst love

The liberty of man.

And, had it been thy lot to live
With us who now behold the light,
Thou wouldst have nobly stirred thyself,

And battled for the right.

For thou wert still the poor man's stay,
The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand ;
And all the oppressed, who wanted strength,
Had thine at their command.

WORDSWORTH.

THE SWORD.

'Twas the battle-field, and the cold pale moon

Looked down on the dead and the dying ; And the wind passed o'er with a dirge and a wail,

Where the young and the brave were lying.

With his father's sword in his red right hand,

And the hostile dead around him, Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the ground,

And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.

A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom,

Passed a soldier, his plunder seeking; Careless he stepped where friend and foe

Lay alike in their life-blood reeking.

Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword,

The soldier paused beside it :
He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength,

But the grasp of the dead defied it.
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 bent o'er him.

“A soldier's death thou hast boldly died,

A soldier's grave won by it;-
Before I would take that sword from thy hand,

My own life’s-blood should dye it.

Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow,

Or the wolf to fatten o'er thee;
Nor 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 bráve keeping.

L. E. LANDON."

BRUCE AND THE SPIDER.

For Scotland's and for freedom's right

The Bruce his part had played ;--
In five successive fields of fight

Been conquered and dismayed :
Once more against the English host
His band he led, and once more lost

The meed for which he fought;
And now from battle, faint and worn,
The homeless fugitive, forlorn,

A hut's lone shelter sought.

And cheerless was that resting-place

For him who claimed a throne ;-
His canopy, devoid of grace,

The rude, rough beams alone ;
The heather couch his only bed-
Yet well I ween had slumber fled

From couch of eider down!

Through darksome night till dawn of day,
Absorbed in wakeful thought he lay

Of Scotland and her crown.

The sun rose brightly, and its gleam

Fell on that hapless bed,
And tinged with light each shapeless beam

Which roofed the lowly shed;
When, looking up with wistful eye,
The Bruce beheld a spider try

His filmy thread to fling
From beam to beam of that rude cot-
And well the insect's toilsome lot

Taught Scotland's future king.

Six times the gossamery thread

The wary spider threw ;-
In vain the filmy line was sped,

For powerless or untrue
Each aim appeared, and back recoiled
The patient insect, six times foiled,

And yet unconquered still ;
And soon the Bruce, with eager eye,
Saw him prepare once more to try

His courage, strength, and skill.

One effort more, his seventh and last !

The hero hailed the sign -
And on the wished-for beam hung fast

That slender silken line!
Slight as it was, his spirit caught
The more than omen; for his thought

The lesson well could trace,
Which even “he who runs may read,"
That Perseverance gains its meed,
And Patience wins the race.

BERNARD BARTON,

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