THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSE ABBEY. HEART! that didst press forward still* May this narrow spot inurn Aught that could so beat and burn? Silent-save when early bird Sings where once the mass was heard; Silent-save when breeze's moan Comes through flowers or fretted stone; No, brave heart! though cold and lone, With a mute though stately tread ; Shedding their pale armour's light Bending every warlike plume In the prayer o'er saintly tomb. "Now pass thou forward, as thou wert wont, and Douglas will follow thee or die!" With these words Douglas threw from him the heart of Bruce into mid-battle against the Moors of Spain. Is the noble Douglas nigh, Dreams—the falling of a leaf Wins me from their splendours brief; Dreams, yet bright ones! scorn them not, Thou that seek'st the holy spot; Nor, amidst its lone domain, Call the faith in relics vain! HEMANS. THE SCOTTISH EXILE'S FAREWELL. OUR native land-our native vale- Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes The battle mound-the Border tower, The martyr's grave, the lover's bower- Home of our hearts!-our fathers' home!- Land of the brave and free! We seek a wild and distant shore, But may dishonour blight our fame, Our native land-our native vale- Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, And Scotland's mountains blue! PRINGLE, THE DRUM. YONDER is a little drum hanging on the wall; A cunning workman wrought, and gave the little drum its din. Oh, pleasant are fair Cheviot's hills, with velvet verdure spread; And pleasant 'tis among its heath to make your summer bed; And sweet and clear are Cheviot's rills that trickle to its vales, And balmily its tiny flowers breathe on the passing gales. And thus hath felt the shepherd-boy whilst tending of his fold; Nor thought there was, in all the world, a spot like Cheviot's wold. And so it was for many a day; but change with time will come, And he (alas for him the day!) he heard the little drum! Follow," said the drummer-boy," would you live in story! For he who strikes a foeman down, wins a wreath of glory!" "Rub-a-dub!" and "rub-a-dub!" the drummer beats awayThe shepherd lets his bleating flock o'er Cheviot wildly stray! On Egypt's arid wastes of sand the shepherd now is lying; Around him many a parching tongue for "Water!" faintly crying: Oh, that he were on Cheviot's hills, with velvet verdure spread, Or lying 'mid the blooming heath where oft he made his bed! Or could he drink of those sweet rills that trickle to its vales, Or breathe once more the balminess of Cheviot's mountain gales! At length upon his wearied eyes the mists of slumber come, And he is in his home again-till wakened by the drum ! "Take arms! take arms!" his leader cries; "the hated foeman's nigh!" Guns loudly roar, steel clanks on steel, and thousands fall to die. The shepherd's blood makes red the sand: "Oh, water!— give me some! "My voice might reach a friendly ear- but for that little drum!" 'Mid moaning men, and dying men, the drummer kept his way, And many a one, by "glory" lured, did curse the drum that day. "Rub-a-dub!" and "rub-a-dub!" the drummer beat aloudThe shepherd died! and, ere the morn, the hot sand was his shroud. And this is "glory ?"-Yes; and still will man the tempter follow, Nor learn that Glory, like its Drum, is but a sound-and DOUGLAS JERROLD'S Magazine. hollow! HUMILITY. THE bird that soars on highest wing, When Mary chose the "better part," She meekly sat at Jesus' feet; And Lydia's gently-opened heart Was made for God's own temple meet; -Fairest and best adorned is she Whose clothing is humility. The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown, In deepest adoration bends; The weight of glory bows him down, Then most when most his soul ascends; The footstool of humility. J. MONTGOMERY. WINTER AND SPRING. "ADIEU! adieu !" Father Winter said "Adieu! I'm off to the rocks and caves, Or, perhaps, I'll sink in the northern waves, "Good luck! good luck to your hoary locks!" Said the gay young Spring, advancing ; "Go take your nap 'mid the caves and rocks, While I o'er the earth am dancing. |