He placed his hand in Charles's hand,-loud shouted all the throng;

But tears were in King Charles's eyes-the grip of Rou was

strong.

"Now kiss the foot," the bishop said, "that homage still is due;"

Then dark the frown and stern the smile of that grim convert, Rou.

He takes the foot, as if the foot to slavish lips to bring: The Normans scowl; he tilts the throne, and backward falls the king!

Loud laugh the joyous Norman men-pale stare the Franks aghast ;

And Rou lifts up his head as from the wind springs up the

mast:

“I said I would adore a God, but not a mortal too;

The foot that fled before a foe let cowards kiss!" said Rou

SECTION II.-DOMESTIC AND NATIONAL.

I.-LOCH-NA-GARR.
(BYRON.)

AWAY ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!
In you let the minions of luxury rove ;
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,
For still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,

Round their white summits though elements war; Though cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-Garr.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wandered:
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;
On chieftains long perished my memory pondered,
As daily I strode through the pine-covered glade :
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheered by traditional story,

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch-na-Garr.

"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?" Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,

And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale.
Round Loch-na-Garr, while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car;

Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers,—
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch-na-Garr.

"Ill-starred, though brave, did no visions foreboding
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause ?”

Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden?

Victory crowned not your fall with applause : Still were you happy in death's earthly slumber,

You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar; The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number, Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch-na-Garr.

Years have rolled on, Loch-na-Garr, since I left you
Years must elapse ere I tread you again;
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roved on the mountains afar ;
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic!
The steep frowning glories of dark Loch-na-Garr.

II.-AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.
(WASHINGTON ALLSTON.)

ALL hail! thou noble land,
Our fathers' native soil!
O stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,
O'er the vast Atlantic wave

to our shore;

For thou, with magic might,
Canst reach to where the light
Of Phoebus travels bright
The world o'er !

The genius of our clime,
From his pine-embattled steep
Shall hail the great sublime;
While the Tritons of the deep
With their conch the kindred
league shall proclaim;
Then let the world combine-
O'er the main our naval line,
Like the milky-way, shall shine
Bright in fame!

Though ages long have passed
Since our fathers left their home,
Their pilot in the blast,

O'er untravelled seas to roam,—
Yet lives the blood of England
in our veins !

And shall we not proclaim

That blood of honest fame,

Which no tyranny can tame
By its chains?

While the language free and bold,
Which the bard of Avon sung,
In which our Milton told

How the vault of Heaven rung,

When Satan, blasted, fell with his

host;

While this, with reverence meet,

Ten thousand echoes greet,

From rock to rock repeat

Round our coast;

While the manners, while the arts,

That mould a nation's soul,

Still cling around our hearts,
Between let ocean roll,

Our joint communion breaking

with the sun;

Yet still, from either beach,
The voice of blood shall reach,
More audible than speech,—
"We are one!"

III.-GREAT BRITAIN TO AMERICA.

(TUPPER.)

Martin Farquhar Tupper, author of "Proverbial Philosophy," was born in London in 1811. His prose works are numerous and popular; his poetry consists of short pieces.

Ho! Brother, I'm a Britisher,

A chip of heart of oak,

That wouldn't warp or swerve or stir
From what I thought or spoke;
And you a blunt and honest man,
Straightforward, kind and true,—
I tell you, Brother Jonathan,
That you're a Briton too.

I know your heart, an open heart,
I read your mind and will,-
A greyhound ever on the start
To run for honour still;

And shrewd to scheme a likely plan,
And stout to see it done,—

I tell you, Brother Jonathan,
That you and I are one!

There may be jealousies and strife,

For men have selfish ends,

But petty quarrels ginger life,

And help to season friends;

And pundits who, with solemn scan,
Judge humans most aright,
Decide it, testy Jonathan,

That brothers always fight.

Two fledgeling sparrows in one nest
Will chirp about a worm,

Then how should eaglets meekly rest,

The children of the storm?