"O, Tiber! father Tiber! to whom the Romans pray,

A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day!"
So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed the good sword by his side,
And, with his harness on his back, plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank;

But friends and foes, in dumb surprise, stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges they saw his crest appear,

Rome shouted, and e'en Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer.

But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain:
And fast his blood was flowing; and he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armor, and spent with changing blows:
And oft they thought him sinking, but still again he rose.

Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case,

Struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing-place :
But his limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart within,
And our good father Tiber bare bravely up his chin.

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; "will not the villain drown? But for this stay, ere close of day we should have sacked the town!" "Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, "and bring him safe to shore;

For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before."

And now he feels the bottom; now on dry earth he stands;
Now round him throng the Fathers to press his gory hands.
And now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud,
He enters through the River Gate, borne by the joyous crowd.

27. THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE, 1645. Aytoun.

There is no ingredient of fiction in the historical incidents recorded in the following ballad. The perfect serenity of Montrose, the "Great Marquis," as he was called, in the hour of trial and death, the courage and magnanimity which he displayed to the last, - have been dwelt upon, with admiration, by writers of every class. The following has been slightly abridged from the original.

COME hither, Evan Cameron; come, stand beside my knce,

I hear the river roaring down towards the wintry sea.

There's shouting on the mountain-side, there's war within the blast; Old faces look upon me, old forms go trooping past.

I hear the pibroch wailing amidst the din of fight,
And my dim spirit wakes again, upon the verge of night.

'Twas I that led the Highland host through wild Lochaber's snows,
What time the plaided clans came down to battle with Montrose.
I've told thee how the Southrons fell beneath the broad claymore,
And how we smote the Campbell clan by Inverlochy's shore.
I've told thee how we swept Dundee, and tamed the Lindsays' pride;
But never have I told thee yet how the Great Marquis died.

A traitor sold him to his foes;

- O, deed of deathless shame!

I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet with one of Assynt's name,
Be it upon the mountain's side, or yet within the glen,
Stand he in martial gear alone, or backed by arméd men,

Face him, as thou wouldst face the man who wronged thy sire's

renown;

Remember of what blood thou art, and strike the caitiff down!

They brought him to the Watergate, hard bound with hempen span,
As though they held a lion there, and not a 'fenceless man.
But when he came, though pale and wan, he looked so great and high,
So noble was his manly front, so calm his steadfast eye,

The rabble rout forbore to shout, and each man held his breath;
For well they knew the hero's soul was face to face with death.

Had I been there, with sword in hand, and fifty Camerons by,
That day, through high Dunedin's streets, had pealed the slogan-cry.
Not all their troops of trampling horse, nor might of mailed men,
Not all the rebels in the South, had borne us backwards then!
Once more his foot on Highland heath had trod as free as air,
Or I, and all who bore my name, been laid around him there!
It might not be. They placed him next within the solemn hall,
Where once the Scottish kings were throned amidst their nobles all.
But there was dust of vulgar feet on that polluted floor,
And perjured traitors filled the place where good men sate before.
With savage glee came Warriston, to read the murderous doom;
And then uprose the great Montrose in the middle of the room.
"Now, by my faith as belted knight, and by the name I bear,
And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross that waves above us there,
Yea, by a greater, mightier oath, and O, that such should be!
By that dark stream of royal blood that lies 'twixt you and me,
I have not sought in battle-field a wreath of such renown,
Nor hoped I on my dying day to win the martyr's crown!

"There is a chamber far away where sleep the good and brave, But a better place ye 've named for me than by my fathers' grave. For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might, this hand hath always

striven,

And ye raise it up for a witness still in the eye of earth and Heaven.
Then nail my head on yonder tower, give every town a limb,
And God who made shall gather them: I go from you to Him!"

The morning dawned full darkly; like a bridegroom from his room,
Came the hero from his prison to the scaffold and the doom.
There was glory on his forehead, there was lustre in his eye,
And he never walked to battle more proudly than to die;
There was color in his visage, though the cheeks of all were wan,
And they marvelled as they saw him pass, that great and goodly man!

Then radiant and serene he stood, and cast his cloak away:
For he had ta'en his latest look of earth and sun and day.
He mounted up the scaffold, and he turned him to the crowd;
But they dared not trust the people, so he might not speak aloud.
But he looked upon the Heavens, and they were clear and blue,
And in the liquid ether the eye of God shone through :

A beam of light fell o'er him, like a glory round the shriven,
And he climbed the lofty ladder as it were the path to Heaven.
Then came a flash from out the cloud, and a stunning thunder-roll;
And no man dared to look aloft; fear was on every soul.
There was another heavy sound, -a hush, and then a groan;
And darkness swept across the sky,

the work of death was done!

28. PEACE AND WAR.- - Percy Bysshe Shelley. Born, 1792; died, 1822.
How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear

Were discord to the speaking quietude

That wraps this moveless scene.

Heaven's ebon vault,

Studded with stars unutterably bright,

Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which love has spread
Above the sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow;
Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend,
So stainless that their white and glittering spires
Tinge not the moon's pure beam; yon castled steep,
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower
So idly that rapt fancy deemeth it

A metaphor of peace;

all form a scene

Where musing solitude might love to lift

Her soul above this sphere of earthliness;
Where silence undisturbed might watch alone,
So cold, so bright, so still!

Ah! whence yon glare

That fires the arch of Heaven?

-

that dark red smoke

Blotting the silver moon? The stars are quenched
In darkness, and the pure and spangling snow
Gleams faintly through the gloom that gathers round!
Hark to that roar, whose swift and deafening peals
In countless echoes through the mountains ring,
Startling pale midnight on her starry throne!
Now swells the intermingling din; the jar,
Frequent and frightful, of the bursting bomb;
The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout,
The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men

Inebriate with rage! - Loud and more loud

The discord grows; till pale Death shuts the scene,
And o'er the conqueror and the conquered draws
His cold and bloody shroud!

The sulphurous smoke

Before the icy wind slow rolls away,

And the bright beams of frosty morning dance

Along the spangling snow.

There tracks of blood,

Even to the forest's depth, and scattered arms,

And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments

Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful path
Of the out-sallying victors: far behind

Black ashes note where their proud city stood.

Within yon forest is a gloomy glen;

Each tree which guards its darkness from the day
Waves o'er a warrior's tomb!

29. AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. — Washington Allston. Born, 1779; died, 1843.

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 conchs 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 all 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!"

30. OLD IRONSIDES.- Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Written when it was proposed to break up the frigate Constitution, or to convert her into a receiving ship, as unfit for service.

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see that banner in the sky;
Beneath it rang the battle-shout, and burst the cannon's roar ;
The meteor of the ocean air shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, where knelt the vanquished foe,

When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, and waves were white

below,

No more shall feel the victor's tread, or know the conquered knee; The harpies of the shore shall pluck the eagle of the sea!

grave!

O, better that her shattered hulk should sink beneath the wave!
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, and there should be her
Nail to the mast her holy flag, set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms, the lightning and the gale!

31. THE BALL AT BRUSSELS, THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO, JUNE 17, 1815.-Lord Byron.

THERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men:

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when