An honest heart that knew not fear,—to man that would not bow

Was seated in his eagle eye, and on his manly brow;

But care, and wrong, and want, and woe, leave scars time

may not heal—

Wounds that the wicked may revenge-the proud alone can feel.

A traitor's doom forbids him hope these walls to enter more; And soon the hunted outlaw seeks a home on foreign shore. He started up: "I hear the sound of woman's wail,

I hear the sounds of ruffian strife borne upwards on the gale."

Then, gazing down-"Such odds, I ween, were never heard before;

Three sturdy knaves against my arm, my race of life is o'er. Yet, 'tis a woman's wail! Shall I stand idly looking on, While strength to strike in her defence lies in my father's son?"

Adown the mountain side he sprang, like a lion in his wrath, And soon these sturdy villains lay sore mangled in his path. The lady rose up from her knees, and motionless she stood, Gazing in silent wonder on the stranger's hardihood.

Ah! why the sudden start—the blush-the deadly paleness then,

As on her face the outlaw turned so eagerly his ken?

"It is Sir Donald Bruce" she cried, for well his crest she

knew,

And well she kenned the Highland plaid, and bonnet of the blue;

"My father's foe!" "True, lady, true," the gallant outlaw

said.

"Though I have forced thy foes to yield 'neath my victorious

blade

8

Thy father's foe, of him who lives, scourge of my ruined line

Nor leaves me aught in earth or air, that I may claim as mine,

"Save hatred deep of alien power, of tyrant and of knave— A love of right, a scorn of wrong, of coward, and of slave. Farewell! farewell! In other years, think on the outlaw lone,

Whose hand is true, though tyrant foes have turned his heart to stone."

"Nay, but thou wilt not leave me thus; thy task is hardly

o'er,

Oh! bear me safe from forest-wilds within my father's door;
Ascendancy of rank and power-a loyal heart and true
Are his; and well my father loves the bonnet of the blue."

""Tis time, I own," the outlaw said, "this fevered strife were o'er.

Yes, lady, I will bear thee safe within thy father's door.

But sooth to quaff of foeman's cup were sorry cheer for me, Or see another's yeomen range where mine were wont to be."

"Yet I, thy friend," the lady said, "thy power were easy won."

(Breathes there a man when woman pleads, can feel his heart his own?)

Bright shines the sun upon the banks and braes of bonny Clyde,

But brighter far the love-lit eyes of brave Sir Donald's bride. The trumpets sound, the bagpipes play, and chargers gallop

round,

And high beats now Sir Donald's heart with many an aching bound.

The bonfires gaily gleaming, o'er mountain, hill, and dell,
And bridal favours testify he'd done his errand well.
Long, long may good Sir Donald wield the blade he proved
so true,

And long may bonny Scotland prize the bonnet of the

blue.

M. HENDERSON.

[By kind permission of the authoress.]

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach-tree fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain wall,-

Over the mountains winding down,

Horse and foot, into Frederick town,
Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,

She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic-window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.
"Halt!"-the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
"Fire!"-out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane, and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
"Shoot, if you must, this old grey head,
But spare your country's flag," she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word:
"Who touches a hair of yon grey head
Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell

On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,

And the rebel rides on his raids no more!
Honour to her! and let a tear

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave

Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

THE OPENING OF THE PIANO.

In the little southern parlour of the house you may have seen With the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward to

the green,

At the side toward the sunset, with the window on its right, Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of to night.

Ah me! how I remember the evening when it came!

What a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks in flame, When the wondrous box was opened that had come from

over seas,

With its smell of mastic-varnish and its flash of ivory keys!

Then the children grew fretful in the restlessness of all joy, For the boy would push his sister, and the sister crowd the boy,

Till the father asked for quiet in his grave paternal way, But the mother hushed the tumult with the words, "Now, Mary, play."

For the dear soul knew that music was a very sovereign balm; She had sprinkled it over sorrow and seen its brow grow calm, In the days of slender harpsichords with tapping tinkling

quills,

Or carolling to her spinet with its thin metallic thrills.