Part 39 (1/2)

How they toss theirwith the te firmly to the rock?

Even so the Scottish warriors held their own against the river; Though the water flash'd around theh the shot flew sharp and deadly, not awith thetheh the ranks it spread,-- ”Remember our dead Claverhouse!” was all the Captain said

Then, sternly bending forward, they wrestled on a while, Until they clear'd the heavy stream, then rush'd towards the isle

The Ger; The Ger

But never had they faced in field so stern a charge before, And never had they felt the sweep of Scotland's broad claymore

Not fiercer pours the avalanche adown the steep incline, That rises o'er the parent-springs of rough and rapid Rhine,-- Scarce swifter shoots the bolt frouarded trench, and o'er it sword in hand

In vain their leaders forward press,--they meet the deadly brand!

O lonely island of the Rhine,--where seed was never sown, What harvest lay upon thy sands, by those strong reapers thrown?

What saw the winter h the rain, She pour'd a wan and fitful light on marsh, and stream, and plain?

A dreary spot with corpses strewn, and bayonets glistening round; A broken bridge, a stranded boat, a bare and batter'd e watch-fire's kindled pile, that sent its quivering glare To tell the leaders of the host the conquering Scots were there!

And did they twine the laurel-wreath, for those who fought so well?

And did they honor those who liv'd, and weep for those who fell?

What ed annals tell

Why should they bring the laurel-wreath,--why crown the cup ine?

It was not Frencher band of beggar'd lory was to France alone, the danger was their n prince and peer?

What virtue had such honey'd words the exiled heart to cheer?

What matter'd it that her feat of chivalry was never wrought elsewhere?

They bore within their breasts the grief that fame can never heal,-- The deep, unutterable hich none save exiles feel

Their hearts were yearning for the land they ne'er h and heather'd hills, for len-- For those who haply lay at rest beyond the distant sea, Beneath the green and daisied turf where they would gladly be!

Long years went by The lonely isle in Rhine's teht it with their blood:

And, though the legend does not live,--for legends lightly die-- The peasant, as he sees the strea o'er its channel-bed between him and the spot Won by the warriors of the sword, stills calls that deep and dangerous ford The Passage of the Scot

_Sacrifice and Self-Devotion hallow earth and fill the skies_

LORD HOUGHTON--1809-1885

LXV THE GAMBLING PARTY

EARL OF BEACONSFIELD--1805-1881

_Fro Duke had accepted the invitation of the Baron de Berghely, himself, Lords Castlefort and Dice, and Temple Grace assembled in Brunswick Terrace at the usual hour The dinner was studiously plain, and very little as drunk; yet everything was perfect Toit stepped in to carve in his usual silent manner He always ca him He winked familiarly to Temple Grace, but scarcely presumed to bow to the Duke He was very busy about the wine, and dressed the wild fowl in a manner quite unparalleled He took particular care to send aDuke, and he did this, as he paid all attentions to influential strangers, with the most marked consciousness of the sufferance which per his Grace, but audibly whispering to the servant, ”Take this to the Duke”; or asking the attendant, ”whether his Grace would try the Herit, as busied in co some wonderful liquid for the future refreshed a word upon the subject, there seeht was to be a pitched battle, and they began at once, briskly Yet, in spite of their universal deter decisive