But forth from out the stricken throng
A virgin gave the burial song.

She told,' from battle's distant track
They brought a fair-hair'd captive back;'
She told, 'the mightiest of their land
Were crush'd beneath war's iron hand-
That by their law the victim dies,
To slaughter'd friends, a sacrifice.'

She told,' around the pinion'd boy,
Gather'd the tribe in mournful joy,
When, as the bow their chieftain sprung,
The startling shriek of woman rung,
His daughter caught the shaft, and smiled,
And he had slain his only child.'

The chieftain seem'd no sound to hear,
Till the last note struck on his ear,
Then turn'd, and bending to the air,
As if a spirit's voice came there,
Sought with his knife life's purple tide,
And he is by his daughter's side.

1

THE GATHERING OF A HIGHLAND

CLAN.

BY I. M'LELLAN.

UP clansmen! through the shadowy morn
See ye not spear-heads gleam?
And hark! upon the wind is borne
The music of the bugle horn,

And the stern war-pipe's scream.

On, on they come with startling shout,
On, through the river's swoln tide-
They can but fright the speckled trout,
The bittern from her nest may out
And ply her wing of pride.

Not so before their heavy tread
Will flee the mountaineer-

The slender bracken its frail head

May bow, when winds rave loud and dread,
Amid the foliage sere;

But rudely doth the mountain pine
Dash the wild blast aside :

And rudely doth our kingly line

Dash back its foe, when blood, like wine, Pours out its bubbling tide.

Stern children of the cliff and glade!
Gray sire, and fearless son!
Speed-with the target and the blade,
Speed-in your simple garb array'd,
Speed, ere the fight be won.

Start from the quiet forest's gloom,
And from the breezy height!
Leave, leave the dying to their doom,
For here your deadliest foe hath come
To dare ye to the fight!

Ah! calmly shines the summer day
On isle and lake and tree;

To-morrow it will look as gay,

Though we from earth have pass'd away, Like bubbles on the sea.

And when the reaper binds his sheaves,
And the wood blossoms die,

And autumn, 'mid the crimson leaves,
Is murmuring like one who grieves
O'er happiness gone by;

Then will the snooded highland girl,

And the meek lowland maid, Look out upon the tempest's whirl,

And weep that where the hill-clouds curl Their lovers' bones are laid.

But oft, in after years, the tale

Of this day's stormy strife

Shall make the virgin's cheek grow pale, And kindle in the stripling Gael

The thirst for martial life.

THE BANDIT.

BY MRS. SARAH J. HALE.

YOUNG Leon wore a glance of pride,

That made his rivals quail,

And won fair Lelia for his bride,

The violet of the vale.

She loved him-and when whispers rose, She deem'd her dearest friends his foesFled with him, and her all of life

Centred in those fond words-his wife.

To her, whate'er his mood had been,

A smile of love he wore,

As summer skies are most serene,
When the dark storm is o'er;

And yet at times a trembling came
Upon her, when he breathed her name,
Calling her wife-it seem'd like guilt,
The dark, mysterious awe she felt.