"There is a chamber far away, where sleep the good

and brave,

But a better place ye've named for me than by my father's 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

a limb

give every town

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!

BORDER BALLAD.

WALTER SCOTT.

MARCH, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale;

Why the de'il dinna ye march forward in order?

March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale!

All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border!
Many a banner spread

Flutters above your head,

Many a crest that is famous in story.

Mount and make ready, then,

Sons of the mountain glen,

Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory.

Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing; Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing; Come with the buckler, the lance and the bow. Trumpets are sounding;

War-steeds are bounding;

Stand to your arms and march in good order.
England shall many a day

Tell of the bloody fray.

When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.

THE ABBOT'S BLESSING ON THE BRUCE.

WALTER SCOTT. EXTRACTS.

"DE BRUCE! I rose with purpose dread

To speak my curse upon thy head,

And give thee as an outcast o'er

To him who burns to shed thy gore;

But, like the Midianite of old,

Who stood on Zophim, heaven-controlled,
I feel within mine aged breast

A

power that will not be repressed.

It prompts my voice, it swells my veins,
It burns, it maddens, it constrains!

De Bruce, thy sacrilegious blow
Hath at God's altar slain thy foe:
O'ermastered yet by high behest,

I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed!
Thrice vanquished on the battle plain,
Thy followers slaughtered, fled, or ta’en,
A hunted wanderer on the wild,
On foreign shores a man exiled,
Disowned, deserted, and distressed,
I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed!
Blessed in the hall and in the field,
Under the mantle as the shield,
Avenger of thy country's shame,
Restorer of her injured fame,

Blessed in thy sceptre and thy sword.
De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful lord,
Blessed in thy deeds and in thy fame,
What lengthened honors wait thy name!
In distant ages, sire to son

Shall tell thy tale of freedom won,

And teach his infants, in the use

6

Of earliest speech, to falter Bruce.'

Go, then, triumphant! Sweep along
Thy course, the theme of many a song!
The power whose dictates swell my breast,
Hath blessed thee, and thou shalt be blessed!"

CARDINAL WOLSEY, ON BEING CAST OFF BY

KING HENRY VIII.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. EXTRACTS.

NAY, then, farewell.

I have touched the highest point of all my greatness;
And, from that full meridian of my glory,

I haste now to my setting: I shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.

So farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow, blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him:
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And when he thinks,-good, easy man, - full surely
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;.
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new opened. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,