Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,

Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! They come ! they come!"

And wild and high the "Camerons' gathering" rose!
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers

With the fierce native daring which instils

The stirring memory of a thousand years,

And Evan's, Donald's fame, rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave,-alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valor, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall molder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,

The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,

The morn the marshaling in arms,-the day,
Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse-friend, foe-in one red burial blent!

ODE ON SAINT CECILIA'S DAY

BY JOHN DRYDEN

From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony,

This universal frame began:
When Nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay

And could not heave her head,

The tuneful voice was heard from high,

Arise, ye more than dead!

Then cold and hot and moist and dry
In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony

This universal frame began:

From harmony to harmony

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion can not Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell

His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound.

Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell

That spoke so sweetly and so well.

What passion can not Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,

With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.

The double double double beat
Of the thundering drum
Cries: "Hark! the foes come;
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!"

The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains, and height of passion

For the fair disdainful dame.

But oh! what art can teach,

What human voice can reach

The sacred organ's praise?

Notes inspiring holy love,

Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees uprooted left their place
Sequacious of the lyre:

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher
When to her Organ vocal breath was given
An Angel heard, and straight appear'd-
Mistaking Earth for Heaven!

Grand Chorus

As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the blest above;

So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.

WILLIAM TELL

BY WM. BAINE

"Place there the boy," the tyrant said; "fix me the apple on his head. Ha! rebel,-now! there is a fair mark for thy shaft: there try thy boasted archer-craft!" and hoarsely the dark Austrian laughed. With quivering brow the Switzer gazed; his cheek grew pale; his bold lips throbbed, as if would fail their laboring breath. "Ha! so you blench?" fierce Gesler cried; "I've conquered, slave, thy

soul of pride!" No word to that stern taunt replied,-all still as death. "And what the meed?" at length Tell asked. "Bold fool! when slaves like thee are tasked, it is my will! But that thine eye may keener be, and nerved to such nice archery, if thou succeed'st thou goest free. What! pause ye still? Give him a bow and arrow there, one shaft, but one." Madness, despair, and tortured love, one moment swept the Switzer's face; then passed away each stormy trace, and high resolve reigned like a grace caught from above. "I take thy terms," he murmured low; grasped eagerly the proffered bow; the quiver searched; chose out an arrow keen and long, fit for a sinewy arm and strong; placed it upon the sounding thong, the tough yew arched. Deep stillness fell on all around; through that dense crowd was heard no sound of step or word. All watched with fixed and shuddering eye, to see that fearful arrow fly. The light wind died into a sigh, and scarcely stirred.

The gallant boy stood firm and mute: he saw the strong bow curved to shoot, yet never moved. He knew that pale fear ne'er unmanned the daring coolness of that hand: he knew it was the father scanned the boy he loved. Slow rose the shaft; it trembled-hung. "My only boy!" gasped on his tongue. He could not aim. "Ha!" cried the tyrant, "doth he quail? He shakes! His haughty brow is pale!" "Shoot!" cried a low voice, "canst thou fail? Shoot, in Heaven's name!" Again the drooping shaft he took, and cast to heaven one burning look, of all doubts reft. "Be firm, my boy!" was all he said. He drew the bow-the arrow fled; the apple left the stripling's head. 'Tis cleft! 'tis cleft!" And cleft it was, and Tell was free. Quick the brave boy was at his knee, with flushing cheek; but ere his sire his child embraced, the baffled Austrian cried in