The sweets of liberty and equal laws;
But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize,
And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed
In confirmation of the noblest claim-
Our claim to feed upon immortal truth,
To walk with God, to be divinely free,
To soar, and to anticipate the skies.

Yet few remember them. They lived unknown
Till persecution dragg'd them into fame,

And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew—
No marble tells us whither. With their names
No bard embalms and sanctifies his song :
And history, so warm on meaner themes,
Is cold on this. She execrates indeed
The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire,
But gives the glorious sufferers little praise.

RURAL SOUNDS.-(" The Task," B. 1.)
NoT rural sights alone, but rural sounds
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore
The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds,
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike
The dash of ocean on his winding shore,
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind;
Nor less composure waits upon the roar
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice
Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grass, that with a livelier green
Betrays the secret of their silent course.

VANITY OF EARTHLY POSSESSIONS.—(B. 3.)

ALL flesh is grass, and all its glory fades Like the fair flower dishevelled in the wind: Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream : The man we celebrate must find a tomb,

And we, that worship him, ignoble graves.
Nothing is proof against the general curse
Of vanity, that seizes all below.

The only amaranthine1 flower on earth
Is Virtue; the only lasting treasure, Truth.

WINTER. (B. 4.)

O WINTER, ruler of the inverted year,
Thy scatter'd hair with sleet-like ashes filled,
Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds,
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,

But urged by storms along its slippery way,—
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,
And dreaded as thou art!

COME, Evening, once again, season of peace;
Return, sweet Evening, and continue long!
Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,
With matron-step slow-moving, while the Night
Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employed
In letting fall the curtain of repose

On bird and beast, the other charged for man
With sweet oblivion of the cares of day.
Not sumptuously adorn'd, not needing aid,
Like homely-featured Night, of clustering gems;
A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow,
Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine,
Not less than hers, not worn indeed on high,
With ostentatious pageantry, but set
With modest grandeur in thy purple zone,
Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.

1 Unfading.

SCOTT.

SIR WALTER SCOTT was born at Edinburgh in 1771, and died at Abbotsford in 1832. His poems are chivalric romances in verse. Discarding sentiment, he deals only with action, following the model of the old ballads and romances. By this resuscitation of the old, he, in fact, introduced a new and fresh element into modern literature, and for this service well merited the popularity which he so largely enjoyed. His narratives are very spirited, and his style easy. Extracts from his Poetical Works will be found in the earlier volumes of this Series.

BURNS.

BURNS was born near Ayr in 1759, and died in 1796. He is the most popular of Scotch poets, and is distinguished for his humour and pathos.

ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNINg Walk
IN JANUARY.

SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain:
See aged winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear,

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid movements, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day!

Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies;
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys

What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care;

The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY WHICH HE TURNED DOWN WITH HIS
PLOUGH ON A COLD APRIL MORNING.

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou'st met me in an evil hour,
For I maun crush amang the stoure1
Thy slender stem;

To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem.

1 Dust.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' speckled breast,

When upward springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield1

There in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,

Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!

By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er !

Such fate to suffering worth is given,

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n.

By human pride or cunning driv'n
To misery's brink,

Till wrenched of every stay but Heav'n,
He, ruin'd, sink!

Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom;

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,
Wild as the wave?

Here, pause, and thro' the starting tear,
Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame,

But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stain'd his name!

Reader, attend-whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole

In low pursuit ;

Know, prudent, cautious self-control

Is wisdom's root.

WORDSWORTH.

WORDSWORTH was born in 1770, and died in 1850. He is now one of the greatest of English poets. His writings are pre-eminently sentimental and reflective in their character, and breathe a spirit of moral purity and religious fervour. His poems are lyrical, descriptive, and didactic.