With all his wit he little deems, that, spurned, betrayed,

bereft,

Thy father hath, in his despair, one fearful refuge left.

He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the

slave;

Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blowFoul outrage, which thou knowest not, which thou shalt never know!

Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss;

And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way—but this!"

--With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side, And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died!

When Appius Claudius saw that deed, he shuddered and

sank down,

And hid his face some little space with the corner of his

gown,

Till, with white lips and blood-shot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh,

And stood before the judgment-scat and held the knife on high:

"Oh! dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain, By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain ; And even as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine, Deal you by Appius Claudius, and all the Claudian line!" -So spake the slayer of his child, and turned and went his way,

But first he cast one haggard glance to where the body lay, And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan, and then with steadfast feet

Strode right across the market-place into the Sacred Street. Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him; alive or dead Ten thousand pounds of copper to the man who brings his head!"

He looked upon his clients; but none would work his will: He looked upon his lictors; but they trembled and stood

still;

And as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft,
Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left:
And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home,

And there ta'en horse to tell the Camp what deeds are done in Rome.

XXI. THE FATE OF MACGREGOR.

(HOGG.)

James Hogg, "The Ettrick Shepherd," was born in the Vale of Ettrick, Selkirk. shire, about 1770. He died in 1835.

"Macgregor, Macgregor, remember our foemen!
The moon rises broad from the brow of Ben-Lomond,
The clans are impatient and chide thy delay;
Arise! let us bound to Glen-Lyon away."

Stern scowled the Macgregor, then, silent and sullen,
He turned his red eyes to the braes of Strathfillan:
'Go, Malcolm, to sleep, let the clans be dismissed;
The Campbells this night for Macgregor must rest."-
"Macgregor, Macgregor, our scouts have been flying
Three days round the hills of M'Nab and Glen-Lyon;
Of riding and running such tidings they bear,

We must meet them at home, else they'll quickly be here.”
"The Campbell may come, as his promises bind him,
And haughty M'Nab with his giants behind him;
This night I am bound to relinquish the fray,
And do what it freezes my vitals to say :-
Forgive me, dear brother, this horror of mind;
Thou know'st in the strife I was never behind,
Nor ever receded a foot from the van,

Or blanched at the ire or the prowess of man;
But I've sworn by the cross, by my God, and by all!
An oath which I cannot and dare not recall,—
Ere the shadows of midnight fall east from the pile,
To meet with a spirit this night in Glen-Gyle.

"Last night in my chamber, all thoughtful and lone,
I called to remembrance some deeds I had done,
When entered a lady with visage so wan,
And looks such as never were fastened on man.

I knew her, O brother, I knew her full well!
Of that once fair name such a tale I could tell

As would thrill thy bold heart;-but how long she remained,
So racked was my spirit, my bosom so pained,

I knew not, but ages seem short to the while.
Though, proffer the Highlands, nay, all the green isle,
With length of existence no man can enjoy,
The same to endure, the dread proffer I'd fly!
The thrice threatened pangs of last night to forego,
Macgregor would dive to the mansions below.
Despairing and mad, to futurity blind,

The present to shun and some respite to find,
I swore, ere the shadow fell east from the pile,
To meet her alone by the brook of Glen-Gyle.

"She told me, and turned my chilled heart to a stone,
The glory and name of Macgregor were gone;
That the pine which for ages had shed a bright halo
Afar on the mountains of Highland Glen-Falo,
Should wither and fall ere the turn of yon moon,
Smit through by the canker of hated Colquhoun
That a feast on Macgregors each day should be common
For years to the eagles of Lennox and Lomond.

66

A parting embrace in one moment she gave,—
Her breath was a furnace, her bosom the grave;
Then flitting illusive, she said, with a frown,
'The mighty Macgregor shall yet be my own!"
'Macgregor, thy fancies are wild as the wind
The dreams of the night have disordered thy mind;
Come, buckle thy panoply-march to the field,
See, brother, how hacked are thy helmet and shield.
Ay, that was M'Nab in the height of his pride,
When the lions of Dochart stood firm by his side.
This night the proud chief his presumption shall rue:
Rise, brother, these chinks in his heart-blood will glue:
Thy fantasies frightful shall flit on the wing,

When loud with thy bugle Glen-Lyon shall ring."

Like glimpse of the moon through the storm of the night, Macgregor's red eye shed one sparkle of light :

It faded-it darkened-he shuddered-he sighed, — "No! not for the universe!" low he replied.

Away went Macgregor, but went not alone:
To watch the dread rendezvous Malcolm has gone.
They oared the broad Lomond so still and serene!
And deep in her bosom how awful the scene!
O'er mountains inverted the blue waters curled,
And rocked them on skies of a far nether world.
All silent they went, for the time was approaching,-
The moon the blue zenith already was touching;
No foot was abroad on the forest or hill,

No sound but the lullaby sung by the rill;

Young Malcolm, at distance, crouched trembling the while;
Macgregor stood lone by the brook of Glen-Gyle.

Few minutes had passed ere they spied on the stream
A skiff sailing light, where a lady did seem;
Her sail was the web of the gossamer's loom,
The glow-worm her wakelight, the rainbow her boom;
A dim rayless beam was her prow and her mast,
Like wold-fire at midnight that glares on the waste.
Though rough was the river with rock and cascade,
No torrent, no rock, her velocity stayed:
She whimpled the water to weather and lee,
And heaved as if borne on the waves of the sea.
Mute nature was roused in the bounds of the glen:
The wild deer of Gairtney abandoned his den,
Fled panting away over river and isle,

Nor once turned his eye to the brook of Glen-Gyle:
The fox fled in terror, the eagle awoke,

As slumbering he dozed on the shelf of the rock;
Astonished, to hide in the moonbeam he flew,
And screwed the night-heaven till lost in the blue.

Young Malcolm beheld the pale lady approach,
The chieftain salute her, and shrink from her touch.
He saw the Macgregor kneel down on the plain,
As begging for something he could not obtain;
She raised him indignant, derided his stay,
Then bore him on board, set her sail, and away.

Though fast the red bark down the river did glide,

Yet faster ran Malcolm adown by its side.
"Macgregor! Macgregor!" he bitterly cried;

"Macgregor! Macgregor!" the echoes replied,

He struck at the lady, but, strange though it seem,
His sword only fell on the rocks and the stream;
But the groans from the boat that ascended the main,
Were groans from a bosom in horror and pain.
They reached the dark lake, and bore lightly away,--
Macgregor is vanished for ever and aye !

XXII. THE BATTLE OF NASEBY.

BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLESWITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, SERJEANT IN IRETON'S REGIMENT. (LORD MACAULAY.)

The battle of Naseby, in Northamptonshire, which decided the fate of Charles I., was fought on the 14th June 1645. The King's army was commanded by Lord Astley, Prince Rupert (of Bavaria, son of Frederick, King of Bohemia, and Elizabeth, daughter of James I. of England), and Sir Marmaduke Langdale, the King himself being in charge of the reserve forces. Thomas Fairfax (afterwards Lord Fairfax), Oliver Cromwell, and Henry Ireton (Cromwell's son-in-law), led the Parliamentary troops.

OH! wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the North, With your hands and your feet and your raiment all red? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?

Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod; For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,

Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,

That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine; And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,

And Astley and Sir Marmaduke and Rupert of the Rhine!

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, The General rode along us to form us for the fight,