Do not lift him from the bracken,
Leave him lying where he fell-
Better bier ye cannot fashion:

None beseems him half so well
As the bare and broken heather,

And the hard and trampled sod, Whence his angry soul ascended

To the judgment-seat of God! Winding-sheet we cannot give himSeek no mantle for the dead, Save the cold and spotless covering Showered from heaven upon his head. Leave his broadsword, as we found it, Bent and broken with the blow, That, before he died, avenged him On the foremost of the foe. Leave the blood upon his bosomWash not off that sacred stain: Let it stiffen on the tartan,

Let his wounds unclosed remain, Till the day when he shall show them At the throne of God on high, When the murderer and the murdered Meet before their Judge's eye!

Nay-ye should not weep, my children!
Leave it to the faint and weak;
Sobs are but a woman's weapon-
Tears befit a maiden's cheek.
Weep not, children of Macdonald!

Weep not thou, his orphan heirNot in shame, but stainless honour, Lies thy slaughtered father there. Weep not-but when years are over, And thine arm is strong and sure, And thy foot is swift and steady

On the mountain and the muirLet thy heart be hard as iron,

And thy wrath as fierce as fire,
Till the hour when vengeance cometh
For the race that slew thy sire;
Till in deep and dark Glenlyon

Rise a louder shriek of woe
Than at midnight, from their eyrie,
Scared the eagles of Glencoe;

Louder than the screams that mingled
With the howling of the blast,

When the murderer's steel was clashing,
And the fires were rising fast:
When thy noble father bounded

To the rescue of his men,

And the slogan of our kindred
Pealed throughout the startled glen;
When the herd of frantic women
Stumbled through the midnight snow,
With their fathers' houses blazing,

And their dearest dead below.
Oh, the horror of the tempest,

As the flashing drift was blown, Crimsoned with the conflagration,

And the roofs went thundering down! Oh, the prayers-the prayers and curses That together winged their flight From the maddened hearts of many Through that long and woeful night! Till the fires began to dwindle,

And the shots grew faint and few,
And we heard the foeman's challenge
Only in a far halloo;

Till the silence once more settled
O'er the gorges of the glen,
Broken only by the Cona

Plunging through its naked den.
Slowly from the mountain-summit
Was the drifting veil withdrawn,
And the ghastly valley glimmered
In the gray December dawn.
Better had the morning never

Dawned upon our dark despair! Black amidst the common whiteness Rose the spectral ruins there: But the sight of these was nothing More than wrings the wild dove's

breast,

When she searches for her offspring Round the relics of her nest.

For in many a spot the tartan
Peered above the wintry heap,
Marking where a dead Macdonald
Lay within his frozen sleep.
Tremblingly we scooped the covering
From each kindred victim's head,
And the living lips were burning

On the cold ones of the dead.
And I left them with their dearest-
Dearest charge had everyone—
Left the maiden with her lover,
Left the mother with her son.
I alone of all was mateless-

Far more wretched I than they,
For the snow would not discover
Where my lord and husband lay.
But I wandered up the valley

Till I found him lying low, With the gash upon his bosom, And the frown upon his browTill I found him lying murdered Where he wooed me long ago. From "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers." -William E. Aytoun.

The rippling wavy wealth that was thy pride,

Now love's last gift-only a woman's hair! -James Ashcroft Noble.

SAINT VALENTINE'S EVE.

Fair maiden, thou didst wait for me;
I saw thee over leagues of snow.
Set forth the plumy cedar-tree,
Weave holly and the mistletoe-
Green holly with its berries red,
And let an ample board be spread;
Bring kisses and the elder wine
To usher in Saint Valentine.

Lift not again the flaxen skein
And put aside the spinning-wheel;
Such task this night I deem is vain
For hand so shapely, heart so leal.
Touch yonder ancient harpischord
And reap my praise as thy reward,
And let the winter back-log shine
In honor of Saint Valentine.

What sculptor carved thy lissom form?
From lilies tall has caught thy grace?
Thou, with a wavering, dusky storm
Of tresses blown about thy face-
Thy face, as some lone jewel rare
Framed deeply in its crown of hair.
Thy voice is music's self divine
And well might charm Saint Valentine.
Look! far down the ashen skies
See how yon star descending slips.
Gray was it once as thy clear eyes;
Red, when it fell as thy curved lips.
Turn, turn again; the shadows fall,
And fancifully on the wall
The mistletoe and holly twine
To greet the good Saint Valentine.

The pale moon wanes, and I must go.
Up, up and speed the parting guest!
What if thy heart is chill as snow,
More bitter still is my unrest,
For I must fly who fain would wait.
Yea! fate is love, and love is fate.
Clasp hands and kiss, for thou art mine
And I am thy Saint Valentine.

-Ernest McGaffey.

At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled

With my kisses, of camp-life, and glory, and how

They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled,

In return would fan off every fly from my brow

With their green laurel-bough. Then was triumph at Turin. "Ancona was free!"

And some one came out of the cheers in the street

With a face pale as stone, to say something to me.

My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet,

While they cheered in the street.

I bore it ;-friends soothed me: my grief looked sublime

As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained

To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time

When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained

To the height he had gained.

And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong,

Writ now but in one hand. "I was not to faint.

One loved me for two . . would be with me ere long:

And "viva Italia" he died for, our saint,

Who forbids our complaint."

My Nanni would add "he was safe, and

aware

Of a presence that turned off the balls was imprest

It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear,

And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed,

To live on for the rest."

On which without pause up the telegraph line

Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta :-"Shot.

Tell his mother." Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother; not "mine."

No voice says "my mother" again to me. What!

You think Guido forgot?

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven,

They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe?

I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven

Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so

The above and below.

O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark

To the face of thy mother! consider, I pray,

How we common mothers! stand desolate, mark,

Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away,

And no last word to say!

Both boys dead! but that's out of nature; we all

Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one.

'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall.

And when Italy's made, for what end is it done,

If we have not a son?

Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken, what then?

When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport

Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men?

When your guns of Cavalli with final

retort

Have cut the game short.

When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee,

When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green and red, When you have your country from mountain to sea,

When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head,

(And I have my dead,)

What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low,

And burn your lights faintly! My country is there,

Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow,

My Italy's there, with my brave civic