Once more his foot on Highland heath had trod as free as air, Or I, and all who bore my name, been laid around him there!

VI.

It might not be. They placed him next within the solemn. hall,

Where once the Scottish kings were throned amidst their nobles all.

But there was dust of vulgar feet on that polluted floor,

And perjured traitors filled the place where good men sate

before.

With savage glee came Warriston, to read the murderous

doom;

And then uprose the great Montrose in the middle of the

room.

VII.

"Now, by my faith as belted knight, and by the name I bear, And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross that waves above us

there,―

Yea, by a greater, mightier oath,-and O, that such should

be!

By that dark stream of royal blood that lies 'twixt you and

me,

I have not sought in battle-field a wreath of such renown,
Nor hoped I on my dying day to win the martyr's crown!

VIII.

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

brave,

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

grave.

For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might, this hand hath always striven,

for a witness still in the eye of earth and

heaven:

Then nail my head on yonder tower,-give every town a limb,And God who made shall gather them: I go from you to Him!"

IX.

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.

X.

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:

ΧΙ

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!

AYTOUN

57.* A STORM AT SEA.

GOD! have

mercy in this dreadful hour

On the poor mariner ! in the comfort here,
Safe sheltered as I am, I almost fear
The blast that rages with resistless power.

What were it now to toss upon the waves,
The maddened waves and know no succor near !
The howling of the storm alone to hear,

And the wild sea that to the tempest raves ;

To gaze amid the horrors of the night

And only see the billows' ghostly light,

And in the dread of death to think of her
Who, as she listens sleepless to the gale,
Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale!
O God! have mercy on the mariner !

SOUTHEY.

58. "HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT

I

TO AIX," 16—.

SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ;

"Good speed !" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; "Speed !" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

II.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride for stride, never changing our place;

I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland, a whit.

III.

"Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Duffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"

IV.

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland, at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away

The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.

V.

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence,-ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance !
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

VI.

"By Hasselt!" Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,
We'll remember at Aix"* -for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

*The x in this word is not sounded.

VII.

13

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,

'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,

And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

VIII.

"How they'll greet us!"-and all in a moment his roan,
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

IX.

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,

Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

X.

And all I remember is, friends flocking round

As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground,
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from

Ghent.

ROBERT BROWNING.