And bade him, by his own right hand,

Die freeman 'mid the free.
In vain-the Roman fire was cold
Within the fallen warrior's mould :-
Then rose the wife and woman high,
And died to teach him how to die !

It is not painful, Pætus.”—Ay!

Such words would Arria say,
And view, with an unalter'd eye,

Her life-blood ebb away.
Professor of a purer creed,
Nor scorn nor yet condemn the deed,
Which proved, unaided from above,
The deep reality of love.

Ages since then have swept along ;

Arria is but a name;-
Yet still is woman's love as strong-

Still woman's soul the same,
Still sooths the mother and the wife
Her cherish'd ones 'mid care and strife.
“ It is not painful, Pætus”-still
Is love's word in the hour of ill. M. J. J.

A FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND.

Our native land-our native vale,

A long and last adieu ;Farewell to bonny Teviotdale,

And Cheviot-mountains blue !

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,

And streams renown'd in song ;

Farewell, ye blithesome braes and meads,

Our hearts have loved so long.

Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes,

Where thyme and harebells grow; Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes

O’erhung with birk and sloe.

The battle-mound—the Border-tower,

That Scotia's annals teil ;The martyr's grave-the lover's bower

To each-to all-farewell !

Home of our hearts !-our father's home

Land of the brave and free ! The sail is flapping on the foam

That bears us far from thee!

We seek a wild and distant shore

Beyond the Atlantic main ; We leave thee to return no more,

Nor view thy cliffs again !

But may dishonour blight our fame,

And quench our household fires, When we, or ours, forget thy name,

Green island of our sires.

Our native land- our native vale

A long, a last adieu ;-
Farewell, to bonny Teviotdale,
And Scotland's mountains blue.

PRINGLE. FROM BISHOP HEBER'S JOURNAL.

IF thou wert by my side, my love !

How fast would evening fail In green Bengala's palmy grove,

Listening the nightingale !

If thou, my love! wert by my side,

My babies at my knee,
How gaily would our pinnace glide

O’er Gunga's mimic sea !

I miss thee at the dawning grey,

When on our deck reclined, In careless ease my limbs I lay,

And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream

My twilight steps I guide, But most beneath the lamp's pale beam

I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,

The lingering noon to cheer, But miss thy kind approving eye,

Thy meek attentive ear.

But when of morn or eve the star

Beholds me on my knee, * I feel, though thou art distant far,

Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on! then on! where duty leads,

My course be onward still,

O’er broad Hindostan's sultry meads,

O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,

Nor wild Malwah detain,
For sweet the bliss us both awaits

By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say,

Across the dark-blue sea,
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay

As then shall meet in thee ! HEBER.

BATTLE-HYMN.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all

glories are ! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry

of Navarre ! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of

dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines,

O pleasant land of France ! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud

city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourn

ing daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our

joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought

thy walls annoy.

Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turn'd the

chance of war, Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

O! how our hearts were beating, when, at the

dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long

array ; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel

peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's

Flemish spears.

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses

of our land; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon

in his hand : And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's

impurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with

his blood ; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the

fate of war,

To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of

Navarre.

The King is come to marshal us, in all his ar

mour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his

gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his

eye ; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was

stern and high.