He went like one that had been stunned,

And is of sense forlorn :

A sadder and a wiser man

He rose the morrow morn.

AN ODE.-Sir W. Jones.

WHAT Constitutes a state?

Not high-raised battlement or laboured mound,
Thick wall or moated gate;

Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned;
Not bays and broad-armed ports,

Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;
Not starred and spangled courts,

Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride.
No; men, high-minded men,

With powers as far above dull brutes endued
In forest, brake, or den,

As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude;
Men who their duties know,

But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain,
Prevent the long-aimed blow,

And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain :
These constitute a state,

And sovereign law, that state's collected will,

O'er thrones and globes elate

Sits empress crowning good, repressing ill;

Smit by her sacred frown,

The fiend Dissension like a vapour sinks,

And e'en the all-dazzling crown

Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.
Such was this heaven-loved isle,

Than Lesbos fairer, and the Cretan shore !
No more shall Freedom smile?

Shall Britons languish, and be men no more?
Since all must life resign,

Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave,
'Tis folly to decline,

And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

THE CAMERONIAN'S DREAM.-Hislop.
In a dream of the night I was wafted away,
To the muirland of mist where the martyrs lay;
Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen,
Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.
'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood,
When the minister's home was the mountain and wood;
When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion,
All bloody and torn 'mong the heather was lying.
'Twas morning; and summer's young sun from the east
Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast;
On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew,
Glistened there 'mong the heath bells and mountain
flowers blue.

And far up in heaven near the white sunny cloud,
The song of the lark was melodious and loud,
And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and deep,
Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.
And Wellwood's sweet valleys breathed music and
gladness,

The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness;
Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.

But, oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings,
Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings,

Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow; For they knew that their blood would bedew it to

morrow.

'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying,

Concealed 'mong the mist where the heath fowl was crying,

For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering,

And their bridle reins rung through the thin misty covering.

Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed, But the vengeance that darkened their brow was unbreathed;

With eyes turned to heaven in calm resignation,

They sung their last song to the God of Salvation.
The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing,
The curlew and plover in concert were singing;
But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter,
As the host of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter.
Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were
shrouded,

Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded,
Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and unbending,
They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending.
The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were
gleaming,

The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming, The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling, When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.

When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended,

A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended;
Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,
And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness.

A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining,
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining,
And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation,
Have mounted the chariots and steeds of salvation.

On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding, Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding;

Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye,

A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!

K

FABLE.-Emerson.

THE Mountain and the Squirrel

Had a quarrel,

And the former called the latter "Little Prig:"

Bun replied,

"You are doubtless very big,

But all sorts of things and weather

Must be taken in together

To make up a year,
And a sphere.

And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.

If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry:

I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel-track ;

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut."

FROM "LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME."-
Macaulay.

THEN Out spake brave Horatius,
The Captain of the Gate:
"To every man upon this earth,
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods,

And for the tender mother
Who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses
His baby at her breast,

And for the holy maidens

Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus

That wrought the deed of shame ? "Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may ;

I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon straight path a thousand
May well be stopped by three.
Now who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me?"
Then out spake Spurius Lartius;
A Ramnian proud was he :
"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And keep the bridge with thee."
And out spake strong Herminius;
Of Titian blood was he :

"I will abide on thy left side,
And keep the bridge with thee."
"Horatius," quoth the Consul,

"As thou sayest, so let it be."
And straight against that great array
Forth went the dauntless Three.
For Romans in Rome's quarrel
Spared neither land nor gold,
Nor son, nor wife, nor limb, nor life,
In the brave days of old.

Then none was for a party;

Then all were for the state; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great : Then lands were fairly portioned; Then spoils were fairly sold: The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old.