Many a crest that is famous in story.

Mount and make ready, then,

Sons of the mountain glen,

Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory.

Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing; Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;

Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing; Come with the buckler, the lance and the bow. Trumpets are sounding;

War-steeds are bounding;

Stand to your arms and march in good order.
England shall many a day

Tell of the bloody fray.

When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.

THE ABBOT'S BLESSING ON THE BRUCE.

WALTER SCOTT. EXTRACTS.

"DE BRUCE! I rose with purpose dread
To speak my curse upon thy head,

And give thee as an outcast o'er

To him who burns to shed thy gore;

But, like the Midianite of old,

Who stood on Zophim, heaven-controlled,
I feel within mine aged breast

A power that will not be repressed.
It prompts my voice, it swells my veins,
It burns, it maddens, it constrains! -

De Bruce, thy sacrilegious blow
Hath at God's altar slain thy foe:
O'ermastered yet by high behest,

I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed!
Thrice vanquished on the battle plain,
Thy followers slaughtered, fled, or ta'en,
A hunted wanderer on the wild,
On foreign shores a man exiled,
Disowned, deserted, and distressed,

I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed!
Blessed in the hall and in the field,
Under the mantle as the shield,
Avenger of thy country's shame,
Restorer of her injured fame,
Blessed in thy sceptre and thy sword.
De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful lord,
Blessed in thy deeds and in thy fame,
What lengthened honors wait thy name!
In distant ages, sire to son

Shall tell thy tale of freedom won,
And teach his infants, in the use
Of earliest speech, to falter Bruce.'
Go, then, triumphant! Sweep along
Thy course, the theme of many a song!
The power whose dictates swell my breast,
Hath blessed thee, and thou shalt be blessed!"

CARDINAL WOLSEY, ON BEING CAST OFF BY

KING HENRY VIII.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. EXTRACTS.

NAY, then, farewell.

I have touched the highest point of all my greatness ;
And, from that full meridian of my glory,

I haste now to my setting: I shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.

So farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow, blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him:
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost

And when he thinks, good, easy man,- full surely
—
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new opened. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,

More pangs and fears than wars or women have.
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again!

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thine honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of, -

say I taught thee,
Say Wolsey that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,
Found thee a way out of his wrack to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
Mark but my fall and that that ruined me!
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition.
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't?

Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee,
Corruption wins not more than honesty ;

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the King

And-Prithee, lead me in:

There take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny: 'tis the King's; my robe

And my integrity to Heaven is all

I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!

Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my King, He would not, in mine age,
Have left me naked to mine enemies!

THE EXECUTION OF SIR THOMAS MORE.

JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.

THE Scaffold had been awkwardly erected, and shook as he placed his foot upon the ladder. "See me safe up," he said to Kingston; "for my coming down I can shift for myself." He began to speak to the people, but the sheriff begged him not to proceed, and he contented himself with asking for their prayers, and desiring them to bear witness for him that he died in the faith of the Holy Catholic Church, and a faithful servant of God and the king. He then repeated the Miserere psalm on his knees; when he had ended and had risen, the executioner, with an emotion which promised ill for the manner in which his part in the tragedy would be accomplished, begged his forgiveness. More kissed him. "Thou art to do me the greatest benefit that I can receive," he said. "Pluck up thy spirit, man, and be not afraid to do thine office. My neck is very short; take heed, therefore, that thou strike not awry for saving of thine honesty." The executioner offered to tie his eyes. "I will cover them myself," he said; and binding them in a cloth which he had brought with him, he knelt and laid his head upon the block. The fatal stroke was about to fall, when he signed for a moment's delay