Scatter flowers o'er the graves
Where sleep our dear and honored braves;
Bring those emblems of love to-day,
Flowers, so pure, beauteous and gay:
Scatter them, scatter them o'er.

Strew them lovingly over all,
Caring not on which ones they fall;
On the grave of the hero-lover,
Husband, father, son and brother:
Strew them lovingly o'er.

And cover them careful over,
Cover the grass and running clover;
Cut down the briers and weeds that are there.
And cover their graves with blossoms fair:
Cover them carefully o'er.

Thy Men of Men shall we forget,
Old Scotland? No. Where'er we be,
All lonely, or in exile met,
We think of them and thee.
Mother of Knox! “hast thou a charm”
That gives to all thy name who bear
Thoughts which unnerve the despot's arm,
And Will, to do and dare?
Thou bad'st him build on tyrant's bones
An altar to the Lord of Lords;
Thou gav'st him power to shatter thrones,
And vanquish kings, with words.
Stern Mother of the deathless dead!
Where stands a Scot, a freeman stands,
Self-stay'd, if poor—self-cloth'd, self-fed,

Passing across a green and lonely lane,
A funeral met our view. It was not here
A sight of every day, as in the streets
Of some great city; and we stopp'd and ask'd
Whom they were bearing to the grave. A girl
They answer'd, of the village, who had pined
Through the long course of eighteen ainful mont
With such slow wasting, that the hour of death
Came welcome to her. We pursued our way
To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk
Which passes o'er the mind and is forgot,
We wore away the time. But it was eve
When homewardly I went, and in the air.

We must resign! Heaven his great soul does claim
In storms, as loud as his immortal fame;
His dying groans, his last breath, shakes our isle,
And trees uncut fall for his funeral pile;
About his palace their broad roots are tossed
Into the air.—So Romulus was lost!
New Rome in such a tempest missed her king,
And from obeying fell to worshipping.
On OEta's top thus Hercules lay dead,
With ruined oaks and pines about him spread;
The poplar, too, whose bough he wont to wear
On his victorious head, lay prostrate there;

On the delightful banks of Mein,
The muse laments in pensive strain;
The nymphs assembl'd on the green,
Of Nelly's absence all complain.

Our rural swains no joys can find,
But still in pensive silence mourn;
With heads upon the turf reclin'd
They sigh, and wish your swift return.

Oft have they curs'd fair Moffat town,
With all the virtues of the Well;
The sprightly Beau, and rustic clown,
Of Nelly's charms delight to tell.

Dear maid, it is for you alone,
They spend whole days and nights in sighs;

‘It shall be dark unto you, that ye shall not divine.’—Micah, iii 6

I asked the Lord: ‘Sire, is this true
Which hosts of theologians hold,
That when we creatures censure you
For shaping griefs and ails untold
(Deeming them punishments undue)
You rage, as Moses wrote of old?

When we exclaim: “Beneficent
He is not, for he orders pain,
Or, if so, not omnipotent:
To a mere child the thing is plain!”
Those who profess to represent
You, cry out: “Impious and profane!”’

He: ‘Save me from my friends, who deem

Hail to thee, and fare-thee-well!
Unstable, cold as sleet,
Broken is the childish spell
That held me at your feet.

I know now how the land beguiles,
How cunning is the sea;
It was the magic of the isles
Alone enchanted me.

The birken trees, with sly intent,
Waved round your walk their grace,
Majestic mountains o'er you lean't,
Transfiguring your face;

Perfumes that from the moor arise,
I thought came from your hair,
It was the sea looked in your eyes,
And mirrored blueness there.

That voice so sweet on heathy bens

The great sea-roads to England
Have many little gates—
You saw some once—those bustling ports,
And winding ribbon straits;

And little foreign harbours
Tucked safely in from blasts;
And lighted dockyards, swaying ships,
And forests of straight masts.

And somewhere ever waiting
A slim grey Man of War,
To keep the peace for England,
Is never very far.

Cold, wet leaves
Floating on moss-coloured water,
And the croaking of frogs—
Cracked bell-notes in the twilight.

Between two pillared clouds of gold
The beautiful gates of evening swung—
And far and wide from flashing fold
The half-furled banners of light, that hung
O'er green of wood and gray of wold
And over the blue where the river rolled,
The fading gleams of their glory flung.

The sky wore not a frown all day
To mar the smile of the morning tide;
The soft-voiced winds sang joyous lay—
You never would think they had ever sighed;
The stream went on its sunlit way
In ripples of laughter; happy they
As the hearts that met at Riverside.