Say not they died for us;
Say, rather, with their hearts aflame,
They faced the sceptred shame,
Not counting for themselves the cost,
Well knowing else, a world were lost.
For this they came;
For this they died;
For this their death is justified.

Say not they die;
Say, rather, with youth's larger trust,
Into the featureless, far unknown,
Challenging love's integrity,
They spring from earth's recoiling dust.
Could greater be?
Can love disown?
Can truth be overthrown?

Say not for us they died;

ADAPTED TO A HUNGARIAN MELODY .

M Y heart I gave you with my hand,
In brighter days than these,
In that down-trodden father-land
Beyond the distant seas,
Where you were all the world to me,
Devoted, fond, and true,
And I, in our prosperity,
Was all the world to you!
Robbed by a tyrant's iron sway,
We're banished from that land away!

Sad wanderers from our native home!
A ruler in a foe!

I SAW Love's eyes, I saw Love's crowned hair;
I heard Love's voice, a song across the air;
The glad-of-heart were of Love's royal train;
Sweet-throated heralds cried his endless reign,
And where his garment swept, the earth grew fair.

Along Love's road one walked whose feet were bare
And bleeding; no complaint he made, nor prayer,
Yet dim and wistful as a child's in pain
I saw Love's eyes.

I groped with Love where shadow lay, and snare;
I climbed with Love the icy mountain stair;
The wood was dark, the height was hard to gain;

Of strong hands, as at first that hew and build;
Of evil hearts and brave that fight and slay;
Of feast and dance, birthday and marriage day;
Of passion, loss, and joy of love fulfilled
God's singers make sweet verse, and hearts song-thrilled
Are keener set to suffer, strive, and play.
This poet, only, gives no heed alway,
Though earth with life be loud, with death be stilled.
He strays, a shadow, wistful, through the land,
His eyes unseeing and his head uncrowned;
No song he makes of love, nor war, nor wine;

IN IMITATION OF THE LAYS OF THE OLDEN TIME .

" Come , list to the lay of the olden time, "
A troubadour sang on a moonlit stream:
" The scene is laid in a foreign clime,
" A century back — and love is the theme. "
Love was the theme of the troubadour's rhyme,
Of lady and lord of the olden time
" At an iron-barred turret, a lady fair
" Knelt at the close of the vesper-chime:
" Her beads she numbered in silent prayer

The spring-time of love
Is both happy and gay,
For joy sprinkles blossoms
And balm in our way;
The sky, earth, and ocean,
In beauty repose,
And all the bright future
Is coleur de rose .

The summer of love
Is the bloom of the heart,
When hill, grove, and valley,
Their music impart;
And the pure glow of heaven
Is seen in fond eyes,
As lakes show the rainbow

Come , come to me, love!
Come, love! — Arise!
And shame the bright stars
With the light of thine eyes;
Look out from thy lattice —
Oh, lady-bird, hear!
A swan on the water —
My gondola's near!

Come, come to me, love!
Come, love! — My bride!
O'er crystal in moonbeams
We 'll tranquilly glide:
In the dip of the oar
A melody flows
Sweet as the nightingale
Sings to the rose.

Come, come to me, love!
Come, love! — The day
Brings warder and cloister!
Away, then — away!
Oh, haste to thy lover!

W E'VE muckle to vex us, puir sons o' a day,
As we journey along on life's wearisome way;
But what are the troubles with which we're opprest,
If Love makes our bosoms the hame o' her rest?

When Love lichts the hearthstane, there's joy in the ha',
And a sunshiny streak on ilk bosom doth fa';
The ingle blinks blither, affections increase,
And the cottage she turns to a palace o' peace.

Where'er she approaches, a' hearts grow sincere;
She hallows a' places, mak's ev'ry spot dear;
For wrang canna breathe in the sphere o' her grace,

I LOVE the night when the moon streams bright
On flowers that drink the dew —
When cascades shout as the stars peep out,
From boundless fields of blue;
But dearer far than moon or star,
Or flowers of gaudy hue,
Or murmuring trills of mountain-rills,
I love, I love, love — you!

I love to stray at the close of day,
Through groves of forest-trees,
When gushing notes from song-birds' throats
Are vocal in the breeze.
I love the night — the glorious night —
When hearts beat warm and true;
But far above the night, I love,

Upon her appearing at a Ball in an elegant Plaid Dress,

AND HAVING REPEATEDLY BEFORE EXPRESSED HER PREFERENCE OF THE SCOTISH NATION.

Is it that plaided thus you wish to prove
How northern is the region of your love?
Ah, Mary! tho', within that far-fam'd clime,
Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time;
Tho' there the brave have bled, or, o'er the wave,
On distant shores have found a glorious grave;
Tho' there the mountain-nymph of song has pour'd
Her loftiest strain, to bless the hero's sword;