b of the Bruce!

Far other and fiercer the moments that crown'd him,
Than those that now creep o'er yon old temple pile,
And sterner the music that storm'd around him,
Than the anthem that peals through the long-sounding aisle,
When his bugle's fierce tones with the war-hum was blending,
And, with claymores engirdled, and banners all loose,
His rough-footed warriors, to battle descending,
Peal'd up to the heavens the war-cry of Bruce.

I hear him again, with deep voice proclaiming--
Let our country be free, or with freedom expire;
I see him again, with his great sword o'erflaming
The plume-nodding field, like a banner of fire.
Still onward it blazes, that red constellation,
In its passage no pause, to its flashing no truce:
Oh, the pillar of glory that led forth our nation
From shackles and chains, was the sword of the Bruce.

But now he is sleeping in darkness; the thunder
Of battle to him is now silent and o'er,
And the sword, that, like threads, sever'd shackles asunder,
Shall gleam in the vanguard of Scotland no more.
Yet, oh, though his banner for ever be furled,
Though his great sword be rusted and red with disuse,
Can freemen, when tyrants would handcuff the world--
Can freemen be mute at the Tomb of the Bruce?

JAMES PRINGLE.

James Pringle was born in the parish of Collessie, Fifeshire, on the
11th December 1803. At the parochial school of Kettle having received an
ordinary education, he was in his seventeenth year apprenticed to a
mill-wright. For many years he has prosecuted this occupation in the
district of his nativity. His present residence is in the Den of
Lindores, in the parish of Abdie. From his youth he has cherished an
enthusiastic love of poetry, and composed verses. In 1853, he published
a duodecimo volume, entitled "Poems and Songs on Various Subjects."

THE PLOUGHMAN.

Blithe be the mind of the ploughman,
Unruffled by passion or guile;
And fair be the face of the woman
Who blesses his love with a smile.

His clothing, though russet and homely,
With royalty's robe may compare;
His cottage, though simple, is comely,
For peace and contentment are there.

Let monarchs exult in their splendour,
When courtiers obsequiously bow;
But are not their greatness and grandeur
Sustain'd by the toils