we now had here
But one ten thousand of
those men in England
That do no work to-day!
King Henry. What's he
that wishes so?

ESTMORELAND. Oh that | That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian :
He that outlives this day and comes safe home
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day and see old age
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,
And say, "To-morrow is Saint Crispian;"
Then he will strip his sleeve and show his

My cousin Westmoreland?
No, my fair cousin :
If we are marked to die, we

To do our country loss; and
if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honor.
God's will! I pray thee wish not one man

more.

By Jove! I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear:
Such outward things dwell not in my desires;
But if it be a sin to covet honor,
I am the most offending soul alive.

Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son,

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from Eng- And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,

land:

God's peace! I would not lose so great an honor

From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be rememberèd-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

As one man more, methinks, would share For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

from me

Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

For the best hope I have. Oh, do not wish This day shall gentle his condition;

one more !

And gentlemen in England now abed

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through Shall think themselves accursed they were my host,

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company

not here,

THE GRAVE OF COLUMBUS.

ILENCE, solemn, awful, deep,

SIL

Oh, who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name

Doth in that hall of Death her empire Whilst in that sound there is a charm
keep.

The nerves to brace, the heart to warm,

Save when at times the hollow pavement, As, thinking of the mighty dead,

smote

The young from slothful couch will start,
And vow, with lifted hands outspread,
Like them to act a noble part?

By solitary wanderer's foot, amain
From lofty dome and arch and isle remote
A circling loud response receives again.
The stranger starts to hear the growing
sound,
And sees the blazoned trophies waving When but for those our mighty dead
All ages past a blank would be,

near:

Oh, who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name.

"Ha! tread my feet so near that sacred Sunk in Oblivion's murky bed,

A desert bare, a shipless sea?

ground?" He stops and bows his head. "Columbus They are the distant objects seen, The lofty marks of what hath been.

resteth here !"

Some ardent youth, perhaps, ere from his

home

Oh, who shall lightly say that fame

He launch his venturous bark, will hither Is nothing but an empty name,

come,

Read fondly o'er and o'er his graven name
With feelings keenly touched, with heart of
flame,

Till, wrapped in Fancy's wild delusive dream,
Times past and long forgotten present seem.
To his charmed ear the east wind, rising

shrill,

Seems through the hero's shroud to whistle

When memory of the mighty dead,

To earth-worn pilgrims' wistful eye,
The brightest rays of cheering shed

That point to immortality?

A twinkling speck, but fixed and bright,
To guide us through the dreary night,

Each hero shines, and lures the soul To gain the distant happy goal. For is there one who, musing o'er the grave The clock's deep pendulum, swinging through Where lies interred the good, the wise, the

still;

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

T the theatrical-fund dinner | tice-hand." In 1805 appeared his "Lay of the Last Minstrel," which literally took the world by storm. There was no falling off of power or interest in "Marmion" and "The Lady of the Lake," the latter of which was at once one of the most popular poems ever written. Those which followed were by no means equal to the poems just mentioned; but in them all he is remarkable for the fearful reality of his battle-pieces and the tenderness and refinement of his love-scenes.

given in Edinburgh in 1827, Lord Meadowbank--who, as president, made the first public announcement of the authorship of the Waverley novels-spoke of Scott as "the mighty magician who rolled back the current of time and conjured up before our living senses the men and manners of days which have long since passed away. It is he who has conferred a new reputation on our national character and bestowed on Scotland an imperishable name.'

Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh on the 15th day of August, 1771. His father was a writer to the Signet, and his mother (Annie Rutherford) was the daughter of a medical professor in the university of that city. Lame from his infancy, he was shut out from the usual sports of childhood and was a great reader, especially of poetry and works of the imagination. His first efforts in literature were in the form of translations from the German. He made pleasant English versions of the "Erl-King," and "Lenore" and "The Wild Huntsman" in 1796. The next year he presented" Otto of Wittelsbach," which was soon followed by "Götz von Berlichingen." In 1802 he issued the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, a collection in verse of ballads, traditions and old Scottish legends, which was very acceptable to the pride of the Scottish people. These were, however, only the trials of his "'pren

Successful in his profession of the law and in his publications, Scott purchased an estate on the banks of the Tweed, near Melrose Abbey, and built a mansion, in which he lived as a feudal proprietor. At Abbotsford he did the honors for the nation, cordially receiving the thousands who came to do homage to his genius and honor to his virtues. As he felt his poetical powers lagging, he had as early as 1805 made an essay in the fields of romantic fiction, but the manuscript was thrown aside until 1814, when he finished it and gave it to the world as Waverley, the first of that splendid series known as "the Waverley novels." They need no eulogy: everybody has read them. Charming in description, interesting in plot, they here and there contain full-length portraits of historic characters-especially those of the kings and the queens of England and of Scotland-that may be said to be truer than history itself.

Involved in pecuniary embarrassments by the failure of the Ballantynes and of Constable & Co., Scott found himself, in honor if not in law, responsible for the payment of