CIVIL WAR.

Woe, woe was ours. Chief drew his sword on chief:
Religion with her relique and her brand,
Made strife between our bosom-bones, and grief
And lawless joy abounded in the land;
Our glass of glory sank nigh its last sand;
Rank with its treason, priesthood with its craft,
Turned Scotland's war-lance to a willow-wand.
But war arose in Scotland--civil war;
Serf warred with chief, and father warred with son,
The church too warred with all: her evil star
That rules o'er sinking realms shone like the sun--
Her lights waxed dim and died out one by one--
Woe o'er the land hung like a funeral pall:
The sword the bold could brave, the coward shun,
But famine followed fast and fell on all--
Pale lips cried oft for food which came not at their call.

RURAL PEACE.

Much mirth was theirs--war was no wonder then;
Dread fled with danger, and the cottage cocks,
The shepherd's war-pipe, called the sons of men
When morning's wheel threw bright dew from its spokes,
To pastures green to lead again their flocks;
The horn of harvest followed with its call;
Fast moved the sickle, and swift rose the shocks,
Behind the reapers like a golden wall--
Gravely the farmer smiled, by turns approving all.