Wyseby

OF THE FIKST IKVINGS. O
gregating ; the terrible" in war are gathering; the
chivalry of a proud land are thronging. All day
long hither and thither fly martial couriers. At
silent midnight the peasant starts from his quiet
sleep, and hears the heavy tread of armed men. The
warlike preparations are complete. Forward ! On-
ward, ever onward, pours the wild, warlike flood.
Had the destiny of nations rested on the will of man
and the strength of man, dread in this tide had been
thy fate, oh my country ! Thy brave sons and thy
beautiful daughters had been the prey of the de-
stroyer. Thy name had been blotted out from the
names of the nations of the earth.
Ah, Edward, ere foot of thine pollute the soil of
Scotland, thou shalt do hopeless battle with a strong-
er king than King Bruce. King Death has taken
the field against thee, and of a surety he shall con-
quer. It is even so. The captain of that proud
host lies vanquished. The swords of the brave are
not drawn, yet their leader is smitten down. But
see, northward he points his bony finger. His last
command is, " Conquer Scotland. " Death's van-
quished monarch, impotent is thy dying command as
thy living ire. A God-sent king has vanquished
thee ; a God-sent king defends the liberty of Scot-
land ; and Scotland shall not be conquered.
Edward, the strong, has fallen : Edward, the
weak, reigns. Yet once more the voice of War,
trumpet-toned, through the fair valleys of England
speaks aloud. Again the chivalry of England rein
their war-steeds. A hundred banners fan the fickle
winds. The glittering points of twenty thousand
spears flash back the beams of the setting sun. The
terrible bowmen of England are there. " To Scot-