Was wreathed in sable smoke;
Volumed and vast, and rolling far,
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war,
As down the hill they broke;

Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,
Announced their march; their tread alone,
At times one warning trumpet blown,
At times a stifled hum,

Told England, from his mountain-throne
King James did rushing come.

2. Scarce could they hear, or see their foes,
Until at weapon-point they close.—

They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust,
And such a yell was there,

Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth,
And fiends in upper air.

Long looked the anxious squires; their eye
Could in the darkness naught descry.

3. At length the freshening western blast
Aside the shroud of battle cast:
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears
Above the brightening cloud appears :
And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew.
Then marked they, dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war,

And plumed' crests of chieftains brave,
Floating like foam upon the wave ;

But naught distinct they see :
Wide raged the battle on the plain;
Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain;
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain;
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,
Wild and disorderly.

4. Amid the scene of tumult, high

They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly :
And stainless Tunstall's banner white,
And Edmund Howard's lion bright,
Still bear them bravely in the fight;
Although against them come,
Of gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a stubborn Highlandman,
And many a rugged Border clan,

With Huntley, and with Home.

5. Far on the left, unseen the while,
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle ;
Though there the western mountaineer
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear,
And flung the feeble targe aside,

And with both hands the broadsword plied :
'Twas vain.-But Fortune, on the right,
With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight.
Then fell that spotless banner white,
The Howard's lion fell.

6. Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew
With wavering flight, while fiercer grow
Around the battle yell. .

The Border slogan rent the sky!
A Home! a Gordon! was the cry;
Loud were the clanging blows;

Advanced, forced back,—now low, now high,
The pennon sunk and rose ;

As bends the bark's mast in the gale,
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,
It wavered 'mid the foes.

7. But, as they left the dark'ning heath, More desperate grew the strife of death. The English shafts in volleys hailed,

In headlong charge their horse assailed:
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep,
To break the Scottish circle deep,

That fought around their king.

But yet, though thick the shafts as snow,
Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,
Unbroken was the ring.

8. The stubborn spearmen still made good
Their dark, impenetrable wood,

Each stepping where his comrade stood,
The instant that he fell.

No thought was there of dastard flight;—
Linked in the serried phalanx tight,

Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,
As fearlessly and well;

Till utter darkness closed her wing
O'er their thin host and wounded king.
Then skillful Surrey's sage commands
Led back from strife his shattered bands,
And from the charge they drew,
As mountain-waves, from wasted lands,
Sweep back to ocean blue.

9. Then did their loss his foemen know;

Their king, their lords, their mightiest low,

They melted from the field as snow,

When streams are swollen and south winds blow,

Dissolves in silent dew.

Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash,

While many a broken band,

Disordered, through her currents dash

To gain the Scottish land;

To town and tower, to down and dale,
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale,
And raise the universal wail.

Tradition, legend, tune, and song,

Shall many an age that wail prolong:
Still from the sire the son shall hear
Of the stern strife, and carnage drear,

Of Flodden's fatal field,

Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear,

And broken was her shield!

King James, King James V., son of James IV., of Scotland. He died in December, 1542, in the 31st year of his age, leaving the crown to his daughter the unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots. Mar' mi on, an English knight, valiant and wise, but unscrupulous, who fell upon the field of Flodden. Slo' gan, the war cry, or gathering word of a Highland clan in Scotland.

LESSON LIX.

AN ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE INTERMENT OF COL. E. D. BAKER.

BY THOMAS STARR KING.

Thomas Starr King, an American Unitarian Divine, was born in New York, 1824. He became in 1848 pastor of the church in Hollis street, Boston, and in 1860 sailed for San Francisco, where he assumed charge of the Unitarian church in that city. He had a high reputation as a lecturer, and published, among other works, The White Hills: Their Legends, Landscapes, and Poetry, 1859. He died in 1864. His loss was deeply felt, and looked upon as a public calamity, for, during his four years residence on the Pacific Coast he had so identified himself with its best interests, that scarcely one public institution or enterprise of philanthropy existed that did not feel it had lost a champion.

THE

HE story of our great friend's life has been eloquently told. We have borne him now to the home of the dead, to the cemetery which, after fit services of prayer, he devoted in a tender and thrilling speech, to its hallowed purposes. In that address, he said: "Within these grounds public reverence and gratitude shall build the tombs of warriors and statesmen * * * who have given all their lives and their best thoughts to their country." Could he forecast, seven years ago, any such fulfillment of those words as this hour reveals? He confessed the conviction before he went into the battle which bereaved us, that his last hour was near. Could any slight shadow of his destiny have been thrown across his

path, as he stood here when these grounds were dedicated, and looked over slopes unfurrowed then by the plowshare of death?

2. His words were prophetic. Yes, warrior and statesman, wise in council, graceful and electric as few have been in speech, ardent and vigorous in debate, but nobler than for all these qualities by the devotion which prompted thee to give more than thy wisdom, more than thy energy and weight in the hall of senatorial discussion, more than the fervor of thy tongue and the fire of thy eagle eye in the great assemblies of the people-even the blood of thy indomitable heart-when thy country called with a cry of peri-we receive thee with tears and pride. We find thee dearer than when thou camest to speak to us in the full tide of life and vigor. Thy wounds through which thy life was poured are not "dumb mouths," but eloquent with the intense and perpetual appeal of thy soul.

3. We receive thee to "reverence and gratitude," as we lay thee gently to thy sleep; and we pledge to thee, not only a monument that shall hold thy name, but a memorial in the hearts of a grateful people, so long as the Pacific moans near thy resting-place, and a fame eminent among the heroes of the Republic so long as the mountains shall feed the Oregon! The poet tells us, in pathetic cadence, that the paths of glory lead but to the grave. But this is true only in the superficial sense. It is true that the famous and the obscure, the devoted and the ignoble, "alike await the inevitable hour." But the path of true glory does not end in the grave. It passes through it to larger opportunities of service. Do not believe or feel that we are burying Edward Baker. A great nature is a seed. "It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body." It germinates thus in this world as well as in the other.

4. Was Warren buried when he fell on the field of a defeat, pierced through the brain, at the commencement of the Revolution, by a bullet that put the land in mourning? No; the monument that has been raised where his blood reddened the