II.

Who shall be nearest,

Noblest, and dearest,

Named but with honour and pride evermore?

He, the undaunted,

Whose banner is planted

On Glory's high ramparts and battlements hoar;

Fearless of danger,

To falsehood a stranger,

Looking not back while there's Duty before!

He shall be nearest,

He shall be dearest,

He shall be first in our hearts evermore!

THE MOUNTAIN-TOP.

POOR is the man, however great his wealth,

To whom the sunshine yields no mental health;
To whom the music of the early birds

Can bring no solace sweet as spoken words;
To whom the torrent, with its ceaseless hymn,
The streamlet wending through the copses dim,
The upland lake, reflecting moon and star,

Or mighty ocean gleaming from afar;

The roar of branches in the wintry woods,

The solemn diapason of the floods,

All sights and sounds in Nature's varied range,

Lovely in all and good in every change,

Can bring no charm serene, no joy refined,
To please his heart or elevate his mind.

But rich is he, however scant of gold,
Who, in despite of sorrows manifold,

Can find a joy at morn or eventide,

And fresh instruction on the mountain-side;

Who loves the wisdom which the woodland yields,

And all the dewy beauty of the fields.

Welcome to him, with a companion fit,

Th' umbrageous depths where noonday chequers flit, The shady path, the voice of brawling streams, The silent pool where sunlight never beams, The snowy summits of the Alpine peak, The hopeful splendour on the morning's cheek, The glow of noon, the evening's tender light, And all the placid majesty of night,

The

peace

and joy, the hope and love that dwell

In Nature's eyes, for those who love her well.

Up to the mountain!-ere the morn be late, And farewell Wisdom, in her robes of state; We'll bid her welcome, with her travelling suit, Her ashen staff, her knapsack, and her flute! Up to the mountain!-to the very cope!— Over the moorlands-up the breezy slope;--Or down in dells, beside the rippling brooks In their green furrows-through the loveliest nooks— To their top fountains, whence, meandering slow, They bound in beauty to the vales below!

Up to the mountain, in the air and sun,

For health and pleasure to be woo'd and won!

How cheerily the voices of the morn Rise as we go! The lark has left the corn, And sings her glad hosannas to the day; The blackbird trolls his rich notes far away; While, from th' awaken'd homestead far adown, Come floating up the murmurs of the town.

Hark to the day's shrill trumpeter, the cock-
The bark of hounds-the bleating of the flock-
The lowing of the milk-o'erburden'd kine-
And laugh of children; sweetest music mine.

Upwards, still up!—and all these sounds expire
In the faint distance, save that, mounting higher,
We still can hear, descending from the cloud,
The lark's triumphal anthem, long and loud.
Or far away, a wanderer from the bowers,
Rifling for sweets the now infrequent flowers,
A solitary bee goes buzzing by,

With livery coat, and bundle at his thigh;
With honest music, telling all that will,
How great a worker rambles on the hill.

A streamlet gushes on the mountain-side, It yields a draught to men of sloth denied; Unknown to all who love the easy street Better than crags where cloud and mountain meet,