And one huge watch-fire's kindled pile, that sent its quivering
glare
To tell the leaders of the host the conquering Scots were there!

And did they twine the laurel-wreath, for those who fought so well?
And did they honor those who liv'd, and weep for those who fell?
What meed of thanks was given to them let aged annals tell.
Why should they bring the laurel-wreath,--why crown the cup with
wine?
It was not Frenchmen's blood that flow'd so freely on the Rhine,--
A stranger band of beggar'd men had done the venturous deed:
The glory was to France alone, the danger was their meed.
And what cared they for idle thanks from foreign prince and peer?
What virtue had such honey'd words the exiled heart to cheer?
What matter'd it that men should vaunt and loud and fondly swear,
That higher feat of chivalry was never wrought elsewhere?
They bore within their breasts the grief that fame can never heal,--
The deep, unutterable woe which none save exiles feel.
Their hearts were yearning for the land they ne'er might see
again,--
For Scotland's high and heather'd hills, for mountain, loch and
glen--
For those who haply lay at rest beyond the distant sea,
Beneath the green and daisied turf where they would gladly be!

Long years went by. The lonely isle in Rhine's tempestuous flood
Has ta'en another name from those who bought it with their blood:

And, though the legend does not live,--for legends lightly die--
The peasant, as he sees the stream in winter rolling by,
And foaming o'er its channel-bed between him and the spot
Won by the warriors of the sword, stills calls that deep and
dangerous ford
The Passage of the Scot.

* * * * *

_Sacrifice and Self-Devotion hallow earth and fill the skies._

LORD HOUGHTON.--1809-1885.

LXV. THE GAMBLING PARTY.

EARL OF BEACONSFIELD.--1805-1881.

_From_ THE YOUNG DUKE.

The young Duke had accepted the invitation of the Baron de Berghem for
to-morrow, and accordingly, himself, Lords Castlefort and Dice, and
Temple Grace assembled in Brunswick Terrace at the usual hour. The
dinner was studiously plain, and very little wine was drunk; yet
everything was perfect. Tom Cogit stepped in to carve in his usual
silent manner. He always came in and went out of a r