APPENDIX,

CONTAINING

RECITATIONS, & c.

Our Fathers.

OUR Fathers! where are they—the faithful and wise!
They are gone to the mansions prepar'd in the skies;
With the ransom'd in glory, for ever they sing,
"All worthy the Lamb, our Redeemer and King!"
Our Fathers! who were they?-
-men strong in the Lord,
Who were nurtured and fed by the milk of the Word;
Who breath'd in the freedom their Saviour had given,
And fearlessly wav'd their blue banner to heaven.

Our Fathers! how liv'd they?-in fasting and prayer,
Still grateful for blessings, and willing to share
Their bread with the hungry-their basket and store-
Their home with the homeless that came to their door.
Our Fathers! where knelt they?-upon the green sod,
And pour'd out their hearts to their Covenant God;
And oft in the deep glen, beneath the wild sky,
The songs
of their Zion were wafted on high.
Our Fathers! how died they?-they valiantly stood
rage of the foeman, and seal'd with their blood,
By "Faithful Contendings," the faith of their sires,
'Midst tortures-in prisons-on scaffolds-in fires.

The

Our Fathers! where sleep they?-go search the rude cairn,
Where the bird of the hill makes its nest in the fern;
Where the dark purple heather and bonny blue bell
Deck the mountain and moor where our forefathers fell.

Hohenlinden.

ON Linden when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery!
By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of Heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow..
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.

Tis morn-but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-cloud's rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens-On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave;
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet,-
The snow shall be their winding sheet
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

Campbell.

The King and the Miller of Mansfield.

King. No, no; this can be no public road, that's certain. I am lost, quite lost, indeed. Of what advantage is it now to be a king? Night shows me no respect. I cannot see better, nor walk so well as another man. What is a king? Is he not wiser than another man? Not without his councillors, I plainly find. Is he not more powerful? I oft have been told so, indeed; but what now can my power command? Is he not greater and more magnificent? When seated on his throne, and surrounded with nobles and flatterers, perhaps he may think so; but when lost in a wood, alas! what is he but a common man? His wisdom knows not which is north, and which is south; his power a beggar's dog would bark at; and his greatness the beggar would not bow to. And yet, how oft are we puffed up with these false attributes? Well, in losing the monarch, I have found the man.-[The report of a gun is heard.]—Hark! some villain sure is near! What were it best to do? Will my majesty protect me? No. Throw majesty aside, then, and let manhood do it. Enter the Miller.

Miller. I believe I hear the rogue!-Who's there?
King. No rogue, I assure you.

Miller. Little better, friend, I believe. Who fired that gun?

King. Not I, indeed.

Miller. You lie, I believe.

King. Lie! how strange it seems to me to be talked to in this style. [Aside.] Upon my word, I don't.

Miller. Come, come, sirrah, confess; you have shot one of the king's deer, have you not?

King. No, indeed; I owe the king more respect. I heard a gun go off, indeed, and was afraid some robbers might have been near.

Miller. I'm not bound to believe this, friend. Pray, who are you? What's your name?

King. Name!

Miller. Name! yes, name. Why, you have a name, have not you? Where did you come from? What is your

business here.

King. These are questions I have not been used to, honest man.

Miller. May be so; but they are questions no honest man would be afraid to answer, I think. So, if you can give no better account of yourself, I shall make bold to take you along with me, if you please.

King. With you! what authority have you to

Miller. The king's authority, if I must give you an account, Sir, I am John Cockle, the miller of Mansfield, one of his majesty's keepers in this forest of Sherwood; and I will let no suspected fellow pass this way, that cannot give a better account of himself than you have done, I promise you.

King. I must submit to my own authority-[Aside.]— Very well, Sir, I am glad to hear the king has so good an officer; and since I find you have his authority, I will give you a better account of myself, if you will do me the favour to hear it.

Miller. It's more than you deserve, I believe; but let's hear what you can say for yourself?

King. I have the honour to belong to the king as well as you, and, perhaps, should be as unwilling to see any wrong done him. I came down with him to hunt in this forest, and the chase leading us to-day a great way from home, I am benighted in this wood, and have lost my way.

Miller. This does not sound well: if you have been ahunting, pray, where is your horse?

King. I have tired my horse, so that he lay down under me, and I was obliged to leave him.

Miller. If I thought I might believe this now.
King. I am not used to lie, honest man.

Miller. What! do you live at court, and not lie?—that's a likely story indeed.

King. Be that as it will, I speak truth now, I assure you; and to convince you of it, if you will attend me to Nottingham, if I am near it, or give me a night's lodgings in your own house, here is something to pay you for your trouble; and, if that is not sufficient, I will satisfy you in the morning to your utmost desire.

Miller. Ay, now I am convinced you are a courtier: here is a little bribe for to-day, and a large promise for to-morrow, both in a breath. Here, take it again, and take this along with it- -John Cockle is no courtier; he can do what he ought-without a bribe.

King. Thou art a very extraordinary man, I must own, and I should be glad, methinks, to be farther acquainted with thee. Miller. Thee! and thou! prithee, don't thee and thou me: I believe I am as good a man as yourself, at least.

King. Sir, I beg your pardon.

Miller. Nay, I am not angry, friend: only I don't love to