Bruce and the Spider

FOR Scotland's and for freedom's right

The Bruce his part had played,

In five successive fields of fight

Been conqured and dismayed;

Once more against the English host

His band he led, and once more lost

The meed for which he fought;

And now from battle, faint and worn,

The homeless fugitive forlorn

A hut's lone shelter sought.

And cheerless was that resting-place

For him who claimed a throne:

His canopy devoid of grace,

The rude, rough beams alone;

The heather couch his only bed, --

Yet well I ween had slumber fled

From couch of eider-down!

Through darksome night till dawn of day,

Absorbed in wakeful thought he lay

Of Scotland and her crown.

The sun rose brightly, and its gleam

Fell on that hapless bed,

And tinged with light each shapeless beam

Which roofed the lowly shed;

When, looking up with wistful eye,

The Bruce beheld a spider try

His filmy thread to fling

From beam to beam of that rude cot;

And well the insect's toilsome lot

Taught Scotland's future king.

Six times his gossamery thread

The wary spider threw;

In vain the filmy line was sped,

For powerless or untrue

Each aim appeared, and back recoiled

The patient insect, six times foiled,

And yet unconquered still;

And soon the Bruce, with eager eye,

Saw him prepare once more to try

His courage, strength, and skill.

One effort more, his seventh and last!

The hero hailed the sign!

And on the wished-for beam hung fast

That slender, silken line;

Slight as it was, his spirit caught

The more than omen, for his thought

The lesson well could trace,

Which even "he who runs may read,"

That Perseverance gains its meed,

And Patience wins the race.

Bernard Barton

The Sea

BEAUTIFUL, sublime, and glorious;

    Mild, majestic, foaming, free, --

Over time itself victorious,

    Image of eternity!

Sun and moon and stars shine o'er thee,

    See thy surface ebb and flow,

Yet attempt not to explore thee

    In thy soundless depths below.

Whether morning's splendors steep thee

    With the rainbow's glowing grace,

Tempests rouse, or navies sweep thee,

    'Tis but for a moment's space.

Earth, -- her valleys and her mountains,

    Mortal man's behests obey;

The unfathomable fountains

    Scoff his search and scorn his sway.

Such art thou, stupdendous ocean!

    But, if overwhelmed by thee,

Can we think, without emotion,

    What must thy Creator be?

Bernard Barton

Lamp of Our Feet

LAMP of our feet whereby we trace

    Our path when wont to stray;

Stream from the fount of heav'nly grace,

    Brook by the traveler's way.

Bread of our souls whereon we feed,

    True manna from on high;

Our guide and chart wherein we read

    Of realms beyond the sky.

Pillar of fire, through watches dark,

    Or radiant cloud by day;

When waves would break our tossing bark,

    Our anchor and our stay.

Word of the ever living God,

    Will of His glorious Son;

Without Thee, how could earth be trod

    Or heav'n itself be won?

Lord, grant us all aright to learn

    The wisdom it imparts

And to its heavenly teaching turn

    With simple, childlike hearts.

Bernard Barton