Like liquid gold the wheat field lies,

      A marvel of yellow and russet and green,

      That ripples and runs, that floats and flies,

      With the subtle shadows, the change, the sheen,

      That play in the golden hair of a girl,—

      A ripple of amber—a flare

      Of light sweeping after—a curl

      In the hollows like swirling feet

      Of fairy waltzers, the colors run

      To the western sun

      Through the deeps of the ripening wheat.

      Broad as the fleckless, soaring sky,

      Mysterious, fair as the moon-led sea,

      The vast plain flames on the dazzled eye

      Under the fierce sun's alchemy.

      The slow hawk stoops

      To his prey in the deeps;

      The sunflower droops

      To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps—

      Then swirling in dazzling links and loops,

      A riot of shadow and shine,

      A glory of olive and amber and wine,

      To the westering sun the colors run

      Through the deeps of the ripening wheat.

      O glorious land! My western land,

      Outspread beneath the setting sun!

      Once more amid your swells, I stand,

      And cross your sod-lands dry and dun.

      I hear the jocund calls of men

      Who sweep amid the ripened grain

      With swift, stern reapers; once again

      The evening splendor floods the plain,

      The crickets' chime

      Makes pauseless rhyme,

      And toward the sun,

      The colors run

      Before the wind's feet

      In the wheat!

      I walked through the woodland meadows,

      Where sweet the thrushes sing;

      And I found on a bed of mosses

      A bird with a broken wing.

      I healed its wound, and each morning

      It sang its old sweet strain,

      But the bird with a broken pinion

      Never soared as high again.

      I found a young life broken

      By sin's seductive art;

      And touched with a Christlike pity,

      I took him to my heart.

      He lived with a noble purpose

      And struggled not in vain;

      But the life that sin had stricken

      Never soared as high again.

      But the bird with a broken pinion

      Kept another from the snare;

      And the life that sin had stricken

      Raised another from despair.

      Each loss has its compensation,

      There is healing for every pain;

      But the bird with a broken pinion

      Never soars as high again.

      It was in the days when Claverhouse

      Was scouring moor and glen,

      To change, with fire and bloody sword,

      The faith of Scottish men.

      They had made a covenant with the Lord

      Firm in their faith to bide,

      Nor break to Him their plighted word,

      Whatever might betide.

      The sun was well-nigh setting,

      When o'er the heather wild,

      And up the narrow mountain-path,

      Alone there walked a child.

      He was a bonny, blithesome lad,

      Sturdy and strong of limb—

      A father's pride, a mother's love,

      Were fast bound up in him.

      His bright blue eyes glanced fearless round,

      His step was firm and light;

      What was it underneath his plaid

      His little hands grasped tight?

      It was bannocks which, that very morn,

      His mother made with care.

      From out her scanty store of meal;

      And now, with many a prayer,

      Had sent by Jamie her ane boy,

      A trusty lad and brave,

      To good old Pastor Tammons Roy,

      Now hid in yonder cave,

      And for whom the bloody Claverhouse

      Had hunted long in vain,

      And swore they would not leave that glen

      Till old Tam Roy was slain.

      So Jamie Douglas went his way

      With heart that knew no fear;

      He turned the great curve in the rock,

      Nor dreamed that death was near.

      And there were bloody Claverhouse men,

      Who laughed aloud with glee,

      When trembling now within their power,

      The frightened child they see.

      He turns to flee, but all in vain,

      They drag him back apace

      To where their cruel leader stands,

      And set them face to face.

      The cakes concealed beneath his plaid

      Soon tell the story plain—

      "It is old