Oh! if amidst the valiant slain,
The warrior's bier had been thy lot,
E'en though on red Culloden's plain,
We then had mourned thee not.
But darkly closed thy dawn of fame,
That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair;
Vengeance alone may breathe thy name,
The watchword of Despair!
Yet oh! if gallant spirit's power
Hath e'er ennobled death like thine,
Then glory marked thy parting hour,
Last of a mighty line!
O'er thy own towers the sunshine falls,
But cannot chase their silent gloom;
Those beams that gild thy native walls
Are sleeping on thy tomb!
Spring on thy mountains laughs the while,
Thy green woods wave in vernal air,
But the loved scenes may vainly smile:
Not e'en thy dust is there.
On thy blue hills no bugle-sound
Is mingling with the torrent's roar,
Unmarked, the wild deer sport around:
Thou leadst the chase no more!
Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still,
Those halls where pealed the choral strain;
They hear the wind's deep murmuring thrill,
And all is hushed again.
No banner from the lonely tower
Shall wave its blazoned folds on high;
There the tall grass, and summer flower,
Unmarked shall spring and die.
No more thy bard, for other ear,
Shall wake the harp once loved by thineHushed be the strain thou canst not hear, Last of a mighty line!
THE CRUSADERS' WAR-SONG.
CHIEFTAINS, lead on! our hearts beat high,
Lead on to Salem's towers!
Who would not deem it bliss to die,
Slain in a cause like ours?
The brave who sleep in soil of thine,
Die not entombed but shrined, O Palestine!
Souls of the slain in holy war!
Look from your sainted rest.
Tell us ye rose in Glory's car,
To mingle with the blest;
Tell us how short the death-pang's power,
How bright the joys of your immortal bower.
Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train!
Pour forth your loftiest lays;
Each heart shall echo to the strain
Breathed in the warrior's praise.
Bid every string triumphant swell
The inspiring sounds that heroes love so well.
Salem amidst the fiercest hour,
The wildest rage of fight,
Thy name shall lend our falchions power,
And nerve our hearts with might.
Envied be those for thee that fall,
Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall.
For them no need that sculptured tomb
Should chronicle their fame,
Or pyramid record their doom,
Or deathless verse their name;
It is enough that dust of thine
Should shroud their forms, O blessed Palestine!
Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high
For combat's glorious hour;
Soon shall the red-cross banner fly
On Salem's loftiest tower!
We burn to mingle in the strife,
"Where but to die ensures eternal life.
THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD.
It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clanronald fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. But Glengary, chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round his head, cried out, "To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourning!' The Highlanders received a new impulse from his words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all before them. ---See the Quarterly Review article of "Culloden Papers."
OH! ne'er be Clanronald the valiant forgot!
Still fearless and first in the combat, he fell ;
But we paused not one tear-drop to shed o'er the spot,
We spared not one moment to murmur "Farewell."
We heard but the battle-word given by the chief,
"To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!"
And wildly, Clanronald! we echoed the vow,
With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our hand
Young son of the brave! we may weep for thee now,
For well has thy death been avenged by thy band, When they joined, in wild chorus, the cry of the chief, "To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!"
Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle's wild call,
The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave;
But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall,
And the soft voice of melody sigh o'er thy grave-
While Albyn remembers the words of the chief,
"To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!"
Thou art fallen, O fearless one! flower of thy race:
Descendant of heroes! thy glory is set :
But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase,
Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet!
Nor vainly have echoed the words of the chief,
"To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!"
THRONE of expression! whence the spirit's ray
Pours forth so oft the light of mental day,
Where fancy's fire, affection's melting beam,
Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme,
And many a feeling, words can ne'er impart,
Finds its own language to pervade the heart;
Thy power, bright orb, what bosom hath not felt,
To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt!
Aud by some spell of undefined control,
With magnet-influence touch the secret soul!
Light of the features! in the morn of youth
Thy glance is nature, and thy language truth;
And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway,
Hath taught e'en thee to flatter and betray,
The ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal,
Or speak one thought that interest would conceal;
While yet thou seemest the cloudless mirror, given
But to reflect the purity of heaven;
O! then how lovely, there unveiled, to trace
The unsullied brightness of each mental grace!
When Genius lends thee all his living light
Where the full beams of intellect unite;
When love illumines thee with his varying ray,
Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play;
Or Pity's melting cloud thy beam subdues,
Tempering its lustre with a veil of dews;
Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell
Can pierce the mazes of the soul so well,
Bid some new feeling to existence start,
From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart,
And O! when thought, in ecstasy sublime,
That soars triumphant o'er the bounds of time,
Fires thy keen glance with inspiration's blaze,
The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days,
(As glorious dreams, for utterance far too high,
Flash through the mist of dim mortality;)
Who does not own, that through thy lightning-beams
A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams?
That pure, though captive effluence of the sky,
The vestal ray, the spark that cannot die!
THE HERO'S DEATH.
LIFE's parting beams were in his eye,
Life's closing accents on his tongue,
When round him, pealing to the sky,
The shout of victory rung!
Then, ere his gallant spirit fled,
A smile so bright illumed his face-
Oh! never, of the light it shed,
Shall memory lose a trace!
His was a death, whose rapture high
Transcended all that life could yield;
His warmest prayer was so to die,
On the red battle-field!
And they may feel, who loved him most,
A pride so holy and so pure :
Fate hath no power o'er those who boast
A treasure thus secure!
THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.1
WHAT hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells,
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main?—
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells
Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in vain.
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!
We ask not such from thee.
Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold,
Far down, and shining through their stillness lies!
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.—
Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!
Earth claims not these again.
1 Originally introduced in the "Forest Sanctuary."
Yet more, the depths have more! Thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by!
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.-
Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play :
Man yields them to decay.
Yet more! the billows and the depths have more !
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle-thunders will not break their rest.-
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!
Give back the lost and lovely!-those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long,
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown-
But all is not thine own.
To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown:
Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee !—
Restore the dead, thou sea!
BRING flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreath the cup ere the wine is poured!
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale:
Their breath floats out on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.
Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path!
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath:
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crushed in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day.
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way!
Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell!
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell-
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And the dream of his youth. Bring him flowers, wild flowers!
|