But it told them not how dear,
In a home beyond the main,
Was the warrior-youth laid low that hour
By a mountain-stream of Spain.
The oaks of England waved
O'er the slumbers of his race;
But a pine of the Ronceval made moan
Above his last lone place;
When the muffled drum was heard
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull, deep, rolling sound,
Which called strange echoes round
To the soldier's burial-rite.
Brief was the sorrowing there,
By the stream from battle red, And tossing on its wave the plumes Of many a stately head:
But a mother-soon to die
And a sister-long to weep,
Even then were breathing prayers for him,
In that home beyond the deep;
While the muffled drum was heard
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull, deep, rolling sound;
And the dark pines mourned around,
O'er the soldier's burial-rite.
While the dawn on the mountain was misty and grey
My true love has mounted his steed and away,
Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down,
Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the Crown!
He has doffed the silk doublet the breast-plate to wear,
He has placed the steel cap o'er his long flowing hair,
From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down—
Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the Crown!
For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws;
Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause;
His watchword is honour, his
God strike with the gallant that strikes for the Crown!
They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all
The round-headed rebels of Westminster Hall;
But tell those bold traitors of London's proud town
That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.
There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes,
There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose !
Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,
With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown?
Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!
Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear,
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,
In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her Crown.
SIR W. SCOTT.
Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When, reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;
"Twas autumn - and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young: I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part,
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.
Stay, stay with us, rest, thou art weary and worn!
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay-
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS
AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
When the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head;
And the censer burning swung,
Where, before the altar, hung
The blood-red banner, that with prayer
Had been consecrated there.
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,
Sung low in the dim mysterious aisle.
"Take thy banner! May it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave;
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the Sabbath of our vale,
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.
"Take thy banner! But when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him!-By our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
the mercy that endears,
Spare him!-he our love hath shared!
Spare him!-as thou wouldst be spared!
"Take thy banner!-and if e'er
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be,
Martial cloak and shroud for thee!"
The warrior took that banner proud,
And it was his martial cloak and shroud!
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