« VorigeDoorgaan »
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While throng’d the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering with white lips, “ The foe! they come!
And wild and high the “ Cameron's gathering” rose!
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard-and heard too have her Saxon foes :-
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill. But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With their fierce native daring, which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years ;
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass
Grieving—if aught inanimate e'er grieves-
Over the unreturning brave-alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure; when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life;
Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife ;
The morn the marshalling in arms; the day
Battle's magnificently stern array !
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent,
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover,-heap'd and pent, Rider and horse--friend, foe,-in one red burial blent.
BRUTUS'S HARANGUE OVER THE DEAD
BODY OF LUCRETIA.
Thus, thus, my friends ! fast as our breaking hearts
Permitted utterance, we have told our story:
And now, to say one word of the imposture-
The mask necessity has made me wear.
When the ferocious malice of your king,
King ! do I call him?—when the monster, Tarquin,
Slew, as most of you may well remember,
My father, Marcus, and my elder brother,
Envying at once their virtues and their wealth,
How could I hope a shelter from his power,
But in the false face I have worn so long?
Would you know why I summon'd you together?
Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this dagger,
Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse
See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death!
She was the mark and model of the time,
The mould in which each female face was form’d,
The very shrine and sacristy of virtue !
The worthiest of the worthy! not the nymph
Who met old Numa in his hallow'd walks,
And whisper'd in his ear her strains divine,
Can I conceive beyond her !—the young choir
Of vestal virgins bent to her !-Such a mind
Might have abash'd the boldest libertine,
And turn'd desire to reverential love
And holiest affection! Oh, my countrymen !
You all can witness when that she went forth
It was a holiday in Rome; old age
Forgot its crutch; labour its task; all ran;
And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried,
“ There, there's Lucretia !”—Now look ye where she
lies, That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose, Torn up by ruthless violence-gone, gone!
Say-would you seek instructions; would you seek What
ye should do !-Ask ye yon conscious walls Which saw his poison'd brother, saw the incest Committed there, and they will cry, Revenge ! Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove
O'er her dead father's corse, 'twill cry, Revenge! -
Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple
With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge!
Go to the tomb where lie his murder'd wife,
And the poor queen,
who loved him as her son,
Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge!
The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heaven,-
The gods themselves,—will justify the cry,
And swell the general sound-Revenge! Revenge!
Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide border his steed was the best ;
And save his good broad-sword he weapon had done,
He rode all unarm’d, and he rode all alone !
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young
He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Esk river where ford there was none
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Éllen of brave Lochinvar!
So boldly he enter'd the Netherby hall,
'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all !
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword-
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word
“O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?-
Or to dance at our bridal? young Lord Lochinvar!”
“I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied :
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine!
There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young
The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffd off the wine, and he threw down the cup;
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh-
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye,
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-
“ Now tread we a measure :” said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and
And the bride-maidens whispered, “ 'Twere better by far
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood
near, So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow !” quoth young
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they
There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lea,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see !
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar!
THE ISLES OF GREECE. Tae isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phæbus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet;
But all, except their sun, is set.
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo farther west
Than your sires' “ Islands of the Bless’d.”
The mountains look on Marathon
And Marathon looks on the sea : And musing there an hour alone,
I dream'd that Greece might still might be free; For, standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave.
A king sate on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men in nations;—all were his !
He counted them at break of day-
And when the sun set, where were they?
And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now
The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine ?
'Tis something, in the death of fame,
Though link'd among a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear.
Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd
Must we hut blush ?-our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylæ!