Brangwain was there, and Segramore, Through many a maze the winning song Till bent at length the listening throng His ancient wounds their scars expand, She comes, she comes !-like flash of flame She comes, she comes !-she only came She saw him die: her latest sigh Joined in a kiss his parting breath: The gentlest pair that Britain bare, There paused the harp; its lingering sound Died slowly on the ear; The silent guests still bent around, For still they seemed to hear. Then woe broke forth in murmurs weak, But, half ashamed, the rugged cheek On Leader's stream, and Learmont's tower, The mists of evening close; In camp, in castle, or in bower Each warrior sought repose. Lord Douglas in his lofty tent, Dreamed o'er the woeful tale; When footsteps light, across the bent, IIe starts, he wakes:-"What, Richard, ho! Arise, my page, arise! What venturous wight, at dead of night, Dare step where Douglas lies?" Then forth they rushed: by Leader's tide, A hart and hind pace side by side, Beneath the moon, with gesture proud, To Learmont's tower a message sped, First he woxe pale, and then woxe red; The elfin harp his neck around, And on the wind, in doleful sound, Then forth he went; yet turned him oft To view his ancient hall; On the grey tower, in lustre soft, And Leader's waves, like silver sheen, "Farewell, my father's ancient tower! A long farewell," said he: "The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power, Thou never more shalt be. To Learmont's name no foot of earth And on thy hospitable hearth The hare shall leave her young. Adieu! adieu!" again he cried, The hart and hind approached the place, And there, before Lord Douglas' face, Lord Douglas leaped on his berry-brown steed, But, though he rode with lightning speed, Some said to hill, and some to glen, WAR SONG OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH THE following War-song was written during the apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volunteers, to which it was addressed, was raised in 1797, consisting of gentlemen, mounted and armed at their own expense. It still subsists, as the Right Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, commanded by the Hon. Lieutenant-Colonel Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure of arming freemen in defence of their own rights, was nowhere more successful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3000 armed and disciplined volunteers, including a regiment of cavalry, from the city and county, and two corps of artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns. To such a force, above all others, might, in similar circumstances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Galgacus: "Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores vestros et posteros cogitate." To horse! to horse! the standard flies, The bugles sound the call; The Gallic navy stems the seas, From high Dunedin's towers we come, Our casques the leopard's spoils surround, Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown Their ravished toys though Romans mourn, O! had they marked the avenging call Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, Or brook a victor's scorn? No! though destruction o'er the land The sun, that sees our falling day, For gold let Gallia's legions fight, Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, If ever breath of British gale Or footstep of invader rude, With rapine foul, and red with blood, Then farewell home! and farewell friends! Adieu each tender tie! Resolved, we mingle in the tide, Where charging squadrons furious ride, To horse to horse! the sabres gleam MISCELLANEOUS. HELLVELLYN. Is the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Hellvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmorland. I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain-heather, How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming; In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming; |