Still glares his closing eye with angry light,
Now glares, now darkens with approaching night.
Think not with terror heaves that sinewy breast-
'Tis vengeance visible, and pain supprest:
Calm in despair, in agony sedate,
His proud soul wrestles with o'er-mast'ring fate;
That pang the conflict ends-he falls not yet-
Seems ev'ry nerve for one last effort set,
At once, by death, death's ling'ring power to brave-
He will not sink, but plunge into the grave-
Exhaust his mighty heart in one last sigh,
And rally life's whole energy-to die.
Unfear'd is now that cord, which oft ensnar'd
The baffled rival, whom his falchion spar'd;
Those clarions mute, which, on the murd'rous stage,
Rous'd him to deeds of more than martial rage:
Once pois'd by peerless might, once dear to fame,
The shield, which could not guard, supports his frame;
His fix'd eye dwells upon the faithless blade,
As if in silent agony he pray'd
"Oh! might I yet, by one avenging blow,
"Not shun my fate, but share it with my foe!"
Vain hope!-the streams of life-blood fast descend;
That giant-arm's upbearing strength must bend;
Yet shall he scorn, procumbent, to betray,
One dastard sign of anguish or dismay;
With one weak plaint to shame his parting breath,
In pangs sublime, magnificent in death!
But his were deeds unchronicled: his tomb
No patriot wreaths adorn; to cheer his doom,
No soothing thoughts arise of duties done,
Of trophied conquest for his country won;
And he, whose sculptur'd form gave deathless fame
To Ctesilas-he dies without a name!
Haply to grace some Cæsar's pageant pride
The hero-slave or hireling-champion died,
When Rome, degen'rate Rome, for barb'rous shows
Barter'd her virtue, glory, and repose,
Sold all that freemen prize as great and good,
For pomps of death, and theatres of blood
HARP OF THE NORTH.
[From SCOTT'S LADY OF THE LAKE.]
ARP of the North! that mouldering long hast hung On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan's spring, And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,
Till envious ivy did around thee cling, Muffling with verdant ringlet every string,
O minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep? Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring,
Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep, Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep?
Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon,
Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, When lay of hopeless love, or glory won, Aroused the fearful, or subdued the proud. At each according pause, was heard aloud Thine ardent symphony subline and high! Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bow'd; For still the burthen of thy minstrelsy
Was knighthood's dauntless deed, and beauty's matchless eye.
O wake once more! how rude so'er the hand
That ventures o'er thy magic maze to stray;
O wake once more! though scarce my skill command
Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay:
Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away,
And all unworthy of thy nobler strain,
Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway,
The wizard note has not been touched in vain. Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again!
THE boat had touch'd this silver strand,
Just as the hunter left his stand,
And stood conceal'd amid the brake,
To view this Lady of the Lake.
The maiden paused, as if again
She thought to catch the distant strain.
With head up-rais'd, and look intent,
And eye and ear attentive bent,
And locks flung back, and lips apart,
Like monument of Grecian art,
In listening mood, she seem'd to stand
The guardian Naiad of the strand.
And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,
Of finer form, or lovelier face!
What though the sun, with ardent frown,
Had slightly ting'd her cheek with brown,—
The sportive toil, which, short and light,
Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,
Served too in hastier swell to show
Short glimpses of a breast of snow:
What though no rule of courtly grace
To measur'd mood had train'd her pace,-
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew;
E'en the slight hare-bell rais'd its head,
Elastic from her airy tread :
What though upon her speech there hung
The accents of the mountain tongue,—
Those silver sounds, so oft, so dear,
The list ner held his breath to hear.
A chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid;
Her satin snood, her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch such birth betray'd.
And seldom was a snood amid
Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,
Whose glossy black to shame might bring
The plumage of the raven's wing;
And seldom o'er a breast so fair,
Mantled a plaid with modest care,
And never brooch the folds combin'd
Above a heart more good and kind.
Her kindness and her worth to spy,
You need but gaze on Ellen's eye;
Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,
Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
Than every free-born glance confess'd
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danc'd in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,
Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer,
Or tale of injury call'd forth
The indignant spirit of the north.
One only passion, unrevealed,
With maiden pride the maid concealed,
Yet not less purely felt, the flame;-
Oh need I tell that passion's name!
S died the sounds upon the tide,
The shallop reached the main-land side.
And ere his onward way he took,
The Stranger cast a lingering look,
Where easily his eye might reach
The harper on the islet beach,
Reclined against a blighted tree,
As wasted, grey, and worn as he.
To minstrel meditation given,
His reverend brow was raised to heaven,
As from the rising sun to claim
A sparkle of inspiring flame.
His hand, reclined upon the wire,
Seemed watching the awakening fire;
So still he sate, as those who wait
Till judgment speak the doom of fate;
So still, as if no breeze might dare
To lift one lock of hoary hair;
So still as life itself were fled,
In the last sound his harp bad sped.
A cubit's length in measure due,
The shaft and limbs were rods of yew,
Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave
Their shadows o'er Clan-Alpine's grave,
And answering Lomond's breezes deep,
Sooth many a chieftain's endless sleep.
The cross, thus formed, he held on high,
With wasted hand and haggard eye,.
And strange and mingled feelings woke,
While his anathema he spoke.
"Woe to the clans-man, who shall view
This symbol of sepulchral yew,
Forgetful that its branches grew
Where weep the heavens their holiest dew
On Alpine's dwelling low!
Deserter of his Chieftain's trust,
He ne'er shall mingle with their dust,
But, from his sires and kindred thrust,
Each clans-man's execration just
Shall doom him wrath and woe."
He paused; the word the Vassals took,
With forward step, and fiery look,
On high their naked brands they shook,
Their clattering targets wildly strook;
And first, in murmur low,
Then, like the billow in his course,
That far to seaward finds his source,
And flings to shore his mustered force,
Burst, with loud roar, their answer hoarse,
"Woe to the traitor, woe!"
Ben-an's grey scalp the accents knew,
The joyous wolf from covert drew,
The exulting eagle screamed afar,—
They knew the voice of Alpine's war.
The shout was hushed on lake and fell,
The Monk resumed his muttered spell.
Dismal and low its accents came,
The while he scathed the Cross with flame;
And the few words that reached the air,
Although the holiest name was there,
Had more of blasphemy than prayer.
But when he shook above the crowd
Its kindled points, he spoke aloud :-
"Woe to the wretch, who fails to rear
At this dread sign the ready spear!
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