None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so: As the ground was before, thus let it be ;How that red rain hath made the harvest grow And is this all the world hath gain'd by thee, King-making Thou first and last of fields ! Victory? ! There was a sound of revelry by night, men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet— But, hark!-that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is-it is—the cannon's opening roar! Within a window'd niche of that high hall, Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain: he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled, because he deem'd it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : He rush'd into the field, and foremost, fighting, fell. Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago, Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness: And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 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! 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 the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years. And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! * ALBYN'S HILLS.-The Highlands of Scotland. 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 low. Last noon-beheld them full of lusty life, The morn-the marshalling in arms,-the 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! PRINCIPAL WRITINGS:-The Pleasures of Hope; Gertrude of Wyoming; Theodoric. Exile of Erin. HERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of " Erin-go-bragh." † "Sad is my fate," said the heart-broken stranger: “The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh!' |