Oh! had they mark'd the avenging To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; call 1

High sounds our bugle-call; Their brethren's murder gave,

Combined by honour's sacred tie, Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown, Our word is Laws and Liberty! Nor patriot valour, desperate grown, March forward, one and all!

Sought freedom in the grave!

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1 The allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss Guards, on the fatal 1oth August, 1792. It is painful, but not useless, to remark, that the passive teniper with which the Swiss regarded the death of their bravest country. men, inercilessly slaughtered in discharge of their duty, encouraged and authorized the progressive injustice, by which the Alps, once the seat of the most virtuous and free people upon the Continent, have, at length, been converted into the citadel of a foreign and inilitary despot. A state degraded is half enslaved, [1912.)

Wake ye from your sleep of death,

Minstrels and bards of other days For the midnight wind is

on the heath, And the midnight meteors dimly


The wind is hush'd, and still the lakeStrange murmurs fill my tinkling

ears, Bristles my hair, my sinews quake,

At the dread voice of other years : "When targets clash'd, and bugles

rung, And blades round warriors heads.

were flung, The foremost of the band were we, And hymn'd the joys of Liberty!'



The Spectre with his Bloody Hand
Is wandering through the wild wood-

land; The owl and the raven are mute for

dread, And the time is mcet to awake the

dead! « Souls of the mighty, wake and say, To what high strain your harps

were strung, When Lochlin plow'd her billowy way, And on your shores her Norsemen

flung? Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and

blood, Skill'd to prepare the Raven's food, All, by your harpings, doom'd to die On bloody Largs and Loncarty. Mute are ye all? No murmurs strange

Upon the midnight breeze sail by; Nor through the pines, with whistling

change Mimic the harp's wild harmony ! Muteareye now? Yene'er were mute, When Murder with his bloody foot, And Rapine with his iron hand, Were hovering near yon mountain

strand. • O yet awake the strain to tell, By every deed in


enroll’d, By every chief who fought or fell,

For Albion's weal in battle bold : From Coilgach', first who roll’d his car Through the deepranks of Roman war, To him, of veteran memory dear. Who victor died on Aboukir. • By all their swords, by all their scars,

By all their names, a mighty spell ! By all their wounds, by all their wars,

Arise, the mighty strain to tell ! Forfiercer than fierce Hengist's strain, More impious than the heathen Dane, More grasping than all-grasping Rome, Gaul's ravening legions hither come !'

I climB'd the dark brow of the mighty

Lakes and mountains beneath me

gleam'd misty and wide; All was still, save by fits, when the

eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes

replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the

Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was

defending, One huge nameless rock in the front

was ascending, When I mark'd the sad spot where

the wanderer had died.

Dark green was that spot 'mid the

brown mountain-heather, Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay

stretch'd in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd

to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted

the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely

extended, For, faithful in death, his mute.

favourite attended,

1 The Galgacus of Tacitus.

The much-loved remains of her master And more stately thy couch by this defended,

desert lake lying, And chased the hill-fox and the Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover raven away.


With one faithful friend but to witness How long didst thou think that his

thy dying, silence was slumber?

In the arms of Hellvellyn and When the wind waved his garment,

Catchedicam. how oft didst thou start? How many long days and long weeks

didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend

THE DYING BARD. of thy heart?

(1806.) And, oh, was it meet, that-no requiem read o'er him

Dinas EMLINN, lament; for the No mother to weep, and no friend

moment is nigh,

When mute in the woodlands thine to deplore him,

echoes shall die : And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him

No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart?

And mix his wild notes with the wild

dashing wave. When a Prince to the fate of the

In spring and in autumn thy glories Peasant has yielded,

of shade The tapestry waves dark round the

Unhonour'd shall flourish, unhonour'd dim-lighted hall;

shall fade; With scutcheons of silver the coffin

For soon shall be lifeless the


and is shielded,

the tongue, And pages stand mute by the cano. That view'd them with rapture, with pied pall :

rapture that sung. Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming ;

Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march

in their pride, In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beaming,

And chase the proud Saxon from Far adown the long aisle sacred music

Prestatyn's side ; is streaming,

But where is the harp shall give life

to their name? Lamenting a Chief of the people should fall.

And where is the bard shall give

heroes their fame?

shall rave,

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of And oh, Dinas Emlinn! thy daughters nature,

so fair, To lay down thy head like the meek | Who heave the white bosom, and mountain lamb,

wave the dark hair; When, wilder’d, he drops from some What tuneful enthusiast shall worship

cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side When half of their charms with Cadof his dam.

wallon shall die ?

their eye,

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And sooth they swore : the sun arose, And Rymny's wave with crimson

glows; For Clare's red banner, floating wide, Roll'd down the stream to Severn's tide! And sooth they vow'd : the trampled

green Show'd where hot Neville's charge

had been : In every sable hoof-tramp stood A Norman horseman's curdling blood ! Old Chepstow's brides may curse the

toil That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian

broil; Their orphans long the art may rue, For Neville's war-horse forged the

shoe. No more the stamp of armed steed Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead; Nor trace be there, in early spring, - Save of the Fairies' emerald ring.




RED glows the forge in Striguil's

bounds, And hammers din, and anvil sounds, And arinourers, with iron toil, Barb many a stced for battle's broil. Foul fall the and which bends the

steel Around the courser's thundering heel, That e'er shall dint a sable wound On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground ?

From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn

of morn, Was heard afar the bugle-horn; And forth, in banded pomp and pride, Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride. They swore their banners broad

should gleam, In crimson light, on Rymny's stream; They vow'd Caerphili's sod should

feel The Norman charger's spurning heel.

(1806.) (An earlier version, of date 1800,

appears in The House of Aspen.) O, LOW shone the sun on the fair

lake of Toro, And weak were the whispers that

waved the dark wood, All as a fair maiden, bewilder'd in

sorrow, Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and

wept to the flood. O saints! from the mansions of bliss

lowly bending ; Sweet Virgin! who hearest the

suppliant's cry, Now grant my petition, in anguish

ascending, My Henry restore, or let Eleanor



All distant and faint were the sounds ‘A weary Palmer, worn and weak, of the battle,

I wander for my sin ; With the breezes they rise, with O open, for Our Lady's sake! the breezes they fail,

A pilgrim's blessing win! Till the shout, and the groan, and the conflict's dread rattle,

"I'll give you pardons from the Pope,

And reliques from o'er the sea ; And the chase's wild clamour, came

Or if for these you will not ope, loading the gale.

Yet open for charity. Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so dreary;

• The hare is crouching in her form, Slowly approaching a warrior was

The hart beside the hind; seen;

An aged man, amid the storm,
Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps No shelter can I find.

So weary,
Cleft was his helmet, and woe was

"You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar, his mien.

Dark, deep, and strong is he,

And I must ford the Ettrick o'er, • O save thee, fair maid, for our armies Unless you pity me.

are flying! o

save thee, fair maid, for thy • The iron gate is bolted hard,
guardian is low !

At which I knock in vain ;
Deadly cold on yon heath thy brave

The owner's heart is closer barr'd, Henry is lying,

Who hears me thus complain. And fast through the woodland

• Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant, approaches the foe.'

When old and frail you be, Scarce could he falter the tidings of You never may the shelter want sorrow,

That's now denied to me.' And scarce could she hear them,

benumb'd with despair; The Ranger on his couch lay warm, And when the sun sank on the sweet And heard him plead in vain; lake of Toro,

But oft amid December's storm For ever he set to the brave and He'll hear that voice again : the fair.

For lo, when through the vapours dank,

Morn shone on Ettrick fair,

A corpse amid the alders rank,

The Palmer welter'd there.
• O open the door, some pity to show,

Keen blows the northern wind ! The glen is white with the drifted snow, And the path is hard to find.

THE MAID OF NEIDPATH. • No outlaw seeks your castle gate,

(1806.) From chasing the King's deer, O LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see, Though even an outlaw's wretched And lovers' ears in hearing ; state

And love, in life's extremity, Might claim compassion here.

Can lend an hour of cheering.

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