"Some fort embattled by your country shines:
"Deep roars th' innavigable gulph below
"Its squared rock, and palisaded lines.
"Go! seek the light its warlike beacons shew;
"Whilst I in ambush wait, for vengeance and the foe!"
Scarce had he uttered-when Heav'n's verge extreme Reverberates the bomb's descending star,—
And sounds that mingled laugh, and shout, and
To freeze the blood in one discordant jar,
Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war.
Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assail'd!
As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar;
While rapidly the marksman's shot prevail'd :-
And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wail'd.
Then look'd they to the hills, where fire o'erhung The bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare;
swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock unrung, Told legible that midnight of despair.
She faints, she falters not-th' heroic fair,-
As he the sword and plume in haste array'd,
One short embrace-he clasp'd his dearest care
But hark! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade ?
Joy, joy! Columbia's friends are trampling through the
Then came of every race the mingled swarm,
Far rung the groves and gleam'd the midnight grass,
With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm;
As warriors wheel'd their culverins of brass,
Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass,
Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines :
And first the wild Moravian yagers pass,
His plumed host the dark Iberian joins
And Scotia's sword beneath the Highland thistle shines.
BREATHES there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim :
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.
O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand!
Still, as I view each well known scene,
Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seems as, to me, of all bereft,
Sole friends thy woods and streams were left:
And thus I love them better still,
Even in extremity of ill.
By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way;
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
Although it chill my withered cheek;
Still lay my head by Teviot stone,
Though there, forgotten and alone,
The Bard may draw his parting groan.
Not scorned like me! to Branksome Hall The Minstrels came, at festive call; Trooping they came, from near and far, The jovial priests of mirth and war; Alike for feast and fight prepared, Battle and banquet both they shared. Of late, before each martial clan, They blew their death-note in the van, But now, for every merry mate, Rose the portcullis' iron grate;
They sound the pipe, they strike the string, They dance, they revel, and they sing,
Till the rude turrets shake and ring.
Me lists not at this tide declare
The splendour of the spousal rite,
How mustered in the chapel fair
Both maid and matron, squire and knight;
Me lists not tell of owches rare,
Of mantles green, and braided hair,
And kirtles furred with miniver;
What plumage waved the altar round,
How spurs, and ringing chainlets, sound:
And hard it were for bard to speak
The changeful hue of Margaret's cheek:
That lovely hue which comes and flies,
As awe and shame alternate rise.
Some bards have sung, the Ladye high
Chapel or altar came not nigh;
Nor durst the rites of spousal grace,
So much she feared each holy place.
False slanders these:-I trust right well,
She wrought not by forbidden spell;
For mighty words and signs have power
O'er sprites in planetary hour:
Yet scarce I praise their venturous part,
Who tamper with such dangerous art.
But this for faithful truth I say,
The Ladye by the altar stood,
Of sable velvet her array,
And on her head a crimson hood,
With pearls embroidered and entwined,
Guarded with gold, with ermine lined;
A merlin sat upon her wrist,
Held by a leash of silken twist.
The spousal rites were ended soon; 'Twas now the merry hour of noon, And in the lofty arched hall Was spread the gorgeous festival. Steward and squire, with heedful haste, Marshall'd the rank of every guest; Pages, with ready blade, were there, The mighty meal to carve and share;
O'er capon, heron-shew, and crane,
And princely peacock's gilded train,
And o'er the boar-head, garnish'd brave,
And cygnet from St. Mary's wave;
O'er ptarmigan and venison,
The priest had spoke his benison;
Then rose the riot and the din,
Above, beneath, without, within !
For from the lofty balcony,
Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery;
Their clanging bowls old warriors quaff'd,
Loudly they spoke, and loudly laugh'd!
Whisper'd young knights, in tone more mild,
To ladies fair, and ladies smiled.
The hooded hawks, high perch'd on beam,
The clamour join'd with whistling scream,
And flapp'd their wings, and shook their bells
In concert with the stag-hounds' yells.
Round go the flasks of ruddy wine,
From Bourdeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine;
Their tasks the busy sewers ply,
And all is mirth and revelry
The Goblin Page, omitting still
No opportunity of ill
Strove now, while blood ran hot and high,
To rouse debate and jealousy ;
Till Conrad, lord of Wolfenstein,
By nature fierce, and warm with wine
And now in humour highly cross'd,
About some steeds his band had lost.
High words to words succeeding still
Smote with his gauntlet stout Hunthill;
A hot and hardy Rutherford,
Whom men call Dickon Draw-the-Sword;
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