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 thronged 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 And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Ere evening to be trodden like the grass And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent! Lord Byron. III THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone But we left him alone with his glory. Charles Wolfe. 112 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER MUCH have I travelled in the realms of gold, Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold. John Keats. 113 THE SCHOLAR My days among the dead are past ; Where'er these casual eyes are cast, My never failing friends are they, With them I take delight in weal, And while I understand and feel My cheeks have often been bedewed My thoughts are with the dead; with them Their virtues love, their faults condemn, And from their lessons seek and find My hopes are with the dead; anon Yet leaving here a name, I trust, Robert Southey. 114 THE TABLES TURNED UP, up, my Friend, and quit your books, Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks; The sun, above the mountain's head, Through all the long green fields has spread, Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. And hark, how blithe the throstle sings! Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, One impulse from a vernal wood Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:We murder to dissect. |