And as his springing steps advance, Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall; And cowering foes shall sink beneath Flag of the seas! on ocean wave In triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of the free heart's hope and home! And all thy hues were born in heaven. Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! J. R. Drake. CCXXV. THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE. C not lift him from the bracken, leave him lying where he fell Better bier ye cannot fashion: none beseems him half so well Whence his angry soul ascended to the judgment-seat of God! Winding-sheet we cannot give him seek no mantle for the dead, Save the cold and spotless covering showered from heaven upon his head. Leave his broadsword as we found it, rent and broken with the blow, That, before he died, avenged him on the foremost of the foe. Leave the blood upon the bosom wash not off that sacred stain; Let it stiffen on the tartan, let his wounds unclosed remain, high, When the murderer and the murdered meet before their Judge's eye. Nay-ye should not weep, my children! leave it to the faint and weak ; Sobs are but a woman's weapons tears befit a maiden's cheek. Weep not, children of Macdonald! weep not thou, his orphan heir; Not in shame, but stainless honor, lies thy slaughtered father there; Weep not but when years are over, and thine arm is strong and sure, And thy foot is swift and steady on the mountain and the muir, Let thy heart be hard as iron, and thy wrath as fierce as fire, Till the hour when vengeance cometh for the race that slew thy sire! Till in deep and dark Glenlyon rise a louder shriek of woe, Than at midnight, from their eyry, scared the eagles of Glencoe; Louder than the screams that mingled with the howling of the blast, When the murderers' steel was clashing, and the fires were rising fast; When thy noble father bounded to the rescue of his men, And the slogan of our kindred pealed throughout the startled glen ; When the herd of frantic women stumbled through the midnight snow, With their fathers' houses blazing, and their dearest dead below! Oh, the horror of the tempest, as the flashing drift was blown, Crimsoned with the conflagration, and the roofs went thundering down! Oh, the prayers, the prayers and curses, that together winged their flight From the maddened hearts of many, through that long and woful night! Till the fires began to dwindle, and the shots grew faint and few, Till the silence once more settled o'er the gorges of the glen, And the ghastly valley glimmered in the gray December dawn. When she searches for her offspring round the relics of her nest. For in many a spot the tartan peered above the wintry heap, Marking where a dead Macdonald lay within his frozen sleep. Tremblingly we scooped the covering from each kindred victim's head, And the living lips were burning on the cold ones of the dead. And I left them with their dearest - dearest charge had every one Left the maiden with her lover, left the mother with her son. lay. But I wandered up the valley, till I found him lying low, With the gash upon his bosom, and the frown upon his brow Till I found him lying murdered where he wooed me long ago. why should I have Could I rain them down like water, O my hero! on thy headCould the cry of lamentation wake thee from thy silent sleep, Could it set thy heart a-throbbing, it were mine to wail and weep! But I will not waste my sorrow, lest the Campbell women say name, When the valiant and the noble died around the dauntless Græme! But I will not wrong thee, husband, with my unavailing cries, Whilst thy cold and mangled body, stricken by the traitor, lies; Whilst he counts the gold and glory that this hideous night has won, And his heart is big with triumph at the murder he has done. Other eyes than mine shall glisten, other hearts be rent in twain, Ere the heath-bells on thy hillock wither in the autumn rain. Then I'll seek thee where thou sleepest, and I'll veil my weary head, Praying for a place beside thee, dearer than my bridal-bed: CCXXVI. BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. NOT OT 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; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 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. C. Wolfe CCXXVII. THE MANIAC. TAY, jailer, stay, and hear my woe! I am not mad, I am not mad. |