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And every tuft of broom gives life
Fitz-James was brave :-though to his heart
Each warrior vanished where he stood,
SCOTT'S LADY OF THE LAKE.
THERE WAS a sound of revelry by night,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
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-
Within a window'd niche of that high hall Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amid the festival, And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched 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 foesHow 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
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
The thunder-clouds close o'er it; which, when rent,
Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine;
And partly that bright names will hallow song; And his was of the bravest; and when shower'd The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along, Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, They reach'd no nobler breast than thine-young, gallant Howard!
There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, And mine were nothing, had I such to give; But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, Which, living, waves where thou didst cease to live, And saw around me the wide field revive With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring Come forth her work of gladness to contrive With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring.
THE moon is up, and yet it is not night—