Strike, I say, the notes of triumph, To bewail our dead Dundee ? Weep until their eyes are dim! Wail ye may full well for ScotlandLet none dare to mourn for him! See! above his glorious body Lies the royal banner's foldSee! his valiant blood is mingled With its crimson and its gold. See how calm he looks and stately, Like a warrior on his shield, Breaks along the battle-field! As the hour of fight drew nigh! Clearer than the trumpet's call, Bade us strike for King and Country, Bade us win the field, or fall! On the heights of Killiecrankie From the river's broken way; Hoarsely roar'd the swollen torrent, And the pass was wrapp'd in gloom, When the clansmen rose together From their lair amidst the broom. Then we belted on our tartans, And our bonnets down we drew, And we felt our broadswords' edges, And we proved them to be true; And we pray'd the prayer of soldiers, And we cried the gathering-cry, And we clasp'd the hands of kinsmen, And we swore to do or die! Then our leader rode before us On his war-horse black as night— Well the Cameronian rebels Knew that charger in the fight !-— And a cry of exultation From the bearded warriors rose; For we loved the house of Claver'se, And we thought of good Montrose. But he raised his hand for silence"Soldiers! I have sworn a vow: Ere the evening star shall glisten On Schehallion's lofty brow, Either we shall rest in triumph, Or another of the Græmes Shall have died in battle-harness For his Country and King James! Think upon the Royal Martyr Think of what his race endureThink on him whom butchers murder'd On the field of Magus Muir: By his sacred blood I charge ye, By the ruin'd hearth and shrineBy the blighted hopes of Scotland, By your injuries and mineStrike this day as if the anvil Lay beneath your blows the while, Be they Covenanting traitors, Or the brood of false Argyle! Strike! and drive the trembling rebels Backward o'er the stormy Forth; Let them tell their pale Convention How they fared within the North. Let them tell that Highland honor Is not to be bought nor sold, That we scorn their prince's anger As we loathe his foreign gold. Strike! and when the fight is over, If you look in vain for me, Where the dead are lying thickest Search for him that was Dundee !" Loudly then the hills re-echoed With our answer to his call, In the bosoms of us all. And they harder drew their breath; And the voices of the foe; Till the Lowland ranks drew near, Next we saw the squadrons come, Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers Marching to the tuck of drum; Through the scatter'd wood of birches, O'er the broken ground and heath, Wound the long battalion slowly, Till they gain'd the field beneath; Then we bounded from our covert.Judge how look'd the Saxons then, When they saw the rugged mountain Start to life with armèd men! Like a tempest down the ridges Swept the hurricane of steel, Rose the Slogan of Macdonald— Flash'd the broadsword of Lochiel! Vainly sped the withering volley 'Mongst the foremost of our band— On we pour'd until we met them, Foot to foot, and hand to hand. O thou lion-hearted warrior! HERVÉ RIEL. Horse and man went down like drift- ON the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hun wood When the floods are black at Yule, And their carcasses are whirling In the Garry's deepest pool. Horse and man went down before us Living foe there tarried none On the field of Killiecrankie, When that stubborn fight was done! And the evening star was shining On Schehallion's distant head, When we wiped our bloody broadswords And return'd to count the dead. There we found him gash'd and gory, Stretch'd upon the cumber'd plain, As he told us where to seek him, In the thickest of the slain. And a smile was on his visage, For within his dying ear Peal'd the joyful note of triumph, And the clansmen's clamorous cheer: So, amidst the battle's thunder. Shot, and steel, and scorching flame, In the glory of his manhood Pass'd the spirit of the Græme! Open wide the vaults of Athol, Where the bones of heroes restOpen wide the hallow'd portals To receive another guest! Last of Scots, and last of freemen— Last of all that dauntless race Who would rather die unsullied Than outlive the land's disgrace! dred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French,--woe to France! And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, Like a crowd of frighten'd porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view. 'Twas the squadron that escap'd, with the victor in full chase: First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signall'd to the place, "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick; or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will !” Then the pilots of the place put out brisk, and leap'd on board : "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laugh'd they · "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarr'd and scored. Shall the Formidable' here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Then was call'd a council straight: "Here's the English at our heels: would All that's left us of the fleet, link'd to- For a prize to Plymouth Sound? "Not a minute more to wait! Let the captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the ves sels on the beach! France must undergo her fate." "Give the word!" But no such word Was ever spoke or heard: For up stood, for out stepp'd, for in struck, amid all these, A captain? a lieutenant? a mate,-first, second, third? No such man of mark and meet With his betters to compete ! But a simple Breton sailor press'd by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he,-Hervé Riel the Croisickese. And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel. Burn the fleet, and ruin France? That Only let me lead the line, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor, past Grève, Not a minute more to wait. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!” cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is admiral, in brief. Still the north wind, by God's grace. As the big ship, with a bound, | Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were See, safe through shoal and rock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that Not a spar that comes to grief! All are harbor'd to the last! And just as Hervé Riel holloas "Anchor!" sure as fate, "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you Up the English come,-too late! cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals? me, who took the soundings, tell So the storm subsides to calm : They see the green trees wave On my fingers every bank, every shallow, Hearts that bled are stanch'd with Out burst all with one accord, "This is paradise for hell! Let France, let France's king, Thank the man that did the thing!" What a shout, and all one word, "Hervé Riel !" As he stepp'd in front once more; In the frank blue Breton eyes,— Though I find the speaking hard: Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, Since the others go ashore, Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore !" On the Louvre, face and flank : You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. So, for better and for worse, In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore! ROBERT BROWNING. FONTENOY. THRICE, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column fail'd, And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain assail'd, For town and slope were fill'd with fort and flanking battery, And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary. As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British soldiers burst, The French artillery drove them back, diminish'd and dispersed. The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, And order'd up his last reserve, his latest chance to try; On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride! And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide. That he ask'd, and that he got,-noth- Six thousand English veterans in stately ing more. Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post column tread, Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head; Steady they step adown the slope, steady they climb the hill, In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it Steady they load, steady they fire, moving befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing-smack right onward still, Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through. a furnace-blast, In memory of the man but for whom had Through rampart, trench, and palisade,. gone to wrack All that France sav'd from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris; rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell and bullets showering fast; And on the open plain above they rose, and kept their course, With ready fire and grim resolve, that mock'd at hostile force: Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thin- Thin is the English column now, and faint ner grow their ranksThey break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks. More idly than the summer flies French tirailleurs rush round; As stubble to the lava tide French squadrons strew the ground; Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they march'd and fired their volleys grow, Yet, must'ring all the strength they have, they make a gallant show. They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle-wind, Their bayonets the breakers' foam, like rocks the men behind; One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke, With empty guns clutch'd in their hands, the headlong Irish broke. Fast, from each volley, grenadier and vol- On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that tigeur retired. "Push on, my household cavalry!" King Louis madly cried: To death they rush, but rude their shock; not unavenged they died. On through the camp the column trodKing Louis turns his rein: "Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops remain ;" And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, 66 vehement, and true. fierce huzza: "Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanach!" Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang, Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang; Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are fill'd with gore; Through shatter'd ranks, and sever'd files, and trampled flags they tore; The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, stagger'd, fled, Lord Clare," he says, "you have your The green hillside is matted close with wish, there are your Saxon foes!" The Marshal almost smiles to see, so fu riously he goes. How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay; dying and with dead. Across the plain and far away pass'd on that hideous wrack, While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track. The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in their hearts to-day The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry, Their plunder'd homes, their ruin'd shrines, their women's parting cry, Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown,Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him alone. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere, Rush'd on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands, "Fix bay'nets"-"Charge;" like mountain-storm rush on these fiery bands. the sun, With bloody plumes the Irish stand-the field is fought and won! THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS. BATTLE OF FONTENOY. By our camp-fires rose a murmur Few and stern were our words, The trumpet-blast has sounded Our footmen to array— |