XX. If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more! XXI. There was a sound of revelry by night, Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! XXII. Did ye not hear it ?-No; 'twas but the wind, No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! Arm! it is-it is the cannon's opening roar ! XXIII. Within a window'd niche of that high hall And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. XXIV. Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? XXV. And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, 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!" XXVI. And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose! The stirring memory of a thousand years, And (4) Evan's, (5) Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! XXVII. And Ardennes (6) waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave,-alas ! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow Of living valour, rolling on the foe And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. XXVIII. 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 Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red burial blent! XXIX. Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine; Yet one I would select from that proud throng, Partly because they blend me with his line, And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 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! XXX. There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring [(7) I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring. XXXI. I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake So honour'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim, XXXII. They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn: The tree will wither long before it fall; The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn ; In massy hoariness; the ruin'd wall Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; The day drags through tho' storms keep out the sun; And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on: XXXIII. Even as a broken mirror, which the glass The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. XXXIV. There is a very life in our despair, Vitality of poison,—a quick root Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were As nothing did we die; but Life will suit Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, Like to the apples on the (8) Dead Sea's shore, Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er Such hours 'gainst years of life,-say, would he name threescore? |