The Project Gutenberg EBook of Some Poems by Sir Walter Scott (#24 in our series by Sir Walter Scott) Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the header without written permission. Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** **eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** *****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** Title: Some Poems by Sir Walter Scott Author: Sir Walter Scott Release Date: July, 2004 [EBook #6061] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on October 30, 2002] Edition: 10 Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII
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Contents:
Introduction by Henry Morley.
The
Vision of Don Roderick
The Field of Waterloo
The
Dance of Death
Romance of Dunois
The
Troubadour
Pibroch of Donald Dhu
Since there is room in this volume for more verses than Colonel Hay’s {1}, I have added to them a few poems by Sir Walter Scott; the first written in 1811 at the time of the struggle with Napoleon in the Peninsula, the second in 1815, after Waterloo. Thus there is over all this volume a thin haze of battle through which we see only the finer feelings and the nobler hopes of man. The day is to come when war shall be no more, but wars have been and may again be necessary to bring on that day; and it is of such war, not untinged with the light of heaven, that we have passing shadows in this little book.
“The Vision of Don Roderick; a Poem, by Walter Scott, Esq.,” was printed at Edinburgh by James Ballantyne & Co. in 1811. They are the present representatives of that firm by whom it is here reprinted. It was originally inscribed “to John Whitmore, Esq., and to the Committee of Subscribers for relief of the Portuguese Sufferers, in which he presides,” as a “poem composed for the benefit of the Fund under their management.”
The Legend of Don Roderick will be given in the next volume of our “Companion Poets,” for Robert Southey founded upon it a Romantic Tale in Verse, which is one of the best tales of the kind in the English language. Southey’s tale of Roderick himself was written at the same time when Walter Savage Landor was writing a play upon the subject, and Scott was, in the piece here reprinted, making it the starting-point of a vision of the war in the Peninsula. The fatal palace of Don Roderick may have been a fable connected with the ruins of a Roman amphitheatre. The fable, as translated by Scott from a Spanish History of King Roderick, was this:-
“One mile on the east side of the city of Toledo, among some rocks, was situated an ancient Tower of magnificent structure, though much dilapidated by time, which consumes all: four estadoes (i.e., four times a man’s height) below it, there was a Cave with a very narrow entrance, and a gate cut out of the solid rock, lined with a strong covering of iron, and fastened with many locks; above the gate some Greek letters are engraved, which, although abbreviated, and of doubtful meaning, were thus interpreted, according to the exposition of learned men:- The King who opens this cave and discovers the wonders will discover both good and evil things. Many kings desired to know the mystery of this Tower, and sought to find out the manner with much care; but when they opened the gate, such a tremendous noise arose in the Cave that it appeared as if the earth was bursting; many of those present sickened with fear, and others lost their lives. In order to prevent such great perils (as they supposed a dangerous enchantment was contained within), they secured the gate with new locks, concluding, that though a king was destined to open it, the fated time was not yet arrived. At last King Don Rodrigo, led on by his evil fortune and unlucky destiny, opened the Tower; and some bold attendants whom he had brought with him entered, although agitated with fear. Having proceeded a good way, they fled back to the entrance, terrified with a frightful vision which they had beheld. The King was greatly moved, and ordered many torches, so contrived that the tempest in the cave could not extinguish them, to be lighted. Then the King entered, not without fear, before all the others. He discovered, by degrees, a splendid hall, apparently built in a very sumptuous manner; in the middle stood a Bronze Statue of very ferocious appearance, which held a battle-axe in its hands. With this he struck the floor violently, giving it such heavy blows that the noise in the Cave was occasioned by the motion of the air. The King, greatly affrighted and astonished, began to conjure this terrible vision, promising that he would return without doing any injury in the Cave, after he had obtained sight of what was contained in it. The Statue ceased to strike the floor, and the King, with his followers, somewhat assured, and recovering their courage, proceeded into the hall; and on the left of the Statue they found this inscription on the wall: Unfortunate King, thou hast entered here in an evil hour. On the right side of the wall the words were inscribed: By strange Nations thou shalt be dispossessed, and thy subjects foully degraded. On the shoulders of the Statue other words were written, which said, I call upon the Arabs. And upon his heart was written, I do my office. At the entrance of the hall there was placed a round bowl, from which a great noise, like the fall of waters, proceeded. They found no other thing in the hall, - and when the King, sorrowful and greatly affected, had scarcely turned about to leave the Cavern, the Statue again commenced its accustomed blows upon the floor. After they had mutually promised to conceal what they had seen, they again closed the Tower, and blocked up the gate of the Cavern with earth, that no memory might remain in the world of such a portentous and evil-boding prodigy. The ensuing midnight, they heard great cries and clamour from the Cave, resounding like the noise of Battle, and the ground shaking with a tremendous roar; the whole edifice of the old Tower fell to the ground, by which they were greatly affrighted, the Vision which they had beheld appearing to them as a dream.”
Scott’s poem on the Field of Waterloo was written to assist the Waterloo subscription.
H. M.
“Quid dignum memorare tuis, Hispania, terris,
Vox
humana valet!” - CLAUDIAN.
The following Poem is founded upon a Spanish Tradition, bearing, in general, that Don Roderick, the last Gothic King of Spain, when the invasion of the Moors was depending, had the temerity to descend into an ancient vault, near Toledo, the opening of which had been denounced as fatal to the Spanish Monarchy. The legend adds, that his rash curiosity was mortified by an emblematical representation of those Saracens who, in the year 714, defeated him in battle, and reduced Spain under their dominion. I have presumed to prolong the Vision of the Revolutions of Spain down to the present eventful crisis of the Peninsula, and to divide it, by a supposed change of scene, into, THREE PERIODS. The FIRST of these represents the Invasion of the Moors, the Defeat and Death of Roderick, and closes with the peaceful occupation of the country by the victors. The SECOND PERIOD embraces the state of the Peninsula when the conquests of the Spaniards and Portuguese in the East and West Indies had raised to the highest pitch the renown of their arms; sullied, however, by superstition and cruelty. An allusion to the inhumanities of the Inquisition terminates this picture. The LAST PART of the Poem opens with the state of Spain previous to the unparalleled treachery of BUONAPARTE, gives a sketch of the usurpation attempted upon that unsuspicious and friendly kingdom, and terminates with the arrival of the British succours. It may be further proper to mention, that the object of the Poem is less to commemorate or detail particular incidents, than to exhibit a general and impressive picture of the several periods brought upon the stage.
EDINBURGH, June 24, 1811.
I.
Lives there a strain, whose sounds of mounting
fire
May rise distinguished o’er
the din of war;
Or died it with yon Master of the Lyre
Who
sung beleaguered Ilion’s evil star?
Such, WELLINGTON,
might reach thee from afar,
Wafting its
descant wide o’er Ocean’s range;
Nor shouts,
nor clashing arms, its mood could mar,
All,
as it swelled ’twixt each loud trumpet-change,
That clangs
to Britain victory, to Portugal revenge!
II.
Yes! such a strain, with all o’er-pouring
measure,
Might melodise with each tumultuous
sound
Each voice of fear or triumph, woe or pleasure,
That
rings Mondego’s ravaged shores around;
The thundering
cry of hosts with conquest crowned,
The
female shriek, the ruined peasant’s moan,
The
shout of captives from their chains unbound,
The
foiled oppressor’s deep and sullen groan,
A Nation’s
choral hymn, for tyranny o’erthrown.
III.
But we, weak minstrels of a laggard day
Skilled
but to imitate an elder page,
Timid and raptureless,
can we repay
The debt thou claim’st
in this exhausted age?
Thou givest our lyres a theme,
that might engage
Those that could send
thy name o’er sea and land,
While sea and land
shall last; for Homer’s rage
A theme;
a theme for Milton’s mighty hand -
How much unmeet for us,
a faint degenerate band!
IV.
Ye mountains stern! within whose rugged breast
The
friends of Scottish freedom found repose;
Ye torrents!
whose hoarse sounds have soothed their rest,
Returning
from the field of vanquished foes;
Say, have ye lost
each wild majestic close
That erst the
choir of Bards or Druids flung,
What time their hymn
of victory arose,
And Cattraeth’s
glens with voice of triumph rung,
And mystic Merlin harped, and
grey-haired Llywarch sung?
V.
Oh! if your wilds such minstrelsy retain,
As
sure your changeful gales seem oft to say,
When sweeping
wild and sinking soft again,
Like trumpet-jubilee,
or harp’s wild sway;
If ye can echo such triumphant
lay,
Then lend the note to him has loved
you long!
Who pious gathered each tradition grey
That
floats your solitary wastes along,
And with affection vain gave
them new voice in song.
VI.
For not till now, how oft soe’er the task
Of
truant verse hath lightened graver care,
From Muse
or Sylvan was he wont to ask,
In phrase
poetic, inspiration fair;
Careless he gave his numbers
to the air,
They came unsought for, if
applauses came:
Nor for himself prefers he now the
prayer;
Let but his verse befit a hero’s
fame,
Immortal be the verse! - forgot the poet’s name!
VII.
Hark, from yon misty cairn their answer tost:
“Minstrel!
the fame of whose romantic lyre,
Capricious-swelling
now, may soon be lost,
Like the light flickering
of a cottage fire;
If to such task presumptuous thou
aspire,
Seek not from us the meed to warrior
due:
Age after age has gathered son to sire
Since
our grey cliffs the din of conflict knew,
Or, pealing through our
vales, victorious bugles blew.
VIII.
“Decayed our old traditionary lore,
Save
where the lingering fays renew their ring,
By milkmaid
seen beneath the hawthorn hoar,
Or round
the marge of Minchmore’s haunted spring;
Save
where their legends grey-haired shepherds sing,
That
now scarce win a listening ear but thine,
Of feuds
obscure, and Border ravaging,
And rugged
deeds recount in rugged line,
Of moonlight foray made on Teviot,
Tweed, or Tyne.
IX.
“No! search romantic lands, where the
near Sun
Gives with unstinted boon ethereal
flame,
Where the rude villager, his labour done,
In
verse spontaneous chants some favoured name,
Whether
Olalia’s charms his tribute claim,
Her
eye of diamond, and her locks of jet;
Or whether, kindling
at the deeds of Græme,
He sing, to
wild Morisco measure set,
Old Albin’s red claymore, green
Erin’s bayonet!
X.
“Explore those regions, where the flinty
crest
Of wild Nevada ever gleams with snows,
Where
in the proud Alhambra’s ruined breast
Barbaric
monuments of pomp repose;
Or where the banners of more
ruthless foes
Than the fierce Moor, float
o’er Toledo’s fane,
From whose tall towers
even now the patriot throws
An anxious
glance, to spy upon the plain
The blended ranks of England, Portugal,
and Spain.
XI.
“There, of Numantian fire a swarthy spark
Still
lightens in the sunburnt native’s eye;
The stately
port, slow step, and visage dark,
Still
mark enduring pride and constancy.
And, if the glow
of feudal chivalry
Beam not, as once, thy
nobles’ dearest pride,
Iberia! oft thy crestless
peasantry
Have seen the plumed Hidalgo
quit their side,
Have seen, yet dauntless stood - ’gainst
fortune fought and died.
XII.
“And cherished still by that unchanging
race,
Are themes for minstrelsy more high
than thine;
Of strange tradition many a mystic trace,
Legend
and vision, prophecy and sign;
Where wonders wild of
Arabesque combine
With Gothic imagery of
darker shade,
Forming a model meet for minstrel line.
Go,
seek such theme!” - the Mountain Spirit said.
With filial
awe I heard - I heard, and I obeyed.
I.
Rearing their crests amid the cloudless skies,
And
darkly clustering in the pale moonlight,
Toledo’s
holy towers and spires arise,
As from a
trembling lake of silver white.
Their mingled shadows
intercept the sight
Of the broad burial-ground
outstretched below,
And nought disturbs the silence
of the night;
All sleeps in sullen shade,
or silver glow,
All save the heavy swell of Teio’s ceaseless
flow.
II.
All save the rushing swell of Teio’s tide,
Or,
distant heard, a courser’s neigh or tramp;
Their
changing rounds as watchful horsemen ride,
To
guard the limits of King Roderick’s camp.
For
through the river’s night-fog rolling damp
Was
many a proud pavilion dimly seen,
Which glimmered back,
against the moon’s fair lamp,
Tissues
of silk and silver twisted sheen,
And standards proudly pitched,
and warders armed between.
III.
But of their Monarch’s person keeping
ward,
Since last the deep-mouthed bell
of vespers tolled,
The chosen soldiers of the royal
guard
The post beneath the proud Cathedral
hold:
A band unlike their Gothic sires of old,
Who,
for the cap of steel and iron mace,
Bear slender darts,
and casques bedecked with gold,
While silver-studded
belts their shoulders grace,
Where ivory quivers ring in the broad
falchion’s place.
IV.
In the light language of an idle court,
They
murmured at their master’s long delay,
And held
his lengthened orisons in sport:-
“What!
will Don Roderick here till morning stay,
To wear in
shrift and prayer the night away?
And are
his hours in such dull penance past,
For fair Florinda’s
plundered charms to pay?”
Then to
the east their weary eyes they cast,
And wished the lingering dawn
would glimmer forth at last.
V.
But, far within, Toledo’s Prelate lent
An
ear of fearful wonder to the King;
The silver lamp
a fitful lustre sent,
So long that sad
confession witnessing:
For Roderick told of many a
hidden thing,
Such as are lothly uttered
to the air,
When Fear, Remorse, and Shame the bosom
wring,
And Guilt his secret burden cannot
bear,
And Conscience seeks in speech a respite from Despair.
VI.
Full on the Prelate’s face, and silver
hair,
The stream of failing light was feebly
rolled:
But Roderick’s visage, though his head
was bare,
Was shadowed by his hand and
mantle’s fold.
While of his hidden soul the sins
he told,
Proud Alaric’s descendant
could not brook,
That mortal man his bearing should
behold,
Or boast that he had seen, when
Conscience shook,
Fear tame a monarch’s brow, Remorse a warrior’s
look.
VII.
The old man’s faded cheek waxed yet more
pale,
As many a secret sad the King bewrayed;
As
sign and glance eked out the unfinished tale,
When
in the midst his faltering whisper stayed.
“Thus
royal Witiza was slain,” - he said;
“Yet,
holy Father, deem not it was I.”
Thus still Ambition
strives her crimes to shade. -
“Oh,
rather deem ’twas stern necessity!
Self-preservation bade,
and I must kill or die.
VIII.
“And if Florinda’s shrieks alarmed
the air,
If she invoked her absent sire
in vain,
And on her knees implored that I would spare,
Yet,
reverend Priest, thy sentence rash refrain!
All is
not as it seems - the female train
Know
by their bearing to disguise their mood:”
But
Conscience here, as if in high disdain,
Sent
to the Monarch’s cheek the burning blood -
He stayed his
speech abrupt - and up the Prelate stood.
IX.
“O hardened offspring of an iron race!
What
of thy crimes, Don Roderick, shall I say?
What alms,
or prayers, or penance can efface
Murder’s
dark spot, wash treason’s stain away!
For the
foul ravisher how shall I pray,
Who, scarce
repentant, makes his crime his boast?
How hope Almighty
vengeance shall delay,
Unless, in mercy
to yon Christian host,
He spare the shepherd, lest the guiltless
sheep be lost?”
X.
Then kindled the dark tyrant in his mood,
And
to his brow returned its dauntless gloom;
“And
welcome then,” he cried, “be blood for blood,
For
treason treachery, for dishonour doom!
Yet will I know
whence come they, or by whom.
Show, for
thou canst - give forth the fated key,
And guide me,
Priest, to that mysterious room,
Where,
if aught true in old tradition be,
His nation’s future fates
a Spanish King shall see.”
XI.
“Ill-fated Prince! recall the desperate
word,
Or pause ere yet the omen thou obey!
Bethink,
yon spell-bound portal would afford
Never
to former Monarch entrance-way;
Nor shall it ever ope,
old records say,
Save to a King, the last
of all his line,
What time his empire totters to decay,
And
treason digs, beneath, her fatal mine,
And, high above, impends
avenging wrath divine.” -
XII.
“Prelate! a Monarch’s fate brooks
no delay;
Lead on!” - The ponderous
key the old man took,
And held the winking lamp, and
led the way,
By winding stair, dark aisle,
and secret nook,
Then on an ancient gateway bent his
look;
And, as the key the desperate King
essayed,
Low muttered thunders the Cathedral shook,
And
twice he stopped, and twice new effort made,
Till the huge bolts
rolled back, and the loud hinges brayed.
XIII.
Long, large, and lofty was that vaulted hall;
Roof,
walls, and floor were all of marble stone,
Of polished
marble, black as funeral pall,
Carved o’er
with signs and characters unknown.
A paly light, as
of the dawning, shone
Through the sad bounds,
but whence they could not spy;
For window to the upper
air was none;
Yet, by that light, Don Roderick
could descry
Wonders that ne’er till then were seen by mortal
eye.
XIV.
Grim sentinels, against the upper wall,
Of
molten bronze, two Statues held their place;
Massive
their naked limbs, their stature tall,
Their
frowning foreheads golden circles grace.
Moulded they
seemed for kings of giant race,
That lived
and sinned before the avenging flood;
This grasped
a scythe, that rested on a mace;
This spread
his wings for flight, that pondering stood,
Each stubborn seemed
and stern, immutable of mood.
XV.
Fixed was the right-hand Giant’s brazen
look
Upon his brother’s glass of
shifting sand,
As if its ebb he measured by a book,
Whose
iron volume loaded his huge hand;
In which was wrote
of many a fallen land
Of empires lost,
and kings to exile driven:
And o’er that pair
their names in scroll expand -
“Lo,
DESTINY and TIME! to whom by Heaven
The guidance of the earth is
for a season given.” -
XVI.
Even while they read, the sand-glass wastes
away;
And, as the last and lagging grains
did creep,
That right-hand Giant ’gan his club
upsway,
As one that startles from a heavy
sleep.
Full on the upper wall the mace’s sweep
At
once descended with the force of thunder,
And hurtling
down at once, in crumbled heap,
The marble
boundary was rent asunder,
And gave to Roderick’s view new
sights of fear and wonder.
XVII.
For they might spy, beyond that mighty breach,
Realms
as of Spain in visioned prospect laid,
Castles and
towers, in due proportion each,
As by some
skilful artist’s hand portrayed:
Here, crossed
by many a wild Sierra’s shade,
And
boundless plains that tire the traveller’s eye;
There,
rich with vineyard and with olive glade,
Or
deep-embrowned by forests huge and high,
Or washed by mighty streams,
that slowly murmured by.
XVIII.
And here, as erst upon the antique stage
Passed
forth the band of masquers trimly led,
In various forms,
and various equipage,
While fitting strains
the hearer’s fancy fed;
So, to sad Roderick’s
eye in order spread,
Successive pageants
filled that mystic scene,
Showing the fate of battles
ere they bled,
And issue of events that
had not been;
And, ever and anon, strange sounds were heard between.
XIX.
First shrilled an unrepeated female shriek!
-
It seemed as if Don Roderick knew the
call,
For the bold blood was blanching in his cheek.
-
Then answered kettle-drum and attabal,
Gong-peal
and cymbal-clank the ear appal,
The Tecbir
war-cry, and the Lelie’s yell,
Ring wildly dissonant
along the hall.
Needs not to Roderick their
dread import tell -
“The Moor!” he cried, “the
Moor! - ring out the Tocsin bell!
XX.
“They come! they come! I see the
groaning lands
White with the turbans of
each Arab horde;
Swart Zaarah joins her misbelieving
bands,
Alla and Mahomet their battle-word,
The
choice they yield, the Koran or the Sword -
See
how the Christians rush to arms amain! -
In yonder
shout the voice of conflict roared,
The
shadowy hosts are closing on the plain -
Now, God and Saint Iago
strike, for the good cause of Spain!
XXI.
“By Heaven, the Moors prevail! the Christians
yield!
Their coward leader gives for flight
the sign!
The sceptred craven mounts to quit the field
-
Is not yon steed Orelio? - Yes, ’tis
mine!
But never was she turned from battle-line:
Lo!
where the recreant spurs o’er stock and stone! -
Curses
pursue the slave, and wrath divine!
Rivers
ingulph him!” - ”Hush,” in shuddering tone,
The
Prelate said; “rash Prince, yon visioned form’s thine own.”
XXII.
Just then, a torrent crossed the flier’s
course;
The dangerous ford the Kingly Likeness
tried;
But the deep eddies whelmed both man and horse,
Swept
like benighted peasant down the tide;
And the proud
Moslemah spread far and wide,
As numerous
as their native locust band;
Berber and Ismael’s
sons the spoils divide,
With naked scimitars
mete out the land,
And for the bondsmen base the free-born natives
brand.
XXIII.
Then rose the grated Harem, to enclose
The
loveliest maidens of the Christian line;
Then, menials,
to their misbelieving foes,
Castile’s
young nobles held forbidden wine;
Then, too, the holy
Cross, salvation’s sign,
By impious
hands was from the altar thrown,
And the deep aisles
of the polluted shrine
Echoed, for holy hymn and organ-tone,
The
Santon’s frantic dance, the Fakir’s gibbering moan.
XXIV.
How fares Don Roderick? - E’en as one
who spies
Flames dart their glare o’er
midnight’s sable woof,
And hears around his children’s
piercing cries,
And sees the pale assistants
stand aloof;
While cruel Conscience brings him bitter
proof,
His folly, or his crime, have caused
his grief;
And while above him nods the crumbling roof,
He
curses earth and Heaven - himself in chief -
Desperate of earthly
aid, despairing Heaven’s relief!
XXV.
That scythe-armed Giant turned his fatal glass
And
twilight on the landscape closed her wings;
Far to
Asturian hills the war-sounds pass,
And
in their stead rebeck or timbrel rings;
And to the
sound the bell-decked dancer springs,
Bazars
resound as when their marts are met,
In tourney light
the Moor his jerrid flings,
And on the
land as evening seemed to set,
The Imaum’s chant was heard
from mosque or minaret.
XXVI.
So passed that pageant. Ere another
came,
The visionary scene was wrapped in
smoke
Whose sulph’rous wreaths were crossed by
sheets of flame;
With every flash a bolt
explosive broke,
Till Roderick deemed the fiends had
burst their yoke,
And waved ’gainst
heaven the infernal gonfalone!
For War a new and dreadful
language spoke,
Never by ancient warrior
heard or known;
Lightning and smoke her breath, and thunder was
her tone.
XXVII.
From the dim landscape rolled the clouds
away -
The Christians have regained their
heritage;
Before the Cross has waned the Crescent’s
ray,
And many a monastery decks the stage,
And
lofty church, and low-browed hermitage.
The
land obeys a Hermit and a Knight, -
The Genii those
of Spain for many an age;
This clad in
sackcloth, that in armour bright,
And that was VALOUR named, this
BIGOTRY was hight.
XXVIII.
VALOUR was harnessed like a chief of old,
Armed
at all points, and prompt for knightly gest;
His sword
was tempered in the Ebro cold,
Morena’s
eagle plume adorned his crest,
The spoils of Afric’s
lion bound his breast.
Fierce he stepped
forward and flung down his gage;
As if of mortal kind
to brave the best.
Him followed his Companion,
dark and sage,
As he, my Master, sung the dangerous Archimage.
XXIX.
Haughty of heart and brow the Warrior came,
In
look and language proud as proud might be,
Vaunting
his lordship, lineage, fights, and fame:
Yet
was that barefoot Monk more proud than he:
And as the
ivy climbs the tallest tree,
So round the
loftiest soul his toils he wound,
And with his spells
subdued the fierce and free,
Till ermined
Age and Youth in arms renowned,
Honouring his scourge and haircloth,
meekly kissed the ground.
XXX.
And thus it chanced that VALOUR, peerless knight,
Who
ne’er to King or Kaiser vailed his crest,
Victorious
still in bull-feast or in fight,
Since
first his limbs with mail he did invest,
Stooped ever
to that Anchoret’s behest;
Nor reasoned
of the right, nor of the wrong,
But at his bidding
laid the lance in rest,
And wrought fell
deeds the troubled world along,
For he was fierce as brave, and
pitiless as strong.
XXXI.
Oft his proud galleys sought some new-found
world,
That latest sees the sun, or first
the morn;
Still at that Wizard’s feet their spoils
he hurled, -
Ingots of ore from rich Potosi
borne,
Crowns by Caciques, aigrettes by Omrahs worn,
Wrought
of rare gems, but broken, rent, and foul;
Idols of
gold from heathen temples torn,
Bedabbled
all with blood. - With grisly scowl
The Hermit marked the stains,
and smiled beneath his cowl.
XXXII.
Then did he bless the offering, and bade
make
Tribute to Heaven of gratitude and
praise;
And at his word the choral hymns awake,
And
many a hand the silver censer sways,
But with the incense-breath
these censers raise,
Mix steams from corpses
smouldering in the fire;
The groans of prisoned victims
mar the lays,
And shrieks of agony confound
the quire;
While, ’mid the mingled sounds, the darkened scenes
expire.
XXXIII.
Preluding light, were strains of music heard,
As
once again revolved that measured sand;
Such sounds
as when, for silvan dance prepared,
Gay
Xeres summons forth her vintage band;
When for the
light bolero ready stand
The mozo blithe,
with gay muchacha met,
He conscious of his broidered
cap and band,
She of her netted locks and
light corsette,
Each tiptoe perched to spring, and shake the castanet.
XXXIV.
And well such strains the opening scene became;
For
VALOUR had relaxed his ardent look,
And at a lady’s
feet, like lion tame,
Lay stretched, full
loath the weight of arms to brook;
And softened BIGOTRY,
upon his book,
Pattered a task of little
good or ill:
But the blithe peasant plied his pruning-hook,
Whistled
the muleteer o’er vale and hill,
And rung from village-green
the merry seguidille.
XXXV.
Grey Royalty, grown impotent of toil,
Let
the grave sceptre slip his lazy hold;
And, careless,
saw his rule become the spoil
Of a loose
Female and her minion bold.
But peace was on the cottage
and the fold,
From Court intrigue, from
bickering faction far;
Beneath the chestnut-tree Love’s
tale was told,
And to the tinkling of the
light guitar,
Sweet stooped the western sun, sweet rose the evening
star.
XXXVI.
As that sea-cloud, in size like human hand,
When
first from Carmel by the Tishbite seen,
Came slowly
overshadowing Israel’s land,
A while,
perchance, bedecked with colours sheen,
While yet the
sunbeams on its skirts had been,
Limning
with purple and with gold its shroud,
Till darker folds
obscured the blue serene
And blotted heaven
with one broad sable cloud,
Then sheeted rain burst down, and whirlwinds
howled aloud:-
XXXVII.
Even so, upon that peaceful scene was poured,
Like
gathering clouds, full many a foreign band,
And HE,
their Leader, wore in sheath his sword,
And
offered peaceful front and open hand,
Veiling the perjured
treachery he planned,
By friendship’s
zeal and honour’s specious guise,
Until he won
the passes of the land;
Then burst were
honour’s oath and friendship’s ties!
He clutched his
vulture grasp, and called fair Spain his prize.
XXXVIII.
An iron crown his anxious forehead bore;
And
well such diadem his heart became,
Who ne’er
his purpose for remorse gave o’er,
Or
checked his course for piety or shame;
Who, trained
a soldier, deemed a soldier’s fame
Might
flourish in the wreath of battles won,
Though neither
truth nor honour decked his name;
Who,
placed by fortune on a Monarch’s throne,
Recked not of Monarch’s
faith, or Mercy’s kingly tone.
XXXIX.
From a rude isle his ruder lineage came,
The
spark, that, from a suburb-hovel’s hearth
Ascending,
wraps some capital in flame,
Hath not a
meaner or more sordid birth.
And for the soul that
bade him waste the earth -
The sable land-flood
from some swamp obscure
That poisons the glad husband-field
with dearth,
And by destruction bids its
fame endure,
Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, and impure.
XL.
Before that Leader strode a shadowy Form;
Her
limbs like mist, her torch like meteor showed,
With
which she beckoned him through fight and storm,
And
all he crushed that crossed his desperate road,
Nor
thought, nor feared, nor looked on what he trode.
Realms
could not glut his pride, blood could not slake,
So
oft as e’er she shook her torch abroad -
It
was AMBITION bade her terrors wake,
Nor deigned she, as of yore,
a milder form to take.
XLI.
No longer now she spurned at mean revenge,
Or
stayed her hand for conquered foeman’s moan;
As
when, the fates of aged Rome to change,
By
Cæsar’s side she crossed the Rubicon.
Nor
joyed she to bestow the spoils she won,
As
when the banded powers of Greece were tasked
To war
beneath the Youth of Macedon:
No seemly
veil her modern minion asked,
He saw her hideous face, and loved
the fiend unmasked.
XLII.
That Prelate marked his march - On banners
blazed
With battles won in many a distant
land,
On eagle-standards and on arms he gazed;
“And
hopest thou, then,” he said, “thy power shall stand?
Oh!
thou hast builded on the shifting sand,
And
thou hast tempered it with slaughter’s flood;
And
know, fell scourge in the Almighty’s hand,
Gore-moistened
trees shall perish in the bud,
And by a bloody death shall die
the Man of Blood!”
XLIII.
The ruthless Leader beckoned from his train
A
wan fraternal Shade, and bade him kneel,
And paled
his temples with the crown of Spain,
While
trumpets rang, and heralds cried “Castile!”
Not
that he loved him - No! - In no man’s weal,
Scarce
in his own, e’er joyed that sullen heart;
Yet
round that throne he bade his warriors wheel,
That
the poor puppet might perform his part,
And be a sceptred slave,
at his stern beck to start.
XLIV.
But on the Natives of that Land misused,
Not
long the silence of amazement hung,
Nor brooked they
long their friendly faith abused;
For,
with a common shriek, the general tongue
Exclaimed,
“To arms!” - and fast to arms they sprung.
And
VALOUR woke, that Genius of the Land!
Pleasure, and
ease, and sloth aside he flung,
As burst
the awakening Nazarite his band,
When ’gainst his treacherous
foes he clenched his dreadful hand.
XLV.
That Mimic Monarch now cast anxious eye
Upon
the Satraps that begirt him round,
Now doffed his royal
robe in act to fly,
And from his brow the
diadem unbound.
So oft, so near, the Patriot bugle
wound,
From Tarik’s walls to Bilboa’s
mountains blown,
These martial satellites hard labour
found
To guard awhile his substituted throne
-
Light recking of his cause, but battling for their own.
XLVI.
From Alpuhara’s peak that bugle rung,
And
it was echoed from Corunna’s wall;
Stately Seville
responsive war-shot flung,
Grenada caught
it in her Moorish hall;
Galicia bade her children fight
or fall,
Wild Biscay shook his mountain-coronet,
Valencia
roused her at the battle-call,
And, foremost
still where Valour’s sons are met,
First started to his gun
each fiery Miquelet.
XLVII.
But unappalled, and burning for the fight,
The
Invaders march, of victory secure;
Skilful their force
to sever or unite,
And trained alike to
vanquish or endure.
Nor skilful less, cheap conquest
to ensure,
Discord to breathe, and jealousy
to sow,
To quell by boasting, and by bribes to lure;
While
nought against them bring the unpractised foe,
Save hearts for
Freedom’s cause, and hands for Freedom’s blow.
XLVIII.
Proudly they march - but, oh! they march
not forth
By one hot field to crown a brief
campaign,
As when their Eagles, sweeping through the
North,
Destroyed at every stoop an ancient
reign!
Far other fate had Heaven decreed for Spain;
In
vain the steel, in vain the torch was plied,
New Patriot
armies started from the slain,
High blazed
the war, and long, and far, and wide,
And oft the God of Battles
blest the righteous side.
XLIX.
Nor unatoned, where Freedom’s foes prevail,
Remained
their savage waste. With blade and brand
By day
the Invaders ravaged hill and dale,
But,
with the darkness, the Guerilla band
Came like night’s
tempest, and avenged the land,
And claimed
for blood the retribution due,
Probed the hard heart,
and lopped the murd’rous hand;
And
Dawn, when o’er the scene her beams she threw
’Midst
ruins they had made, the spoilers’ corpses knew.
L.
What minstrel verse may sing, or tongue may tell,
Amid
the visioned strife from sea to sea,
How oft the Patriot
banners rose or fell,
Still honoured in
defeat as victory!
For that sad pageant of events to
be
Showed every form of fight by field
and flood;
Slaughter and Ruin, shouting forth their
glee,
Beheld, while riding on the tempest
scud,
The waters choked with slain, the earth bedrenched with blood!
LI.
Then Zaragoza - blighted be the tongue
That
names thy name without the honour due!
For never hath
the harp of Minstrel rung,
Of faith so
felly proved, so firmly true!
Mine, sap, and bomb thy
shattered ruins knew,
Each art of war’s
extremity had room,
Twice from thy half-sacked streets
the foe withdrew,
And when at length stern
fate decreed thy doom,
They won not Zaragoza, but her children’s
bloody tomb.
LII.
Yet raise thy head, sad city! Though
in chains,
Enthralled thou canst not be!
Arise, and claim
Reverence from every heart where Freedom
reigns,
For what thou worshippest! - thy
sainted dame,
She of the Column, honoured be her name
By
all, whate’er their creed, who honour love!
And
like the sacred relics of the flame,
That
gave some martyr to the blessed above,
To every loyal heart may
thy sad embers prove!
LIII.
Nor thine alone such wreck. Gerona fair!
Faithful
to death thy heroes shall be sung,
Manning the towers,
while o’er their heads the air
Swart
as the smoke from raging furnace hung;
Now thicker
darkening where the mine was sprung,
Now
briefly lightened by the cannon’s flare,
Now
arched with fire-sparks as the bomb was flung,
And
reddening now with conflagration’s glare,
While by the fatal
light the foes for storm prepare.
LIV.
While all around was danger, strife, and fear,
While
the earth shook, and darkened was the sky,
And wide
Destruction stunned the listening ear,
Appalled
the heart, and stupefied the eye, -
Afar was heard
that thrice-repeated cry,
In which old
Albion’s heart and tongue unite,
Whene’er
her soul is up, and pulse beats high,
Whether
it hail the wine-cup or the fight,
And bid each arm be strong,
or bid each heart be light.
LV.
Don Roderick turned him as the shout grew loud
-
A varied scene the changeful vision showed,
For,
where the ocean mingled with the cloud,
A
gallant navy stemmed the billows broad.
From mast and
stern St. George’s symbol flowed,
Blent
with the silver cross to Scotland dear;
Mottling the
sea their landward barges rowed,
And flashed
the sun on bayonet, brand, and spear,
And the wild beach returned
the seamen’s jovial cheer.
LVI.
It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight!
The
billows foamed beneath a thousand oars,
Fast as they
land the red-cross ranks unite,
Legions
on legions bright’ning all the shores.
Then banners
rise, and cannon-signal roars,
Then peals
the warlike thunder of the drum,
Thrills the loud fife,
the trumpet-flourish pours,
And patriot
hopes awake, and doubts are dumb,
For, bold in Freedom’s
cause, the bands of Ocean come!
LVII.
A various host they came - whose ranks display
Each
mode in which the warrior meets the fight,
The deep
battalion locks its firm array,
And meditates
his aim the marksman light;
Far glance the light of
sabres flashing bright
Where mounted squadrons
shake the echoing mead,
Lacks not artillery breathing
flame and night,
Nor the fleet ordnance
whirled by rapid steed,
That rivals lightning’s flash in
ruin and in speed.
LVIII.
A various host - from kindred realms they
came,
Brethren in arms, but rivals in renown
-
For yon fair bands shall merry England claim,
And
with their deeds of valour deck her crown.
Hers their
bold port, and hers their martial frown,
And
hers their scorn of death in freedom’s cause,
Their
eyes of azure, and their locks of brown,
And
the blunt speech that bursts without a pause,
And free-born thoughts
which league the Soldier with the Laws.
LIX.
And, oh! loved warriors of the Minstrel’s
land!
Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans
wave!
The rugged form may mark the mountain band,
And
harsher features, and a mien more grave;
But ne’er
in battlefield throbbed heart so brave
As
that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid;
And when
the pibroch bids the battle rave,
And level
for the charge your arms are laid,
Where lives the desperate foe
that for such onset stayed!
LX.
Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings,
Mingling
wild mirth with war’s stern minstrelsy,
His jest
while each blithe comrade round him flings,
And
moves to death with military glee:
Boast, Erin, boast
them! tameless, frank, and free,
In kindness
warm, and fierce in danger known,
Rough Nature’s
children, humorous as she:
And HE, yon
Chieftain - strike the proudest tone
Of thy bold harp, green Isle!
- the Hero is thine own.
LXI.
Now on the scene Vimeira should be shown,
On
Talavera’s fight should Roderick gaze,
And hear
Corunna wail her battle won,
And see Busaco’s
crest with lightning blaze:-
But shall fond fable mix
with heroes’ praise?
Hath Fiction’s
stage for Truth’s long triumphs room?
And dare
her wild flowers mingle with the bays
That
claim a long eternity to bloom
Around the warrior’s crest,
and o’er the warrior’s tomb!
LXII.
Or may I give adventurous Fancy scope,
And
stretch a bold hand to the awful veil
That hides futurity
from anxious hope,
Bidding beyond it scenes
of glory hail,
And painting Europe rousing at the tale
Of
Spain’s invaders from her confines hurled,
While
kindling nations buckle on their mail,
And
Fame, with clarion-blast and wings unfurled,
To Freedom and Revenge
awakes an injured World!
LXIII.
O vain, though anxious, is the glance I cast,
Since
Fate has marked futurity her own:
Yet Fate resigns
to worth the glorious past,
The deeds recorded,
and the laurels won.
Then, though the Vault of Destiny
be gone,
King, Prelate, all the phantasms
of my brain,
Melted away like mist-wreaths in the sun,
Yet
grant for faith, for valour, and for Spain,
One note of pride and
fire, a Patriot’s parting strain!
I.
“Who shall command Estrella’s mountain-tide
Back
to the source, when tempest-chafed, to hie?
Who, when
Gascogne’s vexed gulf is raging wide,
Shall
hush it as a nurse her infant’s cry?
His magic
power let such vain boaster try,
And when
the torrent shall his voice obey,
And Biscay’s
whirlwinds list his lullaby,
Let him stand
forth and bar mine eagles’ way,
And they shall heed his voice,
and at his bidding stay.
II.
“Else ne’er to stoop, till high
on Lisbon’s towers
They close their
wings, the symbol of our yoke,
And their own sea hath
whelmed yon red-cross powers!”
Thus,
on the summit of Alverca’s rock
To Marshal, Duke,
and Peer, Gaul’s Leader spoke.
While
downward on the land his legions press,
Before them
it was rich with vine and flock,
And smiled
like Eden in her summer dress; -
Behind their wasteful march a
reeking wilderness.
III.
And shall the boastful Chief maintain his word,
Though
Heaven hath heard the wailings of the land,
Though
Lusitania whet her vengeful sword,
Though
Britons arm and WELLINGTON command!
No! grim Busaco’s
iron ridge shall stand
An adamantine barrier
to his force;
And from its base shall wheel his shattered
band,
As from the unshaken rock the torrent
hoarse
Bears off its broken waves, and seeks a devious course.
IV.
Yet not because Alcoba’s mountain-hawk
Hath
on his best and bravest made her food,
In numbers confident,
yon Chief shall baulk
His Lord’s
imperial thirst for spoil and blood:
For full in view
the promised conquest stood,
And Lisbon’s
matrons from their walls might sum
The myriads that
had half the world subdued,
And hear the
distant thunders of the drum,
That bids the bands of France to
storm and havoc come.
V.
Four moons have heard these thunders idly rolled,
Have
seen these wistful myriads eye their prey,
As famished
wolves survey a guarded fold -
But in the
middle path a Lion lay!
At length they move - but not
to battle-fray,
Nor blaze yon fires where
meets the manly fight;
Beacons of infamy, they light
the way
Where cowardice and cruelty unite
To
damn with double shame their ignominious flight.
VI.
O triumph for the Fiends of Lust and Wrath!
Ne’er
to be told, yet ne’er to be forgot,
What wanton
horrors marked their wreckful path!
The
peasant butchered in his ruined cot,
The hoary priest
even at the altar shot,
Childhood and age
given o’er to sword and flame,
Woman to infamy;
- no crime forgot,
By which inventive demons
might proclaim
Immortal hate to man, and scorn of God’s great
name!
VII.
The rudest sentinel, in Britain born,
With
horror paused to view the havoc done,
Gave his poor
crust to feed some wretch forlorn,
Wiped
his stern eye, then fiercer grasped his gun.
Nor with
less zeal shall Britain’s peaceful son
Exult
the debt of sympathy to pay;
Riches nor poverty the
tax shall shun,
Nor prince nor peer, the
wealthy nor the gay,
Nor the poor peasant’s mite, nor bard’s
more worthless lay.
VIII.
But thou - unfoughten wilt thou yield to Fate,
Minion
of Fortune, now miscalled in vain!
Can vantage-ground
no confidence create,
Marcella’s
pass, nor Guarda’s mountain-chain?
Vainglorious
fugitive! yet turn again!
Behold, where,
named by some prophetic Seer,
Flows Honour’s
Fountain, {2} as foredoomed
the stain
From thy dishonoured name and
arms to clear -
Fallen Child of Fortune, turn, redeem her favour
here!
IX.
Yet, ere thou turn’st, collect each distant
aid;
Those chief that never heard the lion
roar!
Within whose souls lives not a trace portrayed
Of
Talavera or Mondego’s shore!
Marshal each band
thou hast, and summon more;
Of war’s
fell stratagems exhaust the whole;
Rank upon rank,
squadron on squadron pour,
Legion on legion
on thy foeman roll,
And weary out his arm - thou canst not quell
his soul.
X.
O vainly gleams with steel Agueda’s shore,
Vainly
thy squadrons hide Assuava’s plain,
And front
the flying thunders as they roar,
With
frantic charge and tenfold odds, in vain!
And what
avails thee that, for CAMERON slain,
Wild
from his plaided ranks the yell was given -
Vengeance
and grief gave mountain-range the rein,
And,
at the bloody spear-point headlong driven,
Thy Despot’s giant
guards fled like the rack of heaven.
XI.
Go, baffled boaster! teach thy haughty mood
To
plead at thine imperious master’s throne,
Say,
thou hast left his legions in their blood,
Deceived
his hopes, and frustrated thine own;
Say, that thine
utmost skill and valour shown,
By British
skill and valour were outvied;
Last say, thy conqueror
was WELLINGTON!
And if he chafe, be his
own fortune tried -
God and our cause to friend, the venture we’ll
abide.
XII.
But you, ye heroes of that well-fought day,
How
shall a bard, unknowing and unknown,
His meed to each
victorious leader pay,
Or bind on every
brow the laurels won?
Yet fain my harp would wake its
boldest tone,
O’er the wide sea to
hail CADOGAN brave;
And he, perchance, the minstrel-note
might own,
Mindful of meeting brief that
Fortune gave
’Mid yon far western isles that hear the Atlantic
rave.
XIII.
Yes! hard the task, when Britons wield the
sword,
To give each Chief and every field
its fame:
Hark! Albuera thunders BERESFORD,
And
Red Barosa shouts for dauntless GRÆME!
O for
a verse of tumult and of flame,
Bold as
the bursting of their cannon sound,
To bid the world
re-echo to their fame!
For never, upon
gory battle-ground,
With conquest’s well-bought wreath were
braver victors crowned!
XIV.
O who shall grudge him Albuera’s bays,
Who
brought a race regenerate to the field,
Roused them
to emulate their fathers’ praise,
Tempered
their headlong rage, their courage steeled,
And raised
fair Lusitania’s fallen shield,
And
gave new edge to Lusitania’s sword,
And taught
her sons forgotten arms to wield -
Shivered
my harp, and burst its every chord,
If it forget thy worth, victorious
BERESFORD!
XV.
Not on that bloody field of battle won,
Though
Gaul’s proud legions rolled like mist away,
Was
half his self-devoted valour shown, -
He
gaged but life on that illustrious day;
But when he
toiled those squadrons to array,
Who fought
like Britons in the bloody game,
Sharper than Polish
pike or assagay,
He braved the shafts of
censure and of shame,
And, dearer far than life, he pledged a soldier’s
fame.
XVI.
Nor be his praise o’erpast who strove
to hide
Beneath the warrior’s vest
affection’s wound,
Whose wish Heaven for his
country’s weal denied;
Danger and
fate he sought, but glory found.
From clime to clime,
where’er war’s trumpets sound,
The
wanderer went; yet Caledonia! still
Thine was his thought
in march and tented ground;
He dreamed
’mid Alpine cliffs of Athole’s hill,
And heard in Ebro’s
roar his Lyndoch’s lovely rill.
XVII.
O hero of a race renowned of old,
Whose
war-cry oft has waked the battle-swell,
Since first
distinguished in the onset bold,
Wild sounding
when the Roman rampart fell!
By Wallace’ side
it rung the Southron’s knell,
Alderne,
Kilsythe, and Tibber owned its fame,
Tummell’s
rude pass can of its terrors tell,
But
ne’er from prouder field arose the name
Than when wild Ronda
learned the conquering shout of GRÆME!
XVIII.
But all too long, through seas unknown and
dark,
(With Spenser’s parable I close
my tale,)
By shoal and rock hath steered my venturous
bark,
And landward now I drive before the
gale.
And now the blue and distant shore I hail,
And
nearer now I see the port expand,
And now I gladly
furl my weary sail,
And, as the prow light
touches on the strand,
I strike my red-cross flag and bind my skiff
to land.
I.
Fair Brussels, thou art far behind,
Though, lingering on the
morning wind,
We yet may hear the hour
Pealed
over orchard and canal,
With voice prolonged and measured fall,
From
proud St. Michael’s tower;
Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds
us now,
Where the tall beeches’ glossy bough
For
many a league around,
With birch and darksome oak between,
Spreads
deep and far a pathless screen,
Of tangled forest ground.
Stems
planted close by stems defy
The adventurous foot - the curious
eye
For access seeks in vain;
And the brown tapestry
of leaves,
Strewed on the blighted ground, receives
Nor
sun, nor air, nor rain.
No opening glade dawns on our way,
No
streamlet, glancing to the ray,
Our woodland path has
crossed;
And the straight causeway which we tread
Prolongs
a line of dull arcade,
Unvarying through the unvaried shade
Until
in distance lost.
II.
A brighter, livelier scene succeeds;
In groups the
scattering wood recedes,
Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny meads,
And
corn-fields glance between;
The peasant, at his labour blithe,
Plies
the hooked staff and shortened scythe:-
But when these
ears were green,
Placed close within destruction’s scope,
Full
little was that rustic’s hope
Their ripening
to have seen!
And, lo, a hamlet and its fane:-
Let not the
gazer with disdain
Their architecture view;
For
yonder rude ungraceful shrine,
And disproportioned spire, are thine,
Immortal
WATERLOO!
III.
Fear not the heat, though full and high
The sun has
scorched the autumn sky,
And scarce a forest straggler now
To
shade us spreads a greenwood bough;
These fields have seen a hotter
day
Than e’er was fired by sunny ray,
Yet one mile on
- yon shattered hedge
Crests the soft hill whose long smooth ridge
Looks
on the field below,
And sinks so gently on the dale
That not
the folds of Beauty’s veil
In easier curves can
flow.
Brief space from thence, the ground again
Ascending
slowly from the plain
Forms an opposing screen,
Which,
with its crest of upland ground,
Shuts the horizon all around.
The
softened vale between
Slopes smooth and fair for courser’s
tread;
Not the most timid maid need dread
To give her snow-white
palfrey head
On that wide stubble-ground;
Nor
wood, nor tree, nor bush are there,
Her course to intercept or
scare,
Nor fosse nor fence are found,
Save where,
from out her shattered bowers,
Rise Hougomont’s dismantled
towers.
IV.
Now, see’st thou aught in this lone scene
Can
tell of that which late hath been? -
A stranger might
reply,
“The bare extent of stubble-plain
Seems lately
lightened of its grain;
And yonder sable tracks remain
Marks
of the peasant’s ponderous wain,
When harvest-home
was nigh.
On these broad spots of trampled ground,
Perchance
the rustics danced such round
As Teniers loved to draw;
And
where the earth seems scorched by flame,
To dress the homely feast
they came,
And toiled the kerchiefed village dame
Around
her fire of straw.”
V.
So deem’st thou - so each mortal deems,
Of that
which is from that which seems:-
But other harvest
here
Than that which peasant’s scythe demands,
Was gathered
in by sterner hands,
With bayonet, blade, and spear.
No
vulgar crop was theirs to reap,
No stinted harvest thin and cheap!
Heroes
before each fatal sweep
Fell thick as ripened grain;
And
ere the darkening of the day,
Piled high as autumn shocks, there
lay
The ghastly harvest of the fray,
The corpses
of the slain.
VI.
Ay, look again - that line, so black
And trampled,
marks the bivouac,
Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery’s track,
So
often lost and won;
And close beside, the hardened mud
Still
shows where, fetlock-deep in blood,
The fierce dragoon, through
battle’s flood,
Dashed the hot war-horse on.
These
spots of excavation tell
The ravage of the bursting shell -
And
feel’st thou not the tainted steam,
That reeks against the
sultry beam,
From yonder trenchéd mound?
The
pestilential fumes declare
That Carnage has replenished there
Her
garner-house profound.
VII.
Far other harvest-home and feast,
Than claims the
boor from scythe released,
On these scorched fields
were known!
Death hovered o’er the maddening rout,
And,
in the thrilling battle-shout,
Sent for the bloody banquet out
A
summons of his own.
Through rolling smoke the Demon’s eye
Could
well each destined guest espy,
Well could his ear in ecstasy
Distinguish
every tone
That filled the chorus of the fray -
From cannon-roar
and trumpet-bray,
From charging squadrons’ wild hurra,
From
the wild clang that marked their way, -
Down to the
dying groan,
And the last sob of life’s decay,
When
breath was all but flown.
VIII.
Feast on, stern foe of mortal life,
Feast on! - but
think not that a strife,
With such promiscuous carnage rife,
Protracted
space may last;
The deadly tug of war at length
Must limits
find in human strength,
And cease when these are past.
Vain
hope! - that morn’s o’erclouded sun
Heard the wild
shout of fight begun
Ere he attained his height,
And
through the war-smoke, volumed high,
Still peals that unremitted
cry,
Though now he stoops to night.
For ten long
hours of doubt and dread,
Fresh succours from the extended head
Of
either hill the contest fed;
Still down the slope they
drew,
The charge of columns pauséd not,
Nor ceased
the storm of shell and shot;
For all that war could
do
Of skill and force was proved that day,
And turned not
yet the doubtful fray
On bloody Waterloo.
IX.
Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were thine,
When
ceaseless from the distant line
Continued thunders
came!
Each burgher held his breath, to hear
These forerunners
of havoc near,
Of rapine and of flame.
What ghastly
sights were thine to meet,
When rolling through thy stately street,
The
wounded showed their mangled plight
In token of the unfinished
fight,
And from each anguish-laden wain
The blood-drops laid
thy dust like rain!
How often in the distant drum
Heard’st
thou the fell Invader come,
While Ruin, shouting to his band,
Shook
high her torch and gory brand! -
Cheer thee, fair City! From
yon stand,
Impatient, still his outstretched hand
Points
to his prey in vain,
While maddening in his eager mood,
And
all unwont to be withstood,
He fires the fight again.
X.
“On! On!” was still his stern exclaim;
“Confront
the battery’s jaws of flame!
Rush on the levelled
gun!
My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance!
Each Hulan forward
with his lance,
My Guard - my Chosen - charge for France,
France
and Napoleon!”
Loud answered their acclaiming shout,
Greeting
the mandate which sent out
Their bravest and their best to dare
The
fate their leader shunned to share.
But HE, his country’s
sword and shield,
Still in the battle-front revealed,
Where
danger fiercest swept the field,
Came like a beam of
light,
In action prompt, in sentence brief -
“Soldiers,
stand firm!” exclaimed the Chief,
“England
shall tell the fight!”
XI.
On came the whirlwind - like the last
But fiercest
sweep of tempest-blast -
On came the whirlwind - steel-gleams broke
Like
lightning through the rolling smoke;
The war was waked
anew,
Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud,
And from their
throats, with flash and cloud,
Their showers of iron
threw.
Beneath their fire, in full career,
Rushed on the ponderous
cuirassier,
The lancer couched his ruthless spear,
And hurrying
as to havoc near,
The cohorts’ eagles flew.
In
one dark torrent, broad and strong,
The advancing onset rolled
along,
Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim,
That, from the
shroud of smoke and flame,
Pealed wildly the imperial name.
XII.
But on the British heart were lost
The terrors of
the charging host;
For not an eye the storm that viewed
Changed
its proud glance of fortitude,
Nor was one forward footstep stayed,
As
dropped the dying and the dead.
Fast as their ranks the thunders
tear,
Fast they renewed each serried square;
And on the wounded
and the slain
Closed their diminished files again,
Till from
their line scarce spears’-lengths three,
Emerging from the
smoke they see
Helmet, and plume, and panoply, -
Then
waked their fire at once!
Each musketeer’s revolving knell,
As
fast, as regularly fell,
As when they practise to display
Their
discipline on festal day.
Then down went helm and lance,
Down
were the eagle banners sent,
Down reeling steeds and riders went,
Corslets
were pierced, and pennons rent;
And, to augment the
fray,
Wheeled full against their staggering flanks,
The English
horsemen’s foaming ranks
Forced their resistless
way.
Then to the musket-knell succeeds
The clash of swords
- the neigh of steeds -
As plies the smith his clanging trade,
Against
the cuirass rang the blade;
And while amid their close array
The
well-served cannon rent their way,
And while amid their scattered
band
Raged the fierce rider’s bloody brand,
Recoiled
in common rout and fear,
Lancer and guard and cuirassier,
Horsemen
and foot, - a mingled host
Their leaders fall’n, their standards
lost.
XIII.
Then, WELLINGTON! thy piercing eye
This crisis caught
of destiny -
The British host had stood
That morn
’gainst charge of sword and lance
As their own ocean-rocks
hold stance,
But when thy voice had said, “Advance!”
They
were their ocean’s flood. -
O Thou, whose inauspicious aim
Hath
wrought thy host this hour of shame,
Think’st thou thy broken
bands will bide
The terrors of yon rushing tide?
Or will thy
chosen brook to feel
The British shock of levelled steel,
Or
dost thou turn thine eye
Where coming squadrons gleam afar,
And
fresher thunders wake the war,
And other standards
fly? -
Think not that in yon columns, file
Thy conquering
troops from distant Dyle -
Is Blucher yet unknown?
Or
dwells not in thy memory still
(Heard frequent in thine hour of
ill),
What notes of hate and vengeance thrill
In
Prussia’s trumpet-tone? -
What yet remains? - shall it be
thine
To head the relics of thy line
In one dread
effort more? -
The Roman lore thy leisure loved,
And than
canst tell what fortune proved
That Chieftain, who,
of yore,
Ambition’s dizzy paths essayed
And with the
gladiators’ aid
For empire enterprised -
He
stood the cast his rashness played,
Left not the victims he had
made,
Dug his red grave with his own blade,
And on the field
he lost was laid,
Abhorred - but not despised.
XIV.
But if revolves thy fainter thought
On safety - howsoever
bought, -
Then turn thy fearful rein and ride,
Though twice
ten thousand men have died
On this eventful day
To
gild the military fame
Which thou, for life, in traffic tame
Wilt
barter thus away.
Shall future ages tell this tale
Of inconsistence
faint and frail?
And art thou He of Lodi’s bridge,
Marengo’s
field, and Wagram’s ridge!
Or is thy soul like mountain-tide,
That,
swelled by winter storm and shower,
Rolls down in turbulence of
power,
A torrent fierce and wide;
Reft of these
aids, a rill obscure,
Shrinking unnoticed, mean and poor,
Whose
channel shows displayed
The wrecks of its impetuous course,
But
not one symptom of the force
By which these wrecks
were made!
XV.
Spur on thy way! - since now thine ear
Has brooked
thy veterans’ wish to hear,
Who, as thy flight
they eyed
Exclaimed, - while tears of anguish came,
Wrung
forth by pride, and rage, and shame,
“O that
he had but died!”
But yet, to sum this hour of ill,
Look,
ere thou leav’st the fatal hill,
Back on yon
broken ranks -
Upon whose wild confusion gleams
The moon,
as on the troubled streams
When rivers break their
banks,
And, to the ruined peasant’s eye,
Objects half
seen roll swiftly by,
Down the dread current hurled
-
So mingle banner, wain, and gun,
Where the tumultuous flight
rolls on
Of warriors, who, when morn begun,
Defied
a banded world.
XVI.
List - frequent to the hurrying rout,
The stern pursuers’
vengeful shout
Tells, that upon their broken rear
Rages the
Prussian’s bloody spear.
So fell a shriek was
none,
When Beresina’s icy flood
Reddened and thawed
with flame and blood,
And, pressing on thy desperate way,
Raised
oft and long their wild hurra,
The children of the
Don.
Thine ear no yell of horror cleft
So ominous, when, all
bereft
Of aid, the valiant Polack left -
Ay, left by thee
- found soldiers grave
In Leipsic’s corpse-encumbered wave.
Fate,
in those various perils past,
Reserved thee still some future cast;
On
the dread die thou now hast thrown
Hangs not a single field alone,
Nor
one campaign - thy martial fame,
Thy empire, dynasty, and name
Have
felt the final stroke;
And now, o’er thy devoted head
The
last stern vial’s wrath is shed,
The last dread
seal is broke.
XVII.
Since live thou wilt - refuse not now
Before these
demagogues to bow,
Late objects of thy scorn and hate,
Who
shall thy once imperial fate
Make wordy theme of vain debate. -
Or
shall we say, thou stoop’st less low
In seeking refuge from
the foe,
Against whose heart, in prosperous life,
Thine hand
hath ever held the knife?
Such homage hath been paid
By
Roman and by Grecian voice,
And there were honour in the choice,
If
it were freely made.
Then safely come - in one so low, -
So
lost, - we cannot own a foe;
Though dear experience bid us end,
In
thee we ne’er can hail a friend. -
Come, howsoe’er
- but do not hide
Close in thy heart that germ of pride,
Erewhile,
by gifted bard espied,
That “yet imperial hope;”
Think
not that for a fresh rebound,
To raise ambition from the ground,
We
yield thee means or scope.
In safety come - but ne’er again
Hold
type of independent reign;
No islet calls thee lord,
We
leave thee no confederate band,
No symbol of thy lost command,
To
be a dagger in the hand
From which we wrenched the
sword.
XVIII.
Yet, even in yon sequestered spot,
May worthier
conquest be thy lot
Than yet thy life has known;
Conquest,
unbought by blood or harm,
That needs nor foreign aid nor arm,
A
triumph all thine own.
Such waits thee when thou shalt control
Those
passions wild, that stubborn soul,
That marred thy
prosperous scene:-
Hear this - from no unmovéd heart,
Which
sighs, comparing what THOU ART
With what thou MIGHT’ST
HAVE BEEN!
XIX.
Thou, too, whose deeds of fame renewed
Bankrupt a
nation’s gratitude,
To thine own noble heart must owe
More
than the meed she can bestow.
For not a people’s just acclaim,
Not
the full hail of Europe’s fame,
Thy Prince’s smiles,
the State’s decree,
The ducal rank, the gartered knee,
Not
these such pure delight afford
As that, when hanging up thy sword,
Well
may’st thou think, “This honest steel
Was ever drawn
for public weal;
And, such was rightful Heaven’s decree,
Ne’er
sheathed unless with victory!”
XX.
Look forth, once more, with softened heart,
Ere from
the field of fame we part;
Triumph and Sorrow border near,
And
joy oft melts into a tear.
Alas! what links of love that morn
Has
War’s rude hand asunder torn!
For ne’er was field so
sternly fought,
And ne’er was conquest dearer bought,
Here
piled in common slaughter sleep
Those whom affection long shall
weep
Here rests the sire, that ne’er shall strain
His
orphans to his heart again;
The son, whom, on his native shore,
The
parent’s voice shall bless no more;
The bridegroom, who has
hardly pressed
His blushing consort to his breast;
The husband,
whom through many a year
Long love and mutual faith endear.
Thou
canst not name one tender tie,
But here dissolved its relics lie!
Oh!
when thou see’st some mourner’s veil
Shroud her thin
form and visage pale,
Or mark’st the Matron’s bursting
tears
Stream when the stricken drum she hears;
Or see’st
how manlier grief, suppressed,
Is labouring in a father’s
breast, -
With no inquiry vain pursue
The cause, but think
on Waterloo!
XXI.
Period of honour as of woes,
What bright careers ’twas
thine to close! -
Marked on thy roll of blood what names
To
Britain’s memory, and to Fame’s,
Laid there their last
immortal claims!
Thou saw’st in seas of gore expire
Redoubted
PICTON’S soul of fire -
Saw’st in the mingled carnage
lie
All that of PONSONBY could die -
DE LANCEY change Love’s
bridal-wreath
For laurels from the hand of Death -
Saw’st
gallant MILLER’S failing eye
Still bent where Albion’s
banners fly,
And CAMERON, in the shock of steel,
Die like
the offspring of Lochiel;
And generous GORDON, ’mid the strife,
Fall
while he watched his leader’s life. -
Ah! though her guardian
angel’s shield
Fenced Britain’s hero through the field.
Fate
not the less her power made known,
Through his friends’ hearts
to pierce his own!
XXII.
Forgive, brave Dead, the imperfect lay!
Who may your
names, your numbers, say?
What high-strung harp, what lofty line,
To
each the dear-earned praise assign,
From high-born chiefs of martial
fame
To the poor soldier’s lowlier name?
Lightly ye
rose that dawning day,
From your cold couch of swamp and clay,
To
fill, before the sun was low,
The bed that morning cannot know.
-
Oft may the tear the green sod steep,
And sacred be the
heroes’ sleep,
Till time shall cease to run;
And
ne’er beside their noble grave,
May Briton pass and fail
to crave
A blessing on the fallen brave
Who fought
with Wellington!
XXIII.
Farewell, sad Field! whose blighted face
Wears desolation’s
withering trace;
Long shall my memory retain
Thy
shattered huts and trampled grain,
With every mark of martial wrong,
That
scathe thy towers, fair Hougomont!
Yet though thy garden’s
green arcade
The marksman’s fatal post was made,
Though
on thy shattered beeches fell
The blended rage of shot and shell,
Though
from thy blackened portals torn,
Their fall thy blighted fruit-trees
mourn,
Has not such havoc bought a name
Immortal in the rolls
of fame?
Yes - Agincourt may be forgot,
And Cressy be an unknown
spot,
And Blenheim’s name be new;
But still
in story and in song,
For many an age remembered long,
Shall
live the towers of Hougomont
And Field of Waterloo!
Stern tide of human Time! that know’st not rest,
But,
sweeping from the cradle to the tomb,
Bear’st
ever downward on thy dusky breast
Successive generations
to their doom;
While thy capacious stream has equal
room
For the gay bark where Pleasure’s steamers
sport,
And for the prison-ship of guilt and gloom,
The
fisher-skiff, and barge that bears a court,
Still wafting onward
all to one dark silent port; -
Stern tide of Time! through what mysterious change
Of
hope and fear have our frail barks been driven!
For
ne’er, before, vicissitude so strange
Was to
one race of Adam’s offspring given.
And sure
such varied change of sea and heaven,
Such unexpected
bursts of joy and woe,
Such fearful strife as that
where we have striven,
Succeeding ages ne’er
again shall know,
Until the awful term when Thou shalt cease to
flow.
Well hast thou stood, my Country! - the brave fight
Hast
well maintained through good report and ill;
In thy
just cause and in thy native might,
And in Heaven’s
grace and justice constant still;
Whether the banded
prowess, strength, and skill
Of half the world against
thee stood arrayed,
Or when, with better views and
freer will,
Beside thee Europe’s noblest drew
the blade,
Each emulous in arms the Ocean Queen to aid.
Well art thou now repaid - though slowly rose,
And
struggled long with mists thy blaze of fame,
While
like the dawn that in the orient glows
On the broad
wave its earlier lustre came;
Then eastern Egypt saw
the growing flame,
And Maida’s myrtles gleamed
beneath its ray,
Where first the soldier, stung with
generous shame,
Rivalled the heroes of the watery way,
And
washed in foemen’s gore unjust reproach away.
Now, Island Empress, wave thy crest on high,
And
bid the banner of thy Patron flow,
Gallant Saint George,
the flower of Chivalry,
For thou halt faced, like him,
a dragon foe,
And rescued innocence from overthrow,
And
trampled down, like him, tyrannic might,
And to the
gazing world may’st proudly show
The chosen emblem
of thy sainted Knight,
Who quelled devouring pride and vindicated
right.
Yet ’mid the confidence of just renown,
Renown
dear-bought, but dearest thus acquired,
Write, Britain,
write the moral lesson down:
’Tis not alone the
heart with valour fired,
The discipline so dreaded
and admired,
In many a field of bloody conquest known,
-
Such may by fame be lured, by gold be hired:
’Tis
constancy in the good cause alone
Best justifies the meed thy valiant
sons have won.
I.
Night and morning were at meeting
Over Waterloo;
Cocks
had sung their earliest greeting;
Faint and low they
crew,
For no paly beam yet shone
On the heights of Mount Saint
John;
Tempest-clouds prolonged the sway
Of timeless darkness
over day;
Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower
Marked it a
predestined hour.
Broad and frequent through the night
Flashed
the sheets of levin-light:
Muskets, glancing lightnings back,
Showed
the dreary bivouac
Where the soldier lay,
Chill
and stiff, and drenched with rain,
Wishing dawn of morn again,
Though
death should come with day.
II.
’Tis at such a tide and hour
Wizard, witch, and
fiend have power,
And ghastly forms through mist and shower
Gleam
on the gifted ken;
And then the affrighted prophet’s ear
Drinks
whispers strange of fate and fear
Presaging death and ruin near
Among
the sons of men; -
Apart from Albyn’s war-array,
’Twas
then grey Allan sleepless lay;
Grey Allan, who, for many a day,
Had
followed stout and stern,
Where, through battle’s rout and
reel,
Storm of shot and edge of steel,
Led the grandson of
Lochiel,
Valiant Fassiefern.
Through steel and
shot he leads no more,
Low laid ’mid friends’ and foemen’s
gore -
But long his native lake’s wild shore,
And Sunart
rough, and high Ardgower,
And Morven long shall tell,
And
proud Bennevis hear with awe
How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras,
Brave
Cameron heard the wild hurra
Of conquest as he fell.
III.
Lone on the outskirts of the host,
The weary sentinel
held post,
And heard, through darkness far aloof,
The frequent
clang of courser’s hoof,
Where held the cloaked patrol their
course,
And spurred ’gainst storm the swerving horse;
But
there are sounds in Allan’s ear,
Patrol nor sentinel may
hear,
And sights before his eye aghast
Invisible to them have
passed,
When down the destined plain,
’Twixt
Britain and the bands of France,
Wild as marsh-borne meteor’s
glance,
Strange phantoms wheeled a revel dance,
And
doomed the future slain. -
Such forms were seen, such sounds were
heard,
When Scotland’s James his march prepared
For
Flodden’s fatal plain;
Such, when he drew his ruthless sword,
As
Choosers of the Slain, adored
The yet unchristened
Dane.
An indistinct and phantom band,
They wheeled their ring-dance
hand in hand,
With gestures wild and dread;
The
Seer, who watched them ride the storm,
Saw through their faint
and shadowy form
The lightning’s flash more red;
And
still their ghastly roundelay
Was of the coming battle-fray,
And
of the destined dead.
IV. SONG.
Wheel the wild dance
While lightnings glance,
And
thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,
To
sleep without a shroud.
Our airy feet,
So light and fleet,
They do
not bend the rye
That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave,
And
swells again in eddying wave,
As each wild gust blows
by;
But still the corn,
At dawn of morn,
Our
fatal steps that bore,
At eve lies waste,
A trampled paste
Of
blackening mud and gore.
Wheel the wild dance
While lightnings
glance,
And thunders rattle loud,
And call the
brave
To bloody grave,
To sleep without a shroud.
V.
Wheel the wild dance!
Brave sons of France,
For
you our ring makes room;
Make space full wide
For martial
pride,
For banner, spear, and plume.
Approach,
draw near,
Proud cuirassier!
Room for the men
of steel!
Through crest and plate
The broadsword’s weight
Both
head and heart shall feel.
VI.
Wheel the wild dance
While lightnings glance,
And
thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,
To
sleep without a shroud.
Sons of the spear!
You feel us near
In many
a ghastly dream;
With fancy’s eye
Our forms you spy,
And
hear our fatal scream.
With clearer sight
Ere falls the night,
Just
when to weal or woe
Your disembodied souls take flight
On
trembling wing - each startled sprite
Our choir of
death shall know.
VII.
Wheel the wild dance
While lightnings glance,
And
thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,
To
sleep without a shroud.
Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers,
Redder rain shall soon
be ours -
See the east grows wan -
Yield we place
to sterner game,
Ere deadlier bolts and direr flame
Shall
the welkin’s thunders shame,
Elemental rage is tame
To
the wrath of man.
VIII.
At morn, grey Allan’s mates with awe
Heard
of the visioned sights he saw,
The legend heard him
say;
But the Seer’s gifted eye was dim,
Deafened his
ear, and stark his limb,
Ere closed that bloody day.
He
sleeps far from his Highland heath,
But often of the Dance of Death
His
comrades tell the tale
On picquet-post, when ebbs the night,
And
waning watch-fires glow less bright,
And dawn is glimmering
pale.
[The original of this little Romance makes part of a manuscript collection of French Songs, probably compiled by some young officer, which was found on the field of Waterloo, so much stained with clay and with blood as sufficiently to indicate what had been the fate of its late owner. The song is popular in France, and is rather a good specimen of the style of composition to which it belongs. The translation is strictly literal.]
It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine,
But
first he made his orisons before Saint Mary’s shrine:
“And
grant, immortal Queen of Heaven,” was still the Soldier’s
prayer;
That I may prove the bravest knight, and love the fairest
fair.”
His oath of honour on the shrine he graved it with his sword,
And
followed to the Holy Land the banner of his Lord;
Where, faithful
to his noble vow, his war-cry filled the air,
“Be honoured
aye the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair.”
They owed the conquest to his arm, and then his Liege-Lord said,
“The
heart that has for honour beat by bliss must be repaid. -
My daughter
Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair,
For thou art bravest of
the brave, she fairest of the fair.”
And then they bound the holy knot before Saint Mary’s shrine,
That
makes a paradise on earth, if hearts and hands combine;
And every
lord and lady bright that were in chapel there
Cried, “Honoured
be the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair!”
Glowing with love, on fire for fame
A Troubadour
that hated sorrow
Beneath his lady’s window came,
And
thus he sung his last good-morrow:
“My arm it is my country’s
right,
My heart is in my true-love’s bower;
Gaily
for love and fame to fight
Befits the gallant Troubadour.”
And while he marched with helm on head
And harp
in hand, the descant rung,
As faithful to his favourite maid,
The
minstrel-burden still he sung:
“My arm it is my country’s
right,
My heart is in my lady’s bower;
Resolved
for love and fame to fight
I come, a gallant Troubadour.”
Even when the battle-roar was deep,
With dauntless
heart he hewed his way,
’Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,
And
still was heard his warrior-lay:
“My life it is my country’s
right,
My heart is in my lady’s bower;
For
love to die, for fame to fight,
Becomes the valiant
Troubadour.”
Alas! upon the bloody field
He fell beneath the
foeman’s glaive,
But still reclining on his shield,
Expiring
sung the exulting stave:-
“My life it is my country’s
right,
My heart is in my lady’s bower;
For
love and fame to fall in fight
Becomes the valiant
Troubadour.”
[This is a very ancient pibroch belonging to Clan MacDonald. The words of the set, theme, or melody, to which the pipe variations are applied, run thus in Gaelic:-
Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil;
Piobaireachd
Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil;
Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh,
piobaireachd Dhonuil;
Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi.
The
pipe-summons of Donald the Black,
The pipe-summons of Donald the
Black,
The war-pipe and the pennon are on the gathering-place
at
Inverlochy.]
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
Pibroch
of Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon
Clan Conuil.
Come away, come away,
Hark
to the summons!
Come in your war
array,
Gentles and commons.
Come from deep glen, and
From
mountain so rocky,
The war-pipe and
pennon
Are at Inverlochy.
Come
every hill-plaid, and
True
heart that wears one,
Come every
steel blade, and
Strong
hand that bears one.
Leave untended the herd,
The
flock without shelter;
Leave the
corpse uninterr’d,
The
bride at the altar;
Leave the deer,
leave the steer,
Leave
nets and barges:
Come with your fighting
gear,
Broadswords and
targes.
Come as the winds come, when
Forests
are rended;
Come as the waves come,
when
Navies are stranded:
Faster
come, faster come,
Faster
and faster,
Chief, vassal, page and
groom,
Tenant and master.
Fast they come, fast they come;
See
how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle
plume,
Blended with heather.
Cast
your plaids, draw your blades,
Forward
each man set!
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
Knell
for the onset!
Footnotes:
{1} This eText comes from a book (Pike Country Ballads etc.) which contains a number of poems by John Hay. These have been released separately by Project Gutenberg under the title “Pike Country Ballads and Other Poems” by John Hay. They are not included here to avoid duplication.
{2} The literal translation of Fuentes d’Honoro.
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