The frequent clang of courser's hoof, Where held the cloak'd patrol their course, And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerving horse; Patrol nor sentinel may hear; When down the destined plain 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 unchristen'd Dane. They wheel'd their ring-dance hand in hand, The seer, who watch'd them ride the storm, And still their ghastly roundelay Was of the coming battle-fray, And of the destined dead. SONG. Wheel the wild dance, And thunders rattle loud, 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. 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. 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 wo Your disembodied souls take flight Wheel the wild dance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers, See, the east grows wan- To the wrath of man. At morn, gray Allan's mates with awe The legend heard him say: He sleeps far from his highland heath- His comrades tell the tale On piquet-post, when ebbs the night, And waning watch-fires grow less bright, And dawn is glimmering pale. FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. ENCHANTRESS, farewell, who so oft has decoy'd me, At the close of the evening, through woodlands to roam, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home. Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers wild, speaking The language alternate of rapture and wo: O! none but some lover, whose heart-strings are breaking, The pang that I feel at our parting can know. Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came sorrow, Or pale disappointment, to darken my way, What voice was like thine, that could sing of to morrow, Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day! But when friends drop around us in life's weary waning, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, O! was it meet that, no requiem read o'er him, The grief, queen of numbers, thou canst not as- No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, suage; Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining, The languor of pain, and the chillness of age. 'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing, To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on the plain, And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing, And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain ; As vain those enchantments, O queen of wild numbers, To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er, And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers. Farewell then! Enchantress! I meet thee no more. And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him, Unhonour'd the pilgrim from life should depart? When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hali; With 'scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming; In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beaming; Far adown the lone aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb: Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and through channel, Hardships and danger despising for fame, When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in Furnishing story for glory's bright annal, stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam. Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and hame! Enough, now thy story in annals of glory, Has humbled the pride of France, Holland, and Spain; No more shalt thou grieve me, no more shalt thou leave me, I never will part with my Willie again. WANDERING WILLIE. ALL joy was bereft me the day that you left me, And climb'd the tall vessel to sail yon wide sea; O weary betide it! I wander'd beside it, And bann'd it for parting my Willie and me. Far o'er the wave hast thou follow'd thy fortune, Oft fought the squadrons of France and of Spain; Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at parting, Now I hae gotten my Willie again. When the sky it was mirk, and the winds they were wailing, I sat on the beach wi' the tear in my e'e, And thought o' the bark where my Willie was sailing, And wish'd that the tempest could a' blaw on me. Now that thy gallant ship rides at her mooring, When the lights they did blaze, and the guns they did rattle, And blithe was each heart for the great victory, In secret I wept for the dangers of battle, And thy glory itself was scarce comfort to me. But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly listen, For sweet after danger's the tale of the war. And O! how we doubt when there's distance 'tween lovers, When there's naething to speak to the heart thro' the e'e; How often the kindest and warmest prove rovers, And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like the sea. Till, at times, could I help it? I pined and I ponder'd, If love could change notes like the bird on the tree Now I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae wander'd, Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to me. HUNTING SONG. WAKEN, lords and ladies gay, With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear; Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain gray, Waken, lords and ladies gay, Louder, louder chant the lay, THE BARD'S INCANTATION. WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804. THE forest of Glenmore is drear, It is all of black pine and the dark oak tree; And the midnight wind to the mountain deer Is whistling the forest lullaby: Their centre ranks, with pike and spear, A twilight forest frown'd, The stern battalia crown'd. The sullen march was dumb. There breathed no wind their crests to shake, Or wave their flags abroad; Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake, That shadow'd o'er their road. Can rouse no lurking foe, Nor spy a trace of living thing, Save when they stirr'd the roe; High swelling, dark, and slow. XVII. "At once there rose so wild a yell The archery appear: For life! for life! their flight they ply- Pursuers and pursued ; Before that tide of flight and chase, The spearmen's twilight wood? -Down, down,' cried Mar, 'your lances down! At once lay levell❜d low; And closely shouldering side to side, We'll quell the savage mountaineer, We'll drive them back as tame.' XVIII. "Bearing before them, in their course, * A circle of sportsmen, who, by surrounding a great space, and gradually narrowing, brought immense quantities of deer together, which usually made desperate efforts to break through the Tinchel. Above the tide, each broadsword bright Each targe was dark below; I see,' he cried, their columns shake. As deer break through the broom; Were worth a thousand men. As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep, As the dark caverns of the deep Suck the wild whirlpool in, XIX. "Now westward rolls the battle's din, To the deep lake has given; I heeded not the eddying surge, Mine eye but saw the Trosach's gorge, Mine ear but heard the sullen sound, Which like an earthquake shook the ground, That parts not but with parting life, While by the lake below appears XX. "Viewing the mountain's ridge askance, And cried- Behold yon isle !- Their booty wont to pile; A mingled echo gave: The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer, It tinged the waves and strand with flame; Behind an oak I saw her stand, A naked dirk gleam'd in her hand: XXI. "Revenge! revenge!' the Saxons cried, While, in the monarch's name, afar His face grows sharp, his hands are clench'd, Is sternly fix'd on vacancy; Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew XXII. LAMENT. "And art thou cold and lowly laid, "Sad was thy lot on mortal stage! XXIII. Ellen, the while, with bursting heart, |