And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise?
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ;
And near the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering with white lips-"The foe! they come ! they come !"
And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering rose !"*
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes :—
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! but with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years,
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clans-man's ear!
And Ardennes 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
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms,-the day
Battle's magnificently-stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red burial blent!
Written in a Choultry, situate in a very desert Tract, by Captain T. A. Anderson, H. M. 19th Foot.
WITHIN this Choultry's ample space,
The way-worn traveller's resting-place,
Whose massy columns countless glow,
Reflected in the tank below,
Whose endless porticos and halls,
Whose pillar'd domes, and echoing walls,
Its proud magnificence attest,
The child of poverty may rest!-
Here wealth gives no exclusive claim,
No deference to a noble name ;
To all the race of man as free
As heaven's cerulean canopy.
Long may the pious fabric stand
Amid this boundless waste of sand;
Like some blest island's friendly cove,
To those who on the ocean rove!
The veriest wretch, while shelter'd here,
Shrinks from no fellow-mortal's sneer,
Whose broken spirit ill could brook
A purse-proud landlord's scornful look;
But, safe from noon's destructive force,
May pause upon his toilsome course,
With food and rest his frame renew,
His homeward journey to pursue;
And, at the welcome close of light,
When fire flies take their evening flight,
And hover round each fragrant flow'r;
When burning skies have lost their pow'r,
When with fresh hopes, and thankful heart,
He girds his loins in act to part,
Warin from his soul how many a pray'r
Will bless the generous founder's care!
Whom fancy pictures to the eye,
As passing faint and wearily
Along this drear and barren scene,
Where noontide rays smite fierce and keen,
And arid winds incessant sweep
The billows of this sandy deep,
No stunted palm, nor date-tree seen,
To yield a momentary screen,
No hut his languid limbs to rest,
Tho' sore by toil and thirst opprest!
In such a scene of dread and woe,
Well might he make a solemn vow,
That if some Mercy-loving Pow'r
Should guard him in that evil hour,
To him a stately fane should rise,
A refuge from these wrathful skies,
A monument of gratitude
Amid this fiery solitude!
Perhaps the prayer was not in vain,
And hence this fabric decks the plain.
And if, as old traditions say,
The spirit, parted from its clay,
Shall still with former feelings throng
Round scenes and objects lov'd so long,
How must it gratify his shade,
To hear the homage hourly paid,
To hear the fainting traveller cry,
With throbbing breast, and tear-dimm'd eye,
"A thousand blessings on the hand
"That first these sacred turrets plann'd,
"And plac'd this kind asylum here,
"The lone way-faring man to cheer!"
England! my country! tho' thou art
Entwin'd around my very heart,
Canst thou the solemn truth deny,
A truth impress'd on every eye,
That while ONE stranger houseless lies
Beneath thine ever-varying skies,
Thou art in charity outdone
By Asia's rude, untutor'd son!
ADDRESS OF WINTER, TO TIMOUR.
Versified from Sir John Malcolm's History of Persia.
KEEN blew the sleety gale, the scene was drear,
One sheet of white the hills and plains appear,
Vast blocks of ice obstruct the rapid floods,
And hills of snow conceal the sable woods,
Nor bird, nor beast, nor living thing was seen,
Nor flower, nor fruit, nor blade of herbage green ;
All Nature knew the appointed time of rest,
And sheltered, slept in earth's maternal breast.
Man's heart alone no change of season knows,
And proud ambition stoops not to repose!
The tyrant's troops, regardless of the blast,
Blacken with countless hordes the silvery waste.
High on his Tartar steed the conqueror rode.
And led his myriads o'er the frozen flood;
When lo! amid a realm of subject snows,
In awful pride, gigantic Winter rose.
His hand, with arrows filled, was lifted high,
A ghastly gleam was in his frozen eye;
Like some vast mountain his stupendous form,
His voice the howling of the Alpine storm.
It lacked the melody of living breath,
And chill'd the spirit as the voice of Death.
"Behold the mighty conqueror, who defies,
"Not man alone, but these inclement skies.
"Yet though thy dreadful warriors onward ride,
"Nor fawn the elements, to sooth thy pride,
"Round thy warm limbs my icy robe I cast.
"I give thee to the snow, the hail, the blast ;
"Yon hill-the Spirit of the Storm is there,
"And bids thee, tyrant, stop thy rash career.
"No longer shalt thou wrap the world in flame ;
"Art thou a spirit of vengeance? I the same.
"Slaves to subdue, we use our power alike,
"When baneful stars in dire conjunction strike.
"How terrible their force! but on! be bold!
"Make earth's best region desolate and cold,
"Then in the impotence of fury pine,
"To find at length thy blasts less keen than mine.
"If thou canst glory in unnumbered bands,
"That waste, destroy, o'erwhelm the fairest lands,
"With heavenly aid my storms as widely sweep,
"Thy lance is keen, my arrow strikes as deep!
"And on thy head, by Him that governs all,
« The deadliest venom of my wrath shall fall,
"Not all thy fires, thyself, thine host shall save
"From the cold sleep, the tempest's icy grave."
From “ Thoughts on Wheels," a Poem by J. Montgomery.
When glancing o'er thy beauteous land,
In view thy Public Virtues stand,
The Guardian-angels of thy coast,
To watch the dear domestic Host,
The Heart's Affections, pleased to roam
Around the quiet heaven of Home.
I love Thee,-when I mark thy soil Flourish beneath the Peasant's toil, And from its lap of verdure throw Treasures which neither Indies know.
I love Thee,-when I hear around
Thy looms, and wheels, and anvils sound,
Thine Engines heaving all their force,
Thy waters labouring on their course,
And Arts, and Industry, and Wealth,
Exulting in the joys of Health.
I love Thee,-when I trace thy tale
To the din point where records fail;
Thy deeds of old renown inspire
My bosom with our fathers' fire;
A proud inheritance I claim
In all their sufferings, all their fame :
Nor less delighted, when I stray
Down History's lengthening, widening way,
And hail thee in thy present hour,
From the meridian arch of power,
Shedding the lustre of thy reign,
Like sunshine over land and main.
I love Thee-when I read the lays
Of British Bards in elder days,
Till, rapt on visionary wings,
High o'er thy cliffs my Spirit sings;
For I, amidst thy living choir,
I too, can touch the sacred lyre.
I love Thee,-when I contemplate
The full-orb'd grandeur of thy state;
Thy laws and liberties, that rise
Man's noblest works beneath the skies,
To which the Pyramids are tame,
And Grecian Temples bow their fame :
These, thine immortal Sages wrought
Out of the deepest mines of thought;
These, on the scaffold, in the field,
Thy Warriors won, thy Patriots seal'd;
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