But darkly closed thy dawn of fame, The watchword of Despair! Hath e'er ennobled death like thine, Then glory mark'd thy parting hour, Last of a mighty line! O'er thy own towers the sunshine falls, Are sleeping on thy tomb! Spring on thy mountains laughs the while, On thy blue hills no bugle-sound Is mingling with the torrent's roar; Unmark'd, the wild deer sport around: Thou lead'st the chase no more! Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still, Those halls where peal'd the choral strain; They hear the wind's deep murmuring thrill, And all is hush'd again. No banner from the lonely tower Shall wave its blazon'd folds on high; There the tall grass and summer flower Unmark'd shall spring and die. No more thy bard for other ear Shall wake the harp once loved by thineHush'd be the strain thou canst not hear, Last of a mighty line! THE CRUSADERS' WAR-SONG. CHIEFTAINS, lead on! our hearts beat high- The brave who sleep in soil of thine, Die not entomb'd but shrined, O Palestine ! Souls of the slain in holy war! Look from your sainted rest. Tell us ye rose in Glory's car, To mingle with the blest; Tell us how short the death-pang's power, How bright the joys of your immortal bower. Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train ! Each heart shall echo to the strain Breathed in the warrior's praise. Bid every string triumphant swell Th' inspiring sounds that heroes love so well. Salem amidst the fiercest hour, The wildest rage of fight, Thy name shall lend our falchions power, Envied be those for thee that fall, Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall. For them no need that sculptured tomb Or pyramid record their doom, Or deathless verse their name; It is enough that dust of thine Should shroud their forms, O blessed Palestine ! Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high On Salem's loftiest tower! THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD. His But [It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clanronald fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. Glengarry, chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round his head, cried out, "To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourning!" The Highlanders received a new impulse from his words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all before them. See the Quarterly Review article of "Culloden Papers."] Он, ne'er be Clanronald the valiant forgot! spot, We spared not one moment to murmur "Farewell." We heard but the battle-word given by the chief, "To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!" And wildly, Clanronald! we echo'd the vow, With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our hand; Young son of the brave! we may weep for thee now. For well has thy death been avenged by thy band, All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene, As in each ravaged home th' avenging one had been. XIII. The sun goes down in beauty-his farewell, Lo! those who weep, with her who weeps no more, XIV. But other light is in that holy pile, Where, in the house of silence, kings repose; returns. XV. We mourn-but not thy fate, departed One! XVI. Oh! there are griefs for nature too intense, 1 "The bright day is done, And we are for the dark."-SHAKSPEARE. Its death-like torpor vanish'd-and its doom, To cast its own dark hues o'er life and nature's bloom. XVII. And such his lot whom thou hast loved and left, XVIII. Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal ΧΙΧ. But thou! thine hour of agony is o'er, XX. What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame 1 "The course of true love never did run smooth." SHAKSPEARE. And thy young name, ne'er breathed in ruder tone, Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone. XXI. Daughter of Kings! from that high sphere look down Where still, in hope, affection's thoughts may rise; And in their hours of loneliness-be near! These stanzas were dated, Brownwhylfa, 23d Dec. 1817, and first appeared in Blackwood's Magazine, vol. iii. April 1818. EXTRACT FROM QUARTERLY REVIEW. "The next volume in order consists principally of translations. It will give our readers some idea of Mrs Hemaus' acquaintance with books, to enumerate the authors from whom she has chosen her subjects;-they are Camoens, Metastasio, Filicaja, Pastorini, Lope de Vega, Francisco Manuel, Della Casa, Cornelio Bentivoglio, Quevedo, Juan de Tarsis, Torquato and Bernardo Tasso, Petrarca, Pietro Bembo, Lorenzini, Gesner, Chaulieu, Garcilaso de Veganames embracing almost every language in which the muse has found a tongue in Europe. Many of these translations are very pretty, but it would be less interesting to select any of them for citation, as our readers might not be possessed of or acquainted with the originals. We will pass on, therefore, to the latter part of the volume, which contains much that is very pleasing and beautiful. The poem which we are about to transcribe is on a subject often treated-and no wonder; it would be hard to find another which embraces so many of the elements of poetic feeling; so soothing a mixture of pleasing melancholy and pensive hope; such an assemblage of the ideas of tender beauty, of artless playfulness, of spotless purity, of transient yet imperishable brightness, of affections wounded, but not in bitterness, of sorrows gently subdued, of eternal and undoubted happiness. We know so little of the heart of man, that when we stand by the grave of him whom we deem most excellent, the thought of death will be mingled with some awe and uncertainty; but the gracious promises of scripture leave no doubt as to the blessedness of departed infants; and when we think what they now are and what they might have been, what they now enjoy and what they might have suffered, what they have now gained and what they might have lost, we may, indeed, yearn to follow them; but we must be selfish indeed to wish them again constrained' to dwell in these tenements of pain and sorrow. The Dirge of a Child,' which follows, embodies these thoughts and feelings, but in more beautiful order and language: "No bitter tears for thee be shed," etc.-Vide page 55. |