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But darkly closed thy dawn of fame,
That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair;
Vengeance alone may breathe thy name,

The watchword of Despair!
Yet, oh! if gallant spirit's power

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,
But cannot chase their silent gloom;
Those beams that gild thy native walls

Are sleeping on thy tomb!

Spring on thy mountains laughs the while,
Thy green woods wave in vernal air,
But the loved scenes may vainly smile:
Not e'en thy dust is there.

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-
Lead on to Salem's towers !
Who would not deem it bliss to die,
Slain in a cause like ours?

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 !
Pour forth your loftiest lays;

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,
And nerve our hearts with might.

Envied be those for thee that fall,

Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall.

For them no need that sculptured tomb
Should chronicle their fame,

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
For combat's glorious hour;
Soon shall the red-cross banner fly

On Salem's loftiest tower!
We burn to mingle in the strife,
Where but to die insures eternal life.

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!
Still fearless and first in the combat, he fell;
But we paused not one tear-drop to shed o'er the

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,

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All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene,

As in each ravaged home th' avenging one had been.

XIII.

The sun goes down in beauty-his farewell,
Unlike the world he leaves, is calmly bright;
And his last mellow'd rays around us dwell,
Lingering, as if on scenes of young delight.
They smile and fade-but, when the day is o'er,
What slow procession moves with measured
tread?-

Lo! those who weep, with her who weeps no more,
A solemn train-the mourners and the dead!
While, throned on high, the moon's untroubled ray
Looks down, as carthly hopes are passing thus away.

XIV.

But other light is in that holy pile,

Where, in the house of silence, kings repose;
There, through the dim arcade and pillar'd aisle,
The funeral torch its deep-red radiance throws.
There pall, and canopy, and sacred strain,
And all around the stamp of woe may bear;
But Grief, to whose full heart those forms are vain,.
Grief unexpress'd, unsoothed by them-is there.
No darker hour hath Fate for him who mourns,
Than when the all he loved, as dust, to dust

returns.

XV.

We mourn-but not thy fate, departed One!
We pity-but the living, not the dead;
A cloud hangs o'er us" the bright day is done,"
And with a father's hopes, a nation's fled.
And he, the chosen of thy youthful breast,
Whose soul with thine had mingled every thought-
He, with thine early fond affections blest,
Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught;
What but a desert to his eye, that earth,
Which but retains of thee the memory of thy
worth?

XVI.

Oh! there are griefs for nature too intense,
Whose first rude shock but stupifies the soul;
Nor hath the fragile and o'erlabour'd sense
Strength e'en to feel at once their dread control.
But when 'tis past, that still and speechless hour
Of the seal'd bosom and the tearless eye,
Then the roused mind awakes, with tenfold power
To grasp the fulness of its agony !

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,
Spirit thus early to thy home recall'd!
So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft,
A warrior's heart, which danger ne'er appall'd.
Years may pass on-and, as they roll along,
Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend;
And he once more, with life's unheeding throng,
May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend;
Yet still, the guardian-angel of his mind
Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory's temple
shrined.

XVIII.

Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal
Aught from his grief whose spirit dwells with thee:
Once deeply bruised, the heart at length may heal,
But all it was-oh! never more shall be.
The flower, the leaf, o'erwhelm'd by winter snow,
Shall spring again, when beams and showers return,
The faded check again with health may glow,
And the dim eye with life's warm radiance burn;
But the pure freshness of the mind's young bloom,
Once lost, revives alone in worlds beyond the tomb.

ΧΙΧ.

But thou! thine hour of agony is o'er,
And thy brief race in brilliance hath been run;
While Faith, that bids fond nature grieve no more,
Tells that thy crown-though not on earth-is won.
Thou, of the world so early left, hast known
Nought but the bloom and sunshine--and for thee,
Child of propitious stars! for thee alone,
The course of love ran smooth1 and brightly free.
Not long such bliss to mortal could be given:
It is enough for earth to catch one glimpse of heaven.

XX.

What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame
Rose in its glory on thine England's eye,
The grave's deep shadows o'er thy prospect came?
Ours is that loss-and thou wert blest to die!
Thou mightst have lived to dark and evil years,
To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o'ercast;
But thy spring morn was all undimm'd by tears,
And thou wert loved and cherish'd to the last!

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;
Where dimly shines to thee that mortal crown
Which earth display'd to claim thee from the skies.
Look down! and if thy spirit yet retain
Memory of aught that once was fondly dear,
Soothe, though unseen, the hearts that mourn in
vain,

And in their hours of loneliness-be near!
Blest was thy lot e'en here--and one faint sigh,
Oh! tell those hearts, hath made that blest
eternity!2

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.

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