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HOHENLINDEN.

HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;
Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;
And louder than the bolts of Heaven

Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn,

but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK.

63

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry.

Few, few shall part where many meet;
The snow shall be their winding-sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

Thomas Campbell.

GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK.

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 Inverlocky.
Come every hill-plaid, and

True heart that wears one,
Come every steel blade, and

Strong hand that bears one.

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GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK.

Leave untended the herd,

The flock without shelter;
Leave the corpse uninterrd,

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!

Sir W. Scott CORONACH.

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CORONACH.

HE is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.
The fount reappearing

From the raindrops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are serest,
But our flower was in flushing

When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,

Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,

Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone; and for ever!

Sir W. Scott.

Modern Poets.

5

66

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O’er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow!