Or to his loved, his distant land On your light wings the exile bear, To feel once more his heart expand In his own genial mountain-air; Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat, And bless each note, as heaven's own music sweet. But oh with fancy's brightest ray, Blest dreams! the bard's repose illume; Bid forms of heaven around him play, And bowers of Eden bloom! And waft his spirit to its native skies Who finds no charm in life's realities. No voice is on the air of night, Through folded leaves no murmurs creep, Nor star nor moonbeam's trembling light Falls on the placid brow of sleep. Descend, bright visions! from your airy bower: Dark, silent, solemn is your favourite hour. 1 Vide Annotation from Quarterly Review, p. 62. GENERAL SIR E-D P-K-M.a BRAVE spirit! mourn'd with fond regret, Lost in life's pride, in valour's noon, Oh, who could deem thy star should set So darkly and so soon! Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind The soldier's death hath been thy doom, The soldier's tear thy mead shall be; Yet, son of war! a prouder tomb Might Fate have rear'd for thee. Thou shouldst have died, O high-soul'd chief! Noontide of fame! each tear-drop then Was worthy of a warrior's grave: When shall affection weep again So proudly o'er the brave? There, on the battle-fields of Spain, Midst Roncesvalles' mountain-scene, Or on Vitoria's blood-red plain, Meet had thy deathbed been. 2 Major-general Sir Edward Pakenham, the gallant officer to whose memory these verses are dedicated, fell at the head of the British troops in the unfortunate attack on New Orleans, 8th January 1814. "Six thousand combatants on the British side," says Mr Alison, "were in the field: a slender force to attack double their number, intrenched to the teeth in works bristling with bayonets and loaded with heavy artillery."-History of Europe, vol. x. p. 743. The death of Sir Edward is thus alluded to in the official account of General Keane, communicating the result of the action:-"The advancing columns were discernible from the enemy's line at more than two hundred yards' distance, when a destructive fire was instantly opened, not only from all parts of the enemy's line, but from the battery on the opposite side of the river. The gallant Pakenham, who, during his short but brilliant career, was always foremost in the path of glory and of danger, galloped forward to the front, to animate his men by his presence. He had reached the crest of the glacis, and was in the act of cheering his troops with his hat off, when he received two balls, one in the knee and another in the body. He fell into the arms of Major Macdougal, his aide-de-camp, and almost instantly expired."-Edinr. An. Regist. 1815, p. 356. The records of your wars are gone, Your names forgot by all but one. Soon shall that one depart from earth, His eyes, that hail'd your spirits' flame, Still kindling in the combat's shock, Have seen, since darkness veil'd your fame, Sons of the desert and the rock! Another and another race Rise to the battle and the chase. Descendants of the mighty dead! Fearless of heart, and firm of hand! Oh, let me join their spirits fled Oh! send me to their shadowy land. Age hath not tamed Ontara's heartHe shrinks not from the friendly dart. These feet no more can chase the deer, The glory of this arm is flown ;Why should the feeble linger here When all the pride of life is gone? Warriors! why still the stroke deny? Think ye Ontara fears to die? He fear'd not in his flower of days, Shall, then, the warrior tremble now? Now when his envied strength is o'erHung on the pine his idle bow, His pirogue useless on the shore? When age hath dimm'd his failing eye, Shall he, the joyless, fear to die? Sons of the brave! delay no moreThe spirits of my kindred call. 'Tis but one pang, and all is o'er ! Oh, bid the aged cedar fall! To join the brethren of his prime, The mighty of departed time. EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS. SOFT skies of Italy! how richly drest, stream. Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray, That still at eve its lofty temple knows; From rock and torrent fade the tints away, And all is wrapt in twilight's deep repose: While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper star, And roves the Alpine gale o'er solitudes afar. DIRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CHIEF IN "WAVERLEY."1 SON of the mighty and the free! High-minded leader of the brave! Was it for lofty chief like thee To fill a nameless grave? Oh! if amidst the valiant slain The warrior's bier had been thy lot, E'en though on red Culloden's plain, We then had mourn'd thee not. 1 These very beautiful stanzas first appeared in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1815, (p. 255,) with the following interesting heading. "A literary friend of ours received these verses with a letter of the following tenor : "A very ingenious young friend of mine has just sent me the enclosed, on reading Waverley. To you the world gives that charming work; and ifin any future edition you should like to insert the Dirge to a Highland Chief, you would do honour to Your Sincere Admirer.' "The individual to whom this obliging letter was addressed, having no claim to the honour which is there done him, does not possess the means of publishing the verses in the popular novel alluded to. But that the public may sustain no loss, and that the ingenious author of Waverley may be aware of the honour intended him, our correspondent has ventured to send the verses to our Register." Notwithstanding the mysticism in the note about the "very ingenious young friend of mine" and "your sincere admirer," on the one hand; and the disclaimer by "a literary friend of ours," on the other, there can be little doubt that the Dirge was sent by Mrs Hemans to Sir Walter, then Mr Scott, and by him to the Register-of which he himself wrote that year the historical department. Vide Lockhart's Life of Scott, vol. iv. p. 80. 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- Who would not deem it bliss to die, The brave who sleep in soil of thine, 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 For combat's glorious hour; Soon shall the red-cross banner fly On Salem's loftiest tower ! THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD. [It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clanronald fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. But 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! 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, |