THE unearthly voices ceased, And the heavy sound was still; It died on the river's breast, And it died on the side of the hill; But round Lord David's tower The sound still floated near, For it rung in the Lady's bower, And it rung in the Lady's ear; She raised her stately head, And her heart throbbed high with pride, — "Your mountains shall bend, And your streams shall ascend, Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride." SIR WALTER SCOTT: Lay of Last Minstrel, BANNOCKBURN. ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled; Now's the day, and now's the hour; Wha will be a traitor knave? Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa'? Let him follow me! By oppression's woes and pains! But they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! Let us do, or die! CROMWELL AND KING CHARLES. 'Tis maduess to resist or blame What field of all the civil war, And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art; Where, twining subtile fears with hope, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. — Again! again! again! Then ceased- and all is wail, Outspoke the victor then, But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, Then Denmark blest our chief, As death withdrew his shades from the day; While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. Now joy, old England, raise! roar, Let us think of them that sleep, Brave hearts! to Britain's pride While the billow mournful rolls, Of the brave! CAMPBELL. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. YE mariners of England! The battle and the breeze: Your glorious standard launch again, And sweep through the deep, The spirit of your fathers In both from age to age, thou didst rejoice, They were thy chosen music, Liberty! There came a tyrant, and with holy glee Thou foughtst against him, but hast vainly striven; Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft: Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left; For, high-souled maid, what sorrow would it be That mountain floods should thunder as before, And ocean bellow from his rocky shore, And neither awful voice be heard by thee! |