But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks
Chequer'd his swarthy brow and cheeks. 270
-Hark, Minstrel! I have heard thee play,
With measure bold on festal day,
In yon lone isle, . . . again where ne'er
Shall harper play, or warrior hear!
That stirring air that peals on high,
O'er Dermid's race (1) our victory.
Strike it!-and then, (for well thou canst,)
Free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced,
Fling me the picture of the fight,
When met my clan the Saxon might.
I'll listen, till my fancy hears
The clang of swords, the crash of spears!
These grates, these walls, shall vanish
then
For the fair field of fighting men,
And my free spirit burst away,
As if it soared from battle-fray.'-
The trembling Bard with awe obey'd,-
Slow on the harp his hand he laid;
But soon remembrance of the sight
285 There breathed no wind their crests to shake
He witness'd from the mountain's height, 200
With what old Bertram told at night,
Awaken'd the full power of song,
And bore him in career along;
As shallop launch'd on river's tide,
That slow and fearful leaves the side,
But, when it feels the middle stream,
Drives downward swift as lightning's beam.
Battle of Beal' an Duine. (2)
Or wave their flags abroad;
Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake,
That shadow'd o'er their road.
Their vaward scouts no tidings bring,
Can rouse no lurking foe,
Nor spy a trace of living thing,
Save when they stirred the roe;
The host moves, like a deep sea-wave,
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave,
High-swelling, dark, and slow.
The lake is pass'd, and now they gain
A narrow and a broken plain,
Before the Trosach's rugged jaws;
And here the horse and spearmen pause,
"The Minstrel came once more to view While to explore the dangerous glen,
The eastern ridge of Benvenue,
For, ere he parted, he would say
Farewell to lovely Loch-Achray-
Where shall he find, in foreign land,
So lone a lake, so sweet a strand!
There is no breeze upon the fern,
No ripple on the lake,
Upon her eyry nods the erne, (3)
The deer has sought the brake;
The small birds will not sing aloud,
The springing trout lies still,
So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud,
That swathes, as with a purple shroud,
Benledi's distant hill.
Is it the thunder's solemn sound
That mutters deep and dread,
Or echoes from the groaning ground
The warrior's measured tread?
Is it the lightning's quivering glance
That on the thicket streams,
Or do they flash on spear and lance
The sun's retiring beams?
-I see the dagger-crest of Mar,
I see the Moray's silver star,
(1) The clan Campbell. (2) Defile of the fortress. (3) Eagle.
Dive through the pass the archer-men.
'At once there rose so wild a yell
Within that dark and narrow dell,
As all the fiends, from heaven that fell,
Had peal'd the banner-cry of hell!
Forth from the pass in tumult driven,
Like chaff before the wind of heaven,
The archery appear:
For life! for life! their flight they ply-
And shriek, and shout, and battle cry,
And plaids and bonnets waving high,
And broad-swords flashing to the sky,
Are maddening in the rear.
Onward they drive, in dreadful race,
Pursuers and pursued;
Before that tide of flight and chase,
How shall it keep its rooted place,
The spearmen's twilight-wood?
-'We'll quell the savage mountaineer,
As their Tinchel cows the game!
They come as fleet as forest deer,
We'll drive them back as tame.'-
'Bearing before them, in their course,
The relics of the archer-force,
Like wave with crest of sparkling foam,
Right onward did Clan-Alpine come.
Above the tide, each broad-sword bright
Was brandishing like beam of light,
Each targe was dark below;
And with the ocean's mighty swing,
When heaving to the tempest's wing,
They hurl'd them on the foe.
I heard the lance's shivering crash,
As when the whirlwind rends the ash;
I heard the broad-sword's deadly clang,
As if a hundred anvils rang.
But Moray wheel'd his rearward rank
Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank,-
'My banner-man advance!
I heeded not the eddying surge,
Mine eye but saw the Trosach's gorge,
Mine ear but heard that sullen sound,
Which like an earthquake shook the ground,
And spoke the stern and desperate strife
That parts not but with parting life,
Seeming, to minstrel-ear, to toll
The dirge of many a passing soul.
'Nearer it comes--the dim-wood glen
The martial flood disgorged agen,
But not in mingled tide;
The plaided warriors of the North
95 High on the mountain thunder forth,
And overhang its side;
I see,' he cried, 'their column shake.-
Now, gallants! for your ladies' sake, 105
Upon them with the lance!'-
The horsemen dash'd among the rout,
As deer break through the broom;
Their steeds are stout, their swords are
out,
They soon make lightsome room.
Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne-
Where, where was Roderick then!
One blast upon his bugle-horn
Were worth a thousand men.
And refluent through the pass of fear
The battle's tide was pour'd;
Vanish'd the Saxon's struggling spear,
Vanish'd the mountain sword.
While by the lake below appears
The dark'ning cloud of Saxon spears.
At weary bay each shatter'd band,
Eyeing their foemen, sternly stand;
Their banners stream like tatter'd sail,
That flings its fragments to the gale,
And broken arms and disarray
Mark'd the fell havock of the day.
'Viewing the mountain's ridge askance,
The Saxons stood in sullen trance,
Till Moray pointed with his lance,
And cried-Behold yon isle!
See! none are left to guard its strand,
But women weak, that wring the hand.
'Tis there of yore the robber band
Their booty wont to pile;-
My purse, with bonnet-pieces store,
To him will swim a bow-shot o'er,
And loose a shallop from the shore.
Lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then,
Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.'-
Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung,
On earth his casque and corslet rung,
He plunged him in the wave:--
All saw the deed-the purpose knew
And to their clamours Benvenue
A mingled echo gave;
The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer,
The helpless females scream for fear,
And yells for rage the mountaineer.
'Twas then, as by the outcry riven,
Pour'd down at once the lowering heaven;
A whirlwind swept Loch-Katrine's breast,
Her billows rear'd their snowy crest.
Well for the swimmer swell'd they high,
To mar the Highland-marksman's eye; 190
For round him shower'd, 'mid rain and hail,
The vengeful arrows of the Gael.-
In vain. He nears the isle--and lo!
His hand is on a shallop's bow.
Just then a flash of lightning came,
It tinged the waves and strand with flame;--
I mark'd Duncraggan's widow'd dame,
Behind an oak I saw her stand,
A naked dirk gleam'd in her hand:-
:-
It darken'd, but amid the moan
Of waves I heard a dying groan; -
Another flash!-the spearman floats
A weltering corse beside the boats,
And the stern Matron o'er him stood,
Her hand and dagger streaming blood. 205
'Revenge! revenge!' the Saxons cried,
The Gaels' exulting shout replied.
Despite the elemental rage,
Again they hurried to engage;
But, ere they closed in desperate fight, 210
Bloody with spurring came a knight,
Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag,
Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white
flag.
Clarion and trumpet by his side
Rung forth a truce-note high and wide, 215
While, in the monarch's name, afar
An herald's voice forbade the war,
For Bothwell's lord, and Roderick bold,
Were both, he said, in captive hold.'
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As if some pang his heart-strings wrench'd;
Set are his teeth, his fading eye
Is sternly fixed on vacancy;
Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew
His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu!
Old Allan-bane look'd on aghast,
While grim and still his spirit pass'd:
But when he saw that life was fled,
He pour'd his wailing o'er the dead.
Ellen, the while, with bursting heart, 240
Remain'd in lordly bower apart,
Where play'd, with many-colour'd gleams,
Through storied pane the rising beams.
In vain on gilded roof they fall,
And lighten'd up a tapestried wall,
And for her use a menial train
A rich collation spread in vain.
The banquet proud, the chamber gay,
Scarce drew one curious glance astray;
Or, if she look'd, 'twas but to say,
With better omen dawn'd the day
In that lone isle, where waved on high
The dun-deer's hide for canopy;
Where oft her noble father shared
The simple meal her care prepared,
While Lufra, crouching by her side,
Her station claim'd with jealous pride,
And Douglas, bent on woodland game,
Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Graeme,
Whose answer, oft at random made,
The wandering of his thoughts betray'd.-
Those who such simple joys have known
Are taught to prize them when they're gone
But sudden, see, she lifts her head!
The window seeks with cautious tread. 265
What distant music has the power
To win her in this woeful hour!
'Twas from a turret that o'erhung
Her latticed bower, the strain was sung.
Lay of the imprisoned Huntsman.
'My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle grey-hound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.
I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forest green,
With bended bow and blood-hound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.
'I hate to learn the ebb of time,
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sun-beams crawl,
Inch after inch, along the wall.
The lark was wont my matins ring,
The sable rook my vespers sing;
These towers, although a king's they be, 15
Have not a hall of joy for me.
'No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the feet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew; 20
A blithesome welcome blithely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee,-
That life is lost to love and me!'-
The heart-sick lay was hardly said,
The list'ner had not turn'd her head;
It trickled still, the starting tear,
When light a footstep struck her ear,
And Snowdoun's graceful Knight was near.
She turn'd the hastier, lest again
The prisoner should renew his strain.
'O welcome, brave Fitz-James!' she said;
'How may an almost orphan maid
Pay the deep debt'-'O say not so!
To me no gratitude you owe.
Not mine, alas! the boon to give,
And bid thy noble father live;
I can but be thy guide, sweet maid,
With Scotland's King thy suit to aid.
No tyrant he, though ire and pride
255 May lead his better mood aside.
Then forth the noble Douglas sprung, And on his neck his daughter hung. The Monarch drank, that happy hour, The sweetest, holiest draught of Power,When it can say, with godlike voice, 55 Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice! Yet would not James the general eye On nature's raptures long should pry; He stepp'd between-'Nay, Douglas, nay, Steal not my proselyte away!
Within 'twas brilliant all and light, A thronging scene of figures bright; It glow'd on Ellen's dazzled sight, As when the setting sun has given Ten thousand hues to summer-even, And, from their tissue, fancy frames Aerial knights and fairy dames. Still by Fitz-James her footing staid: A few faint steps she forward made, Then slow her drooping head she raised, And fearful round the presence gazed; For him she sought, who own'd this state, The dreaded Prince whose will was fate! She gazed on many a princely port, Might well have ruled a royal court; Or many a splendid garb she gazed,— Then turn'd bewilder'd and amazed, For all stood bare; and, in the room, Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume. To him each lady's look was lent; On him each courtier's eye was bent, Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen, He stood, in simple Lincoln green, The centre of the glittering ring,And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's King!
The riddle 'tis my right to read,
That brought this happy chance to speed.-
Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray
In life's more low but happier way,
"Tis under name which veils my power,
Nor falsely veils-for Stirling's tower
Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims, 125
And Normans call me James Fitz-James.
Thus watch I o'er insulted laws,
Thus learn to right the injured cause.'— 70 Then, in a tone apart and low,
As wreath of snow, on mountain breast, Slides from the rock that gave it rest, Poor Ellen glided from her stay, And at the Monarch's feet she lay; No word her choking voice commands,She shew'd the ring-she clasp'd her hands. O! not a moment could he brook, The generous Prince, that suppliant look! Gently he raised her, and, the while, 85 Check'd with a glance the circle's smile: Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss'd, And bade her terrors be dismiss'd:'Yes, Fair; the wandering poor Fitz-James The fealty of Scotland claims. To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring; He will redeem his signet-ring. Ask nought for Douglas;-yester even, His prince and he have much forgiven: Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue, I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong. We would not to the vulgar crowd Yield what they craved with clamour loud; Calmly we heard and judged his cause, Our council aided, and our laws.
-'Ah, little trait'ress! none must know 130 What idle dream, what lighter thought, What vanity full dearly bought,
Join'd to thine eye's dark witchcraft,
drew
My spell-bound steps to Bevenue,
In dangerous hour, and all but gave
Thy Monarch's life to mountain-glaive!'-
Aloud he spoke-Thou still dost hold
That little talisman of gold,
Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring-
What seeks fair Ellen of the King?'-
Full well the conscious maiden guessed,
He probed the weakness of her breast;
But, with that consciousness, there came
A light'ning of her fears for Graeme,
And more she deem'd the monarch's ire
Kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire,
Rebellious broad-sword boldly drew;
And, to her generous feeling true,
She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.-
'Forbear thy suit:-the King of Kings 150
Alone can stay life's parting wings.
I know his heart, I know his hand,
Have shared his cheer, and proved his
brand;-
My fairest earldom would I give
To bid Clan-Alpine's Chieftain live!-
Hast thou no other boon to crave?
No other captive friend to save?'-
Blushing, she turn'd her from the King,
And to the Douglas gave the ring,
As if she wish'd her sire to speak
The suit that stain'd her glowing cheek.--
'Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force,
And stubborn justice holds her course.
Malcolm, come forth!'-And, at the word,
Down kneel'd the Graeme to Scotland's Lord.
'For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues,
From thee may Vengeance claim her dues,
Who, nurtured underneath our smile
Hast paid our care by treacherous wile,
And sought, amid thy faithful clan,
A refuge for an outlaw'd man,
Dishonouring thus thy loyal name.—
Fetters and warder for the Graeme!'
His chain of gold the King unstrung,
The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung, 175
Then gently drew the glittering band,
And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand.
THE PIRATE'S ADIEU.
Farewell! farewell! the voice you hear
Has left its last soft note with you,
Its next must join the seaward cheer,
And shout among the shouting crew.
The accents which I scare could form
Beneath your frown's controlling check
Must give the word, above the storm,
To cut the mast and clear the wreck.
The timid eye I dared not raise,
The hand that shook when press'd to
thine,
Must point the guns upon the chase,
Must bid the deadly cutlass shine.
To all I love, or hope, or fear,
Honour, or own, a long adieu,
To all that life has soft and dear,
Farewell-save memory of you!
LO ORD BYRON, (George Noel Gordon), was born in London on the 22nd of Jan. 1788. At the early age of eleven he came into possession of the title and lands of one of the oldest English aristocratic families, and his prospects in life being thus improved, he entered Harrow School, and afterwards Trinity College, Cambridge. Byron appeared first before the public in 1807, when he published his 'Hours of Idleness,' a work which was severely and even coarsely criticised by the Edinburgh Reviewers; this criticism was the cause of that magnificent satire of Byron, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.' Almost immediately after writing the latter, the poet travelled for two years, and upon his return he published the first and second cantos of 'Childe Harold, which appeared in 1812, at once placed him above all criticism, and procured for him the first rang among the English Poets. This production was followed in rapid succession by "The Giaour,' "The Bride of Abydos, The Corsair,' and 'Lara, in which Byron opens another source of interest, and forms a new era in literature, in bringing before 118 scenes from the east, and particularly modern Greece. Byron contracted about this time a marriage with Miss Milbanke, which proved very unfortunate, for after the birth of a daughter, Lady Byron left her husband without assigning any sufficient cause, on which occasion Byron expressed his feelings in those beautiful lines, 'Fare thee well, &c.' in which he so affectingly took leave of his wife. He left England almost immediately after, but before his departure he gave to the world "The siege of Corinth' and 'Parisina.' He now travelled through Belgium to Switzerland, where he wrote the third canto of Childe Harold, and then resided several years in various parts of Italy, and especially in Venice, living in a manner too profligate to be excused, even the loose manners of
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.
My hair is grey, but not with years,
Nor grew it white
In a single night,
As men's have grown from sudden fears;
the period and of the country taken into consideration. At about this time (1817), Byron made his first attempt in the drama, and published 'Manfred,' which is rather a series of grand and majestic soliloquies. than a play; and indeed Byron has repeatedly insisted that it was not written with the view of being represented on the stage. This work was followed by the 'Lament of Tasso, and the fourth and last canto of 'Childe Harold.' He has written several tragedies. of which the most famous are 'Cain,' 'Heaven and Earth," "The Deformed Transformed,' 'Marino Faliero,' 'Sardanapalus,' 'Werner,' and 'The Two Foscari.' In 'Don Juan' Byron has pictured almost all the features of modern society, and in many parts most satirically criticised what he considered the weak points in that of his own country. The chief feature in all Byron's poetry is the melancholy grandeur with which the whole is clothed, and the exceeding boldness of all his ideas. He excels in the conception and portraying of character, and in the expression of dark and terrible sentiments, but his principal heroes are almost all repetitions of one another, and have always their blackest qualities brought forward and strongly depicted. The religious principle of all his later works is bad, yet in spite of this, his high poetical feeling shows itself everywhere, and his works are now and will ever be read with great delight and fascination. Towards the end of his life Byron interested himself in the Greek war of independence; and after expending large sums of money in the cause of that country, he went himself Jan. 1824 to Greece where he died April 19th in the same year, in the midst of his exertions, which event was lamented by the Greeks as a national calamity. His remains were refused admission into Westminster Abbey on account of his religious opinions; they were therefore deposited in the family vault in Huckwell church, near Newstead.
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil,
But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,
And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are bann'd, and barr'd-forbidden fare: 10
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