Before him passed the young and fair,

In pleasure's reckless train;

But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair-
He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round,
He heard the minstrel sing;
He saw the tourney's victor crowned
Amidst the knightly ring;

A murmur of the restless deep

Was blent with every strain,

A voice of winds that would not sleep-
He never smiled again!

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace
Of vows once fondly poured,

And strangers took the kinsman's place
At many a joyous board;

Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,
Were left to heaven's bright rain,

Fresh hopes were born for other years—

He never smiled again!

Felicia Dorothea Hemans [1793-1835]

BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN

[JUNE 24, 1314]

Scors, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,

Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;

Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victory!

Now's the day, and now's the hour:

See the front o' battle lour:

See approach proud Edward's power,-

Chains and slavery!

Wha will be a traitor knave?

Wha can fill a coward's grave?

Wha sae base as be a slave?

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!
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!-

Let us do or die!

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

CORONACH

From "The Lady of the Lake"

HE is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.

The font, 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!

Walter Scott [1771-1832]

CRECY

[AUGUST 26, 1346]

AT Crecy by Somme in Ponthieu
High up on a windy hill

A mill stands out like a tower:
King Edward stands on the mill.

The plain is seething below,

As Vesuvius seethes with flame,
But O! not with fire, but gore,

Earth incarnadined o'er,

Crimson with shame and with fame.

To the King run the messengers, crying,
"Thy Son is hard pressed to the dying!"
"Let alone: for to-day will be written in story
To the great world's end and for ever:

So let the boy have the glory."

Erin and Gwalia there

With England are ranked against France; Out-facing the oriflamme red

The red dragons of Merlin advance;

As a harvest in autumn renewed

The lances bend over the fields;
Snow-thick our arrow-heads white
Level the foe as they light;

Knighthood to yeomanry yields:
Proud heart, the King watches, as higher
Goes the blaze of the battle, and nigher:
"To-day is a day will be written in story
To the great world's end, and for ever!
Let the boy alone have the glory."

Harold at Senlac-on-Sea

By Norman arrow laid low,

When the shield-wall was breached by the shaft,

Thou art avenged by the bow!
Chivalry! name of romance!

Thou art henceforth but a name;
Weapon that none can withstand,
Yew in the Englishman's hand,
Flight-shaft unerring in aim!

As a lightning-struck forest the foemen
Shiver down to the stroke of the bowmen;
"O to-day is a day will be written in story
To the great world's end, and for ever!
So, let the boy have the glory."

Pride of Liguria's shore

Genoa wrestles in vain;

Vainly Bohemia's king

King-like is laid with the slain.
The Blood-lake is wiped out in blood,

The shame of the centuries o'er;
Where the pride of the Norman had sway,
The lions lord over the fray,

The legions of France are no more:
The Prince to his father kneels lowly:
"His is the battle-his wholly!

For to-day is a day will be written in story
To the great world's end, and for ever!
So, let him have the spurs and the glory."

Francis Turner Palgrave [1824-1897]

THE PATRIOT'S PASS-WORD

[JULY 9, 1386]

"MAKE way for Liberty!" he cried,
Made way for Liberty, and died.

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,
A living wall, a human wood;

A wall,-where every conscious stone
Seemed to its kindred thousands grown;
A rampart all assaults to bear,

Till time to dust their frames should wear:
A wood,-like that enchanted grove
In which with fiends Rinaldo strove,
Where every silent tree possessed
A spirit prisoned in its breast,

Which the first stroke of coming strife
Might startle into hideous life:

So still, so dense, the Austrians stood,
A living wall, a human wood.
Impregnable their front appears,
All-horrent with projected spears,
Whose polished points before them shine,
From flank to flank, one brilliant line,
Bright as the breakers' splendors run
Along the billows to the sun.

Opposed to these, a hovering band
Contended for their father-land:

Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke

From manly necks the ignoble yoke,
And forged their fetters into swords,

On equal terms to fight their lords,
And what insurgent rage had gained
In many a mortal fray maintained.
Marshalled once more, at Freedom's call,
They came to conquer or to fall,
Where he who conquered, he who fell,
Was deemed a dead, or living, Tell;
Such virtue had that patriot breathed,
So to the soil his soul bequeathed,
That wheresoe'er his arrows flew,
Heroes in his own likeness grew,
And warriors sprang from every sod,
Which his awakening footstep trod.

And now the work of life and death
Hung on the passing of a breath;