His woodland guide: but words had none to soothe The grief that knew not consolation's name : Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth, He watch'd, beneath its folds, each burst that came Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame ! XXXV. "And I could weep ;"-th' Oneyda chief His descant wildly thus begun : "But that I may not stain with grief The death-song of my father's son, Or bow this head in woe! For by my wrongs, and by my wrath! To-morrow Areouski's breath, (That fires yon heaven with storms of death,) Shall light us to the foe: And we shall share, my Christian boy! The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy! XXXVI. But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Forbid not thee to weep : Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, To see thee, on the battle's eve, Lamenting, take a mournful leave She was the rainbow to thy sight! XXXVII. To-morrow let us do or die! But when the bolt of death is hurl'd, The hand is gone that cropt its flowers: Its echoes, and its empty tread, Would sound like voices from the dead! XXXVIII. Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, A thousand warriors drew the shaft? Ah! there, in desolation cold, The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown, Like me, are death-like old. Then seek we not their camp,-for there The silence dwells of my despair! N XXXIX. But hark, the trump !—to-morrow thou Because I may not stain with grief The death-song of an Indian chief!" LINES WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY IN LONDON, WHEN MET TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH, THE DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT. PLEDGE to the much-loved land that gave us birth! Pledge to the memory of her parted worth! And be it deem'd not wrong that name to give, In festive hours, which prompts the patriot's sigh! Who would not envy such as Moore to live? And died he not as heroes wish to die? Yes, though too soon attaining glory's goal, Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven! How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn For him!-How oft on far Corunna's plain Shall British exiles weep upon his urn! Peace to the mighty dead!—our bosom thanks Triumphant be the thistle still unfurl'd, Dear symbol wild! on Freedom's hills it grows, Where Fingal stemm'd the tyrants of the world, And Roman eagles found unconquer'd foes. Joy to the band this day on Egypt's coast, Joy for the day on red Vimeira's strand, First of Britannia's host her Highland band Is there a son of generous England here Or fervid Erin ?-he with us shall join, To pray that in eternal union dear, The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine! Types of a race who shall th' invader scorn, *The 42d Regiment. |