Onward the baffled warrior bore
His course-but soon his course was o'er.
High in his stirrups stood the king,
And gave his battle-axe the swing.
Right on De Boune, the whiles he passed,
Fell that stern dint-the first-the last!-
Such strength upon the blow was put,
The helmet crashed like hazel-nut;
The axe-shaft, with its brazen clasp,
Was shivered to the gauntlet grasp.
Springs from the blow the startled horse,
Drops to the plain the lifeless corse!
First of that fatal field, how soon,
How sudden, fell the fierce De Boune!
"OH! tell me, harper, wherefore flow
Thy wayward notes of weal and woe,
Far down the desert of Glencoe,
Where none may list their melody?
Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly,
Or to the dun deer glancing by,
Or to the eagles that from high
Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy?"
"No, not to these for these have rest; The mist-wreath hath the mountain crest, The stag his lair, the erne her nest,
Abode of lone security;
But those for whom I pour the lay,
Not wild-wood deep, nor mountain gray,
Not this deep dell that shrouds from day,
Could screen from treacherous cruelty.
Their flag was furled, and mute their drum;
The very household dogs were dumb,
Unwont to bay at guests that come
In guise of hospitality.
His blithest notes the piper plied,
Her gayest snood the maiden tied,
The dame her distaff flung aside
To tend her kindly housewifery.
The hand that mingled in the meal
At midnight drew the felon's steel,
And gave the host's kind breast to feel
Meed for his hospitality!
The friendly heart which warmed that hand,
At midnight armed it with the brand;
Which bade destruction's flames expand
Their red and fearful blazonry.
Then woman's shriek was heard in vain;
Nor infancy's unpitied plain,
More than the warrior's groan could gain
Respite from ruthless butchery.
The winter-wind that whistled shrill,
The snows that night that choked the rill,
Though wild and pitiless, had still
Far more than Saxon clemency!
Long have my harp's best notes been gone,
Few are its strings and faint their tone:
They can but sound in desert lone
Their gray-haired master's misery. Were each hair a minstrel string, Each chord should imprecations fling, Till startled Scotland loud should sing'Revenge for blood and treachery!'"
CHRISTMAS IN THE OLD TIMES.
HEAP on more wood!-the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We'll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each
age ́has deem'd the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer:
CHRISTMAS IN THE OLD TIMES.
And well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had roll'd,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honour to the holy night:
On Christmas Eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas Eve the Mass was sung:
That only night in all the year
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dress'd with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.
Then open'd wide the baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And Ceremony doff'd his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of "post and pair."
All hail'd, with uncontroll'd delight
And general voice, the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of Salvation down.
The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table's oaken face,
Scrubb'd till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
By old blue-coated serving man;
Then the grim boar's head frown'd on high;
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-coated ranger tell.
How, when, and where the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassail round, in good brown bowls,
Garnish'd with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie:
Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide her savoury goose.
Then came the merry maskers in,
And carols roar'd with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made ;-
But, oh! what maskers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the year.
WHY sitt'st thou by that ruined hall,
Thou aged carle so stern and gray?—
Dost thou its former pride recall,
Or ponder how it passed away
"Knowst thou not me?" the deep voice cried, "So long enjoyed, so oft misused
Alternate, in thy fickle pride,
Desired, neglected, and accused?
"Before my breath, like blazing flax,
Man and his marvels pass away;
And changing empires wane and wax,
Are founded, flourish, and decay.
"Redeem mine hours-the space is brief-
While in my glass the sand-grains shiver,
And measureless thy joy or grief
When Time and thou shalt part for ever!"
On the ocean, that hollows the rocks where yo dwell,
A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell :
Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest,
And they called it "O'Brazil-the Isle of the Blest."
From year unto year, on the ocean's blue rim,
The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim;
The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay,
And it looked like an Eden-away, far away!
A peasant, who heard of the wonderful tale,
In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail;
From Ara, the holy, be turned to the West,
For, though Ara was holy, O'Brazil was blest!
He heard not the voices that called from the shore
He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar:
Home, kindred, and safety he left on that day,
And he sped to O'Brazil-away, far away!
Morn rose on the deep !—and that shadowy Isle
O'er the faint rim of distance reflected its smile :
Noon burned on the wave!-and that shadowy shore
Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before :
Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track,
And to Ara again he looked timidly back:-
Oh! far on the verge of the ocean it lay,
Yet the Isle of the Blest was away, far away!
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