Murdoch of Alpine! prove thy speed,
For ne'er had Alpine's son such need!
With heart of fire, and foot of wind,
The fierce avenger is behind!
Fate judges of the rapid strife—
The forfeit, death--the prize is life!
Thy kindred ambush lies before,
Close couch'd upon the heathery moor;
Them couldst thou reach !--it may not be-
Thine ambush'd kin thou ne'er shalt see,
The fiery Saxon gains on thee!
Resistless speeds the deadly thrust,
As lightning strikes the pine to dust;
With foot and hand Fitz-James must strain
Ere he can win his blade again.
Bent o'er the fall'n, with falcon eye,
He grimly smiled to see him die;
Then slower wended back his way,
Where the poor maiden bleeding lay.
She sate beneath the birchen tree,
Her elbow resting on her knee;
She had withdrawn the fatal shaft,
And gazed on it, and feebly laugh'd;
Her wreath of broom and feathers gray,
Daggled with blood, beside her lay.
The knight to stanch the life-stream tried,----
"Stranger, it is in vain!" she cried.
"This hour of death has given me more
Of reason's power than years before.
For, as these ebbing veins decay,
My frenzied visions fade away.
A helpless injured wretch I die.
And something tells me in thine eye,
That thou wert mine avenger born.
Seest thou this tress ?-Oh! still I've worn
This little tress of yellow hair,
Through danger, frenzy, and despair!
It once was bright and clear as thine,
But blood and tears have dimm'd its shine.
I will not tell thee when 'twas shred,
Nor from what guiltless victim's head-
PARODY ON THE CHARGE AT BALACLAVA.
My brain would turn!—but it shall wave
Like plumage on thy helmet brave,
Till sun and wind shall bleach the stain,
And thou wilt bring it me again.—
I waver still. -O Heav'n! more bright
Let reason beam her parting light!
Oh, by thy knighthood's honour'd sign,
And for thy life preserved by mine,
When thou shalt see a darksome man,
Who boasts him chief of Alpine's clan,
With tartans broad, and shadowy plume,
And hand of blood, and brow of gloom,
Be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong,
And wreak poor Blanche of Devan's wrong!
They watch for thee by pass and fell—
Avoid the path-Farewell!-Farewell!
A kindly heart had brave Fitz-James;
Fast pour'd his eyes at pity's claims;
And now, with mingled grief and ire,
He saw the murder'd maid expire.
(179.) PARODY ON THE CHARGE AT BALACLAVA.
[From The Hornet, by kind permission of the Publishers.]
[Clapham is a fashionable suburban district of London, and the Railway Junction there is considered to be one of the most confusing for passenger and goods traffic. }
Up the steps, down the steps,
All pushing forward,
Every one out of breath,
Rush'd the Six Hundred.
"ALL CHANGE," the porters cry,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs but to ring and cry,
Worrying almost to death
The gallant Six Hundred.
Trains to the right of them,
Trains to the left of them,
Trains right in front of them
Panted and thunder'd.
Storm'd at with porter's yell,
Deafen'd with clanging bell,
Kicking in frantic haste,
Bag, box, and trunk pell mell,
Rush'd the Six Hundred.
Flash'd all the signals bare,
Flash'd all at once in air,
Startling the people there,
While upon every stair,
Swift footsteps thunder'd.
Plunging through steam and smoke
Blinded with dust of coke,
Watching each engine stroke,
Up and down platforms still
Folks ran and blunder'd.
Then they rushed back, but not,
Not the Six Hundred.
Goods trains to right of them,
Excursions to left of them,
Cattle behind them bellow'd and thunder'd
Storm'd at with bell and yell,
Thinking it quite a sell,
Losing their only train,
Taunting their fate in vain,
Down the steps rush'd again,
All that was left of them,
Left of Six Hundred.
Honour the swift and bold,
Cab-drivers young and old,
Long shall the tale be told,
How they with unction Here, there, and everywhere,
Street, warehouse, lane and square,
Four wheels and hansoms tear,
All charging double fare,
Cleared Clapham Junction.
(180) THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL.
["Lord, when saw we thee an hungered, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink? And the King shall answer and say unto them, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."— Mat. xxv. 37, 40.
"Thine eyes shall see the King in his beauty; they shall behold the land that is very far off."-Is: xxxiii. 17.]
"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!"
That is what the Vision said.
In his chamber all alone,
Kneeling on the floor of stone,
Prayed the Monk in deep contrition
For his sins of indecision,
Prayed for greater self-denial
In temptation and in trial;
It was noonday by the dial,
And the Monk was all alone.
Suddenly, as if it lightened,
An unwonted splendour brightened
All within him and without him
In that narrow cell of stone;
And he saw the Blessed Vision
Of our Lord, with light Elysian
Like a vesture wrapped about him,
Like a garment round him thrown.
Not as crucified and slain,
Not in agonies of pain,
Not with bleeding hands and feet,
Did the Monk his Master see;
But as in the village street,
In the house or harvest-field,
Halt and lame and blind he healed,
When he walked in Galilee.
In an attitude imploring,
Hands upon his bosom crossed,
Wondering, worshipping, adoring,
Knelt the Monk in rapture lost.
Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest,
Who am I, that thus thou deignest
To reveal thyself to me?
Who am I, that from the centre
Of thy glory thou shouldst enter
This poor cell, my guest to be?
Then amid his exaltation,
Loud the convent bell appalling,
From its belfry calling, calling,
Rang through court and corridor
With persistent iteration
He had never heard before.
It was now the appointed hour
When alike in shine or shower,
Winter's cold or summer's heat,
To the convent portals came
All the blind and halt and lame,
All the beggars of the street,
For their daily dole of food
Dealt them by the brotherhood;
And their almoner was he
Who upon his bended knee,
Rapt in silent ecstasy
Of divinest self-surrender,
Saw the Vision and the Splendour.
Deep distress and hesitation
Mingled with his adoration;
Should he go, or should he stay?
Should he leave the poor to wait
Hungry at the convent gate,
Till the Vision passed away?
Should he slight his radiant guest,
Slight his visitant celestial,
For a crowd of ragged, bestial
Beggars at the convent gate?
Would the Vision there remain?
Would the Vision come again?
Then a voice within his breast
Whispered, audible and clear,
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