Dilated nostrils, staring eyes,
Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise,
He knows not that his comrade dies,
Nor what is death-but still
His aspect hath expression drear,
Of grief and wonder; mixed with fear.
Like startled children when they hear
Some mystic tale of ill.
But he that bent the fatal bow,
Can well the sum of evil know,
And o'er his favourite bending low,
In speechless grief recline;
Can think he hears the senseless clay,
In unreproachful accents say,
"The hand that took my life away,
Dear master was it thine ?"
"And if it were-the shaft be blessed
Which sure some erring aim addressed,
Since in your service prized, caressed,
I in your service die;
And you may have a fleeter hound,
To match the dun-deers merry bound,
But by your couch will ne'er be found
So true a guard as I.”
And to the last stout Percy rued
The fatal chance, for when he stood
'Gainst fearful odds in deadly feud,
And fell admidst the fray-
E'en with his dying voice he cried,
"Had Keeldar but been at my side,
Your treacherous ambush had been spied-
I had not died to-day !"
Hear what Highland Nora said,
The Earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I,
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valour lost, or won,
I will not wed the Earlie's son.
A maiden's vows, old Callum spoke,
Are lightly made, and lightly broke;
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light,
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen, and brae,
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie's son.
The swan, she said, the lake's clear breast
May barter for the eagle's nest;
The awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;
Our kilted clans, when blood is high
Before their foes, may turn and fly,
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son.
Still in the water-lily's shade,
Her wonted nest the wild swan made,
Ben Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the awe's fierce river,
To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
No highland brogue has turned the heel,
But Nora's heart is lost, and won,
She's wedded to the Earlie's son.
Hunting Song.
Waken lords and ladies gay!
On the mountain dawns the day;
All the jolly chase is here,
With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear!
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling; Merrily, merrily, mingle they
Waken, lords and ladies gay!"
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
The mist has left the mountain grey,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming ;
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay-
"Waken, lords and ladies gay!"
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
To the green-wood haste away;
We can shew you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size;
We can shew the marks he made,
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
You shall see him brought to bay—
"Waken, lords and ladies gay!".
Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them, youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we;
Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk?
Think of this and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay!
From "The Giaour."
He who hath bent him o'er the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fled-
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress-
Before decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,
And marked the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose that's there-
The fixed yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek-
And-but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not now-
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Whose touch thrills with mortality,
And curdles to the gazer's heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these-and these alone-
Some moments-ay, one treacherous hour-
He still might doubt the tyrant's power,
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed
The first-last look by death revealed!
Such is the aspect of this shore :
'Tis Greece-but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start-for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,
That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb-
Expression's last receding ray,
A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of feeling past away!
Spark of that flame-perchance of heavenly birth
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth!
From "Christabel."
The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek:
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
Hush, beating heart of Christabel !
* Shield her well!
She foldeth her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there?
There she sees a damsel bright,
Dressed in a silken robe of white,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone;
The neck that made that made that white robe
Her stately neck and arms were bare;
Her blue-veined feet unsandelled were;
And wildly glittered here and there
The gems entangled in her hair.
I guess 'twas frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as she-
Beautiful exceedingly!
|