But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is--it is-the cannon's opening roar !
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain: he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,

And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago,
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: Who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,

Since, upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise!
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war:
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum,
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star:

While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb,

Or whispering, with white lips "The foe! they come! they come!" And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose !

(The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills

Have heard and heard, too, have her Saxon foes!)
-How, in the noon of night, that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring, which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years:

And Evan's, Donald's fame, rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops; as they pass,

Grieving-if aught inanimate e'er grieves

Over the unreturning brave;-alas!

Ere evening, to be trodden, like the grass

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure; when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!

Last noon, beheld them full of lusty life;

Last eve, in Beauty's circle proudly gay;

The midnight, brought the signal sound of strife,

The morn, the marshalling in arms,-the day,
Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it: which when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay

Which her own clay shall cover-heaped and pent;
Rider and horse,--friend, foe.--in one red burial blent!

LXV. THE LADY OF PROVENCE.-Mrs. Hemans.

THE war-note of the Saracen

Was on the winds of France;

It had stilled the harp of the troubadour,
And the clash of the tourney's lance.

The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night,
And the hollow echoes of charge and flight,
Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray
In a chapel where the mighty lay,

On the old Provençal shore:

Many a Chatillon beneath,

Unstirred by the ringing trumpets' breath,
His shroud of armour wore.

But meekly the voice of the Lady rose
Through the trophies of their proud repose;
And her fragile frame, at every blast
That full of the savage war-horn passed,
Trembling, as trembles a bird's quick heart
When it vainly strives from its cage to part,
So knelt she in her woe;

A weeper alone with the tearless dead!
-Oh, they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shed,
Or the dust had stirred below!

Hark! a swift step: she hath caught its tone
Through the dash of the sea, through the wild wind's moan.
Is her lord returned with his conquering bands?
-No! a breathless vassal before her stands !

"Hast thou been on the field? art thou come from the host?'
"From the slaughter, Lady! all, all is lost!
Our banners are taken-our knights laid low-
Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe-
And thy lord"-his voice took a sadder sound-
Thy lord-he is not on the bloody ground!
There are those who tell that the leader's plume
Was seen on the flight. through the gathering gloom !"

66

A change o'er her mien and spirit passed:
She ruled the heart which had beat so fast;
She dashed the tears from her kindling eye,
With a glance as of sudden royalty.

"Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious dead,
And fear not to say that their son hath fled ?

Away!- he is lying by lance and shield:

Point me the path to his battle field !"

Silently, with lips compressed,

Pale hands clasped above her breast,

Stately brow of anguish high,
Deathlike cheek, but dauntless eye;-
Silently, o'er that red plain,

Moved the Lady, 'midst the slain.

She searched into many an unclosed eye,
That looked without soul to the starry sky;
She bowed down o'er many a shattered breast,
She lifted up helmet and cloven crest-
Not there, not there he lay!

"Lead where the most has been dared and done; Where the heart of the battle hath bled;-Lead on!" And the vassal took the way.

He turned to a dark and lonely tree
That waved o'er a fountain red;
Oh, swiftest there had the current free
From noble veins been shed!
Thickest there the spear-heads gleamed,
And the scattered plumage streamed,
And the broken shields were tossed,
And the shivered lances crossed-

HE WAS THERE! the leader amidst his band,
Where the faithful had made their last vain stand;
With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasped,
And his country's flag to his bosom clasped!
-She quelled in her soul the deep floods of woe,-
The time was not yet for their waves to flow;
And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair,
As she turned to her followers "Your lord is there!
Look on him! know him by scarf and crest!
Bear him away with his sires to rest!"

There is no plumed bead o'er the bier to bend—
No brother of battle-no princely friend :-
By the red fountain the valiant lie-
The flower of Provençal chivalry.

But one free step, and one lofty heart,

Bear through that scene, to the last, their part.

I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong!
My soul hath risen for thy glory strong!

Now call me hence by thy side to be:
The world thou leav'st has no place for me.
Give me my home on thy noble heart!
Well have we loved-let us both depart!"
And pale on the breast of the dead she lay,
The living cheek to the cheek of clay.
The living cheek! oh, it was not in vain
That strife of the spirit, to rend its chain!--
She is there, at rest, in her place of pride!
In death, how queen-like a glorious bride!
From the long heart-withering early gone:
She hath lived-she hath loved her task is done!

LXVI. MARCO BOZZARIS.-Halleck.
AT midnight, in his guarded tent.
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power;

In dreams, through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams, his song of triumph heard-
Then, wore that monarch's signet ring-

Then, pressed that monarch's throne--a King!-
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird!

At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
True, as the steel of their tried blades,-
Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persians' thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platea's day;

And now these breathed that haunted air-
The sons of sires who conquered there-
With arm to strike and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they!

An hour passed on:--the Turk awoke ;-
That bright dream was his last ;-

He woke to hear his sentries shriek,

To arms they come !--the Greek! the Greek!"

He woke to die, 'midst flame, and smoke,

And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast,
Like forest-pines before the blast,
Or lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band;

"Strike-till the last armed foe expires,
Strike for your altars and your fires,
Strike for the green graves of your sires,
Heaven--and your native land!"

They fought like brave men, long and well,
They piled that ground with Moslem slain,
They conquered-but Bozzaris fell

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,
And the red field was won;

Then saw in death his eyelids close,
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels

For the first time her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals

Which close the pestilence are broke.
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come, in Consumption's ghastly form,
The Earthquake-shock, the Ocean-storm;
Come, when the heart beats high and warm
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine,-
And thou art terrible!--the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony, are thine!

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions, yet to be!
Come, when his task of fame is wrought;
Come, with the laurel-leaf, blood-bought;
Come, in the crowning hour; and then,
Thy sunken eyes' unearthly light
To him is welcome, as the sight

Of sky and stars to prisoned men ;
Thy grasp is welcome, as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome, as the cry
Which told the Indian isles were nigh
To the world-seeking Genoese,

When the land-wind, from woods of palm,
And orange groves, and fields of balm,
Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

Bozzaris! she who gave thee birth,
Will, by the pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom, without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's;
One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.

LXVII.

HYMN ON MODERN GREECE.-Byron.

THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece !
Where burning Sappho loved and sung;
Where grew the arts of war and peace;
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ;-
Eternal summer gilds them yet-
But all, except their sun, is set!

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,

Have found the fame your shores refuse.-
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds, which echo farther west
Than your sires' Islands of the bless'd."