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And Harold stands upon this place of skulls,
He wears the shattered links of the world's broken chain.
Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit
And foam in fetters; but is Earth more free?
Did nations combat to make One submit;
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? What! shall reviving Thraldom again be The patched-up idol of enlightened days? Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze And servile knees to thrones? No; prove before ye praise!
If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more! In vain fair cheeks were furrowed with hot tears For Europe's flowers long rooted up before The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, Have all been borne, and broken by the accord Of roused-up millions: all that most endears Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword Such as Harmodius 2 drew on Athens' tyrant lord.
There was a sound of revelry by night,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet But, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; clearer, deadlier than before!
And nearer, Arm! Arm! it is-it is-the cannon's opening roar!
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rush'd 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 Blush'd 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 nights so sweet such awful morn could rise?
Aud there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
"The foc! 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 ands 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 4 Evan's, 5 Donald's fame rings in each clans
And Ardennes 6 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
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