Slow Seine might hear each lovely note While through the moonless air they float, And sure a melody more sweet Though music's self was wont to meet Nor then, with more delighted ear, Few happy hours poor mortals pass,― '[These lines were written after an evening spent at Saint Cloud with the late Lady Alvanley and her daughters, one of whom was the songstress alluded to in the text.] 3 THE DANCE OF DEATH. L 1 NIGHT and morning were at meeting Cocks had sung their earliest greeting; For no paly beam yet shone On the heights of Mount Saint John; Broad and frequent through the night Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain, Though death should come with day. II. 'Tis at such a tide and hour, Wizard, witch, and fiend, have power, 1 [Originally published in 1815, in the Edinburgh Annual Register, vol. v.] And ghastly forms through mist and shower And then the affrighted prophet's ear Among the sons of men; Apart from Albyn's war-array, Through steel and shot he leads no more, And proud Bennevis hear with awe, III. 'Lone on the outskirts of the host, The weary sentinel held post, And heard, through darkness far aloof, The frequent clang of courser's hoof, Where held the cloak'd patrol their course, And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerving horse; But there are sounds in Allan's ear, When down the destined plain, Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard Such, when he drew his ruthless sword, The yet unchristen'd Dane. They wheel'd their ring-dance hand in hand, The Seer, who watch'd them ride the storm, And still their ghastly roundelay IV. Song. Wheel the wild dance While lightnings glance, [See ante, vol. ii., Marmion, canto v., stanzas 24, 25, 26, and Appendix, Note N, p. 331.] And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. Our airy feet, So light and fleet, They do not bend the rye That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave, And swells again in eddying wave, As each wild gust blows by; But still the corn, At dawn of morn, Our fatal steps that bore, At eve lies waste, A trampled paste Of blackening mud and gore. V. Wheel the wild dance While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. Wheel the wild dance! Brave sons of France, For you our ring makes room; Make space full wide For martial pride, For banner, spear, and plume. Approach, draw near, Proud cuirassier! |