See how they wane-the proud files of the Winder mere! Howard-ah! woe to thy hopes of the day! Hear the wide welkin rend, While the Scots' shouts ascend, 'Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!' 451 ROBERT SURTEES [1779-1834] BARTHRAM'S DIRGE THEY shot him dead on the Nine-Stone rig, Beside the Headless Cross, And they left him lying in his blood, They made a bier of the broken bough, And they bore him to the Lady Chapel, A lady came to that lonely bower She tore her long yellow hair, And knelt at Barthram's side. She bath'd him in the Lady-Well And she plaited a garland for his breast, They rowed him in a lily sheet, And bare him to his earth, (And the Grey Friars sung the dead man's mass, They buried him at the midnight, They dug his grave but a bare foot deep, And they covered him o'er with the heather-flower, A Grey Friar staid upon the grave, And sang till the morning tide, And a friar shall sing for Barthram's soul, 452 THOMAS CAMPBELL [1777-1844] THE SOLDIER'S DREAM OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, When reposing that night on my pallet of straw By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. Stay-stay with us!-rest!-thou art weary and worn! 453 454 TO THE EVENING STAR STAR that bringest home the bee, That send'st it from above. Come to the luxuriant skies, Star of love's soft interviews, ODE TO WINTER Germany, December, 1800 WHEN first the fiery-mantled Sun His children four the Seasons flew: First, in green apparel dancing, Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep Or India's citron-cover'd isles. The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne; A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone. But howling Winter fled afar The shaft that drives him to his northern field, O, sire of storms! whose savage ear Say, hath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart: Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer, And gently rule the ruin'd year; Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare Of Innocence descend. But chiefly spare, O king of clouds! When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, Pour on yonder tented shores, O, winds of Winter! list ye there To many a deep and dying groan? Or start, ve demons of the midnight air, At shrieks and thunders louder than your own? May spare the victim fallen low; 'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?' 'O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 'And fast before her father's men |