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 throng'd 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
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe

grow

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

* Lochiel is the chief of the Cameron clan, and Albyn is the Gælic name for Scotland.

The wood of Soignies, which lay between Brussels and the field of Waterloo, was supposed by Lord Byron to have been a remnant of the forest of Ardennes.

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 cover'd thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent !.

*

Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine ; Yet one I would select from that proud throng, Partly because they blend me with his line, And partly that I did his sire some wrong, And partly that bright names will hallow song; And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along, Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard!

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee,
And mine were nothing, had I such to give;
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree,
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live,
And saw around me the wide field revive
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive,
With all her reckless birds upon the wing,

I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring.

*The sister of Admiral Byron-the poet's grandfather-was the paternal grandmother of Major Howard. His "sire"-the Earl of Carlisle-was Lord Byron's guardian, and had been bitterly satirised by his ward in "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." Major Howard, who was much beloved by his brother officers, fell at the close of the action when the French had given way in all directions.

I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each
And one as all a ghastly gap did make
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake;

The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake
Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake

The fever of vain longing, and the name

Sd honour'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim.

They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn :
The tree will wither long before it fall;

The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn ;
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall

In massy hoariness; the ruin'd wall

Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;
The bars survive the captive they enthral;

The day drags through though storms keep out the sun ; And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.

CHILDE HAROLD.-Canto III.

AMBITIOUS MEN.-THE RHINE.

THEIR breath is agitation, and their life
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last,
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife,
That should their days, surviving perils past,
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast
With sorrow and supineness, and so die;
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.

AMBITIOUS MEN.-
.-THE RHINE.

He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;
He who surpasses or subdues mankind,

Must look down on the hate of those below.
Though high above the sun of glory glow,
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
Contending tempests on his naked head,

And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.

Away with these! true Wisdom's world will be

Within its own creation, or in thine,

Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee,
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine ?
There Harold gazes on a work divine,

A blending of all beauties; streams and dells,
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, vine,
And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells
From grey but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells.

And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind,
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd,
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind,
Or holding dark communion with the cloud.
There was a day when they were young and proud;
Banners on high, and battles pass'd below;

But they who fought are in a bloody shroud,

And those which waved are shredless dust ere now, And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow.

But thou, exulting and abounding river!
Making thy waves a blessing as they flow
Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever
Could man but leave thy bright creation so,

155

Nor its fair promise from the surface mow
With the sharp scythe of conflict,—then to see
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know

Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me, Even now what wants thy stream ?—that it should Lethe be.

CHILDE HAROLD.-Canto III.

TO HIS SISTER FROM THE RHINE.

THE castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine;
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scatter'd cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see
With double joy wert thou with me.

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise;

Above, the frequent feudal towers

Through green leaves lift their walls of grey;
And many a rock which steeply lowers,

And noble arch in proud decay,

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ;

But one thing want these banks of Rhine,-
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!