XX. If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more! In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd 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. XXI. There was a sound of revelry by night, Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! XXII. Did ye not hear it ?—No; 'twas but the wind, No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! XXIII. Within a window'd niche of that high hall And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; XXIV. 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? XXV. And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, And near, the beat of the alarming drum XXVI. And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering” rose ! And (4) Evan's, (5) Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! XXVII. And Ardennes (6) waves above them her green leaves, 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. XXVIII. 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 thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red burial blent! XXIX. 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! VOL. II. C |