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Low the dauntless earl is laid,
Gored with many a gaping wound : Fate demands a nobler head ;
Soon a king shall bite the ground. Long his loss shall Eirin weep,
Ne'er again his likeness see ; Long her strains in sorrow steep,
Strains of immortality! Horror covers all the heath,
Clouds of carnage blot the sun : Sisters, weave the web of death ;
Sisters, cease ; the work is done.
Hail the task, and hail the hands !
Songs of joy and triumph sing ! Joy to the victorious bands ;
Triumph to the younger king.
Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale,
Learn the tenor of our song : Scotland, through each winding vale,
Far and wide the notes prolong.
Sisters, hence with spurs of speed :
Each her thundering falchion wield ; Each bestride her sable steed,
Hurry, hurry to the field !
A PSALM OF LIFE.
What the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist.
TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream !
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest !
And the grave is not its goal ;
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
Finds us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be a hero in the strife !
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !
Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Heart within, and God o'erhead !
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
Footprints on the sands of time ;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Learn to labour and to wait.
THE FATE OF MACGREGOR,
“ MACGREGOR, Macgregor, remember our foemen;
Stern scowled the Macgregor, then silent and sullen,
Macgregor, Macgregor, our scouts have been flying, Three days, round the hills of M‘Nab and Glen-Lyon ; Of riding and running such tidings they bear, We must meet them at home else they'll quickly be here;—”
“The Campbell may come, as his promises bind him, And haughty M‘Nab, with his giants behind him ; This night I am bound to relinquish the fray, And do what it freezes my vitals to say.
Forgive me, dear brother, this horror of mind;
“ Last night, in my chamber, all thoughtful and lone,
“She told me, and turned my chilled heart to a stone,
A parting embrace, in one moment she gave;
“Macgregor, thy fancies are wild as the wind ; The dreams of the night have disordered thy mind, Come, buckle thy panoply-march to the fieldSee, brother, how hacked are thy helmet and shield ! Ay, that was M‘Nab, in the height of his pride, When the lions of Dochart sood firm by his side. This night the proud chief his presumption shall rue ; Rise, brother, these chinks in his heart-blood will glue ; Thy fantasies frightful shall flit on the wing, When loud with thy bugle Glen-Lyon shall ring.”
Like glimpse of the moon through the storm of the night,
Away went Macgregor, but went not alone :
All silent they went, for the time was approaching ;
Few minutes had passed, ere they spied on the stream A skiff sailing light, where a lady did seem ; Her sail was the web of the gossamer's loom, The glow-worm her wakelight, the rainbow her boom; A dim rayless beam was her prow and her mast, Like wold-fire at midnight, that glares on the waste. Though rough was the river with rock and cascade, No torrent, no rock, her velocity stayed ; She wimpled the water to weather and lee, And heaved as if born on the waves of the sea. Mute Nature was roused in the bounds of the glen ; The wild deer of Gairtney abandoned his den,