Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

· Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet-
But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! Arm! it is-it is-the cannon's opening roar !

Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

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
Blushed 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?

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 thronged 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 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.

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 covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and

pent,

Rider and horse,—friend, foe, in one red burial blent !

W. Edmondstoune Aytoun.

Born 1813.

THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE.*

SOUND the fife, and cry the slogan—
Let the pribroch shake the air.
With its wild triumphal music,
Worthy of the freight we bear.
Let the ancient hills of Scotland

Hear once more the battle-song
Swell within their glens and valleys
As the clansmen march along!
Never from the field of combat,
Never from the deadly fray,

Was a nobler trophy carried

Than we bring with us to-day-
Never, since the valiant Douglas
On his dauntless bosom bore
Good King Robert's heart-the priceless-
To our dear Redeemer's shore !

Lo! we bring with us the hero

Lo! we bring the conquering Græme,
Crowned as best beseems a victor

From the altar of his fame;

* John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, was killed

at the battle of Killiecrankie in Scotland.

Fresh and bleeding from the battle
Whence his spirit took its flight,
Midst the crashing charge of squadrons,
And the thunder of the fight!
Strike, I say, the notes of triumph,
As we march o'er moor and lea!

Is there any here will venture

To bewail our dead Dundee ? Let the widows of the traitors Weep until their eyes are dim! Wail ye may full well for Scotland— Let none dare to mourn for him! See above his glorious body

Lies the royal banner's fold— See! his valiant blood is mingled

With its crimson and its goldSee how calm he looks, and stately, Like a warrior on his shield, Waiting till the flush of morning Breaks along the battle-field! See-Oh never more, my comrades, Shall we see that falcon eye Redden with its inward lightning, As the hour of fight drew nigh! Never shall we hear the voice that Clearer than the trumpet's call, Bade us strike for King and Country, Bade us win the field, or fall!