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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.
“ 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 ;
by my God, and
“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 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 the bounds of the glen ; The wild deer of Gairtney abandoned his den,