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See how they wane-the proud files of the Winder

mere!

Howard-ah! woe to thy hopes of the day!

Hear the wide welkin rend,

While the Scots' shouts ascend, 'Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!'

451

ROBERT SURTEES

[1779-1834]

BARTHRAM'S DIRGE

THEY shot him dead on the Nine-Stone rig.
Beside the Headless Cross,

And they left him lying in his blood,
Upon the moor and moss.

They made a bier of the broken bough,
The sauch and the aspen gray,

And they bore him to the Lady Chapel.
And waked him there all day.

A lady came to that lonely bower
And threw her robes aside,
She tore her long yellow hair,
And knelt at Barthram's side.

She bath'd him in the Lady-Well
His wounds so deep and sair,

And she plaited a garland for his breast,
And a garland for his hair.

They rowed him in a lily sheet,

And bare him to his earth,

(And the Grey Friars sung the dead man's mass,

As they passed the Chapel Garth).

They buried him at the midnight,
(When the dew fell cold and still,
When the aspen grey forgot to play,
And the mist clung to the hill).

They dug his grave but a bare foot deep,
By the edge of the Nine-Stone Burn,

And they covered him o'er with the heather-flower,
The moss and the Lady fern.

A Grey Friar staid upon the grave,

And sang till the morning tide,

And a friar shall sing for Barthram's soul,
While Headless Cross shall bide.

452

THOMAS CAMPBELL

[1777-1844]

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM

OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd;
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw

By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw;
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array
Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track:
'Twas Autumn,-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

'Stay-stay with us!-rest!-thou art weary and worn!'—
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;-
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

453

454

TO THE EVENING STAR

STAR that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary labourer free!
If any star shed peace, 'tis Thou
That send'st it from above.
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,

Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard
And songs when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in Heaven
Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven
By absence from the heart.

ODE TO WINTER

Germany, December, 1800

WHEN first the fiery-mantled Sun
His heavenly race began to run,
Round the earth and ocean blue
His children four the Seasons flew :-

First, in green apparel dancing,
The young Spring smiled with angel-grace;
Rosy Summer next advancing,
Rush'd into her sire's embrace-

Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep

Or India's citron-cover'd isles.
More remote, and buxom-brown,

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne; A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone.

But howling Winter fled afar
To hills that prop the polar star;
And loves on deer-borne car to ride
With barren darkness at his side,
Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale,
Round the hall where Runic Odin
Howls his war-song to the gale-
Save when adown the ravaged globe
He travels on his native storm,
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe
And trampling on her faded form;
Till light's returning Lord assume

The shaft that drives him to his northern field,
Of power to pierce his raven plume
And crystal-cover'd shield.

O, sire of storms! whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye
Implores thy dreadful deity-
Archangel! Power of desolation!
Fast descending as thou art,
Say, hath mortal invocation

Spells to touch thy stony heart:

Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruin'd year;

Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear:
To shuddering Want's unmantled bed
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
And gently on the orphan head

Of Innocence descend.

But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!
The sailor on his airy shrouds,

When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,

And spectres walk along the deep.
Milder yet thy snowy breezes

Pour on yonder tented shores,

Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes
Or the dark-brown Danube roars.

O, winds of Winter! list ye there

To many a deep and dying groan?

Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?
Alas! e'en your unhallow'd breath

May spare the victim fallen low;
But Man will ask no truce to death,
No bounds to human woe.

455

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER

A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound
Cries Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound

To row us o'er the ferry!'

'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle.
This dark and stormy water?'

'O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

'And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.

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