Black amidst the common whiteness rose the spectral ruins there: But the sight of these was nothing more than wrings the wild dove's breast, When she searches for her offspring round the relics of her nest.

For in many a spot the tartan peered above the wintry heap, Marking where a dead Macdonald lay within his frozen sleep.

Tremblingly we scooped the covering from each kindred victim's head, And the living lips were burning on the cold ones of the dead.

And I left them with their dearest--dearest charge had every one-- Left the maiden with her lover, left the mother with her son.

I alone of all was mateless--far more wretched I than they, For the snow would not discover where my lord and husband lay.

But I wandered up the valley, till I found him lying low, With the gash upon his bosom, and the frown upon his brow-- Till I found him lying murdered where he wooed me long ago.

Woman's weakness shall not shame me--why should I have tears to shed?

Could I rain them down like water, O my hero! on thy head-- Could the cry of lamentation wake thee from thy silent sleep, Could it set thy heart a-throbbing, it were mine to wail and weep!

But I will not waste my sorrow, lest the Campbell women say That the daughters of Clanra.n.a.ld are as weak and frail as they.

I had wept thee, hadst thou fallen, like our fathers, on thy shield, When a host of English foemen camped upon a Scottish field.

I had mourned thee, hadst thou perished with the foremost of his name, When the valiant and the n.o.ble died around the dauntless Graeme!

But I will not wrong thee, husband, with my unavailing cries, Whilst thy cold and mangled body, stricken by the traitor, lies; Whilst he counts the gold and glory that this hideous night has won, And his heart is big with triumph at the murder he has done.

Other eyes than mine shall glisten, other hearts be rent in twain, Ere the heath-bells on thy hillock wither in the autumn rain.

Then I'll seek thee where thou sleepest, and I'll veil my weary head, Praying for a place beside thee, dearer than my bridal-bed: And I'll give thee tears, my husband, if the tears remain to me, When the widows of the foeman cry the coronach for thee!

W. E. Aytoun.

CCXXVI.

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly, at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his false fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- But we left him alone with his glory.

C. Wolfe.

CCXXVII.

THE MANIAC.

Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe!

She is not mad who kneels to thee, For what I'm now, too well I know, And what I was, and what should be.

I'll rave no more in proud despair; My language shall be mild, though sad: But yet I firmly, truly swear, I am not mad, I am not mad.

My tyrant husband forged the tale Which chains me in this dismal cell; My fate unknown my friends bewail-- Oh! jailer, haste that fate to tell; Oh! haste my father's heart to cheer: His heart at once 't will grieve and glad To know though kept a captive here, I am not mad, I am not mad.

He smiles in scorn, and turns the key; He quits the grate; I knelt in vain; His glimmering lamp still, still I see-- 'T is gone! and all is gloom again.

Cold, bitter cold!--No warmth! no light!-- Life, all thy comforts once I had; Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night, Although not mad; no, no, not mad.

'Tis sure some dream--some vision vain!

What! I--the child of rank and wealth,-- Am I the wretch who clanks this chain, Bereft of freedom, friends, and health?

Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled, Which never more my heart must glad, How aches my heart, how burns my head; But 'tis not mad; no, 'tis not mad.

Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, A mother's face, a mother's tongue?

She'll never forget your parting kiss, Nor round her neck how fast you clung; Nor how with her you sued to stay; Nor how that suit your sire forbade; Nor how--I'll drive such thoughts away!

They'll make me mad, they'll make me mad.

His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!

His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone!

None ever bore a lovelier child: And art thou now forever gone?

And must I never see thee more, My pretty, pretty, pretty lad?

I will be free! unbar the door!

I am not mad, I am not mad.

Oh! hark! what mean those yells and cries?

His chain some furious madman breaks; He comes!--I see his glaring eyes; Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes-- Help! help!--He's gone!--Oh! fearful woe, Such screams to hear, such sights to see!

My brain, my brain,--I know, I know, I am not mad, but soon shall be.

Yes, soon; for lo you!--while I speak-- Mark how yon demon's eyeb.a.l.l.s glare!

He sees me; now, with dreadful shriek, He whirls a serpent high in air.

Horror!--the reptile strikes his tooth Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad;-- Ay, laugh, ye fiends;--I feel the truth; Your task is done--I'm mad! I'm mad!

Lewis.

CCXXVIII.

RIENZI TO THE ROMANS.

Friends!

I come not here to talk. Ye know too well The story of our thraldom. We are slaves!

The bright sun rises to his course, and lights A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beam Falls on a slave; not such, as swept along By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads To crimson glory and undying fame,-- But base, ign.o.ble slaves!--slaves to a horde Of petty tyrants, feudal despots; lords, Rich in some dozen paltry villages; Strong in some hundred spearmen; only great In that strange spell--a name! Each hour, dark fraud Or open rapine, or protected murder, Cries out against them. But this very day, An honest man, my neighbor,--there he stands-- Was struck--struck like a dog, by one who wore The badge of Ursini! because, forsooth, He tossed not high his ready cap in air, Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts, At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men, And suffer such dishonor?--men, and wash not The stain away in blood?

Such shames are common.

I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to ye, I had a brother once, a gracious boy, Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look Of Heaven upon his face, which limners give To the beloved disciple. How I loved That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen years, Brother at once and son! He left my side, A summer bloom on his fair cheeks a smile Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour, The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! Rouse, ye slaves!

Have ye brave sons?--Look in the next fierce brawl To see them die! Have ye fair daughters?--Look To see them live, torn from your arms, distained, Dishonored; and, if ye dare call for justice, Be answered by the lash! Yet, this is Rome, That sate on her seven hills, and from her throne Of beauty ruled the world! Yet, we are Romans.

Why in that elder day to be a Roman Was greater than a King! And once again-- Hear me, ye walls that echoed to the tread Of either Brutus!--once again I swear The Eternal City shall be free!

Miss Mitford.

CCXXIX.

THE BELL OF THE "ATLANTIC."

Toll, toll, toll!

Thou bell by billows swung, And, night and day, thy warning words Repeat with mournful tongue!