By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Then shook the hills with thunder riven, But redder yet that light shall glow, 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Few, few, shall part where many meet! GLENARA. O HEARD ye yon pibrach sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail? "Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier. Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud; Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud: Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around: They march'd all in silence,-they look'd on the ground. In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor, To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar; "Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn: Why speak ye no word?"-said Glenara the stern. "And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?" So spake the rude chieftain:-no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding a dagger display'd. "I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud, Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, 'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn: "I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, EXILE OF ERIN. THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight rerepairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger, The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and dangerA home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me Never again shall my brothers embrace me? Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? Oh! my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin mavournin-Erin go bragh!* LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, "And by my word! the bonny bird So, though the waves are raging white, * Ireland my darling,-Ireland for ever. |