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That sound the first amid 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 night 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 "Camerons' 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 that 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! BYRON.

THE EVENING CLOUD.

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow,
Long had I watched the glory moving on,

O'er the still radiance of the lake below.

Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow,
Ev'n in its very motion there was rest,
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west:
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of heaven;
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,

And tells to man his glorious destinies.

WILSON.

MOONLIGHT AT SEA.

Ir is the midnight hour: the beauteous sea,

Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses,

While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee,

Far down within the watery sky reposes.

As if the ocean's heart were stirred

With inward life, a sound is heard,

Like that of dreamer murmuring in his sleep;

'Tis partly the billow, and partly the air,

That lies like a garment floating fair

Above the happy deep.

The sea, I ween,

cannot be fanned

By evening freshness from the land,

For the land is far away;

But God hath willed that the sky-borne breeze

In the centre of the loneliest seas

Should ever sport and play.

The mighty Moon she sits above,
Encircled with a zone of love,

A zone of dim and tender light,

That makes her wakeful eye more bright:
She seems to shine with a sunny ray,
And the light looks like a mellowed day!
The gracious mistress of the main
Hath now an undisturbed reign!

And from her silent throne looks down,

As upon children of her own,

On the waves that lend their gentle breast
In gladness for her couch of rest!

WILSON.

THE MARTYR'S FUNERAL HYMN.

BROTHER, thou art gone before,

And thy saintly soul is flown
Where tears are wiped from every eye,

And sorrow is unknown;

From the burden of the flesh,

And from care and fear released,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

The toilsome way thou'st travelled o'er,
And borne the heavy load,

But Christ hath taught thy languid feet
To reach his blest abode;

Thou'rt sleeping now like Lazarus,

Upon his father's breast,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

Sin can never taint thee now,

Nor doubt thy faith assail,

Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ
And the Holy Spirit fail:

And there thou'rt sure to meet the good,
Whom on earth thou lovedst best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

"Earth to earth," and "dust to dust,"
The solemn priest hath said,
So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed:
But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

And when the Lord shall summon us,
Whom thou hast left behind,

May we, untainted by the world,

As sure a welcome find:

May each, like thee, depart in peace,

To be a glorious guest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest,

MILMAN.

THE LAST DAY.

THE chariot! the chariot! Its wheels roll on fire,
As the Lord cometh down in the pomp of his ire;

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