The frequent clang of courser's hoof,

Where held the cloak'd patrol their course,

And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerving horse;
But there are sounds in Allan's ear

Patrol nor sentinel may hear;
And sights before his eyes aghast
Invisible to them have pass'd,

When down the destined plain
"Twixt Britain and the bands of France,
Wild as marsh-borne meteors glance,
Strange phantoms wheel'd a revel dance,
And doom'd the future slain.-

Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard,

When Scotland's James his march prepared

For Flodden's fatal plain;

Such, when he drew his ruthless sword,

As choosers of the slain, adored

The yet unchristen'd Dane.
An indistinct and phantom band,

They wheel'd their ring-dance hand in hand,
With gesture wild and dread;

The seer, who watch'd them ride the storm,
Saw through their faint and shadowy form
The lightnings flash more red;

And still their ghastly roundelay Was of the coming battle-fray, And of the destined dead.

SONG.

Wheel the wild dance,
While lightnings glance,

And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave

To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.

Our airy feet,

So light and fleet,

They do not bend the rye,

That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave, And swells again in eddying wave,

As each wild gust blows by; But still the corn,

At dawn of morn,

Our fatal steps that bore,

At eve lies waste,

A trampled paste

Of blackening mud and gore.

Wheel the wild dance,

While lightnings glance,

And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave

To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.

Wheel the wild dance,

Brave sons of France!

For you our ring makes room; Make space full wide For martial pride,

For banner, spear, and plume. Approach, draw near,

Proud cuirassier!

Room for the men of steel! Through crest and plate

The broadsword's weight,

Both head and heart shall feel.

Wheel the wild dance,

While lightnings glance,

And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave

To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.

Sons of the spear!

You feel us near,

In many a ghastly dream;

With fancy's eye

Our forms you spy,

And hear our fatal scream."

With clearer sight

Ere falls the night,

Just when to weal or wo

Your disembodied souls take flight
On trembling wing-each startled sprite
Our choir of death shall know.

Wheel the wild dance,
While lightnings glance,

And thunders rattle loud,

And call the brave

To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.

Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers,
Redder rain shall soon be ours-

See, the east grows wan-
Yield we place to sterner game,
Ere deadlier bolts and drearer flame
Shall the welkin's thunders shame;
Elemental rage is tame

To the wrath of man.

At morn, gray Allan's mates with awe
Heard of the vision'd sights he saw,

The legend heard him say:
But the seer's gifted eye was dim,
Deafen'd his car, and stark his limb,
Ere closed that bloody day.

He sleeps far from his highland heath-
But often of the Dance of Death

His comrades tell the tale

On piquet-post, when ebbs the night, And waning watch-fires grow less bright, And dawn is glimmering pale.

FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. ENCHANTRESS, farewell, who so oft has decoy'd me, At the close of the evening, through woodlands to roam,

Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home. Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers wild, speaking

The language alternate of rapture and wo: O! none but some lover, whose heart-strings are breaking,

The pang that I feel at our parting can know.

Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came sorrow,

Or pale disappointment, to darken my way, What voice was like thine, that could sing of to

morrow,

Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day! But when friends drop around us in life's weary

waning,

suage;

Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining,

The languor of pain, and the chillness of age.

'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing,

To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on the plain, And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing, And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain ; As vain those enchantments, O queen of wild numbers,

To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er, And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers. Farewell then! Enchantress! I meet thee no

more.

And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him,

Unhonour'd the pilgrim from life should depart?

When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded,

The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hali;

With 'scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;

In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beaming;

Far adown the lone aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb:

Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and through channel,

Hardships and danger despising for fame,

stature,

And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,

Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.

Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and hame! Enough, now thy story in annals of glory,

Has humbled the pride of France, Holland, and Spain;

No more shalt thou grieve me, no more shalt thou leave me,

I never will part with my Willie again.

WANDERING WILLIE.

ALL joy was bereft me the day that you left me, And climb'd the tall vessel to sail yon wide sea;

O weary betide it! I wander'd beside it,

And bann'd it for parting my Willie and me.

Far o'er the wave hast thou follow'd thy fortune, Oft fought the squadrons of France and of Spain; Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at parting, Now I hae gotten my Willie again.

When the sky it was mirk, and the winds they were wailing,

I sat on the beach wi' the tear in my e'e, And thought o' the bark where my Willie was sailing,

And wish'd that the tempest could a' blaw on me.

Now that thy gallant ship rides at her mooring,
Now that my wanderer's in safety at hame,
Music to me were the wildest winds' roaring,
That e'er o'er Inch-Keith drove the dark ocean
faem.

When the lights they did blaze, and the guns they did rattle,

And blithe was each heart for the great victory, In secret I wept for the dangers of battle,

And thy glory itself was scarce comfort to me.

But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly listen,
Of each bold adventure, and every brave scar,
And, trust me, I'll smile though my e'en they may
glisten;

For sweet after danger's the tale of the war.

And O! how we doubt when there's distance 'tween lovers,

When there's naething to speak to the heart thro' the e'e;

How often the kindest and warmest prove rovers, And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like the sea.

Till, at times, could I help it? I pined and I ponder'd,

If love could change notes like the bird on the

tree

Now I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae wander'd, Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to me.

HUNTING SONG.

WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chase is here,

With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily, mingle they,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size ;
We can show the marks he made,
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
You shall see him brought to bay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we:
Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk:
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.

THE BARD'S INCANTATION.

WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804.

THE forest of Glenmore is drear,

It is all of black pine and the dark oak tree; And the midnight wind to the mountain deer Is whistling the forest lullaby:

Their centre ranks, with pike and spear,

A twilight forest frown'd,
Their barbed horsemen, in the rear,

The stern battalia crown'd.
No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang,
Still were the pipe and drum ;
Save heavy tread, and armour's clang

The sullen march was dumb.

There breathed no wind their crests to shake,

Or wave their flags abroad;

Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake,

That shadow'd o'er their road.
Their va'ward scouts no tidings bring,

Can rouse no lurking foe,

Nor spy a trace of living thing,

Save when they stirr'd the roe;
The host moves like a deep sea wave,
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave,

High swelling, dark, and slow.
The lake is pass'd, and now they gain
A narrow and a broken plain,
Before the Trosach's rugged jaws;
And here the horse and spearmen pause,
While, to explore the dangerous glen,
Dive through the pass the archer men.

XVII.

"At once there rose so wild a yell
Within that dark and narrow dell,
As all the fiends, from heaven that fell,
Had peal'd the banner cry of hell!
Forth from the pass in tumult driven,
Like chaff before the wind of heaven,

The archery appear:

For life! for life! their flight they ply-
And shriek, and shout, and battle cry,
And plaids and bonnets waving high,
And broadswords flashing to the sky,
Are maddening in the rear.
Onward they drive, in dreadful race,

Pursuers and pursued ;

Before that tide of flight and chase,
How shall it keep its rooted place,

The spearmen's twilight wood?

-Down, down,' cried Mar, 'your lances down!
Bear bat both friend and foe!'
Like reeds before the tempest's frown,
That serried grove of lances brown

At once lay levell❜d low;

And closely shouldering side to side,
The bristling ranks the onset bide.-

We'll quell the savage mountaineer,
As their Tinchel cows the game!
They come as fleet as forest deer,

We'll drive them back as tame.'

XVIII.

"Bearing before them, in their course,
The relics of the archer force,
Like wave with crest of sparkling foam,
Right onward did Clan-Alpine come.

* A circle of sportsmen, who, by surrounding a great space, and gradually narrowing, brought immense quantities of deer together, which usually made desperate efforts to break through the Tinchel.

Above the tide, each broadsword bright
Was brandishing like beam of light,

Each targe was dark below;
And with the ocean's mighty swing,
When heaving to the tempest's wing,
They hurl'd them on the foe.
I heard the lance's shivering crash,
As when the whirlwind rends the ash;
I heard the broadsword's deadly clang,
As if a hundred anvils rang!
But Moray wheel'd his rearward rank
Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank-
My banner man, advance!

I see,' he cried, their columns shake.
Now, gallants! for your ladies' sake,
Upon them with the lance!"
The horsemen dash'd among the rout,

As deer break through the broom;
Their steeds are stout, their swords are out,
They soon make lightsome room.
Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne-
Where, where was Roderick then!
One blast upon his bugle horn

Were worth a thousand men.
And refluent through the pass of fear
The battle's tide was pour'd;
Vanish'd the Saxon's struggling spear,
Vanish'd the mountain sword.

As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep,
Receives her roaring linn,

As the dark caverns of the deep

Suck the wild whirlpool in,
So did the deep and darksome pass
Devour the battle's mingled mass;
None linger now upon the plain,
Save those who ne'er shall fight again.

XIX.

"Now westward rolls the battle's din,
That deep and doubling pass within.
-Minstrel, away! the work of fate
Is bearing on its issue wait
Where the rude Trosach's dread defile
Opens on Katrine's lake and isle.
Gray Ben-venue I soon repass'd,
Loch-Katrine lay beneath me cast.
The sun is set ;-the clouds are met,
The lowering scowl of heaven
An inky hue of livid blue

To the deep lake has given;
Strange gusts of wind from mountain glen
Swept o'er the lake, then sunk agen.

I heeded not the eddying surge,

Mine eye but saw the Trosach's gorge,

Mine ear but heard the sullen sound,

Which like an earthquake shook the ground,
And spoke the stern and desperate strife,

That parts not but with parting life,
Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll
The dirge of many a passing soul.
Nearer it comes-the dim wood glen
The martial flood disgorged agen,
But not in mingled tide;
The plaided warriors of the north,
High on the mountain thunder forth,
And overhang its side;

While by the lake below appears
The darkening cloud of Saxon spears.
At weary bay each shatter'd band,
Eyeing their foemen, sternly stand;
Their banners stream like tatter'd sail,
That flings its fragments to the gale;
And broken arms and disarray
Mark'd the fell havoc of the day.

XX.

"Viewing the mountain's ridge askance,
The Saxons stood in sullen trance,
Till Moray pointed with his lance,

And cried- Behold yon isle !-
See! none are left to guard its strand,
But women weak, that wring the hand:
'Tis there of yore the robber band

Their booty wont to pile;
My purse, with bonnet-pieces store,
To him will swim a bowshot o'er,
And loose a shallop from the shore.
Lightly we'll tame the war wolf then,
Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.'-
Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung,
On earth his casque and corslet rung,
He plunged him in the wave:-
All saw the deed-the purpose knew,
And to their clamours Ben-venue

A mingled echo gave:

The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer,
The helpless females scream for fear,
And yells for rage the mountaineer.
'Twas then, as by the outcry riven,
Pour'd down at once the louring heaven;
A whirlwind swept Loch-Katrine's breast,
Her billows rear'd their snowy crest.
Well for the swimmer swell'd they high,
To mar the highland marksman's eye;
For round him shower'd, 'mid rain and hail,
The vengeful arrows of the Gael.
In vain. He nears the isle and lo!
His hand is on a shallop's bow.
-Just then a flash of lightning came,

It tinged the waves and strand with flame;
I mark'd Duncraggan's widow'd dame-

Behind an oak I saw her stand,

A naked dirk gleam'd in her hand:
It darken'd-but amid the moan
Of waves I heard a dying groan ;-
Another flash!-the spearman floats
A weltering corse beside the boats,
And the stern matron o'er him stood,
Her hand and dagger streaming blood.

XXI.

"Revenge! revenge!' the Saxons cried,
The Gael's exulting shout replied.
Despite the elemental rage,
Again they hurried to engage;
But, ere they closed in desperate fight,
Bloody with spurring came a knight,
Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag,
Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag.
Clarion and trumpet by his side
Rung forth a truce-note high and wide;

While, in the monarch's name, afar
An herald's voice forbade the war,
For Bothwell's lord, and Roderick bold,
Were both, he said, in captive hold.”—
But here the lay made sudden stand,
The harp escaped the minstrel's hand!
Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy
How Roderick brook'd his minstrelsy:
At first, the chieftain, to the chime,
With lifted hand, kept feeble time;
That motion ceased-yet feeling strong
Varied his look as changed the song;
At length no more his deafen'd ear
The minstrel melody can hear:

His face grows sharp, his hands are clench'd,
As if some pang his heartstrings wrench'd;
Set are his teeth, his fading eye

Is sternly fix'd on vacancy;

Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew
His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu!
Old Allan-bane look'd on aghast,
While grim and still his spirit pass'd;
But when he saw that life was fled,
He pour'd his wailing o'er the dead.

XXII. LAMENT.

"And art thou cold and lowly laid,
Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid,
Breadalbane's boast, Clan-Alpine's shade!
For thee shall none a requiem say?
-For thee-who loved the minstrel's lay
For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay,
The shelter of her exiled line-
E'en in this prison-house of thine,
I'll wail for Alpine's honour'd pine!
"What groans shall yonder valleys fill!
What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill!
What tears of burning rage shall thrill,
When mourns thy tribe thy battles done,
Thy fall before the race was won,
Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun!
There breathes not clansman of thy line,
But would have given his life for thine.
O wo for Alpine's honour'd pine!

"Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!
The captive thrush may brook the cage,
The prison'd eagle dies for rage.
Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain!
And when its notes awake again,
E'en she, so long beloved in vain,
Shall with my harp her voice combine,
And mix her wo and tears with mine,
To wail Clan-Alpine's honour'd pine."

XXIII.

Ellen, the while, with bursting heart,
Remain'd in lordly bower apart,
Where play'd, with many-colour'd gleams,
Through storied pane, the rising beams.
In vain on gilded roof they fall,
And lighten'd up a tapestried wall,
And for her use a menial train
A rich collation spread in vain.
The banquet proud, the chamber gay,
Scarce drew one curious glance astray;