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And I have 'oved thee, Ocean! and my joy
XXVI. THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
THERE was a sound of revelry by night:
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
But hush! hark! A deep sound strikes like a rising knell !'
Did ye not hear it ?—No: 'twas but the wind,
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
Arm! arm! it is—it is the cannon's opening roar !
Within a window'd niche of that high hall
And when they smil'd because he deem'd it near,
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
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, Rous'd up the soldier ere the morning star: While throng'd the citizens, with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips-" The foe! they come ! they
And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose ! (The war-note of Lochiel, which Albin'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 which 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,
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;
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,
XXVII.-ON THE PLAIN OF MARATHON.
WHERE'ER we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground! No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould! But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, Till the sense aches with gazing to behold The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon: Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold, Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone: Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
The sun-the soil-but not the slave the same-
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, As on the morn to distant glory dear, When Marathon became a magic word— Which utter'd-to the hearer's eye appear The camp-the host-the fight-the conqueror's career!
The flying Mede-his shaftless broken bow!
The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around!
Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past,
The parted bosom clings to wonted home, If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth; He that is lonely, hither let him roam, And gaze complacent on congenial earth. Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth! But he whom sadness sootheth may abide, And scarce regret the region of his birth, When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died.
XXVIII.—THE DYING GLADIATOR.
I SEE before me the gladiator lie: He leans upon his hand,—his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his droop'd head sinks gradually low; And through his side the last drops ebbing slow From the red gash, fell heavy one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower, and now The arena swims around him :-he is gone, Ere ceas'd th'inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won.
He heard it, but he heeded not-his
XXIX. THE ARAB MAID'S SONG.
FLY to the desert, fly with me!
Our rocks are rough-but, smiling there,
Our sands are bare-but down their slope
As gracefully and gaily springs,
As o'er the marble courts of kings!