He rose strong on his feet,
And strode to his ruined camp below the wood;
He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet; His murderers round him stood.
Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast,
The blood-red snow-peaks chilled to a dazzling white; He turned, and saw the golden circle at last,
Cut by the Eastern height.
"O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun,
I have lived, I praise and adore Thee."
Over the pass the voices one by one
Faded, and the hill slept.
THE LAST HUNT
OH, it's twenty gallant gentlemen Rode out to hunt the deer, With mirth upon the silver horn
And gleam upon the spear;
They galloped through the meadow-grass, They sought the forest's gloom, And loudest rang Sir Morven's laugh,
And lightest tossed his plume.
There's no delight by day or night Like hunting in the morn; So busk ye, gallant gentlemen, And sound the silver horn!
They rode into the dark greenwood By ferny dell and glade,— And now and then upon their cloaks The yellow sunshine played;
They heard the timid forest-birds
Break off amid their glee,
They saw the startled leveret, But not a stag did see.
Wind, wind the horn, on summer morn! Though ne'er a buck appear,
There's health for horse and gentleman A-hunting of the deer!
They panted up Ben Lomond's side Where thick the leafage grew, And when they bent the branches back The sunbeams darted through; Sir Morven in his saddle turned, And to his comrades spake, "Now quiet! we shall find a stag Beside the Brownies' Lake."
Then sound not on the bugle-horn, Bend bush and do not break, Lest ye should start the timid hart A-drinking at the lake.
Now they have reached the Brownies' Lake,A blue eye in the wood,
And on its brink a moment's space
All motionless they stood: When, suddenly, the silence broke
With fifty bowstrings' twang,
And hurtling through the drowsy air Full fifty arrows sang.
Ah, better for those gentlemen, Than horn and slender spear, Were morion and buckler true, A-hunting of the deer.
Not one of that brave company Shall hunt the deer again;
Some fell beside the Brownies' Pool, Some dropped in dell or glen; An arrow pierced Sir Morven's breast, His horse plunged in the lake, And swimming to the farther bank He left a bloody wake.
Ah, what avails the silver horn, And what the slender spear? There's other quarry in the wood Beside the fallow deer!
O'er ridge and hollow sped the horse Besprent with blood and foam, Nor slackened pace until at eve He brought his master home. How tenderly the Lady Ruth The cruel dart withdrew! "False Tirrell shot the bolt," she said, "That my Sir Morven slew!"
Deep in the forest lurks the foe, While gayly shines the morn: Hang up the broken spear, and blow A dirge upon the horn.
William Roscoe Thayer [1859
WHEN André rode to Pont-du-lac, With all his raiders at his back,
Mon Dieu! the tumult in the town!
Scarce clanged the great portcullis down Ere in the sunshine gleamed his spears, And up marched all his musketeers, And far and fast in haste's array Sped men to fight and priests to pray: In every street a barricade
Of aught that lay to hand was made; From every house a man was told, Nor quittance given to young or old: Should youth be spared or age be slack When André rode to Pont-du-lac?
When André rode to Pont-du-lac, With all his ravening reiver-pack, The mid lake was a frozen road Unbending to the cannon's load;
No warmth the sun had as it shone;
The kine were stalled, the birds were gone;
Like wild things seemed the shapes of fur With which was every street astir, And over all the huddling crowd
The thick breath hung-a solid cloud,- Roof, road, and river, all were white; Men moved benumbed by day—by night The boldest durst not bivouac, When André rode to Pont-du-lac.
When André rode to Pont-du-lac, We scarce could stem his swift attack; A halt, a cheer, a bugle-call,— Like wild-cats they were up the wall: But still as each man won the town, We tossed him from the ramparts down; And when at last the stormers quailed, And back the assailants shrank assailed, Like wounded wasps that still could sting, Or tigers that had missed their spring, They would not fly, but turned at bay And fought out all the dying day;- Sweet saints! it was a curious track That André left by Pont-du-lac.
When André rode to Pont-du-lac, Said he, "A troop of girls could sack This huckster town, that hugs its hoard But wists not how to wield a sword." It makes my blood warm now to know How soon Sir Cockerel ceased to crow, And how 'twas my sure dagger-point In André's harness found a joint: For I, who now am old, was young, And strong the thews were, now unstrung, And deadly though our danger then, I would that day were back again; Ay, would to God that day were back When André rode to Pont-du-lac!
THE BALLAD OF FATHER GILLIGAN
THE old priest Peter Gilligan
Was weary night and day;
For half his flock were in their beds,
Or under green sods lay.
Once, while he nodded on a chair,
At the moth-hour of eve,
Another poor man sent for him, And he began to grieve.
“I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,
For people die and die";
And after cried he, "God forgive!
My body spake, not I!”
He knelt, and leaning on the chair
He prayed and fell asleep;
And the moth-hour went from the fields,
And stars began to peep.
They slowly into millions grew,
And leaves shook in the wind;
And God covered the world with shade,
And whispered to mankind.
Upon the time of sparrow chirp
When the moths came once more,
The old priest Peter Gilligan
Stood upright on the floor.
"Mavrone, mavrone! the man has died,
While I slept on the chair";
He roused his horse out of his sleep,
And rode with little care.
He rode now as he never rode,
By rocky lane and fen;
The sick man's wife opened the door:
"Father! you come again!"
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