Narrative Poems, part 3, Barclay of Ury etc | Page 2

end:"

Quoth the Laird of Ury;
"Is the sinful servant more
Than his
gracious Lord who bore
Bonds and stripes in Jewry?
"Give me joy that in His name
I can bear, with patient frame,
All
these vain ones offer;
While for them He suffereth long,
Shall I
answer wrong with wrong,
Scoffing with the scoffer?
"Happier I, with loss of all,
Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall,
With
few friends to greet me,
Than when reeve and squire were seen,

Riding out from Aberdeen,
With bared heads to meet me.
"When each goodwife, o'er and o'er,
Blessed me as I passed her door;

And the snooded daughter,
Through her casement glancing down,

Smiled on him who bore renown
From red fields of slaughter.
"Hard to feel the stranger's scoff,
Hard the old friend's falling off,

Hard to learn forgiving;
But the Lord His own rewards,
And His
love with theirs accords,
Warm and fresh and living.
"Through this dark and stormy night
Faith beholds a feeble light
Up
the blackness streaking;
Knowing God's own time is best,
In a
patient hope I rest
For the full day-breaking!"
So the Laird of Ury said,
Turning slow his horse's head

Towards
the Tolbooth prison,
Where, through iron gates, he heard
Poor
disciples of the Word
Preach of Christ arisen!

Not in vain, Confessor old,
Unto us the tale is told
Of thy day of
trial;
Every age on him who strays
From its broad and beaten ways

Pours its seven-fold vial.
Happy he whose inward ear
Angel comfortings can hear,
O'er the
rabble's laughter;
And while Hatred's fagots burn,
Glimpses through
the smoke discern
Of the good hereafter.
Knowing this, that never yet
Share of Truth was vainly set
In the
world's wide fallow;
After hands shall sow the seed,
After hands
from hill and mead
Reap the harvests yellow.
Thus, with somewhat of the Seer,
Must the moral pioneer
From the
Future borrow;
Clothe the waste with dreams of grain,
And, on
midnight's sky of rain,
Paint the golden morrow!
THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA.
A letter-writer from Mexico during the Mexican war, when detailing
some of the incidents at the terrible fight of Buena Vista, mentioned
that Mexican women were seen hovering near the field of death, for the
purpose of giving aid and succor to the wounded. One poor woman was
found surrounded by the maimed and suffering of both armies,
ministering to the wants of Americans as well as Mexicans, with
impartial tenderness.
SPEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward
far away,
O'er
the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican
array,
Who is losing?
who is winning? are they far or
come they near?
Look abroad, and
tell us, sister, whither rolls the
storm we hear.
Down the hills of
Angostura still the storm of
battle rolls;
Blood is flowing, men are
dying; God have mercy
on their souls!
"Who is losing? who is
winning?" Over hill
and over plain,
I see but smoke of cannon
clouding through the
mountain rain."

Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena,
look once more.

"Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly
as before,
Bearing
on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman,
foot and horse,
Like
some wild and troubled torrent sweeping
down its mountain course."
Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke
has rolled away;

And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the
ranks of gray.

Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop
of Minon wheels;

There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon
at their heels.
"Jesu, pity I how it thickens I now retreat and
now advance!
Bight
against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's
charging lance!
Down
they go, the brave young riders; horse and
foot together fall;
Like a
ploughshare in the fallow, through them
ploughs the Northern ball."
Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and
frightful on!

Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost,
and who has won?

Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together
fall,
O'er the dying
rush the living: pray, my sisters,
for them all!
"Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting. Blessed
Mother, save my brain!

I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from
heaps of slain.

Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they
fall, and strive to rise;

Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die
before our eyes!
"O my hearts love! O my dear one! lay thy
poor head on my knee;

Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst
thou hear me? canst
thou see?
O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal,
look once
more
On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy!
all is o'er!"
Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one
down to rest;

Let
his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon
his breast;
Let his
dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral
masses said;
To-day, thou
poor bereaved one, the living ask thy
aid.

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young,
a soldier lay,

Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding
slow his life away;

But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt,
She saw the
Northern eagle shining on his pistolbelt.
With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned
away her head;
With
a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon
her dead;
But she
heard the youth's low moaning, and his
struggling breath of pain,

And she raised the cooling water to his parching
lips again.
Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand
and faintly smiled;

Was that pitying face