Narrative and Lyric Poems (first series) for use in the Lower School | Page 9

And never
may our bones be laid our fathers' graves beside. 50 No children have
we to lament, no wives to wail our fall; The traitor's and the spoiler's
hand have reft our hearths of all. But we have hearts, and we have arms,

as strong to will and dare As when our ancient banners flew within the
northern air. Come, brothers! let me name a spell, shall rouse your
souls again, 55 And send the old blood bounding free through pulse
and heart and vein. Call back the days of bygone years,--be young and
strong once more; Think yonder stream, so stark and red, is one we've
cross'd before.
Rise, hill and glen! rise, crag and wood! rise up on either hand,-- Again
upon the Garry's[6] banks, on Scottish soil we stand! 60 Again I see the
tartans[7] wave, again the trumpets ring; Again I hear our leader's call;
'Upon them for the King!' Stay'd we behind that glorious day for
roaring flood or linn?[8] The soul of Graeme is with us still,--now,
brothers, will ye in?" No stay,--no pause. With one accord, they grasp'd
each
other's hand, 65 Then plunged into the angry flood, that bold and
dauntless band. High flew the spray above their heads, yet onward still
they bore, Midst cheer, and shout, and answering yell, and shot, and
cannon-roar,-- "Now, by the Holy Cross! I swear, since earth and sea
began, Was never such a daring deed essay'd by mortal man!" 70
Thick blew the smoke across the stream, and faster flash'd the flame:
The water plash'd in hissing jets as ball and bullet came. Yet onward
push'd the Cavaliers all stern and undismay'd, With thousand armed
foes before, and none behind to aid.
Once, as they near'd the middle
stream, so strong the torrent swept, 75 That scarce that long and living
wall their dangerous footing kept. Then rose a warning cry behind, a
joyous shout before:
"The current's strong,--the way is long,--they'll
never reach
the shore!
See, see! they stagger in the midst, they waver in their line!
Fire on the madmen! break their ranks, and whelm them in the Rhine!"
80
Have you seen the tall trees swaying when the blast is sounding shrill,
And the whirlwind reels in fury down the gorges to the hill? How they
toss their mighty branches, struggling with the

temper's shock;
How they keep their place of vantage, cleaving firmly
to the rock? Even so the Scottish warriors held their own against the
river. 85 Though the water flashed around them, not an eye was seen to
quiver; Though the shot flew sharp and deadly, not a man relax'd his
hold; For their hearts were big and thrilling with the mighty thoughts
of old.
One word was spoken among them, and through the ranks it
spread,-- "Remember our dead Claverhouse!" was all the Captain said.
90 Then, sternly bending forward, they wrestled on a while,
Until
they clear'd the heavy stream, then rush'd toward the isle.
The German heart is stout and true, the German arm is strong; The
German foot goes seldom back where armed foemen throng. But never
bad they faced in field so stern a charge before, 95 And never had they
felt the sweep of Scotland's broad claymore.[9] Not fiercer pours the
avalanche adown the steep incline,
That rises o'er the parent springs
of rough and rapid Rhine,-- Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven,
than came the Scottish band Right up against the guarded trench, and
o'er it, sword in hand. 100 In vain their leaders forward press,--they
meet the deadly brand!
O lonely island of the Rhine,--Where seed was never sown, What
harvest lay upon thy sands, by those strong reapers thrown? What saw
the winter moon that night, as, struggling through the rain, She pour'd a
wan and fitful light on marsh, and stream, and plain? 105 A dreary spot
with corpses strewn, and bayonets glistening round; A broken bridge, a
stranded boat, a bare and batter'd mound; And one huge watch-fire's
kindled pile, that sent its quivering glare To tell the leaders of the host
the conquering Scots were there.
And did they twine the laurel-wreath,[10] for those who fought
so well 110 And did they honour those who liv'd, and weep for those
who fell? What meed of thanks was given to them let aged annals tell.
Why should they bring the laurel-wreath,--why crown the cup with
wine? It was not Frenchmen's blood that flow'd so freely on the
Rhine,-- A stranger band of beggar'd men had done the venturous deed;

115 The glory was to France alone, the danger was their meed, And
what cared they for idle thanks from foreign prince and peer? What
virtue had such honey'd words the exiled heart to cheer? What matter'd
it that men should vaunt, and loud and fondly