Names in the prayer of that night were spoken,
Whose claim unto kindred prayer was broken;
And the fire was heap'd, and the bright wine pour'd
For those, now needing nor hearth nor board,
Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell,
And oh! ye beloved of women, farewell !
Silently, with lips compress'd,
Pale hands clasp'd above her breast,
Stately brow of anguish high,
Death-like cheek, but dauntless eye;
Silently o'er that red plain
Mov'd the lady midst the slain.
Sometimes it seem'd as a charging cry,
Or the ringing tramp of a steed came by;
Sometimes a blast of the Paymin horn,
Sudden and shrill from the mountains borne;
And her maidens trembled but on her ear
No meaning fell with those sounds of fear;
They had less of mastery to shake her now,
Than the quivering erewhile of an aspen bough.
She search'd into many an unclosed eye,
That look'd without soul to the starry sky;
She bow'd down o'er many a shatter'd breast,
She lifted up helmet and cloven crest-
Not there, not there he lay!
"Lead where the most hath been dared and done,
Where the heart of the battle hath bled, lead on!"
And the vassal took the way.
She turn'd to a dark and lonely tree
That waved o'er a fountain red:
Oh! swiftest there had the currents free
From noble veins been shed.
Thickest there the spear-heads gleam'd,
And the scatter'd plumage stream'd,
And the broken shields were toss'd,
And the shiver'd lances cross'd,
And the mail-clad sleepers round
Made the harvest of that ground.
He was there! the leader amidst his band,
Where the faithful had made their last vain stand.
He was there! but affection's glance alone
The darkly-changed in that hour had known;
With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasp'd,
And the banner of France to his bosom clasp'd,
And the form that of conflict bore fearful trace,
And the face-O speak not of that dead face,
As it lay to answer love's look no more,
Yet never so proudly lov'd before!
She quell'd in her soul the deep floods of woe,
The time was not yet for their waves to flow;
She felt the full presence, the might night of death,
Yet there came no sob with her struggling breath;
And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair
As she turn'd to his followers" your lord is there,
Look on him! know him by scarf and crest!-
Bear him away with his sires to rest!"
Another day, another night,
And the sailor on the deep
Hears the low chant of a funeral rite
From the lordly chapel sweep.
It comes with a broken and muffled tone,
As if that rite were in terror done;
Yet the song midst the seas hath a thrilling power,
And he knows 'tis a chieftain's burial-hour.
Hurriedly, in fear and woe,
Through the aisle the mourners go;
With a hush'd and stealthy tread,
Bearing on the noble dead;
Sheath'd in armour of the field,
Only his wan face reveal'd,
Whence the still and solemn gleam
Doth a strange sad contrast seem
To the anxious eyes of that pale band,
With torches waving in every hand,
For they dread each moment the shout of war,
And the burst of the Moslem scimitar.
There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend,
No brother of battle, no princely friend:
No sound comes back like the sounds of yore
Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor;
By the red fountain the valiant lie,
The flower of Provencal chivalry;
But one free step, and one lofty heart
Bear through that scene to the last, their part.
She hath led the death-train of the brave
To the verge of his own ancestral grave;
She hath held o'er her spirit long rigid sway,
But the struggling passion must now have way,
In the cheek, half seen through her mourning veil
By turns does the swift blood flush and fail;
The pride on the lips is lingering still,
But it shakes as a flame to the blast might thrill,
Anguish and triumph are met at strife,
Rending the cords of her frail young life;
And she sinks at last on her warrior's bier,
Lifting her voice, as if death might hear-
"I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong,
My soul hath risen for thy glory strong!
Now call me hence, by thy side to be,
The world thou leav'st has no place for me.
The light goes with thee, the joy, the worth-
Faithful and tender! oh! call me forth!
Give me my home on thy noble heart, -
Well have we loved, let us both depart !”
And pale on the breast of the dead she lay,
The living cheek to the cheek of clay;
The living cheek! -oh! it was not vain,
That strife of the spirit to rend its chain:
She is there at rest in her place of pride,
In death how queen-like-a glorious bride!
Joy for the freed one! she might not stay
When the crown had fallen from her life away;
She might not linger-a weary thing,
A dove with no home for its broken wing,
Thrown on the harshness of alien skies,
That knew not its own land's melodies
From the long heart-withering early gone,
She hath lived-she hath loved her task is done.
Battle of Real an Duine.
The Minstrel came once more to view
The eastern ridge of Benvenue,
For ere he parted he would say
Farewell to lovely Loch Achray-
Where shall he find in foreign land,
So lone a lake, so sweet a strand!
There is no breeze upon the fern,
Nor ripple on the lake,
Upon her eyry nods the erne,
The deer has sought the brake;
The small birds will not sing aloud,
The springing trout lies still,
So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud
That swathes as with a purple shroud
Benledi's distant hill.
Is it the thunder's solemn sound
That mutters deep and dread,
Or echoes from the groaning ground
The warriors measured tread?
Is it the lightning's quivering glance
That on the thicket streams,
Or do they flash on spear and lance
The sun's retiring beams?
I see the dagger crest of Mar,
I see the Moray's silver star
Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war,
That up the lake comes winding far!
To hero bound for battle strife,
Or bard of martial lay,
'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life
One glance at their array!
Their light-arm'd archers far and near
Survey'd the tangled ground;
Their centre ranks with pike and spear
A twilight forest frown'd;
Their barb'd horsemen in the rere
The stern battallia crown'd.
No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang,
Still were the fife and drum;
Save heavy tread and armours' 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 vanward scouts no tidings bring,
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