Yet fragments of the lofty strain He sung King Arthur's table round: How courteous Gawaine met the wound, But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise, Was none excelled in Arthur's days For Marke his cowardly uncle's right When fierce Morholde he slew in fight, No art the poison might withstand; No medicine could be found, Till lovely Isolde's lilye hand Had probed the rankling wound. With gentle hand and soothing tongue, And, while she o'er his sick-bed hung, O fatal was the gift, I ween! For, doomed in evil tide, The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen, Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard In fairy tissue wove; Where lords, and knights, and ladies bright, In gay confusion strove. The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale, In all its wonders spread. Brangwain was there, and Segramore, Through many a maze the winning song Till bent at length the listening throng His ancient wounds their scars expand, O where is Isolde's lilye hand, And where her soothing tongue? She comes, she comes !-like flash of flame She comes, she comes !- she only came She saw him die her latest sigh Joined in a kiss his parting breath: The gentlest pair that Britain bare United are in death. There paused the harp; its lingering sound Died slowly on the ear; The silent guests still bent around, For still they seemed to hear. Then woe broke forth in murmurs weak But, half ashamed, the rugged cheek On Leader's stream, and Learmont's tower, Lord Douglas in his lofty tent, When footsteps light, across the bent, He starts, he wakes :-"What, Richard, ho! What venturous wight, at dead of night, Dare step where Douglas lies?" Then forth they rushed: by Leader's tide, A hart and hind pace side by side, As white as snow on Fairnalie. Beneath the moon, with gesture proud, Nor scare they at the gathering crowd, To Learmont's tower a message sped, And Thomas started from his bed, First he woxe pale, and then woxe rea; The elfin harp his neck around, And on the wind, in doleful sound. Then forth he went; yet turned him oft To view his ancient hall; On the gray tower, in lustre soft, The autumn moonbeams fall. And Leader's waves, like silver sheen, "Farewell, my father's ancient tower! "The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power, "To Learmont's name no foot of earth And on thy hospitable hearth The hare shall leave her young. "Adieu! Adieu!" again he cried, The hart and hind approached the place, And there, before Lord Douglas' face, Lord Douglas leaped on his berry-brown steed, But, though he rode with lightning speed, Some said to hill, and some to glen, Their wondrous course had been ; But ne'er in haunts of living men WAR SONG OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS. 577 THE following War-song was written during the apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volunteers, to which it was addressed, was raised in 1797, consisting of gentlemen, mounted and armed at their own expense. It still subsists, as the Right Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, commanded by the Hon. Lieutenant-Colonel Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure of arming freemen in defence of their own rights, was nowhere more successful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3,000 armed and disciplined volunteers, including a regiment of cavalry, from the city and county, and two corps of artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns. To such a force, above all others, might, in similar circumstances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Galgacus: "Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores vestros et posteros sogitate." To horse! to horse! the standard flies, The bugles sound the call; The Gallic navy stems the seas, The voice of battle's on the breeze,- From high Dunedin's towers we come, Our casques the leopard's spoils surround, Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown Their ravished toys though Romans mourn, Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, Dress our pale cheek in timid smile, To hail a master in our isle, Or brook a victor's scorn? No! though destruction o'er the land The sun, that sees our falling day, For gold let Gallia's legions fight, Or plunder's bloody gain; Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, To guard our King, to fence our Law, Nor shall their edge be vain. If ever breath of British gale Or footstep of invader rude, With rapine foul, and red with blood, Pollute our happy shore, Then farewell home! and farewell friends! Adieu each tender tie! Resolved, we mingle in the tide, Where charging squadrons furious ride, To conquer, or to die. To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; MISCELLANEOUS. HEL VELLYN. In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain-heather, How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming; In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall. |