Chapter 16

Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stooped his brow to lave,-- "Is it the hand of Clare," he said, "Or injured Constance, bathes my head?" Then, as remembrance rose,-- "Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes. Short space, few words, are mine to spare; Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!"-- "Alas!" she said, "the while.-- O, think of your immortal weal! In vain for Constance is your zeal; She--died at Holy Isle."-- Lord Marmion started from the ground, As light as if he felt no wound; Though in the action burst the tide In torrents from his wounded side. "Then it was truth!" he said,--"I knew That the dark presage must be true.-- I would the Fiend, to whom belongs The vengeance due to all her wrongs, Would spare me but a day! For wasting fire, and dying groan, And priests slain on the altar stone, Might bribe him for delay. It may not be!--this dizzy trance,-- Curse on yon base marauder's lance, And doubly cursed my failing brand! A sinful heart makes feeble hand." Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, Supported by the trembling monk.

With fruitless labor, Clara bound, And strove to stanch the gushing wound: The monk, with unavailing cares, Exhausted all the Church's prayers. Ever, he said, that, close and near, A lady's voice was in his ear, And that the priest he could not hear, For that she ever sung, "_In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!_" So the notes rung:-- "Avoid thee, Fiend!--with cruel hand, Shake not the dying sinner's sand!-- O, look, my son, upon yon sign Of the Redeemer's grace divine: O, think on faith and bliss!-- By many a death-bed I have been, And many a sinner's parting seen, But never aught like this."

The war, that for a space did fail, Now trebly thundering swelled the gale, And STANLEY! was the cry:-- A light on Marmion's visage spread, And fired his glazing eye: With dying hand above his head He shook the fragment of his blade, And shouted "Victory!-- Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" Were the last words of Marmion.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

* * * * *

THE BONNETS OF BONNIE DUNDEE.

[About 1688.]

To the lords of convention 'twas Claverhouse spoke, "Ere the king's crown shall fall, there are crowns to be broke; So let each cavalier who loves honor and me Come follow the bonnets of bonnie Dundee!"

_Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can; Come saddle your horses, and call up your men; Come open the Westport and let us gang free, And it's room for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee_!

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat; But the provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let him be, The gude toun is well quit of that deil of Dundee!"

As he rode doun the sanctified bends of the Bow, Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow; But the young plants of grace they looked cowthie and slee, Thinking, Luck to thy bonnet, thou bonnie Dundee!

With sour-featured whigs the Grass-market was thranged, As if half the west had set tryst to be hanged; There was spite in each look, there was fear in each ee, As they watched for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee.

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers; But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free At the toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee.

He spurred to the foot of the proud castle rock, And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke: "Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three, For the love of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee."

The Gordon demands of him which way he goes. "Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose! Your grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, Or that low lies the bonnet of bonnie Dundee.

"There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond Forth; If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the north; There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three Will cry 'Hoigh!' for the bonnet of bonnie Dundee.

"There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide, There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free, At a toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee.

"Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks, Ere I own an usurper I'll couch with the fox; And tremble, false whigs, in the midst of your glee, You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me."

He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on, Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lea Died away the wild war-notes of bonnie Dundee.

_Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can; Come saddle the horses, and call up the men; Come open your doors and let me gae free, For it's up with the bonnets of bonnie Dundee_!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

* * * * *

LIBERTY TREE.

[1775.]

In a chariot of light from the regions of day, The Goddess of Liberty came; Ten thousand celestials directed the way, And hither conducted the dame. A fair budding branch from the gardens above, Where millions with millions agree, She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love, And the plant she named _Liberty Tree_.

The celestial exotic struck deep in the ground, Like a native it flourished and bore; The fame of its fruit drew the nations around, To seek out this peaceable shore. Unmindful of names or distinction they came, For freemen like brothers agree; With one spirit endued, they one friendship pursued, And their temple was _Liberty Tree_.

Beneath this fair tree, like the patriarchs of old, Their bread in contentment they ate, Unvexed with the troubles of silver and gold, The cares of the grand and the great. With timber and tar they Old England supplied, And supported her power on the sea; Her battles they fought, without getting a groat, For the honor of _Liberty Tree_.

But hear, O ye swains, 'tis a tale most profane, How all the tyrannical powers, Kings, Commons, and Lords, are united amain. To cut down this guardian of ours; From the east to the west blow the trumpet to arms, Through the land let the sound of it flee, Let the far and the near, all unite with a cheer, In defence of our _Liberty Tree_.

THOMAS PAINE.

* * * * *

HYMN:

SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONUMENT, APRIL 19, 1836.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, or leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

* * * * *

WARREN'S ADDRESS.[A]

[Footnote A: General Joseph Warren, who fell at the battle of Bunker Hill, June 17, 1775.]

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle-peal! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it,--ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your _homes_ retire? Look behind you!--they're afire! And, before you, see Who have done it! From the vale On they come!--and will ye quail? Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust! Die we may,--and die we must: But, O, where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell?

JOHN PIERPONT.

* * * * *

"THE LONELY BUGLE GRIEVES."

FROM AN "ODE ON THE CELEBRATION OF THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL, JUNE 17, 1825,"

The trump hath blown, And now upon that reeking hill Slaughter rides screaming on the vengeful ball; While with terrific signal shrill, The vultures from their bloody eyries flown, Hang o'er them like a pall. Now deeper roll the maddening drums, And the mingling host like ocean heaves; While from the midst a horrid wailing comes, And high above the fight the lonely bugle grieves!

GRENVILLE MELLEN.

* * * * *

NATHAN HALE.[A]

[Footnote A: Hanged as a spy by the British, in New York City, September 22, 1776.]

To drum-beat and heart-beat A soldier marches by: There is color in his cheek, There is courage in his eye, Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat In a moment he must die.

By starlight and moonlight, He seeks the Briton's camp; He hears the rustling flag, And the armèd sentry's tramp; And the starlight and moonlight His silent wanderings lamp.

With slow tread and still tread, He scans the tented line; And he counts the battery guns By the gaunt and shadowy pine; And his slow tread and still tread Gives no warning sign.

The dark wave, the plumed wave, It meets his eager glance; And it sparkles 'neath the stars, Like the glimmer of a lance-- A dark wave, a plumed wave, On an emerald expanse.

A sharp clang, a steel clang, And terror in the sound! For the sentry, falcon-eyed, In the camp a spy hath found; With a sharp clang, a steel clang, The patriot is bound.

With calm brow, steady brow, He listens to his doom; In his look there is no fear, Nor a shadow-trace of gloom; But with calm brow and steady brow He robes him for the tomb.

In the long night, the still night, He kneels upon the sod; And the brutal guards withhold E'en the solemn Word of God! In the long night, the still night, He walks where Christ hath trod.

'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, He dies upon the tree; And he mourns that he can lose But one life for Liberty; And in the blue morn, the sunny morn, His spirit-wings are free.

But his last words, his message-words, They burn, lest friendly eye Should read how proud and calm A patriot could die, With his last words, his dying words, A soldier's battle-cry.

From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf, From monument and urn, The sad of earth, the glad of heaven, His tragic fate shall learn; And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf The name of HALE shall burn!

FRANCIS MILES FINCH.

* * * * *

SONG OF MARION'S MEN.[A]

[Footnote A: General Francis Marion, of South Carolina, renowned as a daring patriot partisan leader during the Revolutionary War.]

Our band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress-tree; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea; We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear; When, waking to their tents on fire, They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads,-- The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain; 'Tis life to feel the night-wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp-- A moment--and away Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs; Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton Forever from our shore.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

* * * * *

CARMEN BELLICOSUM.

In their ragged regimentals Stood the old Continentals, Yielding not. When the grenadiers were lunging, And like hail fell the plunging Cannon-shot; When the files Of the isles, From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampant Unicorn, And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the drummer, Through the morn!

Then with eyes to the front all, And with guns horizontal, Stood our sires; And the balls whistled deadly, And in streams flashing redly Blazed the fires; As the roar On the shore, Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres Of the plain; And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gun-powder, Cracking amain!

Now like smiths at their forges Worked the red St. George's Cannoneers; And the "villanous saltpetre" Rung a fierce, discordant metre Round their ears; As the swift Storm-drift, With hot sweeping anger, came the horseguards' clangor On our flanks; Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old fashioned fire Through the ranks!

Then the bare-headed colonel Galloped through the white infernal Powder-cloud; And his broad sword was swinging And his brazen throat was ringing Trumpet-loud. Then the blue Bullets flew, And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden Rifle-breath; And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder, Hurling death!

GUY HUMPHREY M'MASTER.

* * * * *

THE DANCE.

[Published soon after the surrender of Cornwallis.]

Cornwallis led a country dance, The like was never seen, sir, Much retrogade and much advance, And all with General Greene, sir.

They rambled up and rambled down, Joined hands, then off they run, sir. Our General Greene to Charlestown, The earl to Wilmington, sir.

Greene in the South then danced a set. And got a mighty name, sir, Cornwallis jigged with young Fayette, But suffered in his fame, sir.

Then down he figured to the shore, Most like a lordly dancer, And on his courtly honor swore He would no more advance, sir.

Quoth he, my guards are weary grown With footing country dances, They never at St. James's shone, At capers, kicks, or prances.

Though men so gallant ne'er were seen, While sauntering on parade, sir, Or wiggling o'er the park's smooth green, Or at a masquerade, sir.

Yet are red heels and long-laced skirts, For stumps and briars meet, sir? Or stand they chance with hunting-shirts, Or hardy veteran feet, sir?

Now housed in York, he challenged all, At minuet or all 'amande, And lessons for a courtly ball His guards by day and night conned.

This challenge known, full soon there came A set who had the bon ton, De Grasse and Rochambeau, whose fame Fut brillant pour un long tems.

And Washington, Columbia's son, Whom every nature taught, sir, That grace which can't by pains be won, Or Plutus's gold be bought, sir.

Now hand in hand they circle round This ever-dancing peer, sir; Their gentle movements soon confound The earl as they draw near, sir.

His music soon forgets to play-- His feet can move no more, sir, And all his bands now curse the day They jiggèd to our shore, sir.

Now Tories all, what can ye say? Come--is not this a griper, That while your hopes are danced away, 'Tis you must pay the piper?

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

MONTEREY.

[Mexico, September 19, 1846.]

We were not many,--we who stood Before the iron sleet that day; Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if but he could Have been with us at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot it hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray, Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed Their dying shouts at Monterey.

And on, still on our column kept, Through walls of flame its withering way; Where fell the dead, the living stept, Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey.

The foe himself recoiled aghast, When striking where he strongest lay, We swooped his flanking batteries past, And, braving full their murderous blast, Stormed home the towers of Monterey.

Our banners on those turrets wave, And there our evening bugles play; Where orange boughs above their grave, Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey.

We are not many,--we who pressed Beside the brave who fell that day; But who of us has not confessed He'd rather share their warrior rest Than not have been at Monterey?

CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.

* * * * *

COMING.

[April, 1861.]

World, art thou 'ware of a storm? Hark to the ominous sound; How the far-off gales their battle form, And the great sea-swells feel ground!

It comes, the Typhoon of Death-- Nearer and nearer it comes! The horizon thunder of cannon-breath And the roar of angry drums!

Hurtle, Terror sublime! Swoop o'er the Land to-day-- So the mist of wrong and crime, The breath of our Evil Time Be swept, as by fire, away!

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

* * * * *

IN STATE.

I.

O keeper of the Sacred Key, And the Great Seal of Destiny. Whose eye is the blue canopy. Look down upon the warring world, and tell us what the end will be.

"Lo, through the wintry atmosphere. On the white bosom of the sphere, A cluster of five lakes appear; And all the land looks like a couch, or warrior's shield, or sheeted bier.

"And on that vast and hollow field, With both lips closed and both eyes sealed, A mighty Figure is revealed,-- Stretched at full length, and stiff and stark, as in the hollow of a shield.

"The winds have tied the drifted snow Around the face and chin; and lo, The sceptred Giants come and go, And shake their shadowy crowns and say: 'We always feared it would be so!'

"She came of an heroic race: A giant's strength, a maiden's grace, Like two in one seem to embrace, And match, and bend, and thorough-blend, in her colossal form and face.

"Where can her dazzling falchion be? One hand is fallen in the sea; The Gulf Stream drifts it far and free; And in that hand her shining brand gleams from the depths resplendently.

"And by the other, in its rest, The starry banner of the West Is clasped forever to her breast; And of her silver helmet, lo, a soaring eagle is the crest.

"And on her brow, a softened light, As of a star concealed from sight By some thin veil of fleecy white, Or of the rising moon behind the raining vapors of the night.

"The Sisterhood that was so sweet, The Starry System sphered complete, Which the mazed Orient used to greet, The Four-and-Thirty fallen Stars glimmer and glitter at her feet.

"And over her,--and over all. For panoply and coronal,-- The mighty Immemorial, And everlasting Canopy and Starry Arch and Shield of All.

II.

"Three cold, bright moons have marched and wheeled; And the white cerement that revealed A Figure stretched upon a Shield, Is turned to verdure; and the Land is now one mighty battle-field.

"And lo, the children which she bred, And more than all else cherished, To make them true in heart and head, Stand face to face, as mortal foes, with their swords crossed above the dead.

"Each hath a mighty stroke and stride: One true,--the more that he is tried; The other dark and evil-eyed;-- And by the hand of one of them, his own dear mother surely died!

"A stealthy step, a gleam of hell,-- It is the simple truth to tell,-- The Son stabbed and the Mother fell: And so she lies, all mute and pale, and pure and irreproachable!

"And then the battle-trumpet blew; And the true brother sprang and drew His blade to smite the traitor through; And so they clashed above the bier, and the Night sweated bloody dew.

"And all their children, far and wide, That are so greatly multiplied, Rise up in frenzy and divide; And choosing, each whom he will serve, unsheathe the sword and take their side.

"And in the low sun's bloodshot rays, Portentous of the coming days, The Two great Oceans blush and blaze, With the emergent continent between them, wrapt in crimson haze.

"Now whichsoever stand or fall, As God is great, and man is small, The Truth shall triumph over all: Forever and forevermore, the Truth shall triumph over all!

III.

"I see the champion sword-strokes flash; I see them fall and hear them clash; I hear the murderous engines crash; I see a brother stoop to loose a foeman-brother's bloody sash.

"I see the torn and mangled corse, The dead and dying heaped in scores, The headless rider by his horse, The wounded captive bayoneted through and through without remorse.

"I hear the dying sufferer cry, With his crushed face turned to the sky, I see him crawl in agony To the foul pool, and bow his head into bloody slime, and die.

"I see the assassin crouch and fire, I see his victim fall,--expire; I see the murderer creeping nigher To strip the dead. He turns the head,--the face! The son beholds his sire!

"I hear the curses and the thanks; I see the mad charge on the flanks, The rents, the gaps, the broken ranks, The vanquished squadrons driven headlong down the river's bridgeless banks.

"I see the death-gripe on the plain, The grappling monsters on the main, The tens of thousands that are slain, And all the speechless suffering and agony of heart and brain.

"I see the dark and bloody spots, The crowded rooms and crowded cots, The bleaching bones, the battle blots,-- And writ on many a nameless grave, a legend of forget-me-nots.

"I see the gorgèd prison-den, The dead line and the pent-up pen, The thousands quartered in the fen, The living-deaths of skin and bone that were the goodly shapes of men.

"And still the bloody Dew must fall! And His great Darkness with the Pall Of His dread Judgment cover all, Till the Dead Nation rise Transformed by Truth to triumph over all!"

"And Last--and Last I see--The Dead." Thus saith the Keeper of the Key, And the Great Seal of Destiny, Whose eye is the blue canopy, And leaves the Pall of His great Darkness over all the Land and Sea.

FORCEYTHE WILLSON.

* * * * *

BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE.