Our numbers, thinn'd, our godlike warriors dead,
Pale CALEDONIA hangs her fickly head;
We must be wife, be frugal of our store,
Add art to arms, and caution to our pow'r.
Beneath the fable mantle of the night,
Rush on the foe, and, latent, urge the fight.
Conduct with few may foil this mighty pow'r,
And DENMARK fhun th' inhospitable shore."
The fenior fpoke: a gen'ral voice approves;
To arm his kindred-bands each chief removes.
Night from the east the droufy world invades,
And clothes the warriors in her dusky fhades:
The vaffal-throng advance, a manly cloud,
And with their fable ranks the chieftains shroud.
Each chief, now here, now there, in armour shines,
Waves thro' the ranks, and draws the lengthen'd
lines.
Thus, on a night when rattling tempefts war, Thro' broken clouds appears a blazing star ; Now veils its head, now rushes on the fight, And shoots a livid horror thro' the night.
The full form'd columns, in the midnight hour, Begin their filent journey tow'rds the fhore:
Thro' ev'ry rank the chiefs inciting roam,
And rouzing whispers hifs along the gloom.
A rifing hill, whose night-invelop'd brow
Hung o'er th' incamped fquadrons of the foe,
Shoots to the deep its ooze immantled arm,
And, steadfast, struggles with the raging storm;
Here ends the moving host its winding road :
And here condenfes, like a fable cloud,
Which long was gath'ring on the mountain's brow,
Then broke in thunder on the vales below.
Again the chiefs, in midnight council met, Before the king maintain the calm debate : This waits the equal conteft of the day, That rushes, headlong, to the nightly fray.
At length young ALPIN ftood, and thus begun, "Great king, fupporter of our antient throne ! Brought up in mountains, and from councils far, I am a novice in the art of war;
Yet hear this thought....Within the womb of night,
Confirm the troops, and arm the youth for fight;
While foftly-treading to yon' camp I go,
And mark the difpofition of the foe:
Or, wakeful, arm they for the dismal fight,
Or, wrapt within the lethargy of night,
Are left abandon'd to our SCOTTISH fword,
By fleep's foft hand, in fatal chains fecur'd.
If DENMARK sleeps in night's infolding arms,
Expect your spy to point out latent storms;
But, they. in arms, too long delay'd my speed,
Then place the faithful scout among the dead."
A gen'ral voice th' exploring thought approves, And ev'ry with with youthful ALPIN moves,
The Hero flides along the gloom of night,
The camp-fires fend afar their gleaming light;
Athwart his fide the trufty fabre flies,
The various plaid hangs, plaited, down his thighs :
The crested helm waves, awful, on his head;
His manly trunk the mail and corflet fhade:
The pond'rous fpear fupports his dusky way;
The waving fteel reflects the ftellar way,
Arriv'd, the dauntless youth folemnly flow,
Obfervant, mov'd along the filent foe.
Some 'brac'd in arms the midnight vigil keep,
Some o'er the livid camp-fires nod to fleep:
The feeding courfer to the stake is bound,
The proftrate horseman stretch'd along the ground:
Extended here the brawny footman lay,
And, dofing, wore the lazy night away.
The watchman there, by fleep's foft hand o'er
Starts at the blaft, and half unfheaths his fword. Th' exploring youth, thro' night's involving cloud; Circling the foe, their difpofition view'd.
At length the Hero's dufky journey ends,
Where HACO feafted with his Danish friends;:
HACO, by more than SUENO's blood, was great
The promis'd monarch of the triple state.
The Scandinavian camp the youth fecur'd
With watchful troops, and not unfaithful sword.
Two oaks, from earth by headlong tempefts torn,
Supply the fire, and in the circle burn;
Around with focial talk the feaft they fhare,
And drown in bowls the CALEDONIAN war :
O'erpower'd, at length, by flumber's filken hand;
They prefs the beach, and cow'r upon the ftrand.
A gallant deed the Mountain-youth defign'd,
And nurs'd a growing action in his mind.
Awful the chief advanc'd: his armour bright.
Reflects the fire and fhines along the night..
Hov'ring he stood above the fleeping band,
And fhone, an awful column, o'er the ftrand.
Thus, often to the midnight traveller,
The stalking figures of the dead appear:
Silent the spectre tow'rs before the fight,
And fhines, an awful image, thro' the night.
At length the giant phantom hovers o'er
Some grave unhallow'd, stain'd with murder'd gore.
Thus ALPIN ftood: He exiles to the dead
Six warrior-youths; the trembling remnant fled;
Young HACO ftarts, unsheaths his fhining fword,
And views his friends in iron-chains fecur'd.
He rushes, headlong, on the daring foe;
The godlike ALPIN renders blow for blow.
Their clatt'ring fwords on either armour fell;
Fire flashes round, as fteel contends with steel.
Young ALPIN'S fword on Haco's helmet broke,
And to the ground the stagg'ring warrior took.
Leaning on his broad fhield the hero bends;
ALPIN, aloft in air, his sword tuspends:
His arm up-rais'd, he downward bends his brow,
But fcorn'd to take advantage of the foe.
Young HACO from his hand the weapon threw, And from his flaming breast thefe accents drew. "Bravest of men! who cou'd thro' night come Who durft attack, and foil an hoft alone.
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