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4. Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
Which ne'er might be repeated : who could guess
5. And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar, And near the beat of the alarming drum, Roused
up the soldier, ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb, Or whispered with white lips, “ The foel they come l they
6. And wild and high the “ Cameron's gathering” rose !
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albin's hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes :
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years ; And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears !
7. And Ardennes waves above them her
green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving - if aught inanimate e'er grieves —
Over the unreturning brave, — alas !
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when the fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.
8. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life;
Last eve, in Beauty's circle proudly gay:
The morn, the marshalling in arms,
Battle's magnificently-stern array !
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Reflections at Midnight.-DR. YOUNG.
The bell strikes One. We take no note of time
How poor, how rich, how abject, how august,
How complicate, how wonderful, is man!
'Tis past conjecture; all things rise in proof:
Even silent night proclaims eternal day !
Why, then, their loss deplore, that are not lost ?
They live! they greatly live a life on earth
The Graves of the Patriots.—PERCIVAL.
Here rest the great and good — here they repose
No statue nor inscription to reveal
10 Their greatness. It is round them; and the joy With which their children tread the hallowed ground That holds their venerated bones, the peace That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth That clothes the land they rescued, — these, though mute, As feeling ever is when deepest, — these
16 Are monuments more lasting than the fanes Reared to the kings and demigods of old.
Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade Over their lowly graves; beneath their boughs
20 There is a solemn darkness, even at noon, Suited to such as visit at the shrine Of serious liberty. No factious voice Called them into the field of generous fame, But the pure, consecrated love of home.
25 No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakes In all its greatness. It has told itself To the astonished gaze of awe-struck kings, At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here, Where first our patriots sent the invader back,
30 Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be all To tell us where they fought, and where they lie. Their feelings were all nature, and they need No art to make them known. They live in us, While are like them, simple, hardy, bold,
35 Worshipping nothing but our own pure hearts, And the one universal Lord. They need No column, pointing to the heaven they sought, To tell us of their home. The heart itself, Left to its own free purpose, hastens there,
40 And there alone reposes. Let these elms Bend their protecting shadow o'er their graves, And build with their green roof the only fane, Where we may gather on the hallowed day,