WILFRID has fallen-but o'er him stood Young Redmond, soiled with smoke and blood. Cheering his mates, with heart and hand Still to make good their desperate stand, "Up, comrades, up! in Rokeby halls Ne'er be it said our courage falls.- What faint ye for their savage cry, Or do the smoke-wreaths daunt your eye These rafters have returned a shout As loud at Rokeby's wassail rout; As thick a smoke these hearths have given At Hallowtide or Christmas even.
Stand to it yet! renew the fight,
For Rokeby and Matilda's right!
These slaves! they dare not, hand to hand, Bide buffet from a true man's brand.
That we are made of stuff so flat and dull,
That we can let our beard be shook with danger
That waiting; though it seems so safe to fight Behind high walls, and hurl down foes into Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes Strewed to receive them, still I like it not- My soul seems lukewarm; but when I set on them Though they were piled on mountains, I would
A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood! Let me then charge!
No, there is a necessity in fate,
Why still the brave bold man is fortunate;
He keeps his object ever full in sight,
And that assurance holds him firm and right; True, 'tis a narrow way that leads to bliss, But right before there is no precipice;
Fear makes men look aside, and so their footing
'They come like sacrifices in their turn, And to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war, All hot and bleeding will we offer them: The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit, Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire, To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh,
And yet not ours:- :-Come, let me take my horse, Which is to bear me, like a thunder-bolt, Against the bosom of the prince of Wales:
Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse,
Meet, and ne'er part, till one drop down a corse.
What, though the field be lost,
All is not lost; th' ungovernable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield, And what is else not to be overcome; That glory never shall his wrath or might Extort from me.
FITZ-JAMES IN THE PASS OF THE TROSACHS.
"HAVE, then, thy wish!"-he whistled shrill, And he was answered from the hill;
Wild as the scream of the curlew,
From crag to crag the signal flew.
Instant, through copse and heath, arose Bonnets and spears and bended bows; On right, on left, above, below, Sprung up at once the lurking foe; From shingles gray their lances start, The bracken bush sends forth the dart, 'The rushes and the willow-wand Are bristling into axe and brand, And every tuft of broom gives life To plaided warrior armed for strife. That whistle garrisoned the glen At once with full five hundred men, As if the yawning hill to heaven A subterranean host had given. Watching their leader's beck and will, All silent there they stood and still.
Like the loose crags whose threatening mass Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass,
As it an infant's touch could urge Their headlong passage down the verge; With step and weapon forward flung, Upon the mountain side they hung. The mountaineer cast glance of pride Along Benledi's living side,
Then fixed his eye and sable brow
Full on Fitz-James-"How say'st thou now, These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true; And, Saxon, I am Roderick Dhu!"- Fitz-James was brave:-Though to his heart The life-blood thrilled with sudden start, He manned himself with dauntless air, Returned the Chief his haughty stare, His back against a rock he bore, And firmly placed his foot before :- "Come one, come all! this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I."- Sir Roderick marked-and in his eyes Respect was mingled with surprise, And the stern joy which warriors feel In foemen worthy of their steel.
Short space he stood-then waved his hand Down sunk the disappearing band; Each warrior vanished where he stood, In broom or bracken, heath or wood; Sunk brand and spear and bended bow, In osiers pale and copses low; It seemed as if their mother Earth Had swallowed up her warlike birth,
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