The American Union Speaker Part 39

CCXIII.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A chieftain to the Highlands bound, Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!

And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry!"

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?"

"O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle.

And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.

"His hors.e.m.e.n hard behind us ride-- Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride, When they have slain her lover!"

Out spoke the hardy highland wight, "I'll go, my chief, I'm ready: It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady:--

"And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And, in the scowl of heaven, each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,-- Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,-- When O! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reached that fatal sh.o.r.e,-- His wrath was changed to wailing!

For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade His child he did discover:-- One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover.

"Come back! Come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!--O my daughter!"

'T was vain: the loud waves lashed the sh.o.r.e, Return or aid preventing: The wafers wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting.

T. Campbell.

CCXIV.

FALL OF WARSAW.

O! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and tw.a.n.ged her trumpet horn; Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland--and to man!

Warsaw's last champion from her heights surveyed, Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid-- O Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!

Is there no hand on high to s.h.i.+eld the brave?

Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!

By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, And swear for her to live!--with her to die!

He said; and on the rampart heights arrayed His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed; Firm paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly,-- "Revenge, or death!"--the watchword and reply; Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm!

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!

From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew;-- O! bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!

Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career.

Hope for a season bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked, as Kosciusko fell!

0 righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save?

Where was thine arm, O vengeance! where thy rod, That smote the foes of Sion and of G.o.d?

Departed spirits of the mighty dead!

Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!

Friends of the world! restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!

Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own!

O! once again to Freedom's cause return The patriot Tell,--the Bruce of Bannockburn!

Yes, thy proud lords, unpitied land! shall see that man hath yet a soul,--and dare be free!

A little while, along thy saddening plains, The starless night of Desolation reigns; Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven!

p.r.o.ne to the dust Oppression shall be hurled, Her name, her nature, withered from the world!

T. Campbell.

CCXV.

HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven; Then rushed the steed, to battle driven; And louder than the bolts of Heaven Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow, On Linden's hills of stained snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'T is morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye Brave Who rush to glory, or the grave!

Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part, where many meet!

The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

T. Campbell.

CCXVI.

WAR-SONG OF THE GREEKS, 1822.

Again to the battle Achaians!

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance; Our land,--the first garden of Liberty's tree-- It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free; For the cross of our faith is replanted, The pale, dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefather's graves.

Their spirits are hovering o'er us, And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succor advances, Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances Are stretched in our aid?--Be the combat our own!

And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone; For we've sworn by our country's a.s.saulters, By the virgins they've dragged from our altars, By our ma.s.sacred patriots, our children in chains, By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,-- That living we will be victorious, Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not; The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not; Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.