Then Aulus sware a fearful oath,
And ran at him amain :-
"The furies of thy brother
With me and mine abide,
If one of your accursed house
Upon black Auster ride!"
As on an Alpine watch-tower
From heaven comes down the flame,
Full on the neck of Titus
The sword of Aulus came;
And out the red blood spouted,
In a wide arch and tall,
As spouts a fountain in the court
Of some rich Capuan's hall.
The knees of all the Latines
Were loosened with dismay,
When dead, on dead Herminius,
The bravest Tarquin lay.
And Aulus, the dictator,
Stroked Auster's raven mane,
With heed he looked unto the girths,
With heed unto the rein :
"Now bear me well, black Auster,
Into yon thick array;
And thou and I will have revenge
For thy good lord this day."
Ir was the wild midnight,—a storm was on the sky;
The lightning gave its light, and the thunder echoed by.
The torrent swept the glen, the ocean lashed the shore;
Then rose the Spartan men, to make their bed in gore!
Swift from the deluged ground three hundred took the shield;
Then in silence gathered round the leader of the field!
All up the mountain's side, all down the woody vale,
All by the rolling tide waved the Persian banners pale.
And foremost from the pass, among the slumbering band,
Sprang King Leonidas, like the lightning's living brand.
Then double darkness fell, and the forest ceased its moan;
But there came a clash of steel, and a distant dying groan,
Anon, a trumpet blew, and a fiery sheet burst high,
That o'er the midnight threw a blood-red canopy.
A host glared on the hill; a host glared by the bay;
But the Greeks rushed onward still, like leopards in their play.
The air was all a yell, and the earth was all a flame,
Where the Spartan's bloody steel on the silken turbans came;
And still the Greek rushed on, where the fiery torrent rolled,
Till like a rising sun, shone Xerxes' tent of gold.
They found a royal feast, his midnight banquet there;
And the treasures of the East lay beneath the Doric spear.
Then sat to the repast the bravest of the brave!
That feast must be their last, that spot must be their grave.
Up rose the glorious rank, to Greece one cup poured high,
Then hand in hand they drank, "To immortality!"
Fear on King Xerxes fell, when, like spirits from the tomb,
With shout and trumpet knell, he saw the warriors come.
But down swept all his power, with chariot and with charge;
Down poured the arrows' shower, till sank the Spartan targe.
Thus fought the Greek of old! thus will he fight again!
Shall not the self-same mold bring forth the self-same men ?
SONG OF MAC MURROUGH.
MIST darkens the mountains, night darkens the vale,
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael :
A stranger commanded,-it sunk on the land,
It has frozen each heart, and benumbed every hand!
The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but reddened with rust;
On the hill, or the glen, if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.
The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string, and be hushed every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.
But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last;
Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the rays,
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze.
O high-minded Moray!-the exiled!-the dear!-
In the blush of the dawning the standard uprear,
Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly,
Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh!
Ye sons of the strong, when the dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake ?
That dawn never beamed on your forefathers' eye
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.
Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake! 'Tis the bugle,-but not for the chase is the call; 'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons,—but not to the hall.
'Tis the summons of heroes to conquest or death, When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath; They call to the dirk, the claymore, the targe,
To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.
Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire!
May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire! Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore,
Or die like your sires and endure it no more!
ELIJAH'S INTERVIEW WITH GOD.
ON Horeb's rock the prophet stood,—
The Lord before him passed;
A hurricane in angry mood
Swept by him strong and fast;
The forest fell before its force,
The rocks were shivered in its course,-
God was not in the blast:
Announcing danger, wreck, and death,
'T was but the whirlwind of his breath.
It ceased. The air grew mute,—a cloud
Came, muffling up the sun;
When, through the mountain, deep and loud
An earthquake thundered on;
The frighted eagle sprang in air,
The wolf ran howling from his lair,-
God was not in the storm:
'Twas but the rolling of his car,
The trampling of his steeds from far.
'Twas still again, and nature stood
And calmed her ruffled frame;
When swift from heaven a fiery flood
To earth devouring came;
Down to the depth the ocean fled;
The sickening sun looked wan and dead,-
Yet God filled not the flame:
'T was but the terror of his eye
That lightened through the troubled sky.
At last a voice all still and small
Rose sweetly on the ear,
Yet rose so shrill and clear, that all
In heaven and earth might hear:
It spoke of peace, it spoke of love,
It spoke as angels speak above,—
And God himself was there;
For oh! it was a Father's voice,
That bade the trembling world rejoice.
THE LOVE OF COUNTRY AND OF HOME.
THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons imparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth.
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;
In every clime, the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole :
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and scepter, pageantry and pride,
While, in his softened looks, benignly blend.
The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend.
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life;
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