The Bugle. Night, at its pulseless noon! When the far voice of waters mourns in song, Hark! how it sweeps away! As if some sprite of sound went wandering by, Swell, swell in glory out! Thy tones come pouring on my leaping heart, Oh! have ye heard that peal, From sleeping city's moon-bathed battlements, Or have ye in the roar Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise, Go, go-no other sound, No music that of air or earth is born, 351 WHY Culloden. HY linger on this battle heath, That well befits its barren brow. But let us hence: It marks a grave, Whose verdure is the price of bloodThe heart-stream of the vainly brave. Long years ago, from o'er the sea, A banish'd prince, of Stuart's line, Came thither, claiming fealty And succour in his sire's decline. A triple diadem—a throne— Ambition's toys—his birthright were: Of valleys, lakes, and mountains lone, Of all our country was he heir. And there we saw the chequer'd plaid Its black plumes streaming in the blast: And then we heard the gathering cry Come blended with the pibroch's strain, And saw the fire-cross flashing by, Our warriors gathering on the plain. In sooth it was a stirring sight! To these old eyes, grown dim with tears, Still, piercing through the after-night, The past in all its pomp appears. Culloden. These shelter'd glens and dusky hills, Away we rush'd, for chiefs were there; And yon young regal warrior, too, Then came the Southron, hand to hand, And swept their trembling ranks away. The fox wax'd strong: our chieftains frown'd We basely left our vantage ground, And turn'd us home like beaten men. Yet England's blue-eyed yeomen bold, Though vaunting in their long array, Confess'd it was no play to hold, Or strike, the mountain deer at bay. At length Culloden's boding heath, 353 It smote us merciless; it slew The flower of many a warrior clan, Our chieftains sought their native hills ; Lies mouldering 'neath the verdant sod. The Shipwreck of Eamoëns. "On his return from banishment, Camoëns was shipwrecked at the mouth of the river Gambia. He saved himself by clinging to a plank, and of all his little property succeeded only in saving his poem of the 'Luciad,' deluged with the waves as he brought it in his hand to shore." *-SISMONDI. "I saw him beat the surges under him, And ride upon their backs; he trod the water, The surge most swoln that met him.”—Tempest. CLO 'LOUDS gather'd o'er the dark blue sky, And the music of the waves was changed To the plaintive voice of wail; *He is described with his sword in his hand upon the authority of his own words: "N'huma mao livros, n'outra, ferro et aco, N'huma mao sempre a espada, n'outra a pena." The Shipwreck of Camoëns. 355 And fearfully the lightning flash'd Around the ship's tall mast, While mournfully through the creaking shrouds With pallid cheek the seamen shrank Before the deepening gloom; For they gazed on the black and boiling sea But on the vessel's deck stood one With proud and changeless brow: Nor pain, nor terror was in the look He turn'd to the gulf below. And calmly to his arm he bound Then stretch'd his sinewy arms, and cried: The limbs that have spurn'd a tyrant's chain "Now let the strife of nature rage, Where'er the waters may bear me on, The dreaded moment came too soon, Till the wall of waters closed around, Then rose one wild, half-stifled cry; |