 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
145
DEATH OF ROB ROY.
[“When this chieftain was on his death-bed, a gentleman whom he had reason to consider as an enemy, came to see him. On being requested to admit him to his bed-side, he said: ‘Raise me up, buckle on my arms, then admit him!’ The guest was received with cold civility, and in a short time departed. ‘Now,’ said Rob Roy ‘call in the piper.’ The piper came, and he expired with the voice of war pealing around him.”]
With heather pillowing his head
The dying outlaw lay,
And plaided clansmen round his bed
Stood watching in dismay.
Wild throes of dissolution shook
His worn and wasted frame,
But native lordliness of look
Distemper could not tame.
The dying outlaw lay,
And plaided clansmen round his bed
Stood watching in dismay.
Wild throes of dissolution shook
His worn and wasted frame,
But native lordliness of look
Distemper could not tame.
The walls of his rude dwelling-place
Were hung with weapons bright—
With branching antlers of the chase,
And trophies won in fight.
His tall, gaunt hound of proven worth,
Acute of eye and ear,
Slept idly on the lighted hearth,
Forgetful of the deer.
Were hung with weapons bright—
With branching antlers of the chase,
And trophies won in fight.
His tall, gaunt hound of proven worth,
Acute of eye and ear,
Slept idly on the lighted hearth,
Forgetful of the deer.
Cold dew—that herald which precedes
The winding-sheet, and wail
Of mourning ones—in clammy beads,
Stood on his forehead pale.
Faint grew the swell of his proud breast
And dim his falcon eye,
But manfully his lip suppressed
The groan of agony.
The winding-sheet, and wail
Of mourning ones—in clammy beads,
Stood on his forehead pale.
Faint grew the swell of his proud breast
And dim his falcon eye,
But manfully his lip suppressed
The groan of agony.
146
While ran his blood with feebler flow,
Strode in a clansman stout,
And told the chief, in accents low,
“A stranger waits without!”
Then syllabled the name—a word
Unwelcome to his ears,
Which darkly in his bosom stirred
The hoarded hate of years.
Strode in a clansman stout,
And told the chief, in accents low,
“A stranger waits without!”
Then syllabled the name—a word
Unwelcome to his ears,
Which darkly in his bosom stirred
The hoarded hate of years.
“No member of a hostile clan,
While heart or pulse can beat,
Shall see me,” said the dying man,
“In posture of defeat.
Array me in the spoils I took
From enemies laid low;
Clad thus, Macgregor cannot brook
The presence of a foe.
While heart or pulse can beat,
Shall see me,” said the dying man,
“In posture of defeat.
Array me in the spoils I took
From enemies laid low;
Clad thus, Macgregor cannot brook
The presence of a foe.
“Bring forth the bonnet that I wore
When blood was on the heather,
Though in the mountain wind no more
Will nod its eagle feather;
Gird on my sword, of temper tried,
Old beam of hope in danger,
To deeds of hardihood allied,
And then admit the stranger!”
When blood was on the heather,
Though in the mountain wind no more
Will nod its eagle feather;
Gird on my sword, of temper tried,
Old beam of hope in danger,
To deeds of hardihood allied,
And then admit the stranger!”
Attendants clad the dying man
In garb that well became
The leader of a martial clan,
A warrior of fame;
Admitted then his guest, who met
Reception stern and cold;
The Highland Chief could not forget
The bloody feuds of old.
In garb that well became
The leader of a martial clan,
A warrior of fame;
Admitted then his guest, who met
Reception stern and cold;
The Highland Chief could not forget
The bloody feuds of old.
The stranger soon withdrew. “Now call
The harper in, to cheer
My passing spirit with the strain
Most welcome to my ear!”
The hoary minstrel brought his lyre,
To notes of battle strung,
And, fingering its chords of fire,
In stormy concert sung:—
The harper in, to cheer
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Most welcome to my ear!”
The hoary minstrel brought his lyre,
To notes of battle strung,
And, fingering its chords of fire,
In stormy concert sung:—
“The plaid round his shoulders our leader hath thrown,
And a gathering blast on his bugle hath blown;
He calls on the dauntless and ready of hand
To gather around him with bonnet and brand;
Like hounds scenting out the retreat of the stag,
We quit, for the Lowlands, our home on the crag.
And a gathering blast on his bugle hath blown;
He calls on the dauntless and ready of hand
To gather around him with bonnet and brand;
Like hounds scenting out the retreat of the stag,
We quit, for the Lowlands, our home on the crag.
“The dirk of our fathers in gore we must dye!
Will the falcon forbear, when the quarry is nigh?
The Saxon dreams not, in his flowery vale,
That our pennon is flung to the welcoming gale;
That we come from the mountains to scourge and destroy,
And the chieftain we follow is dreaded Rob Roy.
Will the falcon forbear, when the quarry is nigh?
The Saxon dreams not, in his flowery vale,
That our pennon is flung to the welcoming gale;
That we come from the mountains to scourge and destroy,
And the chieftain we follow is dreaded Rob Roy.
“On the head of Macgregor a price hath been set,
With the blood of our clan Lowland sabres are wet;
Elated by triumph, red wine freely flows,
And loud is the song in the camp of our foes;
But to shrieking will change their demoniac joy,
When sound our glad pipers the charge of Rob Roy!”
With the blood of our clan Lowland sabres are wet;
Elated by triumph, red wine freely flows,
And loud is the song in the camp of our foes;
But to shrieking will change their demoniac joy,
When sound our glad pipers the charge of Rob Roy!”
Ere died the battle-song away,
Rose up the voice of wail,
While motionless the chieftain lay,
With face like marble pale.
No kindly word from him repaid
The harper for his strain;
The hushing hand of death was laid
On heart, and pulse, and brain!
Rose up the voice of wail,
While motionless the chieftain lay,
With face like marble pale.
No kindly word from him repaid
The harper for his strain;
The hushing hand of death was laid
On heart, and pulse, and brain!
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |