 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
313
THE MIGHT OF SONG.
[“I was in the hall of the castle, disguised as a harper from the wild shores of Skianack. My purpose was to have plunged my dirk in the body of the ‘M'Auley with the Bloody Hand,’ before whom our race trembles; but I saw Annot Lyle, even when my hand was on the hilt of my dagger. She touched her clàrsach (Highland Harp) to a Song of the Children of the Mist. The woods in which we had dwelt, pleasantly rustled their green leaves in the song, and our streams were there with the sound of all their waters. The fountains of mine eyes were opened, and the hour of revenge passed away.”]—
Legend of Montrose.
Disguised as a harper,
I stood in the hall,
And loud was the clatter
Of arms on the wall.
Dark, dark grew my brow, for the sheen of their blades
Was dim with the blood of our old men and maids.
I stood in the hall,
And loud was the clatter
Of arms on the wall.
Dark, dark grew my brow, for the sheen of their blades
Was dim with the blood of our old men and maids.
The scourge of my people,
The Red Hand, was near
And whispered the ghosts
Of the slain in mine ear—
“Shall a foeman be safe while a Son of the Mist
Wears the dirk of his ancestors chained to his wrist?
The Red Hand, was near
And whispered the ghosts
Of the slain in mine ear—
“Shall a foeman be safe while a Son of the Mist
Wears the dirk of his ancestors chained to his wrist?
“Shall terror the veins
Of the fatherless freeze,
While the bay of the black hound
Comes down with the breeze?
Shall our hearth-stones be roofless, and Ronald forget
In the blood of the monster to cancel the debt?”
Of the fatherless freeze,
While the bay of the black hound
Comes down with the breeze?
Shall our hearth-stones be roofless, and Ronald forget
In the blood of the monster to cancel the debt?”
“No! no!—by the bones
Of the dead we have sworn
Ere night fall the Laird
For his brother shall mourn:
With the slaughter of kinsmen his tartan is red,
And the plumes of our chief grace his bonneted head.”
Of the dead we have sworn
Ere night fall the Laird
For his brother shall mourn:
314
And the plumes of our chief grace his bonneted head.”
Toward the weaponless slayer
I made but one stride,
With hand on the hilt
Of the dirk by my side,—
When, thrilling my heart to its innermost cell,
On mine ear a wild burst of rich melody fell.
I made but one stride,
With hand on the hilt
Of the dirk by my side,—
When, thrilling my heart to its innermost cell,
On mine ear a wild burst of rich melody fell.
At length my glance rested
On Annot the fair,
Whose smile vies in brightness
The gold of her hair;
To a song of our race her light clàrsach was strung,
And, bathing my cheek, dropped the tears while she sung.
On Annot the fair,
Whose smile vies in brightness
The gold of her hair;
To a song of our race her light clàrsach was strung,
And, bathing my cheek, dropped the tears while she sung.
I saw our own streams
Glide in beauty along,
And the voice of their waters
I heard in the song;
The rustling of leaves, and wild carol of bird
In glens where my forefathers slumber, I heard.
Glide in beauty along,
And the voice of their waters
I heard in the song;
The rustling of leaves, and wild carol of bird
In glens where my forefathers slumber, I heard.
My hand the dark hilt
Of my weapon forsook,
For my frame, like an aspen,
With sorrowing shook;
And my childhood came back with its innocent shout,
While the fire of revenge in my bosom went out.
Of my weapon forsook,
For my frame, like an aspen,
With sorrowing shook;
And my childhood came back with its innocent shout,
While the fire of revenge in my bosom went out.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |