 | Orellana and Other Poems |  |
168
THE CAMP ON THE OCHILS.
“Et propinquá luce fulsere signa: . . . et Romanis redit
animus: . . . et fuit atrox in ipsis portarum angustiis
proelium, donec pulsi hostes.”—Taciti Agricola, xxvi.
The gold has paled to silver on the height,
The gull belated to the lake has flown;
Why sits young Andro in the house to-night
While Cæsar hunts in the old camp alone?
The gull belated to the lake has flown;
Why sits young Andro in the house to-night
While Cæsar hunts in the old camp alone?
The goodman's cutting clover in the field,
Young Phemie o'er the meadow calls the cow:
They've all a task but Cæsar—idle chield!
Cæsar stands whining on the whinny knowe.
Young Phemie o'er the meadow calls the cow:
They've all a task but Cæsar—idle chield!
Cæsar stands whining on the whinny knowe.
How would his ears go up, his eyes grow clear,
The white star on his tail be whisked about,
If only Andro's bonnet should appear
Above the dike, followed by Andro's shout!
The white star on his tail be whisked about,
169
Above the dike, followed by Andro's shout!
What fun you'd see in the old camp! What bounds
O'er burrowy mound and boulder, furze and heath!
Andro would beat—Cæsar would watch the grounds,
His pink tongue palpitating o'er his teeth!
O'er burrowy mound and boulder, furze and heath!
Andro would beat—Cæsar would watch the grounds,
His pink tongue palpitating o'er his teeth!
Where lingers Andro?—Harvesting the light
For one red page beside the kitchen flame:
A different Roman is the spell to-night,
And Tacitus, not Cæsar, is the name!
For one red page beside the kitchen flame:
A different Roman is the spell to-night,
And Tacitus, not Cæsar, is the name!
The page is open where Agricola's camp
One daybreak, eighteen centuries ago,
Sprang to a man from earth-bed cold and damp
At the wild slogan of the Celtic foe.
One daybreak, eighteen centuries ago,
Sprang to a man from earth-bed cold and damp
At the wild slogan of the Celtic foe.
170
The battle's in the gateways, hand to hand;
The sword of Caius rings on Colin's mace;
The eagles flash—who can their glance withstand?
On them! They yield—the rout becomes a race!
The sword of Caius rings on Colin's mace;
The eagles flash—who can their glance withstand?
On them! They yield—the rout becomes a race!
How strange it seems,—the ruined camp without,
With peaceful rabbits hopping to and fro;
Within, the schoolboy glorying in the rout
Of his forefathers there so long ago!
With peaceful rabbits hopping to and fro;
Within, the schoolboy glorying in the rout
Of his forefathers there so long ago!
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