 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
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BATTLE ODE.—A TYRTÆAN.—FOR MUSIC.
[Scene.—A rocky promontory, beetling over a plain. Troops defiling below—horse, and foot, and artillery. Martial music; the Bard stands upon the edge of the promontory, his beard streaming in the wind—his arms extended. His chaunt, as the columns are passing, and as the events follow, mingles with the martial instruments that severally sound below, in correspondence with the movements of the masses, and the action which succeeds.][I.]
Tira-la! tira-la! tira-la!Tira-la! la! la! la!
Hark! the glorious trumpet how it rings!
Tira-la! tira-la! tira-la!
As our eagle when she flings
The deep slumbers from her wings,
And, sonorous screaming, sings
As she goes—“tira-la!”
As she darts upon her prey,
Like the lightning from the height,
And tears her spoil away,
With the matchless speed of might!
Tira-la! tira-la! tira-la! la! la! la!
[II.]
Sleep ye still when roars the flame?When ye hear the battle-cry,
Which should fire the weak, the tame,
Death around, and Doom on high?
Answer trumpets!—tira-la!
Hark! the only summons for the brave!
Tira-la! tira-la! tira-la!
And it calls alike from mountain and from wave:
A call to wake your fathers from the grave!
Tira-la! tira-la! tira-la! la! la! la!
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III.
Know that to the soul of honest Fame,In the arts of peace is nought but shame,
Follow'd, when the foe
Stands o'er Home and Altar,
With his Brand and Halter—
Stands in scorn, and braves ye to the blow!
Tira-la! tira-la! tira-la!
Blow free, blow wild, ye bugles, once again!
Blow till ye blast these rocks, and rive this plain!
Blow till ye rouse the living, like the slain—
The mighty brave who perished long ago!
Blow! blow!
Blow with your eagle voices, bugles, blow!
Tira-la! tira-la! tira-la!
Tira-la! la! la! la!
IV.
Sing welcome, bugles!—welcome to the strife!War to the very knife—
In Freedom's hour of need, war is her only life!
Tira-la! tira-la! tira-la!
Blow for the coming land-sturm—bugles, blow!
Blow death into the nostrils of the foe,
And stir with shame the sleepers now so slow!
Blow! blow!
Tira-la! tira-la! tira-la!
V.
Peace is but the reign of rest,Out of season never bless'd;
War is vigilance!—
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When the Despot would enthrall,
To bestow, at Freedom's call,
Meet deliverance!
Sound your trumpets—tira-la!
Hark! the echoing sound,
From the grave—the ground!
Hark! our dead are stirring in their graves!
Sound, ye sonorous summoners, once more
Tira-la! tira-la!
From their cerements see them start—
See the vaults that quake and part!
They are free—they stand
With a flaming brand
In each bony hand!
Tira-la! tira-la!
Each a hero mighty as of yore—
In each bosom thrice a heart,
In each eye a fiery dart!
Tira-la!
Shall they rise to see
The children flee—
See them recreant—see them slaves—
Whom they left so free?
And in horror feel the dread
Which flings dust on every head,
Lest the mothers of the recreants lie dishonored in their graves?
Tira-la! tira-la! tira-la!
VI.
Blow, ye rebuking bugles, shrilly blow!Tira-la!
With such allies from the dead,
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We shall feel the spur of fame,
And be ready, soon be ready for the foe!
Find our heroes at our head,
Raging with the torrents as they pour
Down the heights, to gather on the shore,
Where the cannon of the foe begins to roar!
Tira-la!
Blow for the battle grandly—bugles, blow
We are ready now—all ready for the foe!
Blow! blow!
Tira-la! tira-la! tira-la! la! la! la!
VII.
Lo! the horsemen, and the chariots, where they come,To the shrieking of the bugle, to the rolling of the drum!
Tira-la! tira-la! tira-la!
Lo! the billows of the battle, how they rise,
As the hurricane goes surging through the deep!
Ha! the wonder in the skies!
Behold the shadowy hosts,
A thousand trooping ghosts—
Your spectral sires, are marching in the air,
And their cloudy banners flare,
As if tempests in their wrath were gather'd there!
Starting from uneasy sleep,
To the ancient fields they sweep,
Battling with the ancient foe,
Whom they baffled long ago:
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Where the emulous bugles blow—grandly blow!—
While the vultures scent the carnage from afar,
And scream with lust, impatient for the war—
Tira-la! tira-la! tira-la!
Which shall spread on mighty board the bloody prey,
And dress with crimson horrors all the victims of the fray.
VII.
How it howls, the howling rage,As the mighty hosts engage—
As the masses roll together in the strife,
With the rush of death and life!
Tira-la! tira-la!
The elements of destiny set free,
Like the storms upon the sea,
When the shattered navies flee,
Tira-la! tira-la!
Lo! the torrents of the legions, as they bound,
A thousand mailéd horsemen from the steep,
Charging down upon the deep,
As the ocean, with a roar,
That rolls in terror all the white billows on the shore!
Tira-la! tira-la!
Ha! the crimson fires of battle, how they sweep
With a hiss and horrid rush along the ground,
As the angry bugle blows
In the nostril of our foes,
Tira-la! tira-la!
Now the grapple—the death-grapple—and the more than mortal throes!
All the agony of action, all the bitterness of blows!
Tira-la! tira-la! tira-la!
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Hurl again the hail—the iron hail:
Tira-la! tira-la!
And the fiery arrows fling!
Tira-la!
The bolts of death and terror how they sing,
As with loving hate they dart,
Each fiery-eyed, and seeking out the passage to a heart!
Tira-la! tira-la!
Swept with thunders, see the columns, as they sway aside and part,
Like the shivered forest branches, when the wild tornado goes!
Again! again! again!
To the grapple—the death-grapple—with our foes!
We have thrice a thousand slain,
But ten thousand more remain:
We must stretch them with their comrades on the consecrated plain!
Blow, ye bugles, blow!
Grandly, fiercely blow!
Tira-la! tira-la!
The triumph to our people, and the terror to the foe!
Blow—the charging to the grapple—the last grapple—with the foe
Blow! blow! ye bugles, blow!
Tira-la! tira la! tira-la! la! la! la!
IX.
Seas of blood rush redly on the sight!Eyes flame out like stars of hellish ire!
Ha! the glorious, horrid, rush fight,
And the very fields and skies are fire!
Tira-la-la-la! tira-la!
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Through the thunder-cloud and thick of fight!—Hurrah!
How he shouts and cries:
“Ha! ha!”
And the bugle with a volumed blast replies,
“Tira-la! tira-la! tira-la!”
And it goads him, through his frenzy, to delight!
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Tira-la! tira-la!
And he maddens with the fight,
And with death-dilating sight,
Tramps headlong through the masses—tira-la!
See! see!—levelled bright, where the bayonets' serried lunges
Try the muscle and the soul—tira-la! tira-la!—
Roars afresh the mighty cannon—rives anew the iron hail!
Tira-la! tira-la!
On again! On again! Freedom's battle shall prevail!
Tira-la! tira-la!
None be living left to tell the tale!
Tira-la! tira-la!
X.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!Tira-la! tira-la!
The foe is stricken down!
Tira-la!
Or in terror hurries on!
Tira-la!
Panic stricken, flying,
Howling, groaning, dying,
And the field of freedom's won—forever won!
Tira-la!
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For the final charge, that brings
Peace to all our valleys;
And our ensign eagle sings,
As she spreads aloft her wings,
Tira-la! tira-la! tira-la! la! la! la!
To the natives of this country, whose ancestors were in the Revolutionary war, the omen here illustrated is a familiar and general tradition. The seven years' conflict was preceded by a grand phenomenon in the skies, of marching and contending armies. It seems to have been witnessed in most of the States. I have heard of it in several. My grandmother has often told me that she was taken out of bed by her father to behold it.
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