University of Virginia Library

THERE'S a fierce gray Bird—with a sharpened beak;
With an angry eye, and a startling shriek:
That nurses her brood where the cliff-flowers blow,
On the precipice-top—in perpetual snow—
Where the fountains are mute, or in secrecy flow—
That sits—where the air is shrill and bleak,
On the splintered point of a shivered peak—
Where the weeds lie close—and the grass sings sharp,
To a comfortless tune—like a wintry harp—
Bald-headed and stripped!—like a vulture torn
In wind and strife!—with her feathers worn,
And ruffled and stained—while scattering—bright,
Round her serpent-neck—that is writhing, bare—
Is a crimson collar of gleaming hair!—
Like the crest of a warrior thinned in the fight,
And shorn—and bristling—see her! where
She sits in the glow of the sun-bright air!
With wing half-poised—and talons bleeding—
And kindling eye—as if her prey
Had—suddenly—been snatched away—
While she was tearing it, and feeding!

A Bird that is first to worship the sun,
When he gallops in flame—'till the cloud tides run
In billows of fire—as his course is done:
Above where the fountain is gushing in light;
Above where the torrent is forth in its might—
Like an imprisoned blaze that is bursting from night!
Or a lion that springs—with a roar—from his lair!
Bounding off—all in foam—from the echoing height—
Like a rank of young war-horses—terribly bright,
Their manes all erect!—and their hoofs in the air!
The earth shaking under them—trumpets on high—
And banners unfurling away in the sky—
With the neighing of steeds! and the streaming of hair!

Above where the silvery flashing is seen—
The striping of waters, that skip o'er the green,
And soft, spongy moss, where the fairies have been,
Bending lovely and bright in the young Morning's eye
Like ribands of flame—or the bow of the sky:

Above that dark torrent—above the bright stream—
The gay ruddy fount, with the changeable gleam,
Where the lustre of heaven eternally plays—
The voice may be heard—of the Thunderer's bird,
Calling out to her god in a clear, wild scream,
As she mounts to his throne and unfolds in his beam;
While her young are laid out in his rich red blaze;
And their winglets are fledged in his hottest rays:

Proud Bird of the cliff! where the barren-yew springs—
Where the sun shine stays—and the wind harp sings,
Where the heralds of battle sit—pluming their wings—
A scream!—she's awake!—over hill-top and flood;
A crimson light runs!—like the gushing of blood—
Over valley and rock!—over mountain and wood!
That Bird is abroad—in the van of her brood!

O ye, that afar in the blue-air, have heard—
As out of the sky—the approach of that Bird—
Have ye seen her—half-famished—and up—and away—
Her wings in a blaze, with the shedding of day—
Like a vulture on fire!—in the track of her prey—
When aloft—what is that?—light footsteps near us!
And whispers—and breathing!—they may o'erhear us.

Ah—now let us gaze:—what a wonderful sky!—
How the robe of the god, in its flame-coloured dye—
Goes ruddily—flushingly—sweepingly by.
The spots that you see?—they are tents—and the air—
All alive with the rustling of flags that are there—
Nay speak—did you ever behold such a night—
While the winds blew about—and the waters were bright—
The sun rolling home in an ocean of light—
But hush!—there is musick away in the sky—
Some creatures of magick are charioting by—
Now it comes!—what a sound—'tis as cheerful and wild,
As the echo of caves to the laugh of a child:
Ah yes!—they are here—see away to your left,
Where the sun has gone down—where the mountains are cleft—

A troop of tall horsemen!—how fearless they ride!
'Tis a perilous path o'er that steep mountain's side.
Careering they come, like a band of young knights,
That the trumpet of morn to the tilting invites;
With high-nodding plumes, and with sun-shiny vests;
With wide-tossing manes, and with mail-covered breasts;
With arching of necks, and the plunge and the pride
Of their high mettled steeds, as they galloping ride
In glitter and pomp:—with their housings of gold—
With their scarlet and blue, as their squadrons unfold,
Flashing changeable light—like a banner unrolled.
Now they burst on the eye in their martial array!
And now they have gone!—like a vision of day:
In a streaming of splendour they came—but they wheeled;
And instantly all the bright show was concealed!
As if 'twere a tournament held in the sky,
Betrayed by some light passing suddenly by:
Some band by the flashing of torches revealed,
As it fell o'er the boss of an uplifted shield,
Or banners and blades in the darkness concealed.
They came like a cloud that is passing the light,
That brightens and blazes—and fades from the sight:
They came like a dream—and as swiftly they fled,
As the shadows that pass o'er the sun's dying red—
And one has returned! 'twas the first of the band;
On the top of the cliff he has taken his stand,
And the tread of his barb, as he leans in his strength,
And loosens his mane in the flow of its length,
Declares he is reined by a masterly hand!
While he rears o'er the rich-rolling clouds of that height
Like a pageant upraised by the wonders of light:
A warrior of flame!—on a courser of night!
See his helm feathers glance in the clear setting sun,
While his sabre is forth, o'er the cliff he has won,
With a waving of strength, and an air of command!

He is gone—and the brown, where the sunset reposes,
Grows warm as the bloom on the bosom of roses;
The herbage is crimson'd, and sprinkled with light;
And purple and yellow are busy and bright:
On the precipice-crown, and the sceptre of green,
That the forest-tree heaves, a red lustre is seen,
In a wreathing of fire: 'tis a garland that they,
Whose blossoms are plucked at the closing of day,
Have dropp'd from their laps in their rioting play:
The summer leaf reddens and deepens its dyes:
Its scarlet and green all unite, as it lies
In the breath of the vapour, and hue of the skies:
The young gushing fount ripples tenderly red;
And a blush, like the sighing of blossoms is shed,
O'er the green shiny moss, that around it is spread:
A glow like enchantment is seen o'er the lake,
Like the flush of the sky, when the day heralds wake,
And o'er its dull-bosom their soft plumage shake:
Now the warmth of the heaven is fading away.
Young Evening comes up in pursuit of the Day:
The richness and mist of the tints that were there
Are melting away like the bow of the air:
The blue-bosom'd water heaves darker and bluer:
The cliffs and the trees are seen bolder and truer,
The landscape has less of enchantment and light;
But it lies the more steady and firm in the sight:
The lustre-crown'd peaks, while they dazzled the eye,
Seemed loosened and passing away in the sky,
And the far-distant hills, in their tremulous blue,
Like the violet that's melting away in its dew,
But baffled the eye, as it dwelt on their hue.
The light of the hill, and the wave, and the sky
Grow fainter, and fainter:—the wonders all die.

The visions have gone! they have vanished away,
Unobserved in their change, like the bliss of a day.
The rainbows of heaven were bent in our sight:
And fountains were gushing like wine in its light:
And seraphs were wheeling around in their flight—
A moment—and all was enveloped in night!
'Tis thus with the dreams of the high-heaving heart,
They come but to blaze—and they blaze to depart:
Their gossamer wings are too thin to abide
The chilling of sorrow, or burning of pride:
They come, but to brush o'er its young gallant swell,
Like bright birds over ocean—but never to dwell.

Observed ye the cloud on that mountain's dim green?
So heavily hanging?—as if it had been
The tent of the Thunderer—the chariot of one,
Who dare not appear in the blaze of the sun?
'Tis descending to earth! and some horsemen are now,
In a line of dark mist, coming down from its brow:
'Tis a helmeted band! from the hills they descend,
Like the monarchs of storm, when the forest trees bend,
No scimitars swing as they gallop along:
No clattering hoof falls sudden and strong:
No trumpet is filled, and no bugle is blown:
No banners abroad on the wind are thrown:
No shoutings are heard—and no cheerings are given:
No waving of red-flowing plumage to heaven:
No flashing of blades, and no loosening of reigns:
No neighing of steeds, and no tossing of manes:
No furniture trailing, or warrior helms bowing—
Or crimson and gold-spotted drapery flowing:
But they speed like coursers, whose hoofs are shod
With a silent shoe from the loosened sod:
Like the steeds that career o'er the billowy surf,
Or stretch like the winds o'er the untrodden turf,
Where the willow and yew in their darkness are weeping,
And young, gallant hearts in their sepulchres sleeping:
Like the squadrons, that on the pale light of the moon,
While the Nights muffled horn plays a low windy tune,
Are seen to come down from the height of the skies,
By the warrior, that on the red battle-field lies,
And wave their cloud-helmets, and charge o'er the field,
And career o'er the tracks where the living had wheel'd;
When the dying half raise themselves up in a trance,
And gaze on the show, as their thin banners glance,
And wonder to see the dread battle renewed,
On the turf, where themselves and their comrades had stood.
Like these shadows, in swiftness and darkness they ride
O'er the thunder-reft mount—on its ruggedest side:
From the precipice top, they circle and leap,
Like the warriors of air, that are seen in our sleep:
Like the creatures that pass where a bleeding man lies,
Their heads muffled up to their white filmy eyes,—
With gestures more threatening and fierce 'till he dies:
And away they have gone, with a motionless speed,
Like Demons abroad on some dreadful deed.
The last one hath gone: they have all disappear'd;
Their dull-echoed trampings no longer are heard:
For still, tho' they passed like no steeds of the earth,
The fall of their tread gave some hollow-sounds birth;
Your heart would lie still 'till it numbered the last;
And your breath would be held till the rear horsemen past:
So swiftly—so mutely—so darkly they went,
Like the spectres of air to the sorcerer sent,
That ye felt their approach, and might guess their intent:
Your hero's stern-bosom will oftentimes quake,
Your gallant young warrior-plume oftentimes shake,
Before the cool marching that comes in the night—
Passing by, like a cloud in the dim troubled light;
Subduing the heart with a nameless affright—
When that would swell strongly, and this would appear,
If the sound of one trumpet saluted the ear,
Like some scarlet-wing'd bird, that is nurs'd in the day,
When she shakes her red plumage in wrath o'er her prey.

For be they the horsemen of earth, or of heaven,
No blast that the trumpet of Slaughter hath given;
No roll of the drum—and no cry of the fife;
No neighing of steeds in the bloodiest strife—
Is half so terrifick to full swelling hearts,
As the still, pulseless tramp of a band that departs,
With echoless armour—with motionless plume:
With ensigns all furled—in the trappings of gloom—
Parading, like those who came up from the tomb,
In silence and darkness—determined and slow;
And dreadfully calm—as the murderer's brow,
When his dagger is forth!—and ye see not the blow,
'Till the gleam of the blade shows your heart in its flow!

O, say what ye will!—the dull sound that awakes,
When the night breeze is down, and the chill spirit aches
With its measureless thought, is more dreadful by far,
Than the burst of the trump, when it peals for the war.
It is the cold summons that comes from the ground,
When a sepulchre answers pour light, youthful bound,
And loud joyous laugh, with its chill fearful sound,
Compared to the challenge that leaps on the ear,
When the banners of death in their splendours appear,
And the free golden bugle sings freshly and clear!
The low, sullen moans, that so feebly awake,
At midnight—when one is alone—on some lake,
Compar'd to the Thunderer's voice, when it rolls,
From the bosom of space, to the uttermost poles!
Like something that stirs in the weight of a shroud—
The talking of those who go by in a cloud;
To the cannon's full voice, when it wanders aloud!
'Tis the light that is seen to burst under the wave—
The pale, fitful omen, that plays o'er a grave,
To the rushing of flame, where the turf is all red,
And farewells are discharg'd o'er a young soldier's bed!
To the lightnings that blaze o'er the mariner's way,
When the storm is in pomp, and the ocean in spray!

Dark and chill is the sky; and the clouds gather round;
There's nought to be seen, yet there comes a low sound;
As if something were near, that would pass unobserved,
O, if 'tis that band—may their right-arms be nerved!
Hark!—a challenge is given!—a rash charger neighs!
And a trumpet is blown!—and lo, there's a blaze!
And a clashing of sabres is heard—and a shout,
Like a hurried order—goes passing about!
And unfurling banners are tossed to the sky,
As struggling to float on the wind passing by—
And unharness'd war-steeds are crowding together;
The horseman's thick plume—and the foot soldier's feather—
The battle is up! and the thunder is pealing!
And squadrons of cavalry coursing and wheeling!
And line after line, in their light are revealing!
One troop of high helms thro' the fight urge their way,
Unbroken and stern—like a ship thro' the spray:
Their pistols speak quick—and their blades are all bare,
And the sparkles of steely encounter are there.

Away they still speed!—with one impulse they bound;
With one impulse alike, as their foes gather round.
Undismayed—undisturbed—and above all the rest,
One rides o'er the strife, like a mane o'er its crest;
And holds on his way thro' the scimitars there,
All plunging in light!—while the slumbering air
Shakes wide with the rolling artillery-peal—
The tall one is first, and his followers deal
Around, and around, their desperate blows,
Like the army of shadows above, when it goes
With the smiting of shields, and the clapping of wings;
When the red-crests shake—and the storm-pipe sings:
When the cloud-flag unfurls—and the death-bugles sound—
When the monarchs of space on their dark-chargers bound—
And the shock of their cavalry comes in the night,
With furniture flashing!—and weapons of light!—
So travelled this band in its pomp and its might.

Away they have gone!—and their path is all red,
Hedged in by two lines of the dying and dead;
By bosoms, that burst unrevenged in the strife—
By swords, that yet shake in the passing of life—
For so swift had that pageant of darkness sped—
So like a trooping of cloud-mounted dead—
That the flashing reply of the foe that was cleft,
But fell on the shadows those troopers had left
Far and away, they are coursing again,
O'er the clouded hill, and the darkened plain,
Now choosing the turf for their noiseless route;
Now, where the wet sand is strown thickest about,
Streams their long line!—like a mist troop they ride,
In a winding cloud, o'er the near mountain's side;
While a struggling moon throws a lustre as dim
As a sepulchre's lamp, and the vapours that swim,
O'er the hills and the heavens, divide as they fly:—
The videttes of winds that are stationed on high!

Speak—would you know why woke that desperate fray?
Why battle moved in night, and shunned the day?
And who the leader of that sullen band,
Whose march was destiny?—whose stern command
Went thrilling to the heart:—while not a word
He uttered in his march—and nought was heard,
But the deep, dreadful sound, of hearts that burst—
Of arms that smote in death, and lips that cursed?
Who gave no cheering to his troops—as they
Wheeled—charged—and smote—and gallopped in array!
But shook his naked falchion in his might,
And scattered o'er his path its meteor light?
Then, like the bolt of heaven, it flash'd, and fell
On blades and helms, that shattered in their knell!
How firm and high he sat!—all bone—all strength—
His charger stretching at his utmost length!

'Tis lighter now: the troops are seen again,
Passing at length before a tented plain:
The moon is up, and brightening o'er their road;
Their steeds come bravely round beneath their load,
And slacken to a trot—and snorting loudly,
Strain their dark necks, with far manes floating proudly;
Thickening their tramps approach—they near the blaze
Of Freedom's camp, where her loose drapery plays—
Breaking in lustre—thick with starry light;
And crimson stripes opposed to gleamy white:
Symbols of battle and of peace—the dye
Of blood—and flash of lilied purity:

The leader halts—the broad red light shows well
His stately outline, and his charger's swell.
How like a shade the horse and rider seem!
Like the dark trooper of a troubled dream.
His sabre is abroad—they gather round—
Back!—back it waves!—and hark!—the bugles sound:
Swiftly he wheels!—his arm is stretched again—
Some gather round, and some behind remain:
Forth, and all free! a chosen escort spring;
Unsheath their hangers, while their scabbards ring:
Leap to their places, and at speed depart,
While the rough trumpets on the night-wind start:
Away they stretch at length! as when they've met
In chase upon the mountain-tops, while yet
The morning gems are thick, and all the turf is wet.

Again they stay their march—and one's ahead;
His fire-eyed charger halts with angry tread;
His black limbs bathed in foam—his reaching mane,
Rising and sinking, as he feels the rein:
Now rings the harness!—from the saddle, bounds
The red-plumed chief—erect, and lightly sounds
A free-toned bugle to the distant hills;
Singing and pealing clear—like horn that Echo fills:
And oh!—an answer!—how it faintly dies
In sweet, calm melody along the skies,
As if it were a challenge lightly given,
From golden trumpets on a summer even!
Now springing merrily upon the ear,
As if some infant trumpeter were near—
Like songs ye hear at evening o'er the main—
Like bells upon the wind—that come and go again.

‘Halt here!’ the chieftain said—‘halt here awhile:’
His cheek burned deeper—and a soldier smile
Played sternly o'er his features, as he laid,
His martial hand upon his rattling blade,
And gathered up his cloak, and strode amid the shade.