 | The battle of Niagara |  |
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CANTO III.
Same night continues ..... general appearances of night at all seasons assembled ..... midnight ..... daylight ...... sunrise ..... second day ...... Americans parade on the heights .... British on the march ..... Canadians ..... British chief ..... incidents ..... associations ..... evening ..... Niagara.
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THERE are harps that complain to the presence of night,
To the presence of night alone—
In a near and unchangeable tone—
Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by—
As if some immortal had stooped from the sky—
And breathed out a blessing—and flown!
To the presence of night alone—
In a near and unchangeable tone—
Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by—
As if some immortal had stooped from the sky—
And breathed out a blessing—and flown!
Yes!—harps that complain to the breezes of night;
To the breezes of night alone—
Growing fainter and fainter, as ruddy and bright,
The sun rolls aloft, in his drapery of light—
Like a conqueror, shaking his brilliant hair,
And flourishing robe, on the edge of the air:
Burning crimson and gold,
On the clouds that unfold—
Breaking onward in flame!—while an ocean divides
On his right and his left—So the Thunderer rides!
When he cuts a bright path through the heaving tides;
Rolling on—and erect—in a charioting throne!
To the breezes of night alone—
Growing fainter and fainter, as ruddy and bright,
The sun rolls aloft, in his drapery of light—
Like a conqueror, shaking his brilliant hair,
And flourishing robe, on the edge of the air:
Burning crimson and gold,
On the clouds that unfold—
Breaking onward in flame!—while an ocean divides
On his right and his left—So the Thunderer rides!
When he cuts a bright path through the heaving tides;
Rolling on—and erect—in a charioting throne!
Yes!—strings that lie still in the gushing of day;
That awake, all alive!—to the breezes of night—
There are hautboys and flutes too, for ever at play,
When the evening is near, and the sun is away—
Breathing out the still hymn of delight.
These strings by invisible fingers are played:—
By spirits—unseen—and unknown—
But thick as the stars!—all this musick is made—
And these flutes, alone,
In one sweet dreamy tone—
Are ever blown
For ever and for ever;
The live-long night ye hear the sound,
Like distant waters flowing round,
In ringing caves—while heaven is sweet
With crowding tunes, like halls
Where fountain-musick falls,
And rival minstrels meet!
That awake, all alive!—to the breezes of night—
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When the evening is near, and the sun is away—
Breathing out the still hymn of delight.
These strings by invisible fingers are played:—
By spirits—unseen—and unknown—
But thick as the stars!—all this musick is made—
And these flutes, alone,
In one sweet dreamy tone—
Are ever blown
For ever and for ever;
The live-long night ye hear the sound,
Like distant waters flowing round,
In ringing caves—while heaven is sweet
With crowding tunes, like halls
Where fountain-musick falls,
And rival minstrels meet!
'Tis dark abroad. The majesty of Night
Bows down superbly from her utmost height:
Stretches her starless plumes across the world;
And all the banners of the wind are furled.
How heavily we breathe amid such gloom!
As if we slumbered in creation's tomb.
It is the noon of that tremendous hour,
When life is helpless, and the dead have power:
When solitudes are peopled: when the sky
Is swept by shady wings that, sailing by,
Proclaim their watch is set; when hidden rills
Are chirping on their course; and all the hills
Are bright with armour:—when the starry vests
And glittering plumes, and fiery twinkling crests
Of moon-light sentinels, are sparkling round,
And all the air is one rich floating sound:
When countless voices, in the day unheard,
Are piping from their haunts: and every bird
That loves the leafy wood, and blooming bower,
And echoing cave, is singing to her flower:
When every lovely—every lonely place,
Is ringing to the light and sandaled pace
Of twinkling feet; and all about, the flow
Of new-born fountains murmuring as they go:
When watery tunes are richest—and the call
Of wandering streamlets, as they part and fall
In foaming melody, is all around;
Like fairy harps beneath enchanted ground.
Sweet drowsy distant musick! like the breath
Of airy flutes that blow before an infant's death.
Bows down superbly from her utmost height:
Stretches her starless plumes across the world;
And all the banners of the wind are furled.
How heavily we breathe amid such gloom!
As if we slumbered in creation's tomb.
It is the noon of that tremendous hour,
When life is helpless, and the dead have power:
When solitudes are peopled: when the sky
Is swept by shady wings that, sailing by,
Proclaim their watch is set; when hidden rills
Are chirping on their course; and all the hills
Are bright with armour:—when the starry vests
And glittering plumes, and fiery twinkling crests
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And all the air is one rich floating sound:
When countless voices, in the day unheard,
Are piping from their haunts: and every bird
That loves the leafy wood, and blooming bower,
And echoing cave, is singing to her flower:
When every lovely—every lonely place,
Is ringing to the light and sandaled pace
Of twinkling feet; and all about, the flow
Of new-born fountains murmuring as they go:
When watery tunes are richest—and the call
Of wandering streamlets, as they part and fall
In foaming melody, is all around;
Like fairy harps beneath enchanted ground.
Sweet drowsy distant musick! like the breath
Of airy flutes that blow before an infant's death.
It is that hour when listening ones will weep
And know not why: when we would gladly sleep
Our last—last sleep; and feel no touch of fear,—
Unconscious where we are—or what is near,
'Till we are startled by a falling tear,
That unexpected gathered in our eye,
While we were panting for yon blessed sky:
That hour of gratitude—of whispering prayer,
When we can hear a worship in the air:
When we are lifted from the earth, and feel
Light fanning wings around us faintly wheel,
And o'er our lids and brow a blessing steal:
And then—as if our sins were all forgiven—
And all our tears were wiped—and we in heaven!
And know not why: when we would gladly sleep
Our last—last sleep; and feel no touch of fear,—
Unconscious where we are—or what is near,
'Till we are startled by a falling tear,
That unexpected gathered in our eye,
While we were panting for yon blessed sky:
That hour of gratitude—of whispering prayer,
When we can hear a worship in the air:
When we are lifted from the earth, and feel
Light fanning wings around us faintly wheel,
And o'er our lids and brow a blessing steal:
And then—as if our sins were all forgiven—
And all our tears were wiped—and we in heaven!
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It is that hour of quiet ecstacy,
When every ruffling wind, that passes by
The sleeping leaf, makes busiest minstrelsy;
When all at once! amid the quivering shade,
Millions of diamond sparklers are betrayed!
When dry leaves rustle, and the whistling song
Of keen-tuned grass, comes piercingly along:
When windy pipes are heard—and many a lute
Is touched amid the skies, and then is mute:
When even the foliage on the glittering steep,
Of feathery bloom—is whispering in its sleep:
When all the garlands of the precipice,
Shedding their blossoms, in their moonlight bliss,
Are floating loosely on the eddying air,
And breathing out their fragrant spirits there:
And all their braided tresses fluttering—bright,
Are sighing faintly to the shadowy light:
When every cave and grot—and bower and lake,
And drooping floweret-bell, are all awake:
When starry eyes are burning on the cliff
Of many a crouching tyrant too, as if
Such melodies were grateful even to him:
When life is loveliest—and the blue skies swim
In lustre, warm as sunshine—but more dim:
When all the holy sentinels of night
Step forth to watch in turn, and worship by their light.
When every ruffling wind, that passes by
The sleeping leaf, makes busiest minstrelsy;
When all at once! amid the quivering shade,
Millions of diamond sparklers are betrayed!
When dry leaves rustle, and the whistling song
Of keen-tuned grass, comes piercingly along:
When windy pipes are heard—and many a lute
Is touched amid the skies, and then is mute:
When even the foliage on the glittering steep,
Of feathery bloom—is whispering in its sleep:
When all the garlands of the precipice,
Shedding their blossoms, in their moonlight bliss,
Are floating loosely on the eddying air,
And breathing out their fragrant spirits there:
And all their braided tresses fluttering—bright,
Are sighing faintly to the shadowy light:
When every cave and grot—and bower and lake,
And drooping floweret-bell, are all awake:
When starry eyes are burning on the cliff
Of many a crouching tyrant too, as if
Such melodies were grateful even to him:
When life is loveliest—and the blue skies swim
In lustre, warm as sunshine—but more dim:
When all the holy sentinels of night
Step forth to watch in turn, and worship by their light.
Such is the hour!—the holy, breathless hour,
When such sweet minstrelsy hath mightiest power:
When sights are seen, that all the blaze of day
Can never rival, in its fierce display:
Such is the hour—yet not a sound is heard;
No sights are seen—no melancholy bird
Sings tenderly and sweet; but all the air
Is thick and motionless—as if it were
A prelude to some dreadful tragedy;
Some midnight drama of an opening sky!
When such sweet minstrelsy hath mightiest power:
When sights are seen, that all the blaze of day
Can never rival, in its fierce display:
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No sights are seen—no melancholy bird
Sings tenderly and sweet; but all the air
Is thick and motionless—as if it were
A prelude to some dreadful tragedy;
Some midnight drama of an opening sky!
The Genius of the mountain, and the wood;
The stormy Eagle, and her rushing brood;
The fire-eyed tenant of the desert cave;
The gallant spirit of the roaring wave;
The star-crowned messengers that ride the air;
The meteor watch-light, with its streamy hair,
Threatening and sweeping redly from the hill;
The shaking cascade—and the merry rill
Are hushed to slumber now—and heaven and earth are still.
The stormy Eagle, and her rushing brood;
The fire-eyed tenant of the desert cave;
The gallant spirit of the roaring wave;
The star-crowned messengers that ride the air;
The meteor watch-light, with its streamy hair,
Threatening and sweeping redly from the hill;
The shaking cascade—and the merry rill
Are hushed to slumber now—and heaven and earth are still.
And now the daylight comes!—slowly it rides,
In ridgy lustre o'er the cloudy tides,
Like the soft foam upon the billow's breast;
Or feathery light upon a shadowy crest;
The morning Breezes from their slumbers wake,
And o'er the distant hill-tops cheerly shake
Their dewy locks, and plume themselves, and poise
Their rosy wings, and listen to the noise
Of echoes wandering from the world below:
The distant lake, rejoicing in its flow:
The bugles ready cry: the labouring drum:
The neigh of steeds—and the incessant hum
That the bright tenants of the forest send:
The sunrise gun: the heave—the wave—and bend
Of everlasting trees, whose busy leaves
Rustle their song of praise, while Ruin weaves
A robe of verdure for their yielding bark;
While mossy garlands—rich, and full, and dark,
Creep slowly round them. Monarchs of the wood!
Whose mighty sceptres sway the mountain brood!
Whose aged bosoms, in their last decay,
Shelter the winged idolaters of day:
Who, 'mid the desert wild, sublimely stand,
And grapple with the storm-god hand to hand!
Then drop like weary pyramids away;
Stupendous monuments of calm decay!
As yet the warring thunders have not rent
The swimming clouds, the brightening firmament,
The lovely mists that float around the sky—
Ruddy and rich with fresh and glorious dye,
Like hovering seraph wings—or robe of Poesy!
In ridgy lustre o'er the cloudy tides,
Like the soft foam upon the billow's breast;
Or feathery light upon a shadowy crest;
The morning Breezes from their slumbers wake,
And o'er the distant hill-tops cheerly shake
Their dewy locks, and plume themselves, and poise
Their rosy wings, and listen to the noise
Of echoes wandering from the world below:
The distant lake, rejoicing in its flow:
The bugles ready cry: the labouring drum:
The neigh of steeds—and the incessant hum
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The sunrise gun: the heave—the wave—and bend
Of everlasting trees, whose busy leaves
Rustle their song of praise, while Ruin weaves
A robe of verdure for their yielding bark;
While mossy garlands—rich, and full, and dark,
Creep slowly round them. Monarchs of the wood!
Whose mighty sceptres sway the mountain brood!
Whose aged bosoms, in their last decay,
Shelter the winged idolaters of day:
Who, 'mid the desert wild, sublimely stand,
And grapple with the storm-god hand to hand!
Then drop like weary pyramids away;
Stupendous monuments of calm decay!
As yet the warring thunders have not rent
The swimming clouds, the brightening firmament,
The lovely mists that float around the sky—
Ruddy and rich with fresh and glorious dye,
Like hovering seraph wings—or robe of Poesy!
Now comes the sun forth! not in blaze of fire:
With rain-bow-harnessed coursers, that respire
An atmosphere of flame. No chariot whirls
O'er reddening clouds. No sunny flag unfurls
O'er rushing smoke. No chargers in array
Scatter thro' heaven and earth their fiery spray.
No shouting charioteer, in transport flings
Ten thousand anthems, from tumultuous strings:
And round and round, no fresh-plumed echoes dance:
No airy minstrels in the flush light glance:
No rushing melody comes strong and deep:
And far away no fading winglets sweep:
No boundless hymning o'er the blue-sky rings,
In hallelujahs to the King of Kings:
No youthful hours are seen. No riband lash,
Flings its gay stripings like a rainbow flash,
While starry crowns, and constellations fade
Before the glories of that cavalcade,
Whose trappings are the jewelry of heaven,
Embroidered thickly on the clouds of even.
With rain-bow-harnessed coursers, that respire
An atmosphere of flame. No chariot whirls
O'er reddening clouds. No sunny flag unfurls
O'er rushing smoke. No chargers in array
Scatter thro' heaven and earth their fiery spray.
No shouting charioteer, in transport flings
Ten thousand anthems, from tumultuous strings:
And round and round, no fresh-plumed echoes dance:
No airy minstrels in the flush light glance:
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And far away no fading winglets sweep:
No boundless hymning o'er the blue-sky rings,
In hallelujahs to the King of Kings:
No youthful hours are seen. No riband lash,
Flings its gay stripings like a rainbow flash,
While starry crowns, and constellations fade
Before the glories of that cavalcade,
Whose trappings are the jewelry of heaven,
Embroidered thickly on the clouds of even.
No!—no!—he comes not thus in pomp, and light!
A new creation bursting out of night!
But he comes darkly forth! in storm arrayed—
Like the red Tempest marshalled in her shade,
When mountains rock; and thunders travelling round,
Hold counsel in the sky—and midnight trumps resound.
A new creation bursting out of night!
But he comes darkly forth! in storm arrayed—
Like the red Tempest marshalled in her shade,
When mountains rock; and thunders travelling round,
Hold counsel in the sky—and midnight trumps resound.
Hark! the deep drums again;—the echoing drums!
Their rousing loudly through the clear air comes.
And trumpets dread hourra!—its plunging blast
Left every heart—a-heaving—as it past.
In that wild threatening cry, how much of life!
Of martial song:—the minstrelsy of strife.
A flash!—a vapour! from yon fading cloud
The cannon's voice comes suddenly aloud:
Now bursts the smothered war! and proudly rise
Fresh plumes and banners, blazing to the skies!
And further still, the loud artillery rolls
Uninterrupted thunder to the poles!
Their rousing loudly through the clear air comes.
And trumpets dread hourra!—its plunging blast
Left every heart—a-heaving—as it past.
In that wild threatening cry, how much of life!
Of martial song:—the minstrelsy of strife.
A flash!—a vapour! from yon fading cloud
The cannon's voice comes suddenly aloud:
Now bursts the smothered war! and proudly rise
Fresh plumes and banners, blazing to the skies!
And further still, the loud artillery rolls
Uninterrupted thunder to the poles!
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That morning sun uprose o'er swelling hearts,
That e'er the evening sun once more departs,
Shall cease to swell on earth. That trumpet's voice
For the last time hath called them to rejoice:
Yes—many a pulse now fiercely throbbing there,
Hath heard its requiem in the morning air.
That e'er the evening sun once more departs,
Shall cease to swell on earth. That trumpet's voice
For the last time hath called them to rejoice:
Yes—many a pulse now fiercely throbbing there,
Hath heard its requiem in the morning air.
A horseman!—surely we have seen that steed—
His reaching step—his flowing mane—his speed:
The rein is loosened—upward to the heaven,
He leaps, as if the battle blast were given!
That youthful rider—what an awful brow!—
How calm and grand!—and now he nods—and now—
Faith,—'tis a glorious vision! how his hair
Is blown about his cheek, as if it were
A living richness clustering in the air!
His chest is heaving, and his sunny eye
Goes bright and fearless o'er the clear blue sky:
That lip—that brow, that ardent, piercing look
In battle's wildest uproar never shook:
No frowning—and no effort—always bright,
And always careless—always—even in fight:
And yet that smile of his, that waving hand,
And nodding plume, among his chosen band,
Have a determined and despotick sway,
O'er hearts and souls,—that never would obey
The lordliest frown that ever sat in cloud;
The stormiest voice that ever raged aloud:
The darkest helm that ever nodded proud:
His is a spirit of that mighty power,
That moves the calmest in the troubled hour:
An eye that, even in danger, threatens not;
Calm—frank and generous—ne'er to be forgot,
That, even in strife, looks forth with beams of peace,
And brightens as the thunders of the battle cease.
His reaching step—his flowing mane—his speed:
The rein is loosened—upward to the heaven,
He leaps, as if the battle blast were given!
That youthful rider—what an awful brow!—
How calm and grand!—and now he nods—and now—
Faith,—'tis a glorious vision! how his hair
Is blown about his cheek, as if it were
A living richness clustering in the air!
His chest is heaving, and his sunny eye
Goes bright and fearless o'er the clear blue sky:
That lip—that brow, that ardent, piercing look
In battle's wildest uproar never shook:
No frowning—and no effort—always bright,
And always careless—always—even in fight:
And yet that smile of his, that waving hand,
And nodding plume, among his chosen band,
Have a determined and despotick sway,
O'er hearts and souls,—that never would obey
The lordliest frown that ever sat in cloud;
The stormiest voice that ever raged aloud:
The darkest helm that ever nodded proud:
His is a spirit of that mighty power,
That moves the calmest in the troubled hour:
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Calm—frank and generous—ne'er to be forgot,
That, even in strife, looks forth with beams of peace,
And brightens as the thunders of the battle cease.
His march was victory—and his charger's tread
Hath been familiar with the warrior's bed—
The battle field! His brow was always bare,
His head thrown back—his right arm in the air!
His charger leaping—plunging—as he came,
And went amid the battle wrapped in flame;
While o'er him waved the star-flag, thick with smoke;
Unharmed he sat—and like the thunder spoke:
Nodding his tall plumes to the trumpet-blast
The fiercest in the strife, but when 'twas past,
The first to sheathe his blade—to leave the battle, last.
Hath been familiar with the warrior's bed—
The battle field! His brow was always bare,
His head thrown back—his right arm in the air!
His charger leaping—plunging—as he came,
And went amid the battle wrapped in flame;
While o'er him waved the star-flag, thick with smoke;
Unharmed he sat—and like the thunder spoke:
Nodding his tall plumes to the trumpet-blast
The fiercest in the strife, but when 'twas past,
The first to sheathe his blade—to leave the battle, last.
The drum is rolled again. The bugle sings;
And far upon the wind the cross flag flings
A radiant challenge to its starry foe,
That floats—a sheet of light!—away—below,
Where troops are forming—slowly in the night
Of mighty waters; where an angry light
Bounds from the cataract, and fills the skies
With visions—rainbows—and the foamy dyes,
That one may see at morn in youthful poet's eyes.
And far upon the wind the cross flag flings
A radiant challenge to its starry foe,
That floats—a sheet of light!—away—below,
Where troops are forming—slowly in the night
Of mighty waters; where an angry light
Bounds from the cataract, and fills the skies
With visions—rainbows—and the foamy dyes,
That one may see at morn in youthful poet's eyes.
Niagara! Niagara! I hear
Thy tumbling waters. And I see thee rear
Thy thundering sceptre to the clouded skies:
I see it wave—I hear the ocean rise,
And roll obedient to thy call. I hear
The tempest-hymning of thy floods in fear:
The quaking mountains and the nodding trees—
The reeling birds—and the careering breeze—
The tottering hills, unsteadied in thy roar:
Niagara! as thy dark waters pour,
One everlasting earthquake rocks thy lofty shore!
Thy tumbling waters. And I see thee rear
Thy thundering sceptre to the clouded skies:
I see it wave—I hear the ocean rise,
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The tempest-hymning of thy floods in fear:
The quaking mountains and the nodding trees—
The reeling birds—and the careering breeze—
The tottering hills, unsteadied in thy roar:
Niagara! as thy dark waters pour,
One everlasting earthquake rocks thy lofty shore!
There spreads the red cross-banner, far and wide,
Flapping its dark blue, as 'tis wont to ride
O'er the red tempest, on the mountain-tide.
The troops of Wellington are there; a band—
Nursed by stern Glory in her favourite land:
The guardians of the Spaniard, when subdued,
And trampled in the dust: a band that stood
Forth with that banner, floating like a shroud,
And battled on the mountain—in a cloud—
With high—stupendous Gaul, until her genius bowed.
Flapping its dark blue, as 'tis wont to ride
O'er the red tempest, on the mountain-tide.
The troops of Wellington are there; a band—
Nursed by stern Glory in her favourite land:
The guardians of the Spaniard, when subdued,
And trampled in the dust: a band that stood
Forth with that banner, floating like a shroud,
And battled on the mountain—in a cloud—
With high—stupendous Gaul, until her genius bowed.
Stern eyes are lifted to it, as it leans
Away upon the breeze: and long past scenes
Of home and country, o'er the heaving main—
Of fire-side peace, are conjured up again:
Parents—and wife—and children—and young eyes
Of weeping love, are looking from the skies:
And murmuring prayers are near again: and dreams
Of parting lips: and many a dark eye beams
Upon its soldier's heart, as it had done,
When they had parted—parted!—all alone;
And every friend he had, was going one by one.
Away upon the breeze: and long past scenes
Of home and country, o'er the heaving main—
Of fire-side peace, are conjured up again:
Parents—and wife—and children—and young eyes
Of weeping love, are looking from the skies:
And murmuring prayers are near again: and dreams
Of parting lips: and many a dark eye beams
Upon its soldier's heart, as it had done,
When they had parted—parted!—all alone;
And every friend he had, was going one by one.
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From the horizon now, a gathering cloud
Comes darkly o'er the hills; and now a crowd
Of mothers, fathers, sisters, lovers, friends,
Come forth to pray for those whom Glory sends,
In pomp and fever to the field of death;
A throng, who came to pour their erring breath,
To him—the GOD OF PEACE!—who sits on high;
To pray that he will bless the fiery eye;
And bloody hand, that smites in iron wrath
A brother to the dust!—and light the path
Of him who rides in battle and in blood,
Carving that brother for the shrieking brood,
That snuff the coming war, and drink the vital flood.
Comes darkly o'er the hills; and now a crowd
Of mothers, fathers, sisters, lovers, friends,
Come forth to pray for those whom Glory sends,
In pomp and fever to the field of death;
A throng, who came to pour their erring breath,
To him—the GOD OF PEACE!—who sits on high;
To pray that he will bless the fiery eye;
And bloody hand, that smites in iron wrath
A brother to the dust!—and light the path
Of him who rides in battle and in blood,
Carving that brother for the shrieking brood,
That snuff the coming war, and drink the vital flood.
Yonder on snow-white charger, treading proud,
A red-cross chieftain goes to meet that crowd:
An aged warrior, and a valiant one:
A hero of the battles that are done.
The fife sounds cheerly! and their steady tread,
And long, firm steppings, as their columns spread;
Their glancing splendours o'er the distant hill:
Their flapping banners—and their horns that fill
All heaven, and earth, and air with martial song,
As their proud foot-line winds its length along,
Would seem the pageantry of Peace, instead
Of battle cavalcade by Slaughter led.
A red-cross chieftain goes to meet that crowd:
An aged warrior, and a valiant one:
A hero of the battles that are done.
The fife sounds cheerly! and their steady tread,
And long, firm steppings, as their columns spread;
Their glancing splendours o'er the distant hill:
Their flapping banners—and their horns that fill
All heaven, and earth, and air with martial song,
As their proud foot-line winds its length along,
Would seem the pageantry of Peace, instead
Of battle cavalcade by Slaughter led.
Who is that drooping one with snowy breast;
Shrinking like virgins when they're first carest;
With full, dark eye, and melancholy smile,
And glistening lash, that's standing there the while
That aged man comes up? How pale that cheek!
And yet how eloquent! O, she can speak,
With that dark lash and that slow dropping tear,
Unutterable thoughts—when one is near,
In solitude and silence—that is dear.
But see!—she moves—and now her wild, dark ey
Is flashing—lifted: something passes by:
A youth in armour! what a glorious face!
And now he reins his barb: with what a grace—
He waves his snowy helmet—and his hand—
How full of noble spirit and command!
A gallant glorious form—but yet a boy:
An eye of terror and a lip of joy;
Sure he has lost the rein!—his fiery steed
Goes plunging so, with such a fearful speed:
He has! he has!—a shriek! he has indeed!
That waving of his helm—that loosened rein—
O God—the precipice!—it is in vain—
Yet stay—what death-like silence—now he wheels!
And every heart breathes out: and every bosom feels
The cool air coming freshly—can it be!
Is that the fiery steed? can this be he?
The rider—that was bending o'er the mane?
This the fierce steed that caught the loosened rein?
Foaming he comes, with glossy neck arched high,
And stately step, and wildly rolling eye—
Rattling his bits, and reaching with his head—
This that fierce steed? why, how composed his tread.
The horseman too, how steady, light and high
Sits the young spirit with his lightning eye,
And smiling lip. See how his panting breast
Is heaving yet beneath his studded vest:
The gathered rein—the firm, elastick seat
Of airy grace: how young—yet how complete!
Forth flies his blade—the aged warrior comes—
Bow the high banners! roll the answering drums!
Shrinking like virgins when they're first carest;
With full, dark eye, and melancholy smile,
And glistening lash, that's standing there the while
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And yet how eloquent! O, she can speak,
With that dark lash and that slow dropping tear,
Unutterable thoughts—when one is near,
In solitude and silence—that is dear.
But see!—she moves—and now her wild, dark ey
Is flashing—lifted: something passes by:
A youth in armour! what a glorious face!
And now he reins his barb: with what a grace—
He waves his snowy helmet—and his hand—
How full of noble spirit and command!
A gallant glorious form—but yet a boy:
An eye of terror and a lip of joy;
Sure he has lost the rein!—his fiery steed
Goes plunging so, with such a fearful speed:
He has! he has!—a shriek! he has indeed!
That waving of his helm—that loosened rein—
O God—the precipice!—it is in vain—
Yet stay—what death-like silence—now he wheels!
And every heart breathes out: and every bosom feels
The cool air coming freshly—can it be!
Is that the fiery steed? can this be he?
The rider—that was bending o'er the mane?
This the fierce steed that caught the loosened rein?
Foaming he comes, with glossy neck arched high,
And stately step, and wildly rolling eye—
Rattling his bits, and reaching with his head—
This that fierce steed? why, how composed his tread.
The horseman too, how steady, light and high
Sits the young spirit with his lightning eye,
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Is heaving yet beneath his studded vest:
The gathered rein—the firm, elastick seat
Of airy grace: how young—yet how complete!
Forth flies his blade—the aged warrior comes—
Bow the high banners! roll the answering drums!
And now amid a throng of sparkling eyes
In terror lifted to the bright blue skies,
Slow tears of thankfulness and joy are flowing;
And round about a languid cheek are flowing,
Rich silkiness and shade: and faintly—slow,
A lovely hand goes o'er a brow of snow—
In woman's meekest—loveliest helplessness—
The lifeless grace of beauty in distress:
But see! she wakes—and forth with glittering eye,
And burning cheek—and form erect and high,
She steps in light! That melancholy maid
Stands like Minerva for the war arrayed!
How altered! yet how lovely in her change!
How sudden and complete—indeed 'tis strange
That such a transformation should be wrought
So instantaneously—'twas brief as thought.
Now banners float, and 'mid the tented plain
She and the warrior meet: and o'er the mane
Of his white steed, he bows and smiles—and now,
Presses his old lip to her snowy brow;
‘Farewell, my child—farewell!’ the warrior says,
His high plume shaking in the sunny blaze:
And glancing to her heart its cheerful dye,
As hurrying—faultering—with averted eye—
That tells for whom the silent prayer is made—
While on her heart one trembling hand is laid,
She waves the other as they speed away,
Where the keen streamers of the Briton play.
A tear came slowly in her wandering eye;
The parting seemed so sad—she knew not why—
As far upon the wind the white steed flew,
Like grey hound brushing off the heather's morning dew.
In terror lifted to the bright blue skies,
Slow tears of thankfulness and joy are flowing;
And round about a languid cheek are flowing,
Rich silkiness and shade: and faintly—slow,
A lovely hand goes o'er a brow of snow—
In woman's meekest—loveliest helplessness—
The lifeless grace of beauty in distress:
But see! she wakes—and forth with glittering eye,
And burning cheek—and form erect and high,
She steps in light! That melancholy maid
Stands like Minerva for the war arrayed!
How altered! yet how lovely in her change!
How sudden and complete—indeed 'tis strange
That such a transformation should be wrought
So instantaneously—'twas brief as thought.
Now banners float, and 'mid the tented plain
She and the warrior meet: and o'er the mane
Of his white steed, he bows and smiles—and now,
Presses his old lip to her snowy brow;
‘Farewell, my child—farewell!’ the warrior says,
His high plume shaking in the sunny blaze:
And glancing to her heart its cheerful dye,
As hurrying—faultering—with averted eye—
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While on her heart one trembling hand is laid,
She waves the other as they speed away,
Where the keen streamers of the Briton play.
A tear came slowly in her wandering eye;
The parting seemed so sad—she knew not why—
As far upon the wind the white steed flew,
Like grey hound brushing off the heather's morning dew.
Yon sick man, bending to the earth, hath been
In the red strife himself—hath often seen
In other days, a flashing helm laid low,
While yet it shook in triumph o'er its foe:
In that gay band whose tramp is passing far,
That go in revelry and song to war,
That sick man has a brother—young and brave;
That brother!—he is riding to his grave.
A farewell swinging of his martial band
Tells to his heart—what soldiers understand—
That he will conquer!—or will bravely lie
With cloven crest and bosom to the sky,
And never tinge his cheek, altho' he dim his eye.
In the red strife himself—hath often seen
In other days, a flashing helm laid low,
While yet it shook in triumph o'er its foe:
In that gay band whose tramp is passing far,
That go in revelry and song to war,
That sick man has a brother—young and brave;
That brother!—he is riding to his grave.
A farewell swinging of his martial band
Tells to his heart—what soldiers understand—
That he will conquer!—or will bravely lie
With cloven crest and bosom to the sky,
And never tinge his cheek, altho' he dim his eye.
‘My last—last hope!’ a mother cries, and kneels,
While o'er the hills a sound of tumult reels;
Is it the war-song rushing in the breeze?
Parents and friends, it is the bending trees.
Go speed ye home, and spend your day in prayer;
To-morrow's sun may wake ye to despair.
Go kneel ye on some desert rock, and pray,
Unceasingly and deep, the live-long day,
To Him whose angels calm the stormy fray:
The time is coming when your troubled sleep
Shall throng with bloody ghosts; when ye shall weep
Whene'er the thunders roll—or lightnings stream;
Whene'er the storm is loud—or panthers scream;
And fancy 'tis the strife, and feel the battle dream.
While o'er the hills a sound of tumult reels;
Is it the war-song rushing in the breeze?
Parents and friends, it is the bending trees.
Go speed ye home, and spend your day in prayer;
To-morrow's sun may wake ye to despair.
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Unceasingly and deep, the live-long day,
To Him whose angels calm the stormy fray:
The time is coming when your troubled sleep
Shall throng with bloody ghosts; when ye shall weep
Whene'er the thunders roll—or lightnings stream;
Whene'er the storm is loud—or panthers scream;
And fancy 'tis the strife, and feel the battle dream.
The cavalcade went by. The day hath gone!
And yet the soldier lives: his cheerful tone
Rises in boisterous song: while slowly calls
The monarch spirit of the mighty falls.
Soldiers be firm!—and mind your watch fires well:
Sleep not to-night—there comes a distant swell,
Like the approaching step of toiling steeds,
Encountering on the hills: and far behind us speeds.
And yet the soldier lives: his cheerful tone
Rises in boisterous song: while slowly calls
The monarch spirit of the mighty falls.
Soldiers be firm!—and mind your watch fires well:
Sleep not to-night—there comes a distant swell,
Like the approaching step of toiling steeds,
Encountering on the hills: and far behind us speeds.
Low stooping from his arch, the glorious sun
Hath left the storm with which his course begun;
And now, in rolling cloud, goes calmly home,
In heavenly pomp—a-down the far blue dome.
In sweet-toned minstrelsy is heard the cry,
All clear and smooth, along the echoing sky,
Of many a fresh blown bugle, full and strong,
The soldier's instrument! the soldier's song!
Niagara too, is heard: his thunder comes
Like far-off battle—hosts of rolling drums.
All o'er the western heaven, the flaming clouds
Detach themselves, and float like hovering shrouds:
Loosely unwoven, and far unfurled,
A sunset canopy enwraps the world.
The vesper hymn grows soft. In parting day
Wings flit about. The warblings die away,
The shores are dizzy, and the hills look dim,
The cataract falls deeper and the landscapes swim.
Hath left the storm with which his course begun;
And now, in rolling cloud, goes calmly home,
In heavenly pomp—a-down the far blue dome.
In sweet-toned minstrelsy is heard the cry,
All clear and smooth, along the echoing sky,
Of many a fresh blown bugle, full and strong,
The soldier's instrument! the soldier's song!
Niagara too, is heard: his thunder comes
Like far-off battle—hosts of rolling drums.
All o'er the western heaven, the flaming clouds
Detach themselves, and float like hovering shrouds:
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A sunset canopy enwraps the world.
The vesper hymn grows soft. In parting day
Wings flit about. The warblings die away,
The shores are dizzy, and the hills look dim,
The cataract falls deeper and the landscapes swim.
| The battle of Niagara | |