Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long And the stormy winds do blow. IV. The meteor flag of England Till danger's troubled night depart, Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! When the storm has ceased to blow; HOHENLINDEN. ON Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Then shook the hills with thunder riven, But redder yet that light shall glow "Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Few, few shall part where many meet! GLENARA. O HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud; In silence they reached over mountain and moor, "And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse, "I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; "And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" O pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, 'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn: "I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her grief, 1 dreamed that her lord was a barbarous chief: On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem; Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, EXILE OF ERIN. THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger; Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, But, alas in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me la a mansion of peace where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me, or live to deplore! Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Yet all its sad recollection suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: Erin! an exile bequeaths thee this blessing! Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with aevotion,Erin mavournin-Erin go bragh!* LORD ULLINS DAUGHTER. A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, Ireland my darling-Ireland for ever. |