There was stillness, as of night,

When storms at distance brood:

There was stillness, as of deep dead night,
And a pause-but not of fear,

While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might
Of the hostile shield and spear.

On wound those columns bright
Between the lake and wood,

But they looked not to the misty height
Where the mountain people stood.

The pass was filled with their serried power,
All helmed and mail-arrayed;

And their steps had sounds like a thunder shower
In the rustling forest shade.

There were prince and crested knight,
Hemmed in by cliff and flood,

When a shout arose from the misty height
Where the mountain people stood.

And the mighty rocks came bounding down
Their startled foes among,

With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown—
Oh, the herdsman's arm is strong!

They came like Lauwine1 hurled
From Alp to Alp in play,

When the echoes shout through the snowy world
And the pines are borne away.

The fir-woods crashed on the mountain side,
And the Switzers rushed from high

With a sudden charge on the flower and pride
Of the Austrian chivalry:

Like hunters of the deer,

They stormed the narrow dell,

And first in the shock, with Uri's spear,

Was the arm of William Tell!

1 That is, Avalanche.

BATTLE OF MORGARTEN.

There was tumult in the crowded strait,

And a cry of wild dismay,

And many a warrior met his fate
From a peasant's hand that day!
And the empire's banner then
From its place of waving free
Went down before the shepherd men,
The men of the Forest Sea.1

With their pikes and massy clubs they brake
The cuirass and the shield,

And the war-horse dashed to the reddening lake
From the reapers of the field.

The field-but not of sheaves ;-
Proud crests and pennons lay

Strewn o'er it thick as the beech-wood leaves,
In the autumn tempest's way.

Oh! the sun in heaven fierce havoc viewed,
When the Austrian turned to fly,
And the brave in the trampling multitude
Had a fearful death to die!

And the leader of the war

At eve unhelmed was seen,

With a hurrying step on the wilds afar,
And a pale and troubled mien.

But the sons of the land which the freeman tills
Went back from the battle-toil

To their cabin-home 'midst the deep green hilis,
All burdened with royal spoil.

There were songs and festal fires
On the soaring Alps that night,
When children sprung to greet their sires
From the wild Morgarten fight.

1 The lake of the Four Cantons.

95

VI.-BETH GELERT.

(HON. WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER.)

The Hon. William Robert Spencer (born 1770, died 1834,) was the younger son of Lord Charles Spencer. He was gifted with an extraordinary memory. He is best known by his occasional pieces and his translation of "Bürger's Lenore."

The faithfulness of the hound of Llewelyn, Prince of North Wales, is a favourite subject of story among the Welsh peasantry.

THE spearman heard the bugle sound, and cheerily smiled the morn,

And many a brach and many a hound attend Llewelyn's horn; And still he blew a louder blast, and gave a louder cheer,— Come, Gelert! why art thou the last Llewelyn's horn to hear?

66

Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam? the flower of all his race!

So true, so brave! a lamb at home-a lion in the chase!"

'Twas only at Llewelyn's board the faithful Gelert fed; He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, and sentineled his bed.

In sooth, he was a peerless hound, the gift of royal John;— But now no Gelert could be found, and all the chase rode on.

And now, as over rocks and dells the gallant chidings rise, All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells with many mingled cries. That day Llewelyn little loved the chase of hart or hare, And scant and small the booty proved-for Gelert was not there.

Unpleased Llewelyn homeward hied; when, near the portal

seat

His truant Gelert he espied, bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gained the castle door, aghast the chieftain

stood:

The hound was smeared with gouts of gore;-his lips and fangs ran blood!

Llewelyn gazed with wild surprise, unused such looks to

meet;

His favourite checked his joyful guise, and crouched, and licked his feet.

Onward in haste Llewelyn passed-and on went Gelert tooAnd still, where'er his eyes were cast, fresh blood-gouts shocked his view!

O'erturned his infant's bed he found! the blood-stained

covert rent,

And all around the walls and ground with recent blood besprent !

He called his child-no voice replied! he searched with terror wild;

Blood! blood he found on every side! but nowhere found the child!

"Hell-hound! by thee my child's devoured!" the frantic father cried,

And to the hilt his vengeful sword he plunged in Gelert's side!

His suppliant, as to earth he fell, no pity could impart;
But still his Gelert's dying yell passed heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell some slumberer wakened nigh;

What words the parent's joy can tell to hear his infant cry! Concealed beneath a mangled heap his hurried search had missed,

All glowing from his rosy sleep his cherub boy he kissed! Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread-but the same couch beneath

Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead-tremendous still in death!

Ah! what was then Llewelyn's pain! for now the truth was clear,

The gallant hound the wolf had slain, to save Llewelyn's heir. Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe: "Best of thy kind, adieu! The frantic deed which laid thee low this heart shall ever rue!"

-And now a gallant tomb they raise, with costly sculpture decked,

And marbles, storied with his praise, poor Gelert's bones protect.

G

Here never could the spearman pass, or forester, unmoved; Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass Llewelyn's sorrow proved. And here he hung his horn and spear; and oft, as evening fell, In fancy's piercing sounds would hear poor Gelert's dying yell.

VII. JESSIE OF LUCKNOW.

(THOMAS E. WEBB, A.M.)

The incident on which this spirited piece is founded is said to have occurred while our countrymen were besieged in Lucknow, during the late Indian mutiny, and when despair was at its height. Jessie Brown, the wife of a corporal, had all through the siege been in a state of high excitement, and was labouring under a constant fever. "At last," says the lady correspondent of the Pays, "she lay down on the ground and fell into a profound slumber, her head resting in my lap. I myself could no longer resist the inclination to sleep, in spite of the continual roar of cannon. Suddenly I was aroused by a wild, unearthly scream close to my ear; my companion stood upright beside me, her arms raised, and her head bent forward in the attitude of listening. A look of intense delight broke over her countenance: she grasped my hand, drew me towards her, and exclaimed, ‘Dinna ye hear it? dinna ye hear it? Ay, I'm no dreamin': it is the slogan o' the Highlanders! We're saved, we're saved!'" It is to be regretted that subsequent information threw discredit on this romantic story; yet even with this drawback the editor cannot refrain from inserting the poem. The author of these touching verses is Mr Thomas E. Webb, A.M., Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Dublin.

In her veins the red river is fast running high,

The bale-fire of fever is lit in her eye;

And by Reason unmastered her truant thoughts roam-

Roam o'er the ocean-wave, back to her home.

There, where the gowan-gem spangles the lea,
There, where the laughing burn flits to the sea,
There is she waiting the set of the sun,

For the ploughman's return when the ploughing is done! "Wake me," she said, "when the ploughing is done,

And my father returns at the set of the sun."

Wrapped in her Highland plaid, sunk on the sod,
She's asleep she is still-Is her spirit with God?
Breathless and motionless, there doth she lie,
While the boom of the battle-field hurtles on high;
And still as she lies, round the walls of the dwelling
All wildly a host of black demons is yelling.