There for my lady's bower
Built I the lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour,

Stands looking seaward.

'There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden's tears; She had forgot her fears,

She was a mother;

Death closed her mild blue eyes
Under that tower she lies;

Ne'er shall the sun arise
On such another!

'Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,
The sunlight hateful!
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon the spear,

Oh, death was grateful!

'Thus, seamed with many scars,
Bursting these prison-bars,
Up to its native stars

My soul ascended!

There from the flowing bowl
Deep drinks the warrior's soul,
Skoal, to the Northland, Skoal!'
Thus the tale ended.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

170

THE LAST BUCCANEER

THE winds were yelling, the waves were swelling, The skies were black and drear,

When the crew with eyes of flame brought the ship without a name

Alongside the last Buccaneer.

'Whence flies your sloop full sail before so fierce a gale,

When all others drive bare on the seas?

Say, come ye from the shore of the holy Salvador, Or the gulf of the rich Caribbees?'

'From a shore no search hath found, from a gulf no line can sound,

Without rudder or needle we steer;

Above, below our bark die the sea-fowl and the shark, As we fly by the last Buccaneer.

'To-night there shall be heard on the rocks of Cape de Verde

A loud crash and a louder roar;

And to-morrow shall the deep with a heavy moaning sweep

The corpses and wreck to the shore.'

The stately ship of Clyde securely now may ride
In the breath of the citron shades;

And Severn's towering mast securely now flies fast,
Through the sea of the balmy Trades.

From St. Jago's wealthy port, from Havanna's royal fort,

The seaman goes forth without fear;

For since that stormy night not a mortal hath had sight

Of the flag of the last Buccaneer.

Lord Macaulay.

171

THE KNIGHT'S LEAP

(A Legend of Altenahr.)

'So the foemen have fired the gate, men of mine; And the water is spent and gone?

Then bring me a cup of the red Ahr-wine:
I never shall drink but this one.

'And reach me my harness, and saddle my horse, And lead him me round to the door :

He must take such a leap to-night perforce,
As horse never took before.

'I have fought my fight, I have lived my life,
I have drunk my share of wine;

From Trier to Coln there was never a knight
Led a merrier life than mine.

'I have lived by the saddle for years two score;
And if I must die on tree,

Then the old saddle-tree, which has borne me of yore,

Is the properest timber for me.

'So now to show bishop, and burgher, and priest, How the Altenahr hawk can die:

If they smoke the old falcon out of his nest,
He must take to his wings and fly.'

He harnessed himself by the clear moonshine,
And he mounted his horse at the door;
And he drained such a cup of the red Ahr-wine,
As man never drained before.

He spurred the old horse, and he held him tight,
And he leapt him out over the wall;

Out over the cliff, out into the night,
Three hundred feet of fall.

They found him next morning below in the glen,
With never a bone in him whole-

A mass or a prayer now, good gentlemen,
For such a bold rider's soul.

Charles Kingsley.

172

KILLIECRANKIE

(The Burial March of Dundee.)
ON the heights of Killiecrankie
Yester-morn our army lay,
Slowly rose the mist in columns
From the river's broken way;
Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent,
And the pass was wrapt in gloom,
When the clansmen rose together
From their lair amidst the broom.
Then we belted on our tartans,

And our bonnets down we drew,
And we felt our broadswords' edges,
And we proved them to be true;
And we prayed the prayer of soldiers,
And we cried the gathering-cry,
And we clasped the hands of kinsmen,
And we swore to do or die!
Then our leader rode before us

On his war-horse black as night-
Well the Cameronian rebels

Knew that charger in the fight!—
And a cry of exultation

From the bearded warriors rose;
For we loved the house of Claver'se,
And we thought of good Montrose.
But he raised his hand for silence-
'Soldiers! I have sworn a vow:
Ere the evening star shall glisten
On Schehallion's lofty brow,

Either we shall rest in triumph,
Or another of the Græmes
Shall have died in battle-harness
For his country and King James!
Think upon the Royal Martyr-
Think of what his race endure—
Think of him whom butchers murdered
On the field of Magus Muir:-
By his sacred blood I charge ye,
By the ruined hearth and shrine-
By the blighted hopes of Scotland,
By your injuries and mine—
Strike this day as if the anvil
Lay beneath your blows the while,
Be they covenanting traitors,
Or the brood of false Argyle!
Strike! and drive the trembling rebels
Backwards o'er the stormy Forth;
Let them tell their pale Convention
How they fared within the North.
Let them tell that Highland honour
Is not to be bought or sold,
That we scorn their prince's anger
As we loathe his foreign gold.
Strike! and when the fight is over,
If ye look in vain for me,

Where the dead are lying thickest,
Search for him that was Dundee!'

Loudly then the hills re-echoed
With our answer to his call,
But a deeper echo sounded
In the bosoms of us all.

For the lands of wide Breadalbane
Not a man who heard him speak
Would that day have left the battle.
Burning eye and flushing cheek
Told the clansmen's fierce emotion,
And they harder drew their breath;