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Pealed throughout the startled glen!

When the herd of frantic women

Stumbled through the midnight snow, With their fathers' houses blazing,

And their dearest dead below! Oh, the horror of the tempest,

Ás the flashing drift was blown, Crimsoned with the conflagration,

And the roofs went thundering down! 60 Oh, the prayers-the prayers and curses That together winged their flight From the maddened hearts of many Through that long and woful night! Till the fires began to dwindle,

And the shots grew faint and few, And we heard the foeman's challenge Only as a far halloo.

Till the silence once more settled

O'er the gorges of the glen

Broken only by the Cona

Plunging through its naked den. Slowly from the mountain summit Was the drifting veil withdrawn, And the ghastly valley glimmered In the grey December dawn. Better had the morning never

Dawned upon our dark despair!

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When she searches for her offspring

Round the relics of her nest.

For in many a spot the tartan
Peered above the wintry heap,
Marking where a dead Macdonald
Lay within his frozen sleep.
Tremblingly we scooped the covering
From each kindred victim's head,
And the living lips were burning

On the cold ones of the dead.
And I left them with their dearest-
Dearest charge had every one-
Left the maiden with her lover,
Left the mother with her son.
I alone of all was mateless-

Far more wretched I than they, For the snow would not discover Where my lord and husband lay. But I wandered up the valley, Till I found him lying low, With the gash upon his bosom And the frown upon his browTill I found him lying murdered, Where he wooed me long ago!

I had mourned thee, hadst thou perished With the foremost of thy name,

When the valiant and the noble

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Arthur hugh Elough1

1819-1861

QUA CURSUM VENTUS
(From Ambarvalia, 1843)
As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side,
Two towers of sail at dawn of day

Are scarce long leagues apart descried;
When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,
And all the darkling hours they plied,
Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas
By each was cleaving, side by side:
E'en so-but why the tale reveal

Of those, whom year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged?

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At dead of night their sails were filled,
And onward each rejoicing steered-
Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,
Ör wist, what first with dawn appeared!
To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,
Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,
Through winds and tides one compass guides-
To that, and your own selves, be true.
But O blithe breeze! and O great seas,
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,
On your wide plain they join again,
Together lead them home at last.
One port, methought, alike they sought,
One purpose hold where'er they fare,-
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas!
At last, at last, unite them there.

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1 That long time, when I shall not be, moves me more than this brief, mortal life.

1 St. James, i. 17.

A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL (From Old World Idylls, 1883)

He lived in that past Georgian day
When men were less inclined to say
That "Time is Gold," and overlay
With toil their pleasure;
He held some land, and dwelt thereon,-
Where, I forget,--the house is gone;
His Christian name, I think was John,-
His surname, Leisure.

Reynolds1 has painted him,-a face
Filled with a fine, old-fashioned grace,
Fresh-colored, frank, with ne'er a trace
Of trouble shaded;

The eyes are blue, the hair is drest
In plainest way, one hand is prest
Deep in a flapped canary vest,

With buds brocaded.

1 A small tree, whose leaves are silvery underneath.

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She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!...

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1 Sir Joshua Reynolds, a famous English portrait painter. Cf. p. 435, supra.