He fear’d not in his flower of days, When strong to stem the torrent’s force, When through the desert’s pathless maze His way was as an eagle’s course! When war was sunshine to his sight, And the wild hurricane delight! Shall, then, the warrior tremble _now_? Now when his envied strength is o’er-- Hung on the pine his idle bow, His pirogue useless on the shore? When age hath dimm’d his failing eye, Shall he, the joyless, fear to die? Sons of the brave! delay no more-- The spirits of my kindred call. ’Tis but one pang, and all is o’er! Oh, bid the aged cedar fall! To join the brethren of his prime, The mighty of departed time. EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS. Soft skies of Italy! how richly drest, Smile these wild scenes in your purpureal glow! What glorious hues, reflected from the west, Float o’er the dwellings of eternal snow! Yon torrent, foaming down the granite steep, Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam; Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep, Where pipes the goat-herd by his mountain-stream. Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray, That still at eve its lofty temple knows; From rock and torrent fade the tints away, And all is wrapt in twilight’s deep repose: While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper star, And roves the Alpine gale o’er solitudes afar. DIRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CHIEF IN “WAVERLEY.”[59] Son of the mighty and the free! High-minded leader of the brave! Was it for lofty chief like thee To fill a nameless grave? Oh! if amidst the valiant slain The warrior’s bier had been thy lot, E’en though on red Culloden’s plain, We then had mourn’d thee not. But darkly closed thy dawn of fame, That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair; Vengeance alone may breathe thy name, The watchword of Despair! Yet, oh! if gallant spirit’s power Hath e’er ennobled death like thine, Then glory mark’d _thy_ parting hour, Last of a mighty line! O’er thy own towers the sunshine falls, But cannot chase their silent gloom; Those beams that gild thy native walls Are sleeping on thy tomb! Spring on thy mountains laughs the while, Thy green woods wave in vernal air, But the loved scenes may vainly smile: Not e’en thy dust is there. On thy blue hills no bugle-sound Is mingling with the torrent’s roar; Unmark’d, the wild deer sport around: Thou lead’st the chase no more! Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still, Those halls where peal’d the choral strain; They hear the wind’s deep murmuring thrill, And all is hush’d again.