No banner from the lonely tower Shall wave its blazon’d folds on high; There the tall grass and summer flower Unmark’d shall spring and die. No more thy bard for other ear Shall wake the harp once loved by thine-- Hush’d be the strain _thou_ canst not hear, Last of a mighty line! [59] These very beautiful stanzas first appeared in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1815, (p. 255,) with the following interesting heading. “A literary friend of ours received these verses with a letter of the following tenor:-- “‘_A very ingenious young friend of mine has just sent me the enclosed, on reading Waverley. To you the world gives that charming work; and if in any future edition you should like to insert the Dirge to a Highland Chief, you would do honour to_ _Your Sincere Admirer._’ “The individual to whom this obliging letter was addressed, having no claim to the honour which is there done him, does not possess the means of publishing the verses in the popular novel alluded to. But that the public may sustain no loss, and that the ingenious author of Waverley may be aware of the honour intended him, our correspondent has ventured to send the verses to our Register.” Notwithstanding the mysticism in the note about the “_very ingenious young friend of mine_” and “_your sincere admirer_,” on the one hand; and the disclaimer by “_a literary friend of ours_,” on the other, there can be little doubt that the Dirge was sent by Mrs Hermans to Sir Walter, then Mr Scott, and by him to the Register--of which he himself wrote that year the historical department.--_Vide_ Lockhart’s Life of Scott, vol. iv. p. 80. THE CRUSADERS’ WAR-SONG. Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high-- Lead on to Salem’s towers! Who would not deem it bliss to die, Slain in a cause like ours? The brave who sleep in soil of thine, Die not entomb’d but shrined, O Palestine! Souls of the slain in holy war! Look from your sainted rest. Tell us ye rose in Glory’s car, To mingle with the blest; Tell us how short the death-pang’s power, How bright the joys of your immortal bower. Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train! Pour forth your loftiest lays; Each heart shall echo to the strain Breathed in the warrior’s praise. Bid every string triumphant swell Th’ inspiring sounds that heroes love so well. Salem! amidst the fiercest hour, The wildest rage of fight, Thy name shall lend our falchions power, And nerve our hearts with might. Envied be those for thee that fall, Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall. For them no need that sculptured tomb Should chronicle their fame, Or pyramid record their doom, Or deathless verse their name; It is enough that dust of thine Should shroud their forms, O blessed Palestine!