Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high For combat’s glorious hour; Soon shall the red-cross banner fly On Salem’s loftiest tower! We burn to mingle in the strife, Where _but_ to die insures eternal life. THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD. [It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clanronald fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. But Glengarry, chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round his head, cried out, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourning!” The Highlanders received a new impulse from his words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all before them.--See the _Quarterly Review_ article of “Culloden Papers.”] Oh, ne’er be Clanronald the valiant forgot! Still fearless and first in the combat, he fell; But we paused not one tear-drop to shed o’er the spot, We spared not one moment to murmur “Farewell.” We heard but the battle-word given by the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!” And wildly, Clanronald! we echo’d the vow, With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our hand; Young son of the brave! we may weep for thee now, For well has thy death been avenged by thy band, When they joined in wild chorus the cry of the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!” Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle’s wild call, The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave; But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall, And the soft voice of melody sigh o’er thy grave-- While Albyn remembers the words of the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!” Thou art fallen, O fearless one! flower of thy race! Descendant of heroes! thy glory is set: But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase, Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet! Nor vainly have echo’d the words of the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!” TO THE EYE. Throne of expression! whence the spirit’s ray Pours forth so oft the light of mental day, Where fancy’s fire, affection’s mental beam, Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme, And many a feeling, words can ne’er impart, Finds its own language to pervade the heart: Thy power, bright orb! what bosom hath not felt, To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt! And, by some spell of undefined control, With magnet-influence touch the secret soul!