Graded Poetry: Seventh Year Part 3

No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armor's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here, Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.

Yet the lark's shrill fife may come, At the daybreak from the fallow,

And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow.

Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here; Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; While our slumb'rous spells a.s.sail ye, Dream not with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveille.

Sleep! the deer is in his den; Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen, How thy gallant steed lay dying.

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; Think not of the rising sun, For at dawning to a.s.sail ye, Here no bugle sounds reveille.

LOCHINVAR

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west; Through all the wide border his steed was the best; And save his good broad-sword he weapon had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, He swam the Eske River where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late; For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall, Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"--

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;-- Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-- And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.

There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up, He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.

She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-- "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'Twere better by far, To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near: So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing, on Cann.o.bie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

FRANCIS SCOTT KEY AMERICA, 1780-1843

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER[1]

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming-- Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the clouds of the fight O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming!

And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.

O! say, does the star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?

On that sh.o.r.e dimly see through the mists of the deep Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; 'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more?

Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.

No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and war's desolation!

Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued land Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.

Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto--"_In G.o.d is our trust_:"

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

[Footnote:1. The song is taken as it appears in Stedman and Hutchinson's _Library of American Literature_, vol. iv. p. 419. The text, slightly different from the common one, corresponds to the facsimile of a copy made by Mr. Key in 1840.]

THOMAS CAMPBELL SCOTLAND, 1777-1844

HOHENLINDEN

On Linden when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh'd, To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And darker yet shall be the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye Brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave!

Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meet!

The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulcher.

THOMAS MOORE IRELAND, 1779-1852

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS

The Harp that once through Tara's Halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells: The chord alone that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.

GEORGE GORDON NOEL, LORD BYRON ENGLAND, 1788-1824