"Bewcastle brandishes high his broad scimitar; Ridley is riding his fleet-footed gray; Hidley and Howard there, Wandale and Windermere; Lock the door, Lariston, hold them at bay. "Why dost thou smile, noble Elliot of Lariston? Thy foes are relentless, determined, and nigh." Jack Elliot raised up his steel bonnet and lookit, On earth there are no men More gallant to meet in the foray or chase! "Little know you of the hearts I have hidden here; Little know you of our moss-troopers' might Linhope and Sornie true, Sundhope and Milburn too, Gentle in manners, but lions in fight! "I have Mangerton, Ogilvie, Raeburn, and Netherbie, Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array; Come all Northumberland, Teesdale and Cumberland, Here at the Breaken tower end shall the fray!" Scowled the broad sun o'er the links of green Liddesdale, Red as the beacon-light tipped he the wold; Many a bold martial eye Mirrored that morning sky, Never more oped on his orbit of gold. Shrill was the bugle's note, dreadful the warriors' shout, Lances and halberds in splinters were borne; Helmet and hauberk then Braved the claymore in vain, Buckler and armlet in shivers were shorn. See how they wane the proud files of the Windermere Howard! ah, woe to thy hopes of the day! While the Scots' shouts ascend "Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!" 31. THE REQUITAL. Loud roared the tempest, A little Child Angel Passed down the street, With trailing pinions, And weary feet. The moon was hidden; She beat her wings At each window pane, "Listen," they said, "To the pelting rain!" She sobbed, as the laughter And mirth grew higher, "Give me rest and shelter J. HOGG. Beside your fire, And I will give you Your heart's desire." The dreamer sat watching Down hope's bright stream; The worker toiled on, For his time was brief; The mourner was nursing But fiercer the tempest At a humble door, A weary woman, Pale, worn, and thin, With the brand upon her Of want and sin, Heard the Child Angel And took her in. Took her in gently, To dry her pinions; And made her rest With tender pity Upon her breast. 33 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him! Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring: And we heard the distant and random gun, That the foe was sullenly firing. |