None so humble, none so weak,
But may flush his father's cheek;
And his maiden's dear and true,
With the deeds that he may do.
Be his days as dark as night,
He may make himself a light.
What though sunken be the sun!
There are stars when day is done!
Courage!-Who will be a slave,
That have strength to dig a grave,
And therein his fetters hide,
And lay a tyrant by his side?
Courage!-Hope, howe'er he fly
For a time, can never die!
Courage, therefore, brother men!
Cry "God! and to the fight again!"
Soon recollecting, with high words, that bore Semblance of worth not substance, gently rais'd Their fainting courage, and dispell'd their fears.
The brave man seeks not popular applause,
Nor overpower'd with arms, deserts his cause
Unsham'd, though foil'd he does the best he can,
Force is of brutes, but honour is of man."
WILFRID has fallen-but o'er him stood
Young Redmond, soiled with smoke and blood
Cheering his mates, with heart and hand
Still to make good their desperate stand,
"Up, comrades, up! in Rokeby halls
Ne'er be it said our courage falls.-
What faint ye for their savage cry,
Or do the smoke-wreaths daunt your eye
These rafters have returned a shout
As loud at Rokeby's wassail rout;
As thick a smoke these hearths have given
At Hallowtide or Christmas even.
Stand to it yet! renew the fight,
For Rokeby and Matilda's right!
These slaves! they dare not, hand to hand,
Bide buffet from a true man's brand.
That we are made of stuff so flat and dull,
That we can let our beard be shook with danger
That waiting; though it seems so safe to fight
Behind high walls, and hurl down foes into
Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes
Strewed to receive them, still I like it not-
My soul seems lukewarm; but when I set on them
Though they were piled on mountains, I would
A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood!
Let me then charge!
No, there is a necessity in fate,
Why still the brave bold man is fortunate;
He keeps his object ever full in sight,
And that assurance holds him firm and right;
True, 'tis a narrow way that leads to bliss,
But right before there is no precipice;
Fear makes men look aside, and so their footing
'They come like sacrifices in their turn,
And to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war,
All hot and bleeding will we offer them:
The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit,
Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire,
To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh,
And yet not ours:- -Come, let me take my horse,
Which is to bear me, like a thunder-bolt,
Against the bosom of the prince of Wales:
Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse,
Meet, and ne'er part, till one drop down a corse.
What, though the field be lost,
All is not lost; th' ungovernable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield,
And what is else not to be overcome;
That glory never shall his wrath or might
Extort from me.
FITZ-JAMES IN THE PASS OF THE TROSACHS.
"HAVE, then, thy wish!"—he whistled shrill, And he was answered from the hill;
Wild as the scream of the curlew,
From crag to crag the signal flew.
Instant, through copse and heath, arose
Bonnets and spears and bended bows;
On right, on left, above, below,
Sprung up at once the lurking foe;
From shingles gray their lances start,
The bracken bush sends forth the dart,
The rushes and the willow-wand
Are bristling into axe and brand,
And every tuft of broom gives life
To plaided warrior armed for strife.
That whistle garrisoned the glen
At once with full five hundred men,
As if the yawning hill to heaven
A subterranean host had given.
Watching their leader's beck and will,
All silent there they stood and still.
Like the loose crags whose threatening mass
Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass,
|