As if by force of magic's power,
The clansmen, in their transports wild,
Join in the greetings of the hour,
And bless the lady and her child.
And Callam-Dhu, with felon aim,
His direful purpose to conceal,
Shouts with the crowd in wild acclaim,
As if disgrace he could not feel.
But sudden as the lightning's flash,
He from the nurse the child has torn,
And up the cliff with frenzied dash,
The infant in his arms has borne.
He never stopped, till clambering high,
The fearful peak at last he gained; .
And there he scowled, with glaring eye,
On those who far below remained.
The chief stood powerless and appalled;
The pale and frenzied Isabel
Wild shrieked and for her infant called,
As prostrate on the earth she fell.
Infuriate, all the clansmen bound
To scale the steep and narrow path,
Which up the cliff so slippery wound,
To swerve the least were instant death.
"Move but a step," fierce Callam cried, "And on this dagger's hilt I swear, My blade that instant shall be dyed
In this child's blood!-take heed!-beware!"
The chieftain, with uplifted hands,
Looks heavenward on the voiceless sky,
And tremblingly imploring stands—
Racked-torn with fiercest agony!
"One half my lands I'll freely give!All! all!" he cried, in accents wild, "So that the innocent may live!
Oh! save my wife, and spare my child!"
"Maclean," he solemnly replied, "Gold never can indemnify For loss of honor, nor can hide The stains of open infamy.
"Me wantonly you have disgraced,
Ay, me!-although full well you knew
Your confidence was ne'er misplaced
When given in trust to Callam Dhu.
"Yet listen! if you shall consent
To bare your shoulders to the scourge, And suffer what I underwent,
This, this, perhaps, the stains may purge."
"Stripes, torture, death itself I dare," Maclean exclaimed, in frantic grief; Then turning, with his back laid bare"Clansmen," he cried, "chastise your chief!"
They murmured loudly, till with tears
The chieftain prayed them to obey;
"Spare, spare my child! assuage our fears!
In mercy strike!-quick! strike, I say!"
"Tis over!-Now, with outstretched arms The desperate man holds out the child ;What! can he mean the babe to harm?
His looks are haggard, dark and wild!
A moment more he shades the hair,
The infant's placid brow to kiss :-
See!-horror!-vaulting into air,
Both sink into the black abyss.
Ah! who can paint the scene so dread-
The anguish of the mingled yell?
Madness has fired the chieftain's head,
Death seized the Lady Isabel.
How vain, alas! is human pride,
And how impatient of control!-
It swells like ocean's raging tide,
And saps the barriers of the soul.
At morn the sun on Lochbuy shone-
Sire, husband, idol of his clan;
At eve he stands-his treasures gone-
A lone and broken-hearted man.
THE summer and autumn had been so wet,
That in winter the corn was growing yet;
'Twas a piteous sight to see, all around,
The grain lie rotting on the ground.
Every day the starving poor
Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door;
For he had a plentiful last year's store,
And all the neighborhood could tell,
His granaries were furnished well.
At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day
To quiet the poor without delay;
He bade them to his great barn repair,
And they should have food for the winter there.
Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,
The poor folk flocked from far and near;
The great barn was full as it could hold
Of women and children, and young and old.
Then, when he saw it could hold no more,
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;
And, while for mercy on Christ they call,
He set fire to the barn, and burnt them all.
"I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he;
"And the country is greatly obliged to me,
For ridding it, in these times forlorn,
Of rats that only consume the corn."
So then to his palace returned he,
And he sat down to supper merrily,
And he slept that night like an innocent man ;
But Bishop Hatto never slept again.
In the morning, as he entered the hall,
Where his picture hung against the wall,
A sweat like death all over him came,
For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.
As he looked, there came a man from his farm;
He had a countenance white with alarm:
"My Lord, I opened your granaries this morn,
And the rats had eaten all your corn.
Another came running presently,
And he was pale as pale could be!
"Fly, my Lord Bishop, fly !" quoth he,
"Ten thousand rats are coming this way:
The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"
"I'll go to my tower on the Rhine,” replied he;
""Tis the safest place in Germany;
The walls are high, and the shores are steep,
And the stream is strong and the water deep."
Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away,
And he crossed the Rhine without delay,
And reached his tower, and barred with care
All windows, doors, and loopholes there.
He laid him down, and closed his eyes;
But soon a scream made him arise;—
He started, and saw two eyes of flame
On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.
He listened and looked; it was only the cat;
But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that;
For she sat screaming, mad with fear
At the army of rats that were drawing near.
For they have swum over the river so deep,
And they have climbed the shores so steep;
And up the tower their way is bent,
To do the work for which they were sent.
They are not to be told by the dozen or score;
By thousands they come, and by myriads and more;
Such numbers had never been heard of before,
Such a judgment had never been witnessed of
Down on his knees the Bishop fell,
And faster and faster his beads did tell,
As, louder and louder drawing near,
The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.
And in at the windows, and in at the door,
And through the walls, helter-skelter they pour,
And down from the ceiling, and up from the floor,
From the right and the left, from behind and before,
From within and without, from above and below,
And all at once to the Bishop they go!
They have whetted their teeth against the stones; And now they pick the Bishop's bones;
They gnawed the flesh from every limb;
For they were sent to do judgment on him!
SPIRIT of Light and Life! When battle rears
Her fiery brow and her terrific spears;
When red-mouthed cannon to the clouds uproar,
And grasping thousands make their bed in gore;
While, on the billowy bosom of the air,
Roll the dread notes of anguish and despair;
Unseen, thou walk'st upon the smoking plain,
And hear'st each groan that gurgles from the slain!
List!-war-peals thunder on the battle-field;
And many a hand grasps firm the glittering shield,
As on, with helm and plume, the warriors come,
And the glad hills repeat the stormy drum!
And now are seen the youthful and the gray,
With bosoms firing to partake the fray;
The first, with hearts that consecrate the deed,
All eager rush to vanquish or to bleed;
Like young waves racing in the morning sun,
That rear and leap with reckless fury on!
But mark yon war-worn man, who looks on high
With thought and valor mirrored in his eye.
Not all the gory revels of the day
Can fright the visions of his home away;
The home of love and its associate smiles,
His wife's endearments and his baby's wiles:
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