'MID the purple hills, where heather-bells bloom,
And brackens wind-beaten are bending; On the track o'er the moor, in the evening's
A fair maiden is thoughtfully wending.
No fear has she, brave innocent Nell,
The sturdy old gamekeeper's daughter;
Yet she hastes to the cottage beneath the brown fell, By the black tarn's rush-bordered water.
Many an eve, though the wind whistled shrill,
Has she passed from her lonely dwelling;
While her father was watching far over the hill,
Where the red-deer were mournfully belling.
Yet, now, she looks doubtingly, fearfully round,
For she sees a grey figure which follows;
Crouching, and creeping, so close to the ground,
As it crosses the mist-curtained hollows.
She stops, she starts, then, "Willie," she cried,
"Is it you?" and she stood half-frighted;
For fiery and stern flashed her young lover's eyes,
Which with a terrible anger were lighted.
"It is I, false Nelly; for some time past
Have I known of your wanderings nightly;
But this evening's watching will be my last,
For I now see your treachery rightly.
"You thought I had gone to the fair in the west,
But my neighbour had sent me warning;
That the false girl I loved as the purest and best,
Was treating my true heart with scorning.
"So I waited, half doubting, and now I have seen
For myself, that my neighbour spoke truly—
Saw you meet the young lord, in the birch-grove green,
Yet could curb my passion unruly.
"For a thing like you, for a light o' love,
Thought I, should not bring me to sorrow; And I left him his life; but, by Heaven above, I will leave you, oh, Nelly, to-morrow!"
"Why, Willie, dear Willie," the fair girl said, I am guiltless of any wrong doing;
And he would not injure a hair of my head,
For I aid our young lord in his wooing."
Traitress, I judge you by word of mouth-
Insult me, as well as deceive me?
Keep your delicate lordling, I go to the South-
Though it kill me, false Nelly, I leave thee."
So Willie was missing at break of the morn,
And poor Nell pined and mourned, broken-hearted;
And her fair round cheeks grew haggard and worn,
The joy of her life departed.
Far away from their homes, on a cold foreign strand,
Where our soldiers were gallantly fighting;
Enduring and staunch at the word of command,
A despot's foul tyranny righting;
Lord Edgar de Lisle was the bravest of all,
Who led forward his troopers to glory;
And Willie the shepherd, grown stalwart and tall,
Was the hero of many a story.
And yet it was hard that poor Willie should find,
In his captain the man whom he hated;
That when he enlisted, his home left behind,
He to serve 'neath his foeman was fated.
And many a time, when he thought of lost Nell,
His eyes with fierce feelings would glitter;
Of anger and vengeance, his lips dared not tell,
'Gainst the man who had made his life bitter.
All silently marching, in serpent-like form,
To our out-posts the foeman advances;
And battle-clouds gather and threaten a storm,
Where the light on their squadrons glances.
Then 'tis "Infantry, forward, and form into line!"
And "Cavalry, stand to your horses!"
When amid the deep roar of a death-dealing mine,
Dash toward them the enemy's forces.
Our regiments stand firm and unbroken in rank,
And the foemen back-beaten are reeling;
When a terrible fire is poured into our flank,
Where the enemy's guns have been stealing.
Then, "Cavalry! charge," is the hurried command,
And "Silence that battery's thunder!"
And the sabres gleam clear in each brave trooper's hand,
Though each heart feels the order a blunder.
'Tis to death and destruction;-balls hurtle around, Where old England's true chivalry dashes;
And though riders and horses lie thick on the ground, Still the murderous artillery flashes.
"Back, back!" is the cry-" it is charging through hell, Yet back by those batteries gaping;"
But Lord Edgar de Lisle, in his blood where he fell,
Hearing naught, had small chance of escaping.
But one man perceived him-'Twas Willie the bold,-
And down from his saddle-bow bending,
He snatches his enemy from the red mould,
Where sure death on delay is impending.
The charger speeds bravely, and through the fierce roar
Of the guns belching death-bolts around them;
It bears them all foam-flecked and dripping with gore,
To the camp, where their comrades surround them.
The battle is over, and there in his pain,
Lord Edgar, sore-wounded, is dying;
Cried he, "Bring me the man who in that iron rain
Stopt to save me, though comrades were flying."
So Willie was summoned; and, when he drew near,
To receive Edgar's low-whispered praises,
He could scarcely restrain a fast-gathering tear,
As his foe's head he gently upraises.
"Bear this packet, brave Willie, to Lady Aline, And promise, whatever betide me,
That when my heart slumbers beneath the turf green, This tress of her hair lies beside me."
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