When a sound arose like the first dread sweep Of the distant tempest's wing; Then burst the clamour out, Still maddening more and more, Till the air grew troubled with the shout, As it is at the thunder's roar. And the war was roused by that fearful cry, Like clouds that sweep o'er the gloomy sky Swift as the lightning's flame And the rattling showers of arrows came The Island Phalanx firmly trod On paths all red with gore; For the blood of their bravest stained the sod They proudly spurned before. But close and closer still They plied them blow for blow, Till the deadly stroke of the Saxon bill Cut loose the Norman bow. And the stubborn foemen turned to flee, Like hounds when they lightly cross the lea Each war-axe gleaming bright Made havoc in its sway; But in the mingled chase and flight They lost their firm array. From a mounted band of the Norman's best A vengeful cry arose; Their lances long were in the rest, And they dashed upon their foes On, on, in wild career : Alas for England, then, When the furious thrust of the horsemen's spear Bore back the Kentish men! They bore them back, that desperate band, And the corslet bright and the gory brand But still for life the Saxons ply, And their frantic leader's rallying cry He toils; but toils in vain! The iron point has pierced his brain The Island Monarch dies. The fight is o'er, and wide are spread And many a heart has quailed with dread, The victor's fears are past, The golden spoil is won, And England's tears are flowing fast In grief for England's son M'DOUGALL. DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN. My sweet one, my sweet one, The tears were in my eyes When first I clasped thee to my heart, For I thought of all that I had borne, Thy cherry lips and sunny brow, I turned to many a withered hope, And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world I thought of friends grown worse than cold- And I asked of Heaven if ills like these I gazed upon thy quiet face, Came brightening on my fears;- 'Mid the clouds of gloom that bound them, As stars dart down their loveliest light My sweet one, my sweet one, And a father's anxious fears for thee And for the hopes, the sun-bright hopes, They too have fled, to prove how frail 'Tis true that thou wert young, my child; But though brief thy span below, To me it was a little age Of agony and woe; For, from thy first faint dawn of life, Thy cheek began to fade, And my lips had scarce thy welcome breathed, Ere my hopes were wrapped in shade. Oh, the child in its hours of health and bloom, Grows far more prized, more fondly loved, And thus 'twas thine to prove, dear babe, Ten times more precious to my soul, Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, And, sick with dark foreboding fears Sat hand in hand, in speechless grief, It came at length: o'er thy bright blue eye The film was gathering fast, And an awful shade passed o'er thy brow- In thicker gushes strove thy breath— And thou wert of the dead! Thy gentle mother turned away, And murmured low of Heaven's behests, She would have chid me that I mourned Had not her own deep grief burst forth We laid thee down in thy quiet rest, Culled one soft lock of radiant hair Our only solace now; Then placed around thy beauteous corse, Twin rose-buds in thy little hands, Though other offspring still be ours, The sunshine of thy brow, The FIRST!-how many a memory bright Of hopes that blossomed, drooped, and died, Of fervid feelings passed away— Those early seeds of bliss My sweet one, my sweet one, My fairest and my First! When I think of what thou mightst have been, But gleams of gladness through my gloom And my sighs are hushed, my tears are dried, Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls God bade thee early taste the spring For which so many thirst; And bliss, eternal bliss is thine, My fairest and my First! ALARIC A. WATTS. |