As once I wept, if I could weep,
    My tears might well be shed,
  To think I was not near to keep
    One vigil o’er thy bed;
  To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
  To fold thee in a faint embrace,
    Uphold thy drooping head;
  And show that love, however vain,
  Nor thou nor I can feel again.

  Yet how much less it were to gain,
    Though thou hast left me free,
  The loveliest things that still remain,
    Than thus remember thee! 
  The all of thine that cannot die
  Through dark and dread Eternity,
    Returns again to me,
  And more thy buried love endears
  Than aught, except its living years.

THE BALL AT BRUSSELS ON THE NIGHT BEFORE WATERLOO.

[From Childe Harold.]

  There was a sound of revelry by night,
  And Belgium’s capital had gathered there
  Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
  The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men: 
  A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
  Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
  Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
  And all went merry as a marriage-bell;
  But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

  Did ye not hear it?  No; ’twas but the wind,
  Or the car rattling o’er the stony street. 
  On with the dance! let joy be unconfined! 
  No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet
  To chase the glowing hours with flying feet—­
  But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
  As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
  And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 
  Arm! arm! it is—­it is—­the cannon’s opening roar!...

  Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
  And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
  And cheeks all pale which but an hour ago
  Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
  And there were sudden partings, such as press
  The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
  Which ne’er might be repeated:  who could guess
  If evermore should meet those mutual eyes,
  Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

  And there was mounting in hot haste:  the steed,
  The mustering squadron, and the clattering car
  Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
  And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
  And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;

  And near, the beat of the alarming drum
  Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
  While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
  Or whispering, with white lips, “The foe!  They come! they come!”

  And wild and high the “Cameron’s gathering” rose,
  The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills
  Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: 
  How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
  Savage and shrill!  But with the breath which fills
  Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers
  With the fierce native daring which instils
  The stirring memory of a thousand years;
  And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears.