Within a window’d niche of that high hall
      Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain; he did hear
      That sound the first amidst the festival,
      And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear;
      And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
      His heart more truly knew that peal too well
      Which stretch’d his father on a bloody bier,
      And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;
    He rush’d into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!

      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
      Blush’d 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 would guess
      If ever more 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!

      And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
      Dewy with nature’s tear-drops, as they pass
      Grieving—­if aught inanimate e’er grieves—­
      Over the unreturning brave—­alas! 
      Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,
      Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
      In its next verdure; when this fiery mass
      Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
    And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!

      Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
      Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay;
      The midnight brought the signal sound of strife;
      The morn the marshalling of arms; the day
      Battle’s magnificently stern array! 
      The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which, when rent,
      The earth is covered thick with other clay,
      Which her own clay shall cover, heap’d and pent,
    Rider and horse—­friend, foe—­in one red burial blent!