* * * * *

        And then the landlord’s daughter
          Up to heaven raised her hand,
        And said, “Ye may no more contend—­
          There lies the happiest land.”

THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW.

September 24th, 1857.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

Pipes of the misty moorlands,
Voice of the glens and hills;
The droning of the torrents,
The treble of the rills! 
Not the braes of broom and heather,
Nor the mountains dark with rain,
Nor maiden bower, nor border tower
Have heard your sweetest strain!

Dear to the lowland reaper,
And plaided mountaineer,—­
To the cottage and the castle
The Scottish pipes are dear;—­
Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch
O’er mountain, loch, and glade;
But the sweetest of all music
The pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian tiger
Louder yelled and nearer crept;
Round and round the jungle serpent
Near and nearer circles swept. 
“Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,—­
Pray to-day!” the soldier said;
“To-morrow, death’s between us
And the wrong and shame we dread.”

Oh! they listened, looked, and waited,
Till their hope became despair;
And the sobs of low bewailing
Filled the pauses of their prayer. 
Then up spake a Scottish maiden,
With her ear unto the ground: 
“Dinna ye hear it?—­dinna ye hear it? 
The pipes o’ Havelock sound!”

Hushed the wounded man his groaning;
Hushed the wife her little ones;
Alone they heard the drum-roll
And the roar of Sepoy guns. 
But to sounds of home and childhood
The Highland ear was true;
As her mother’s cradle crooning
The mountain pipes she knew.

Like the march of soundless music
Through the vision of the seer,—­
More of feeling than of hearing,
Of the heart than of the ear,—­
She knew the droning pibroch
She knew the Campbell’s call: 
“Hark! hear ye no’ MacGregor’s,—­
The grandest o’ them all.”

Oh! they listened, dumb and breathless,
And they caught the sound at last;
Faint and far beyond the Goomtee
Rose and fell the piper’s blast! 
Then a burst of wild thanksgiving
Mingled woman’s voice and man’s;
“God be praised!—­the march of Havelock! 
The piping of the clans!”

Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance,
Sharp and shrill as swords at strife,
Came the wild MacGregor’s clan-call,
Stinging all the air to life. 
But when the far-off dust cloud
To plaided legions grew,
Full tenderly and blithsomely
The pipes of rescue blew!

Round the silver domes of Lucknow,
Moslem mosque and pagan shrine,
Breathed the air to Britons dearest,
The air of Auld Lang Syne;
O’er the cruel roll of war-drums
Rose that sweet and homelike strain;
And the tartan clove the turban,
As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.