  I stood upon the plain That had trembled, when the slain Hurled their proud, defiant curses at the battle-heated foe, When the steed dashed right and left, Through the bloody gaps he cleft, When the bridle-rein was broken, and the rider was laid low. What busy feet had trod Upon the very sod When I marshalled the battalions of my fancy to my aid! And I saw the combat dire, Heard the quick, incessant fire, And the cannons’ echoes startling the reverberating glade. I heard the chorus dire, That jarred along the lyre On which the hymn of battle rung, like surgings of the wave, When the storm, at blackest night, Wakes the ocean in affright, As it shouts its mighty Pibroch o’er some shipwrecked vessel’s grave. I saw the broad claymore Flash from its scabbard, o’er The ranks that quailed and shuddered at the close and fierce attack; Auld Scotia drew the sword, And with arms that never faltered drove the brave defenders back. I saw two great chiefs die, Their last breaths like the sigh Of the zephyr-sprite that wantons on the rosy lips of morn; No enemy-poisoned darts, No rancor in their hearts, To unfit them for their triumph over death’s impending scorn. And as I thought and gazed, My soul, exultant, praised The power to whom each mighty act and victory are due; For the saint-like peace that smiled Like a heaven-gifted child, And for the air of quietude that steeped the distant view. Oh, rare, divinest life Of peace compared with strife! Yours is the truest splendor, and the most enduring fame; All the glory ever reaped Where the fiends of battle leaped, In harsh discord to the music of your undertoned acclaim. —Charles Sangster. Still runs the water when the brook is deep. |
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