VI.-BATTLE OF KILLIECRANKIE.

(AYTOUN.)

William Edmonstoune Aytoun, Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in the University of Edinburgh, was born in 1813. He is author of "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers," "Bothwell," &c.

The battle of Killiecrankie was fought in 1689. The forces of William III., under General Mackay, were defeated by those of the exiled James II., under Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee.

ON the heights of Killiecrankie yester-morn our army lay : Slowly rose the mist in columns from the river's broken way; Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent, and the pass was

wrapped in gloom,

When the clansmen rose together from their lair amidst the broom.

Then we belted on our tartans, and our bonnets down we

drew,

And we felt our broadswords' edges, and we proved them to be true;

And we prayed the prayer of soldiers, and we cried the gathering cry;

And we clasped the hands of kinsmen, and we swore to do or die!

Then our leader rode before us on his war-horse black as

night

Well the Cameronian rebels knew that charger in the fight!
And a cry of exultation from the bearded warriors rose;
For we loved the house of Claver'se, and we thought of good
Montrose.

But he raised his hand for silence-" Soldiers! I have sworn

a vow:

Ere the evening's sun shall glisten on Schehallion's lofty brow

Either we shall rest in triumph, or another of the Græmes Shall have died in battle-harness for his country and King James!

Think upon the Royal Martyr-think of what his race endure

Think on him whom butchers murdered on the field of Magus Moor:

By his sacred blood I charge ye, by the ruined hearth and

By the blighted hopes of Scotland, by your injuries and mine

Strike this day as if the anvil lay beneath your blows the while,

Be they Covenanting traitors, or the brood of false Argyle! Strike! and drive the trembling rebels backwards o'er the stormy Forth;

Let them tell their pale Convention how they fared within the North.

Let them tell that Highland honour is not to be bought nor sold,

That we scorn their prince's anger, as we loathe his foreign

gold.

Strike! and when the fight is over, if you look in vain for

me,

Where the dead are lying thickest, search for him that was Dundee !"

Loudly then the hills re-echoed with our answer to his call, But a deeper echo sounded in the bosoms of us all.

For the lands of wide Breadalbane, not a man who heard

him speak

Would that day have left the battle. Burning eye and flushing cheek

Told the clansmen's fierce emotion, and they harder drew

their breath;

For their souls were strong within them-stronger than the grasp of death.

Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet sounding in the pass

below,

And the distant tramp of horses, and the voices of the foe: Down we crouched amid the bracken, till the Lowland ranks

drew near,

Panting like the hounds in summer, when they scent the stately deer.

From the dark defile emerging, next we saw the squadrons

come,

Leslie's foot, and Leven's troopers marching to the tuck of

drum;

Through the scattered wood of birches, o'er the broken ground and heath,

Wound the long battalion slowly, till they gained the field beneath ;

Then we bounded from our covert. Judge how looked the Saxons then,

When they saw the rugged mountain start to life with armed men!

Like a tempest down the ridges swept the hurricane of steel; Rose the slogan of Macdonald-flashed the broadsword of Lochiel !

Vainly sped the withering volley 'mongst the foremost of our band-

On we poured until we met them, foot to foot and hand to hand.

Horse and man went down like drift-wood when the floods are black at Yule,

And their carcasses are whirling in the Garry's deepest pool: Horse and man went down before us-living foe there tarried none

On the field of Killiecrankie, when that stubborn fight was done!

VII.-DEATH OF LEONIDAS.
(CROLY.)

The Rev. George Croly, LL.D., Rector of St. Stephen's, Walbrook, London, was born in Dublin in 1785. Died, 1861. His works, both prose and verse, are very voluminous.

Leonidas, King of Sparta, was sent by his country to repel the invasion of Greece by Xerxes in 480 B.C. He fell, with his three hundred Spartans, in the battle at the pass of Thermopylæ.

It was the wild midnight,- -a storm was in the sky,
The lightning gave its light, and the thunder echoed by;
The torrent swept the glen, the ocean lashed the shore,-
Then rose the Spartan men, to make their bed in gore!

Swift from the deluged ground three hundred took the shield;

Then, silent, gathered round the leader of the field.

He spoke no warrior-word, he bade no trumpet blow; But the signal thunder roared, and they rushed upon the foe.

The fiery clement showed, with one mighty gleam,
Rampart and flag and tent, like the spectres of a dream;
All up the mountain side, all down the woody vale,
All by the rolling tide, waved the Persian banners pale.

And King Leonidas, among the slumbering band, Sprang foremost from the pass, like the lightning's living brand;

Then double darkness fell, and the forest ceased to moan, But there came a clash of steel, and a distant dying groan.

Anon, a trumpet blew, and a fiery sheet burst high,
That o'er the midnight threw a blood-red canopy :
A host glared on the hill, a host glared by the bay;
But the Greeks rushed onward still, like leopards in their
play.

The air was all a yell, and the earth was all a flame,
Where the Spartan's bloody steel on the silken turbans

came;

And still the Greeks rushed on, beneath the fiery fold,
Till, like a rising sun, shone Xerxes's tent of gold.

They found a royal feast, his midnight banquet, there!
And the treasures of the East lay beneath the Doric spear:
Then sat to the repast the bravest of the brave;

That feast must be their last-that spot must be their grave!

They pledged old Sparta's name in cups of Syrian wine, And the warrior's deathless fame was sung in strains divine; They took the rose-wreathed lyres from eunuch and from slave,

And taught the languid wires the sounds that Freedom gave.

But now the morning star crownèd Eta's twilight brow, And the Persian horn of war from the hill began to blow;

Up rose the glorious rank, to Greece one cup poured high, Then, hand in hand, they drank,-"To Immortality!"

Fear on King Xerxes fell, when, like spirits from the tomb, With shout and trumpet-knell, he saw the warriors come; But down swept all his power, with chariot and with charge,Down poured the arrowy shower, till sank the Dorian targe.

They marched within the tent, with all their strength unstrung;

To Greece one look they sent, then on high their torches flung:

To heaven the blaze uprolled, like a mighty altar-fire;
And the Persians' gems and gold were the Grecians' funeral

pyre.

Their king sat on his throne, his captains by his side,

While the flame rushed roaring on, and their pæan loud replied!

Thus fought the Greek of old! Thus will he fight again! Shall not the self-same mould bring forth the self-same men?

VIII. THE PLAIN OF MARATHON.

(BYRON.)

The battle of Marathon, in which Miltiades, the Athenian, defeated the hosts of invading Persians, under Datis and Artaphernes, was fought in 490 B.C.

WHERE'ER we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground! No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould! But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, Till the sense aches with gazing to behold The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold, Defies the power which crushed thy temples gone: Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares grey Marathon.

The sun, the soil, but not the slave the same-
Unchanged in all, except its foreign lord,