The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE CRUSADER'S RETURN.

I.

HIGH deeds achieved of knightly fame,
From Palestine the champion came;
The cross upon his shoulders borne
Battle and blast had dimmed and torn;
Each dint upon his battered shield
Was token of a foughten field;
And thus, beneath his lady's bower,
He sung, as fell the twilight hour:

II.

"Joy to the fair! — thy knight behold,
Returned from yonder land of gold;

No wealth he brings, nor wealth can need,
Save his good arms and battle-steed;

His spurs to dash against a foe,

His lance and sword to lay him low;

Such all the trophies of his toil,

Such — and the hope of Tekla's smile!

III.

"Joy to the fair! whose constant knight Her favor fired to feats of might! Unnoted shall she not remain

Where meet the bright and noble train;

Minstrel shall sing, and herald tell

'Mark yonder maid of beauty well,

'Tis she for whose bright eyes was won

The listed field of Ascalon!

"Note well her smile!

IV.

it edged the blade

Which fifty wives to widows made,

When, vain his strength and Mahound's spell,
Iconium's turbaned Soldan fell.

Seest thou her locks, whose sun ny glow
Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow?
Twines not of them one golden thread,

But for its sake a Paynim bled!'

"Joy to the fair!

V.

My name unknown,
Each deed, and all its praise, thine own;
Then, O! unbar this churlish gate,
The night-dew falls, the hour is late.
Inured to Syria's glowing breath,
I feel the north breeze chill as death;
Let grateful love quell maiden shame,
And grant him bliss who brings thee fame."
SIR WALTER SCOTT

Ivanhoe.

ELSPETH'S BALLAD.

Now haud your tongue, baith wife and carle.

And listen great and sma',

And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl
That fought on the red Harlaw.

The cronach 's cried on Bennachie,
And doun the Don and a',

And hieland and lawland may mournfu' be
For the sair field of Harlaw.

They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds,
They hae bridled a hundred black,

With a chafron of steel on each horse's head,

And a good knight upon his back.

They hadna ridden a mile, a mile,
A mile but barely ten,

When Donald came branking down the brae
Wi' twenty thousand men.

Their tartans they were waving wide,

Their glaives were glancing clear, The pibrochs rung frae side to side, Would deafen ye to hear.

The great Earl in his stirrups stood,

That Highland host to see:

"Now here a knight that's stout and good May prove a jeopardie:

"What wouldst thou do, my squire so gay,
That rides beside my rein,
Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day,
And I were Roland Cheyne?

"To turn the rein were sin and shame,
To fight were wondrous peril,

What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne,
Were ye Glenallan's Earl?"

"Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide,

And ye were Roland Cheyne,

The spur should be in my horse's side,
And the bridle upon his mane.

"If they hae twenty thousand blades,
And we twice ten times ten,
Yet they hae but their tartan plaids,
And we are mail-clad men.

"My horse shall ride through ranks sae rude,
As through the moorland fern, -

-

Then ne'er let the gentle Norman blude

Grow cauld for Highland kerne."

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

The Antiquar

HOHENLINDEN.1

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of lser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,

Each horseman drew his battle-blade,

1 The battle of Hohenlinden was fought between the French and Bavarians, under Moreau, and the Austrians, under the Archduke John, December 3, 1800, and resulted in the defeat of the Austrians.

And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

THOMAS CAMPBELL