Viewing page 274 of 309

This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.

494 SARA J. CLARKE.

For I am rich-in scorn to pour on thee!
And gods shall bend from high Olympus' brow,
And gaze in wonder on my lofty pride,
Naxos be hallow'd, I be deified!"

On the tall cliff where cold and pale
Thou watchest his receding sail,
Where thou, the daughter of a King,
Wail'st like a wind-harp's breaking string,
Bend'st like a weak and wilted flower
Before a summer evening's shower,-
There should'st thou rear thy royal form,
Like a young oak amid the storm,
Uncrush'd, unbow'd, unriven!
Let thy last glance burn through the air,
And fall far down upon him there,
Like lightning-stroke from Heaven!

There should'st thou mark o'er billowy crest
His white sail flutter and depart,
No wild fears surging at thy breast,
No vain hopes quivering round thy heart;
And this brief, burning prayer alone
Leap from thy lips to Jove's high throne:-

"Just Jove! Thy wrathful vengeance stay,
And speed the traitor on his way!
Make vain the Syren's silver song,
Let Nereids smile the wave along-
O'er the wild waters send his barque
Like a swift arrow to its mark!
Let whirlwinds gather at his back,
And drive him on his dastard track!
Let thy red bolts behind his burn,
And blast him should he dare to turn!"

SARA J. CLARKE. 495

VOICES FROM THE OLD WORLD.

A voice from out the Highlands,
Old Scotia's mountain homes,
From wild burn-side and darksome glen,
And towering steep it comes!
Is it the shout of huntsmen bold,
Who chase the antler'd stag,
Who sound the horn, and cheer the hounds,
And leap from crag to crag?
Is it the call of rising clans,
The cry of gathering men?
Pours freedom's rocky fortress forth
Its Gaelic hordes again?
Throng round the Scottish chieftains
Such hosts as long ago
In mountain storms of valour
Swept down upon the foe?
When hoarse and deep like thunder
Their shouts of vengeful wrath,
And the lightning of drawn claymores
Flash'd out upon their path?

Far other are the fearful sounds
Borne o'er the wintry wave,
The cry of mortal agony,
The death-groans of the brave!
For once a foe invincible
The kilted Gael hath found;
At length one field beholds him yield-
Starvation's battle-ground!
Thus, thus came forth the mountaineers,
Pale, gaunt, and ghostly bands,
Who westward turn their frenzied eyes,
And stretch their shrivell'd hands;

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-30 00:07:25