NIGHT and morning were at meeting Over Waterloo; Cocks had sung their earliest greeting; Faint and low they crew, For no paly beam yet shone On the heights of Mount Saint John; Tempest-clouds prolong'd the sway Of timeless darkness over day; Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower, Mark'd it a predestined hour. Broad and frequent through the night Flash'd the sheets of levin-light; Muskets, glancing lightnings back, Show'd the dreary bivouac Where the soldier lay, Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain, Wishing dawn of morn again, Though death should come with day. 'Tis at such a tide and hour, Wizard, witch, and fiend have power, And ghastly forms through mist and shower Gleam on the gifted ken; And then the affrighted prophet's ear Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear, Presaging death and ruin near Among the sons of men; -- Apart from Albyn's war-array, 'Twas then grey Allan sleepless lay; Grey Allan, who, for many a day, Had follow'd stout and stern, Where, through battle's rout and reel, Storm of shot and hedge of steel, Led the grandson of Lochiel, Valiant Fassiefern. Through steel and shot he leads no more, Low laid 'mid friends' and foemen's gore -- But long his native lake's wild shore, And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower, And Morven long shall tell, And proud Bennevis hear with awe, How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras, Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra Of conquest as he fell. Lone on the outskirts of the host The weary sentinel held post, And heard, through darkness far aloof, The frequent clang of courser's hoof, Where held the cloak'd patrol their course, And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerving horse. But there are sounds in Allan's ear Patrol nor sentinel may hear, And sights before his eye aghast Invisible to them have pass'd, When down the destined plain, 'Twixt Britain and the bands of France, Wild as marsh-borne meteor's glance, Strange phantoms wheel'd a revel dance, And doom'd the future slain. Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard, When Scotland's James his march prepared For Flodden's fatal plain; Such, when he drew his ruth less sword, As Choosers of the Slain, adored The yet unchristen'd Dane. An indistinct and phantom band, They wheel'd their ring-dance hand in hand, With gestures wild and dread: The Seer, who watch'd them ride the storm, Saw through their faint and shadowy form The lightning's flash more red; And still their ghastly roundelay Was of the coming battle-fray, And of the destined dead: SONG. 'Wheel the wild dance While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. 'Our airy feet, So light and fleet, They do not bend the rye That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave, And swells again in eddying wave As each wild gust blows by; But still the corn, At dawn of morn, Our fatal steps that bore, At eve lies waste A trampled paste Of blackening mud and gore. 'Wheel the wild dance While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. 'Wheel the wild dance! Brave sons of France, For you our ring makes room; Make space full wide For martial pride, For banner, spear, and plume. Approach, draw near, Proud cuirassier! Room for the men of steel! Through crest and plate The broadsword's weight Both head and heart shall feel. 'Wheel the wild dance While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. 'Sons of the spear! You feel us near In many a ghastly dream; With fancy's eye Our forms you spy, And hear our fatal scream. With clearer sight Ere falls the night, Just when to weal or woe Your disembodied souls take flight On trembling wing -- each startled sprite Our choir of death shall know. 'Wheel the wild dance While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. 'Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers, Redder rain shall soon be ours! See! the east grows wan -- Yield we place to sterner game, Ere deadlier bolts and direr flame Shall the welkin's thunders shame: Elemental rage is tame To the wrath of man.' At morn, grey Allan's mates with awe Heard of the vision'd sights he saw, The legend heard him say; But the Seer's gifted eye was dim, Deafen'd his ear, and stark his limb, Ere closed that bloody day He sleeps far from his Highland heath, -- But often of the Dance of Death His comrades tell the tale, On picquet-post, when ebbs the night, And waning watch-fires glow less bright, And dawn is glimmering pale. |