SPANISH AND ITALIAN REFUGEES.
A pretty little "Garland of Miscellaneous Poems" has just been published by one of our occasional correspondents,[2] for the Benefit of the Spanish and Italian Refugees. These poems are gracefully written, independent of the interest they ought to awaken from the profits of the sale being appropriated to a benevolent purpose. We subjoin an extract—
THE FIELD OF BANNOCKBURN.
A fearful form from Stirling's tower
Was dimly seen to bend;
He look'd as though, 'mid fate's far hour,
Some mighty woe he kenn'd.
White was his hair, and thin with age,
One hand was raised on high,
The other ope'd the mystic page
Of human destiny.
And oft, ere shone the moon's pale ray,
His eyes were seen to turn
Where, in the gloomy distance, lay
The plain of Bannockburn.
And fair uprose the queen of night,
Shining o'er mount and main;
Ben Lomond own'd her silvery light,
Forth sparkled bright again.
Fair, too, o'er loyal Scoone she shone,
For there the Bruce had kneel'd,
And, half forgetful, look'd she down
On Falkirk's fatal field.
For ere to-morrow's sun shall set,
Stern Edward's self shall learn
A lesson pride may ne'er forget,
Where murmurs Bannockburn.
A voice is heard from Stirling's tower,
'Tis of that aged seer,
The lover leaves his lady's bower,
Yet chides her timid tear.
The infant wakes 'mid wild alarms,
Prayers are in vain outpour'd;
The bridegroom quits his bride's fond charms,
And half unsheaths his sword.
Yet who may fate's dark power withstand,
Or who its mandate spurn?
And still the seer uplifts his hand
And points to Bannockburn.
"There waves a standard o'er the brae,
There gleams a highland sword;
Is not yon form the Stewart, say,—
Yon, Scotland's Martial Lord?
Douglas, with Arran's stranger chief,
And Moray's earl, are there;
Whilst drops of blood, for tears of grief,
The coming strife declare.
Oh! red th' autumnal heath-bells blow
Within thy vale, Strathearne;
But redder far, ere long, shall glow
The flowers of Bannockburn!
"Alas! for Edward's warrior pride,
For England's warrior fame;
Alas! that e'er from Thames' fair side
Her gallant lances came!
Lo! where De Bohun smiles in scorn,—
The Bruce, the Bruce is near!
Rash earl, no more thy hunter horn
Shall Malvern's blue hills hear!
Back, Argentine, and thou, De Clare,
To Severn's banks return
Health smiles in rural beauty there,—
Death lours o'er Bannockburn!
"Up, up, De Valence, dream no more
Of Mothven's victor fight—
Thy bark is on a stormier shore,
No star is thine to-night.
And thou, De Burgh, from Erin's isle,
Whom Eth O'Connor leads,
Love's tear shall soon usurp his smile
In Ulster's emerald meads.
But oh! what tears will Cambria shed
When she the tale shall learn—
For Forth's full tide shall flow blood red,
Ere long, from Bannockburn!
"But not alone shall Southron vale
Lament that day of woe—
Grief's sigh shall soothe each ruder gale
Where Scotia's waters flow.
From Corra Linn, where roars the Clyde,
To Dornoch's ocean bay—
From Tweed, that rolls a neutral tide,
To lonely Colinsay:—
But see, the stars wax faint and few,
Death's frown is dark and stern—
But darker soon shall rise to view
Yon field of Bannockburn!"