"The stream," he said, "is broad and deep, and stubborn is
the foe,—
Yon island-strength is guarded well,—say, brothers, will ye go?
From home and kin for many a year our steps have wander'd
wide,
And never may our bones be laid our fathers' graves beside.
No children have we to lament, no wives to wail our fall;
The traitor's and the spoiler's hand have reft our hearths of all.
But we have hearts, and we have arms, as strong to will and
dare
As when our ancient banners flew within the northern air.
Come, brothers! let me name a spell shall rouse your souls
again,
And send the old blood bounding free through pulse and heart
and vein.
Call back the days of bygone years,—be young and strong once
more;
Think yonder stream, so stark and red, is one we've cross'd
before.
Rise, hill and glen! rise, crag and wood! rise up on either hand,—
Again upon the Garry's banks, on Scottish soil we stand!
Again I see the tartans wave, again the trumpets ring;
Again I hear our leader's call: 'Upon them for the King!'
Stay'd we behind that glorious day for roaring flood or linn?
The soul of Græme is with us still,—now, brothers, will ye in?"
No stay,—no pause. With one accord, they grasp'd each other's
hand,
Then plunged into the angry flood, that bold and dauntless band.
High flew the spray above their heads, yet onward still they
bore,
Midst cheer, and shout, and answering yell, and shot, and
cannon-roar,—
"Now, by the Holy Cross! I swear, since earth and sea began,
Was never such a daring deed essay'd by mortal man!"
Thick blew the smoke across the stream, and faster flash'd the
flame:
The water plash'd in hissing jets as ball and bullet came.
Yet onwards push'd the Cavaliers all stern and undismay'd,
With thousand armèd foes before, and none behind to aid.
Once, as they near'd the middle stream, so strong the torrent
swept,
That scarce that long and living wall their dangerous footing
kept.
Then rose a warning cry behind, a joyous shout before:
"The current's strong,—the way is long,—they'll never reach
the shore!
See, see! they stagger in the midst, they waver in their line!
Fire on the madmen! break their ranks, and whelm them in
the Rhine!"
Have you seen the tall trees swaying when the blast is sounding
shrill,
And the whirlwind reels in fury down the gorges of the hill?
How they toss their mighty branches struggling with the
shock;
How they keep their place of vantage, cleaving firmly to the
rock?
Even so the Scottish warriors held their own against the river;
Though the water flash'd around them, not an eye was seen to
quiver;
Though the shot flew sharp and deadly, not a man relax'd his
hold;
For their hearts were big and thrilling with the mighty thoughts
of old.
One word was spoke among them, and through the ranks it
spread,—
"Remember our dead Claverhouse!" was all the Captain said.
Then, sternly bending forward, they wrestled on a while,
Until they clear'd the heavy stream, then rush'd towards the isle.
The German heart is stout and true, the German arm is strong;
The German foot goes seldom back where armèd foemen throng.
But never had they faced in field so stern a charge before,
And never had they felt the sweep of Scotland's broad claymore.
Not fiercer pours the avalanche adown the steep incline,
That rises o'er the parent-springs of rough and rapid Rhine,—
Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven than came the
Scottish band
Right up against the guarded trench, and o'er it sword in hand.
In vain their leaders forward press,—they meet the deadly
brand!
O lonely island of the Rhine,—where seed was never sown,
What harvest lay upon thy sands, by those strong reapers thrown?
What saw the winter moon that night, as, struggling through
the rain,
She pour'd a wan and fitful light on marsh, and stream, and
plain?
A dreary spot with corpses strewn, and bayonets glistening
round;
A broken bridge, a stranded boat, a bare and batter'd mound;
And one huge watch-fire's kindled pile, that sent its quivering
glare
To tell the leaders of the host the conquering Scots were there!
And did they twine the laurel-wreath, for those who fought so
well?
And did they honor those who liv'd, and weep for those who
fell?
What meed of thanks was given to them let agèd annals tell.
Why should they bring the laurel-wreath,—why crown the cup
with wine?
It was not Frenchmen's blood that flow'd so freely on the
Rhine,—
A stranger band of beggar'd men had done the venturous deed:
The glory was to France alone, the danger was their meed.
And what cared they for idle thanks from foreign prince and
peer?
What virtue had such honey'd words the exiled heart to cheer?
What matter'd it that men should vaunt and loud and fondly
swear,
That higher feat of chivalry was never wrought elsewhere?
They bore within their breasts the grief that fame can never
heal,—
The deep, unutterable woe which none save exiles feel.
Their hearts were yearning for the land they ne'er might see
again,—
For Scotland's high and heather'd hills, for mountain, loch and
glen—
For those who haply lay at rest beyond the distant sea,
Beneath the green and daisied turf where they would gladly be!
Long years went by. The lonely isle in Rhine's tempestuous
flood
Has ta'en another name from those who bought it with their
blood:
And, though the legend does not live,—for legends lightly die—
The peasant, as he sees the stream in winter rolling by,
And foaming o'er its channel-bed between him and the spot
Won by the warriors of the sword, stills calls that deep
and dangerous ford
The Passage of the Scot.
Sacrifice and Self-Devotion hallow earth and fill the skies.