The Dance of Death.

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

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 gray Allan sleepless lay

Gray Allan, who for many a day

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The Dance of Death.

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 Morvern long shall tell,

And proud Bennevis hear with awe,
How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras,
Brave Cameron heard the wild hurrah
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 meteors 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 ruthless 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 gesture 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
Where lightnings glance,

And thunders rattle loud,

And call the brave

To a 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 the 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,

The Dance of Death.

And thunders rattle loud,

And call the brave

To a bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.

Wheel the wild dance!

Brave sons of France,

For you our ring makes room

Makes 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 a 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,

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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 a 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 drearer flame
Shall the welkin's thunders shame;
Elemental rage is tame

To the wrath of man.

At morn, gray 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 picket-post, when ebbs the night, And waning watch-fires glow less bright, And dawn is glimmering pale.