And every open window

Was full as full might be

With black-robed Covenanting carles,

That goodly sport to see!

But when he came, though pale and wan,
He looked so great and high,
So noble was his manly front,
So calm his steadfast eye,
The rabble rout forebore to shout,
And each man held his breath,
For well they knew the hero's soul
Was face to face with death.
And then a mournful shudder
Through all the people crept,

And some that came to scoff at him
Now turned aside and wept.

But onwards-always onwards,
In silence and in gloom,
The dreary pageant labored,

Till it reached the house of doom.
Then first a woman's voice was heard
In jeer and laughter loud,

And an angry cry and a hiss arose

From the heart of the tossing crowd:
Then, as the Graeme looked upwards,
He saw the ugly smile

Of him who sold his king for gold,→→
The master-fiend Argyle!

The Marquis gazed a moment,
And nothing did he say,

But Argyle's cheek grew ghastly pale

And he turned his eyes away.

The painted harlot by his side,

She shook through every limb,

For a roar like thunder swept the street, And hands were clenched at him;

The Execution of Montrose 2325

And a Saxon soldier cried aloud,

"Back, coward, from thy place!

For seven long years thou hast not dared

To look him in the face."

Had I been there with sword in hand,

And fifty Camerons by,

That day through high Dunedin's streets
Had pealed the slogan-cry.

Not all their troops of trampling horse,
Nor might of mailed men,

Not all the rebels in the south

Had borne us backwards then!

Once more his foot on Highland heath
Had trod as free as air,

Or I, and all who bore my name,
Been laid around him there!

It might not be. They placed him next
Within the solemn hall,

Where once the Scottish kings were throned
Amidst their nobles all.

But there was dust of vulgar feet
On that polluted floor,

And perjured traitors filled the place
Where good men sate before.
With savage glee came Warriston
To read the murderous doom;
And then uprose the great Montrose
In the middle of the room.

"Now, by my faith as belted knight,
And by the name I bear,

And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross
That waves above us there,
Yea, by a greater, mightier oath-
And oh, that such should be!-
By that dark stream of royal blood
That lies 'twixt you and me,

I have not sought in battle-field
A wreath of such renown,
Nor dared I hope on my dying day
To win the martyr's crown!

"There is a chamber far away

Where sleep the good and brave,
But a better place ye have named for me
Than by my fathers' grave.

For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might,
This hand hath always striven,

And ye raise it up for a witness still
In the eye of earth and heaven.
Then nail my head on yonder tower,
Give every town a limb,-

And God who made shall gather them:
I go from you to Him!"

The morning dawned full darkly,
The rain came flashing down,

And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt
Lit up the gloomy town:

The thunder crashed across the heaven,
The fatal hour was come;

Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat,

The 'larum of the drum.

There was madness on the earth below

And anger in the sky,

And young and old, and rich and poor,
Came forth to see him die.

Ah, God! that ghastly gibbet!
How dismal 'tis to see

The great tall spectral skeleton,

The ladder and the tree!

Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms

The bells begin to toll—

"He is coming! he is coming!

God's mercy on his soul!"

The Execution of Montrose 2327

One last long peal of thunder:

The clouds are cleared away,

And the glorious sun once more looks down
Amidst the dazzling day.

"He is coming! he is coming!"
Like a bridegroom from his room,
Came the hero from his prison
To the scaffold and the doom.
There was glory on his forehead,
There was luster in his eye,
And he never walked to battle
More proudly than to die;
There was color in his visage,

Though the cheeks of all were wan,
And they marvelled as they saw him pass,
That great and goodly man!

He mounted up the scaffold,

And he turned him to the crowd;
But they dared not trust the people,
So he might not speak aloud.
But he looked upon the heavens,
And they were clear and blue,

And in the liquid ether

The eye of God shone through;
Yet a black and murky battlement
Lay resting on the hill,

As though the thunder slept within--
All else was calm and still.

The grim Geneva ministers

With anxious scowl drew near, As you have seen the ravens flock

Around the dying deer.

He would not deign them word nor sign,

But alone he bent the knee,

And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace
Beneath the gallows-tree.

Then radiant and serene he rose,
And cast his cloak away:
For he had ta'en his latest look
Of earth and sun and day.

A beam of light fell o'er him,
Like a glory round the shriven,
And he climbed the lofty ladder

As it were the path to heaven.
Then came a flash from out the cloud,
And a stunning thunder-roll;
And no man dared to look aloft,
For fear was on every soul.
There was another heavy sound,

A hush and then a groan;

And darkness swept across the sky

The work of death was done!

William Edmondstoune Aytoun (1813-1865]

AN HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND

[1650]

THE forward youth that would appear

Must now forsake his Muses dear,

Nor in the shadows sing

His numbers languishing.

'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil the unused armor's rust,
Removing from the wall

The corselet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,
But through adventurous war
Urged his active star;

And, like the three-forked lightning, first
Breaking the clouds where it was nursed,