Gentles, list to the tale I tell; 'Tis many a year since this befel: And ladies now may love deride, And their suitors alone be petrified!'
'THEIR voice shall be heard in other ages, When the kings of Temora have failed.'
YE say, we sing no household songs, To those beside our hearths at play; No minstrelsy to us belongs, No legends of our by-gone day: No old traditions of the hills, Our giant land no memory fills-- We have no proud heroic lay! Ye ask the time-worn storied page-- Ye ask the things of other age, From us--a race of yesterday!
Of yore, in Britain's feudal halls, Where many a warlike trophy hung, With shield and banner on the walls, The bard's high harp was sternly strung To praise of war--its fierce delights-- To 'heroes of an hundred fights,' Ever the 'sounding shell' outrung! Gone is the ancient Bardic race-- Their song hath found perpetual place Their country's proud archives among!
The warlike Norsemen of the isles, Erst o'er the wave held sovereignty-- A sound is swelling where, erewhile, Their ringing spears made melody: Rude hunters of the seal and whale Are chaunting out the Saga's tale, To the wild winds sweeping by-- How their heroes heard the Valkyriur call To the feast and song in Odin's hall-- To the white mead foaming high!
The stirring Scottish border tale, Pealed from the chords in chieftain's hall-- The wild traditions of the Gäel, The wandering harper's lays recall: All have their legends, and their songs-- Records of glory, feud, and wrongs. What nerved the fair chivalric Gaul, When woke the bold 'Parisienne?' The 'Marsellois?' _what_ foeman then Roused him to conquer or to fall?
What thought the Switzer's bosom thrills, When sounds the 'Ranz de Vache' on high; A race as ancient as their hills, Still echoes their wild mountain cry: He springs along the rocky height-- He marks the lammergeyer's flight-- The chamois bounding by: He snuffs the mountain breeze of morn-- He winds again the mountain horn, And the loud Alps reply!
Our fathers bore from Albion's isle, No stories of her sounding lyres-- They left the old baronial pile-- They left the harp of ringing wires! Ours are the legends old and dim, The household song--the evening hymn, Sung by your bright hearth-fires! Each tree that in your soft wind stirs, Waves o'er our ancient sepulchres-- The ashes of our sires!