BY THE HON. AND REV. BAPTIST W. NOEL, A.M.
THEY are coming-o'er the cliffs-by the path along the glen-
By the road of La Vachére-Oh! quit you then like men.
Like the furious summer torrent, in its desolating way,
Like the eagle from the clouds, they are lighting on their prey.
By your children's pale cheeks, from which fear the blood has
By the terror of your wives, who lift their arms to heaven-
By the aspect of the living, by the memory of the dead-
Who here, for the Gospel, have often fought and bled—
Let your slings do their duty, and forth your weapons draw,
And let liberty or death be the word for each Vaudois.
Four days have they struggled to gain that rocky hold,
But the mountain path is rude, and the mountaineer is bold;
And the torrent has been dyed with the richest blood of France,
And vain has been the battle-axe, and broken is the lance.
Fierce Maugiron has fought in many a bloody fray,
And met with gallant foes, but ne'er with such as they.
Seven thousand men at arms, though practised well in war,
Are baffled by that band, that guard the Pra del Tor.
Oh shame upon their manhood! they could massacre the weak,
Lay desolate the fields, leave the villages a wreck,
But that handful of the brave shall beat them back again, Though Piedmont is united with the hosts of France and Spain. Ye have fought throughout the day, ye have watched throughout
And weary are your limbs with the watching and the fight;
But the general is furious,-the Spanish force is here-
Now be bold now be stedfast-every loyal mountaineer,
And die in the field, ere you yield us up a prey
To the monks of Piqueroll, and the Count de Trinité.
How gleams that spear forest! How wildly they rush on!
Ours are moveless as the rock-well done-hurra-well done.
Like a wave on the beach which has spent its foaming wrath,
What heaps are lying dead along that bloody path!
Yet still they onward press. Can ours the pass maintain ?
Brave Augereau is wounded, and Peltier is slain.
Now they press on our defenders-the pass is nearly won—
Alas! for our children! but 'tis not the time to moan:
Now, wives of the Vaudois, ye must have the chamois feet,
For the snow peaks and the cliffs must be your
last retreat;
Climb swiftly, or your babes will welter in their gore,
For a moment, and the Spaniard will have Pra del Tor.
No, no-it will not be; the righteous cause will win,
And never o'er our valleys will reign the man of sin.
See the Spaniard is daunted, he is fronted by the spear,
Our bowmen are around him, and are playing on the rear.
They fall like leaves of autumn, they are crushed beneath the
Which (a cataract of granite) are thundering down the rocks They reel-they retire-our men have forced them back O'er the corpses of their comrades that clog their fatal track. See they turn-see they flee-but they ne'er will see again The villages they love, and the vine-clad hills of Spain.
As the snows of Etna melt before its lava stream,
Their regiments dissolve, and vanish like a dream.
But hundreds are laid low, and loud will be the wail
For the soldiers of the faith, at Rome and at Versailles :
When they tortured at the stake Marcellin and sister Jean,
Cartinian, and the pastors of Mèane and St. Germain-
When our granaries were plundered, when our houses were
their prey-
When he saw Rora burn, with Villaro and Tagliaret—
And when the naked mountains were become our only hope,
Did they think to chase us hence, or enslave us to the pope?
They looked for the marmot, but they found the tiger there,
And wo to the intruders that have roused him from his lair!
Now they trample down each other, terror urges on their flight,
And they plunge into the torrent, and they leap the dizzy height:
Yet stay the arm of vengeance, and from the chase withdraw,
For ne'er must needless carnage stain the arms of the Vaudois.
Now thanks to our Preserver, who gives victory to the weak,
On the spot where we have triumphed we will His praises speak;
'Twas dear to us already, but dearer than before,
To us and to our children, will be this Pra del Tor.
|