The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
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Malcolm of Lorn.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
Malcolm of Lorn.
THE FIRST BARD'S SONG.
Came ye by Ora's verdant steep,
That smiles the restless ocean over?
Heard ye a suffering maiden weep?
Heard ye her name a faithful lover?
Saw ye an aged matron stand
O'er yon green grave above the strand,
Bent like the trunk of withered tree,
Or yon old thorn that sips the sea;
Fixed her dim eye, her face as pale
As the mists that o'er her flew?
Her joy is fled like the flower of the vale,
Her hope like the morning dew.
That matron was lately as proud of her stay,
As the mightiest monarch of sceptre or sway:
O list to the tale! 'tis a tale of soft sorrow,
Of Malcolm of Lorn and young Ann of Glen-Ora.
That smiles the restless ocean over?
Heard ye a suffering maiden weep?
Heard ye her name a faithful lover?
Saw ye an aged matron stand
O'er yon green grave above the strand,
Bent like the trunk of withered tree,
Or yon old thorn that sips the sea;
Fixed her dim eye, her face as pale
As the mists that o'er her flew?
Her joy is fled like the flower of the vale,
Her hope like the morning dew.
That matron was lately as proud of her stay,
As the mightiest monarch of sceptre or sway:
O list to the tale! 'tis a tale of soft sorrow,
Of Malcolm of Lorn and young Ann of Glen-Ora.
8
The sun is sweet at early morn,
Just blushing from the ocean's bosom;
The rose that decks the woodland thorn
Is fairest in its opening blossom;
Sweeter than opening rose in dew,
Than vernal flowers of richest hue,
Than fragrant birch or weeping willow,
Than red sun resting on the billow;
Sweeter than ought to mortals given
The heart and soul to prove;
Sweeter than ought beneath the heaven,
The joys of early love!
Never did maiden and manly youth
Love with such fervour, and love with such truth;
Or pleasures and virtues alternately borrow,
As Malcolm of Lorn and fair Ann of Glen-Ora.
Just blushing from the ocean's bosom;
The rose that decks the woodland thorn
Is fairest in its opening blossom;
Sweeter than opening rose in dew,
Than vernal flowers of richest hue,
Than fragrant birch or weeping willow,
Than red sun resting on the billow;
Sweeter than ought to mortals given
The heart and soul to prove;
Sweeter than ought beneath the heaven,
The joys of early love!
Never did maiden and manly youth
Love with such fervour, and love with such truth;
Or pleasures and virtues alternately borrow,
As Malcolm of Lorn and fair Ann of Glen-Ora.
The day is come, the dreaded day,
Must part two loving hearts for ever;
The ship lies rocking in the bay,
The boat comes rippling up the river;
O, happy has the gloaming's eye
In green Glen-Ora's bosom seen them!
But soon shall lands and nations lie,
And angry oceans roll between them.
Yes, they must part, for ever part,
Chill falls the truth on either heart;
For honour, titles, wealth, and state,
In distant lands her sire await.
The maid must with her sire away,
She cannot stay behind;
Straight to the south the pennons play,
And steady is the wind.
Shall Malcolm relinquish the home of his youth,
And sail with his love to the lands of the south?
Ah, no! for his father is gone to the tomb—
One parent survives in her desolate home;
No child but her Malcolm to cheer her lone way;
Break not her fond heart, gentle Malcolm, O stay!
Must part two loving hearts for ever;
The ship lies rocking in the bay,
The boat comes rippling up the river;
O, happy has the gloaming's eye
In green Glen-Ora's bosom seen them!
But soon shall lands and nations lie,
And angry oceans roll between them.
Yes, they must part, for ever part,
Chill falls the truth on either heart;
For honour, titles, wealth, and state,
In distant lands her sire await.
The maid must with her sire away,
She cannot stay behind;
Straight to the south the pennons play,
And steady is the wind.
Shall Malcolm relinquish the home of his youth,
And sail with his love to the lands of the south?
Ah, no! for his father is gone to the tomb—
One parent survives in her desolate home;
No child but her Malcolm to cheer her lone way;
Break not her fond heart, gentle Malcolm, O stay!
The boat impatient leans ashore,
Her prow sleeps on a sandy pillow;
The rower leans upon his oar,
Already bent to brush the billow.
O! Malcolm, view yon melting eyes,
With tears yon stainless roses steeping;
O! Malcolm, list, thy mother sighs;
She's leaning o'er her staff and weeping.
Thy Anna's heart is bound to thine,
And must that gentle heart repine?
Quick from the shore the boat must fly:
Her soul is speaking through her eye:
Think of thy joys in Ora's shade;
From Anna canst thou sever?
Think of the vows thou often hast made,
To love the dear maiden for ever.
And canst thou forego such beauty and youth,
Such maiden honour and spotless truth?
Forbid it!—He yields; to the boat he draws nigh—
Haste, Malcolm, aboard, and revert not thine eye.
That trembling voice in murmurs weak,
Comes not to blast the hopes before thee;
For pity, Malcolm, turn, and take
A last farewell of her that bore thee.
She says no word to mar thy bliss;
A last embrace, a parting kiss,
Her love deserves;—then be thou gone;
A mother's joys are thine alone.
Friendship may fade, and fortune prove
Deceitful to thy heart;
But never can a mother's love
From her own offspring part.
That tender form, now bent and gray,
Shall quickly sink to her native clay;
Then who shall watch her parting breath,
And shed a tear o'er her couch of death?
Who follow the dust to its long, long home,
And lay that head in an honoured tomb?
Her prow sleeps on a sandy pillow;
The rower leans upon his oar,
Already bent to brush the billow.
O! Malcolm, view yon melting eyes,
With tears yon stainless roses steeping;
O! Malcolm, list, thy mother sighs;
She's leaning o'er her staff and weeping.
Thy Anna's heart is bound to thine,
And must that gentle heart repine?
Quick from the shore the boat must fly:
Her soul is speaking through her eye:
Think of thy joys in Ora's shade;
From Anna canst thou sever?
Think of the vows thou often hast made,
To love the dear maiden for ever.
And canst thou forego such beauty and youth,
Such maiden honour and spotless truth?
Forbid it!—He yields; to the boat he draws nigh—
Haste, Malcolm, aboard, and revert not thine eye.
That trembling voice in murmurs weak,
Comes not to blast the hopes before thee;
For pity, Malcolm, turn, and take
A last farewell of her that bore thee.
She says no word to mar thy bliss;
A last embrace, a parting kiss,
Her love deserves;—then be thou gone;
A mother's joys are thine alone.
Friendship may fade, and fortune prove
Deceitful to thy heart;
But never can a mother's love
From her own offspring part.
That tender form, now bent and gray,
Shall quickly sink to her native clay;
Then who shall watch her parting breath,
And shed a tear o'er her couch of death?
Who follow the dust to its long, long home,
And lay that head in an honoured tomb?
Oft hast thou, to her bosom press'd,
For many a day about been borne;
Oft hushed and cradled on her breast,
And canst thou leave that breast forlorn?
O'er all thy ails her heart has bled;
Oft has she watched beside thy bed;
Oft prayed for thee in dell at even,
Beneath the pitying stars of heaven.
Ah! Malcolm, ne'er was parent yet
So tender, so benign:
Never was maid so loved, so sweet,
Nor soul so rent as thine!
He looked to the boat—slow she heaved from the shore;
He saw his loved Anna all speechless implore:
But, grasped by a cold and a trembling hand,
He clung to his parent, and sunk on the strand.
The boat across the tide flew fast,
And left a silver curve behind;
Loud sung the sailor from the mast,
Spreading his sails before the wind.
The stately ship, adown the bay,
A corslet framed of heaving snow,
And flurred on high the slender spray,
Till rainbows gleamed around her prow.
How strained was Malcolm's watery eye,
Yon fleeting vision to descry!
But, ah! her virgin form so fair,
Soon vanished in the liquid air.
Away to Ora's headland steep
The youth retired the while,
And saw the unpitying vessel sweep
Around yon Highland isle.
His heart and his mind with that vessel had gone;
His sorrow was deep, and despairing his moan,
When, lifting his eyes from the green heaving deep,
He prayed the Almighty his Anna to keep.
For many a day about been borne;
Oft hushed and cradled on her breast,
And canst thou leave that breast forlorn?
O'er all thy ails her heart has bled;
Oft has she watched beside thy bed;
Oft prayed for thee in dell at even,
Beneath the pitying stars of heaven.
Ah! Malcolm, ne'er was parent yet
So tender, so benign:
Never was maid so loved, so sweet,
Nor soul so rent as thine!
He looked to the boat—slow she heaved from the shore;
He saw his loved Anna all speechless implore:
But, grasped by a cold and a trembling hand,
He clung to his parent, and sunk on the strand.
The boat across the tide flew fast,
And left a silver curve behind;
Loud sung the sailor from the mast,
Spreading his sails before the wind.
The stately ship, adown the bay,
A corslet framed of heaving snow,
And flurred on high the slender spray,
Till rainbows gleamed around her prow.
How strained was Malcolm's watery eye,
Yon fleeting vision to descry!
But, ah! her virgin form so fair,
Soon vanished in the liquid air.
Away to Ora's headland steep
The youth retired the while,
And saw the unpitying vessel sweep
Around yon Highland isle.
His heart and his mind with that vessel had gone;
His sorrow was deep, and despairing his moan,
When, lifting his eyes from the green heaving deep,
He prayed the Almighty his Anna to keep.
High o'er the crested cliffs of Lorn
The curlew conned her wild bravura;
The sun, in pall of purple borne,
Was hastening down the steeps of Jura:
The glowing ocean heaved her breast,
Her wandering lover's glances under;
And showed his radiant form, imprest
Deep in a wavy world of wonder.
Not all the ocean's dyes at even,
Though varied as the bow of heaven;
The countless isles so dusky blue,
Nor medley of the gray curlew,
Could light on Malcolm's spirit shed;
Their glory all was gone!
For his joy was fled, his hope was dead,
And his heart forsaken and lone.
The sea-bird sought her roofless nest,
To warm her brood with her downy breast;
And near her home on the margin dun,
A mother weeps o'er her duteous son.
The curlew conned her wild bravura;
The sun, in pall of purple borne,
Was hastening down the steeps of Jura:
9
Her wandering lover's glances under;
And showed his radiant form, imprest
Deep in a wavy world of wonder.
Not all the ocean's dyes at even,
Though varied as the bow of heaven;
The countless isles so dusky blue,
Nor medley of the gray curlew,
Could light on Malcolm's spirit shed;
Their glory all was gone!
For his joy was fled, his hope was dead,
And his heart forsaken and lone.
The sea-bird sought her roofless nest,
To warm her brood with her downy breast;
And near her home on the margin dun,
A mother weeps o'er her duteous son.
One little boat alone is seen
On all the lovely dappled main,
That softly sinks the waves between,
Then vaults their heaving breasts again.
With snowy sail, and rowers' sweep,
Across the tide she seems to fly:
Why bears she on yon headland steep,
Where neither house nor home is nigh?
Is that a vision from the deep
That springs ashore and scales the steep,
Nor ever stays its ardent haste
Till sunk upon young Malcolm's breast?
Oh! spare that breast so lowly laid,
So fraught with deepest sorrow!
It is his own, his darling maid,
Young Anna of Glen-Ora!—
“My Malcolm, part we ne'er again:
My father saw thy bosom's pain;
Pitied my grief from thee to sever;
Now I, and Glen-Ora, are thine for ever!”
On all the lovely dappled main,
That softly sinks the waves between,
Then vaults their heaving breasts again.
With snowy sail, and rowers' sweep,
Across the tide she seems to fly:
Why bears she on yon headland steep,
Where neither house nor home is nigh?
Is that a vision from the deep
That springs ashore and scales the steep,
Nor ever stays its ardent haste
Till sunk upon young Malcolm's breast?
Oh! spare that breast so lowly laid,
So fraught with deepest sorrow!
It is his own, his darling maid,
Young Anna of Glen-Ora!—
“My Malcolm, part we ne'er again:
My father saw thy bosom's pain;
Pitied my grief from thee to sever;
Now I, and Glen-Ora, are thine for ever!”
That blaze of joy through clouds of woe,
Too fierce upon his heart did fall;
For, ah! the shaft had left the bow,
Which power of man could not recall.
No word of love could Malcolm speak;
No raptured kiss his lips impart;
No tear bedewed his shivering cheek,
To ease the grasp that held his heart.
His arms essayed one kind embrace—
Will they inclose her? never! never!
A smile set softly on his face,
But ah, the eye was set for ever!
'Twas more than broken heart could brook:
How throbs that breast!—How still that look!
One shiver more! All! all is o'er!—
As melts the wave on level shore;
As fades the dye of falling even,
Far on the silver verge of heaven;
As on thy ear the minstrel's lay,—
So died the comely youth away.”
Too fierce upon his heart did fall;
For, ah! the shaft had left the bow,
Which power of man could not recall.
No word of love could Malcolm speak;
No raptured kiss his lips impart;
No tear bedewed his shivering cheek,
To ease the grasp that held his heart.
His arms essayed one kind embrace—
Will they inclose her? never! never!
A smile set softly on his face,
But ah, the eye was set for ever!
'Twas more than broken heart could brook:
How throbs that breast!—How still that look!
One shiver more! All! all is o'er!—
As melts the wave on level shore;
As fades the dye of falling even,
Far on the silver verge of heaven;
As on thy ear the minstrel's lay,—
So died the comely youth away.”
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |