Old Year Leaves :: :: University of Virginia Library

Time.—Immediately after the breaking out of the Civil War, 1642.
Hubert.
Hurrah! at length the people spring
To vindicate their right,
And vainly now shall strive the King
To vanquish them in fight.
At last Laud's long despotic course
Draws ruin in its train,
Soon Hampden's words of frenzied force
The victory shall gain—
While Charles will rue with deep remorse
The part which he hath ta'en.
For England's might shall rise in fight
Throughout the groaning land—

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And War's harsh sound be heard around
Our homes on every hand.
Our wrongs shall be wiped out in gore,
We'll vanquish what was vaunted,
And so it shall be said once more
That Britons are undaunted.
Then shall we hold a Parliament
Untrammelled, true, and free;
The Stuart's line will aye repent
Their deeds of tyranny.
Secret intrigues shall not affright,
Nor unordained taxation—
And life will prove a dear delight
To each one in the nation!

Sir Ralph.
And yet, my son, this coming strife
Will yield us grievous woe;
Though risking life where death is rife,
God grant you ne'er may know
The agony a father feels
When from his fond child parted;
Wounds such as these Time seldom heals,
But leaves him broken-hearted.
What anguish 'tis to separate
When Nature's ties are nearest!

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Ah! cruel is the withering fate
Which tears me from my dearest.
Still go, my son, nor lingering stay,
All private wishes must give way
When the public weal in a righteous cause
Demands a defence for our ancient laws.
Yet even when the cause is one
To which my thoughts respond,
How hard it seems to lose thee, son;
I long to gaze beyond
The darkness which enshrouds thy lot
Amid the surging strife—
Of Gertrude, Hubert, think'st thou not?
Gertrude thy promised wife.
Her father hastes with all his men
To take the monarch's side;
Will he permit his daughter then
To be a traitor's bride?

Hubert.
Lately on evening calm as this
We met in woodland yonder,
Sealing our troth with fervent kiss,
Knowing we had grown fonder,
Yet 'twas our lot to ponder
On what, alas! we now must do;

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So sadly passed our interview,
Feeling it was our parents' due,
At least, that we should meet no more
Until the present strife was o'er.
And thus our pressing grief we strove to smother,
By vowing constant faith to one another.
So still to me is Gertrude dear,
We do not part for ever;
Then, father mine, thy spirit cheer,
Though now we're forced to sever.

Scene II.

—A room in the Manor House. Hubert and Gertrude alone. Time.—Three years afterwards.
Hubert.
Alas! my honoured father dead,
A blighting blow indeed has sped
When I was absent; Gertrude, love,
Thou seem'st a being from above
Sent to relieve my crushing woe,
By bliss which mortals rarely know.
Few words may tell why I am here,
In thy dear face delighting,

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Blessed be the cause which brings thee near,
Our severed ties uniting.
How weary is this woeful time
Of pillaging and slaughter!
No party deeming war a crime,
Blood flowing fast as water.
The golden grain one rarely sees
That all are now requiring,
Few buds upon the orchard trees,
Which ruthless foes are firing,
Shrieks of despair borne by the breeze
Whence peasants are retiring.
The hurried tramp of armèd men,
The musketry's rude rattle,
The cries and imprecations when
Amid the brunt of battle.
Such are the sounds which greet mine ear,
Till, saddened with the fray,
I come, my love, to rest me here,
If only for a day.

Gertrude.
My story too is very brief,
But 'tis a tale of truest grief.
Ah! Hubert, I felt lone and drear
When thou went'st forth to fight the foe,

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And none were left my soul to cheer
Along its path of loveless woe.
The links seemed loosed which brightly bound
Our hopes and hearts in love profound.
My father grew morose and stern,
And harshly swore that I should learn
My folly thus to thwart his will
By loving a rebel Roundhead still,
And that he would go forth and bring
For me another lover—
Who dauntlessly would serve the King,
As I should soon discover.
While thus beset on every side,
With none to counsel or to guide,
I scarce knew what I ought to do,
Then to Sir Harton's house I flew,
Craving protection there;
And graciously with features pale
He gravely listened to my tale,
Granting me all my prayer.
He let me take a daughter's part—
Loving me dearly from his heart;
But feebler grew he day by day,
Dreaming of thee who wert away,

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Endangered in the deadly fray;
And oft he longed as erst of yore
To mount his stately steed once more
To join thee in the field.
But lacking strength, “Heaven's will be done,
Though strong the yearning for my son,
Whom God protect and shield.”
I need not tell thee how his strength
Stole stealthily away: at length
He knew that death was near,
And like a wan and sickly child,
By sleep when blissfully beguiled,
He died without a fear.

Hubert.
Thanks, Gertrude darling, for thy care,
Ah! had I but been near to share
Thy deep devotion to my sire,
It had been more mine own desire,
Than that by deeds of might my name
Should win in war a soldier's fame.
This is no time for honeyed word,
Yet what from thy sweet lips I've heard
Has bid me bless and love thee more
Than in the peaceful days of yore.
But, Gertrude, I must leave thee now—

264

I may no longer tarry;
For I my good steed must allow
Three hours in which to carry
His master unto his command
Of Levellers the nearest band.
The struggle now is nearly done,
With Cromwell none can cope—
When a great conflict has been won
Gone is each royal hope.
Thy sire and mother are in Spain
(Having in safety crossed the main);
Then with my vassals still abide,
Nor from my home depart—
Until I come to call thee bride
With blithely beating heart.
Oh! give me now a last embrace,
One glance of thy bright eye
Will nerve me aught on earth to face,
Even though it be to die.

Scene III.

—Interior of a wretched hovel. Hubert lying wounded. Group of soldiers. Time.—A few days later.
1st Sol.
'Tis sad our captain too should feel
The stroke of the Malignants' steel,

265

In fight so fearless, brave, and bold,
He scarcely seemed of mortal mould;
And yet among the wounded he
Would tender as a woman be.
The dying heard with joy his tread,
Invoking blessings on his head.
So kind to all, so gentle too,
He gave to each his proper due,
And ever exercised his power
To check us in a wanton hour.

2nd Sol.
Cease, ere he wakes—

Hubert.
(Opening his eyes—)
Why am I here,
In this abode so bare and drear?
Why this strange mist before mine eyes,
Whence phantoms of the past arise?
Why this weak trembling of the frame,
And feelings which I cannot name?

1st Sol.
Thou'rt wounded, Captain, but we feel
Assured our leech thy hurt can heal.

Hubert.
Nevermore, my race is run,
Here I shall not long remain,
All my life on earth is done—
Save, perchance, some hours of pain.

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(Delirious.)
Gertrude darling, come to me,
Even mid the din of strife.
When shall I the dear day see
When I rapturous call thee wife?
(Again he is conscious.)
Approach, my men, I grow more weak,
My strength speeds swift away,
Then promise me while yet I speak
My mandate to obey.
When I am dead, with charger fleet
Unto my home repair,
And tell the lady Gertrude sweet,
My last thoughts were of her.
And lay me where my fathers sleep,
Within yon lone churchyard,
Where the weird willow seems to keep
A solitary guard.
Farewell! I thank you from my heart
For all the kindness on your part,
May God—

1st Sol.
See the celestial light
Illume his features, as his spirit takes its flight.

267

THE BATTLE OF LOUDONHILL.

June 1st, 1679.

[_]

The Scottish Presbyterians, forbidden by the arbitrary enactments of Charles II. to hold religious services according to their much-cherished manner, were fain to do so in secret. Graham of Claver-house, Viscount Dundee, has earned immortal infamy by the cruelties he exercised while dispersing these assemblies with his troopers. It is one of those occasions which is here attempted to be described.

I.

'Tis Sabbath morn—fair Nature's face
Showers smiles of freshly glowing grace
On mountain, crag, and glen,—
As if to prove to Him above
Its silent share of lowly love
Amid proud sullen men;
And blithely birds chant loud their lays
Of adoration and of praise.

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II.

Much people from around are here,
Yet with a mien of awe and fear,—
But oft their faces seem to cheer
As though some blessed boon were near.
Women and men with one accord
Are gathered now upon the sward,
Vanished at once each petty feud,—
They are resolved to serve the Lord
In way which unto them seems good.

III.

“Have ye heard of that rash raid
Ruthless Claverhouse has made?”
Thus in accents firm yet low
Oft they murmur to and fro—
“He has ta'en of us the best,
But he shall not seize the rest—
Until at least we struggle sore
To hold our own in fight,
And pray amid the conflict's roar
‘For Scotland and the right.’

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IV.

“Why should the King dictate to us
An alien way to serve the Lord?
We will not bear such thrall, and thus
Are met this day with one accord;
Place sentinels on every hill
To give us all fit warning due:
Then put good trust in God's wise will
And in our cause and weapons true.”

V.

“If our sweet sisters see the sign
Of danger passed along the line
Of distant scouts, they quit the glen,—
The strife not left to craven men.”
So speaks a patriarch in the midst, and now
The congregation at God's footstool bow,
And with united voices humbly there
They plead for pardon and for peace in prayer.

VI.

Then plaintively they sing a psalm,
And hear the “Word of Life;”

270

Yet bodes around a baneful calm
Presaging coming strife.
For see! there hastes a messenger,
Of toil-worn form but dauntless air:
“Look to your ranks, rouse ye like men,—
The black dragoons have gained the glen.”

VII.

Full speedily the men divide
In companies, on either side
According to their arms;
A motley host indeed they seem,
As now the sun's meridian beam
Makes scythes and mattocks burnished gleam
Among the weapons soldiers deem
Fitter for war's alarms.

VIII.

The aged minister with head made bare
Amid a solemn silence offers prayer;
“Lord, spare the green and take the ripe; we know
Thou rulest all things in this world of woe;
Then grant but this and Scotland's just demand,
Aught else we leave in Thy Almighty Hand.”

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IX.

The pleading ends; each peasant hies
His proper place to fill;
Along their front a marsh there lies—
Behind their post a hill.
While resolutely thus they tread,
Of father, mother, wife,
Doubtless they think, yet dare the dread
And danger of the strife,
Feeling its issue will restore
Freedom to their down-trodden shore.

X.

Lo! list to the sound which now bursts on the ear,
A sound that full oft hath begotten wild fear—
The prelude to plunder and rapine and woe,
As all in the bold little army well know.
Pricking swift as the billows when ploughed by the gale,
While their steeds spurn the turf as they dash up the vale,
The dragoons are seen moving, and every man
Views the dark crest of Claverhouse leading the van.

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XI.

“Now look to your carbines,” cries he with a laugh—
“And each ranting rebel you'll scatter like chaff,
The harvest is over, the thrashers are come,
With swords for their flails, for their music a drum,
And your famous leech-craft will certainly heal
The festering wound of the Covenant's zeal.”

XII.

Sharp comes the volley—from the vale
Shrouded in sable smoke
Strange sounds arise; and when a wail
Pierces its cloud-wrapt cloak,
Perchance it is a sign that one
Ends there his earthly strife—
His lowly race at last hath run,
Entering eternal life.
Perchance a sign that one of those
Who scoffed and had no fear,
His summons come, reluctant goes
Before God to appear.

273

XIII.

Yet still the peasants ne'er o'erthrown
With patient courage hold their own;
Try as they may, the soldiers see
They win not thus the victory.
So Claverhouse recalls each man
Till he direct some further plan,
The lines upon his stubborn face
Showing he feels the dire disgrace
That well-tried troops—false Charles's boast—
Should vanquished be by peasant host.

XIV.

But soon enraged he orders all
The cavalry within his call
Full at the charge with frenzied force
Across the moss to take their course,
Seeking to make the rout complete
By crushing all beneath their feet.
And gallantly the men advance
With pointed sword, and glittering lance,
And crests which in the sun-beams dance.

274

XV.

But every effort is in vain,
And steeds, though guided by the rein,
Are all around fast falling;
And their fierce foemen now are closing
Thick in upon them, and opposing,
Their ranks now past recalling.
The marsh has stopped their march indeed
There can be no denying,
And many a man and many a steed
Dyed darkly now lie dying.
And all their splendour melts away
Like dew-drops at the dawn of day.

XVI.

Like as a vulture when bereft of prey
Long hovers ere it baffled soars away,
Stern Claverhouse had waited thus in vain,
Till now he turns his rampant charger's rein;
Shouting, in his rough voice, the loud command,
“Retreat,” unto the remnant of his band

275

XVII.

And thus the victory is won,
And many hearts made glad—
Yet grieving that a Sabbath's sun
Should see a sight so sad.
And well they know they have not broke
The rigour of the Despot's yoke,
And oft they pause and ponder wearily
On what must hap ere Scotland can be free.

XVIII.

Loudon! thy fame shall ne'er be lost,
Even if it only showed the cost
Our fathers paid for Liberty,
That priceless jewel of the free,
Thus nerving us with effort strong
To combat Tyranny and Wrong.

276

AN EPISODE IN THE BATTLE OF FUENTES D'HONORE.

1811.

The horse of the armies, in hostile array,
Haste to prove their proud prowess in mortal affray—
And the soldiers' fierce oaths that are bandied around
Add a fresh sense of horror to battle's stern sound.
Thus the squadrons are nearing each other, when lo!
An hussar leaves our line and makes straight for the foe,
And stung by his tauntings to furious force,
Direct at one soldier he urges his horse—
Who, seeing such frenzy of hate with sore fear,
Sets spurs to his steed, and swift speeds for the rear,

277

While the other his charger gives rashly the rein,
And both gallop recklessly over the plain.
Our men greet their comrade with cheers long and loud,
While the French are struck mute as he flies through their crowd;
So the chase is continued far, far, in advance
Of the glancing of bayonet or glittering of lance;
Yet our gallant hussar is in perilous plight,
The enemy near him—no friends now in sight:
And to reach his companions perforce he must go
Through the densely ranged ranks of the furious foe—
Who, deeming their victory a certainty, vow
Though he passed their line once, he will not pass it now.
And hard they press on him—escape seems in vain,
Though he spur his steed onward with loose slackened rein.

But the men of his regiment are anxious to save
A comrade, though reckless, thus daring and brave;

278

So, drawing their sabres, swift forward they dash
And charge on the cowards with crest-cleaving crash.
Thus the moment which seemed his sad fate to have sealed
A goodly array of our soldiers revealed,
And amid the mad melée of general strife
He regained his companions with honour and life.

279

DEVOTION OF PRINCE PONIATOWSKI.

Leipsic, 1813.

Bravely the French have fought, but all by treachery is lost,
And nought is left save to retreat, though now at fearful cost;
In gloomy tones Napoleon gives the unfamiliar word—
With curses on the enemy it everywhere is heard;
“And you, Prince Poniatowski, keep the Southern Faubourg, while
Across the Pleisse and Elster the vanguard can defile.”
“My men are few, your Majesty; they must in time give way.”
“Still you will surely strive to hold the post as best you may.”

282

“Doubt us not, sire, we'll keep good guard,” speaks he with a deep sigh.
“None of my Polish legion but for you would gladly die.”

The morning light soon growing bright, shows clearly to the foe
The French retreat has now commenced, though sad and strangely slow;
And columns of the Allies advance to do their duty
By dashing on to devastate a scene once filled with beauty;
But gallantly their rushing ranks the brave rearguard restrain,
Full long their valiant charge is vain an entrance to obtain,
And when, but step by step, the bold defenders are retiring,
'Tis whilst resisting steadfastly with still continued firing;
All their companions now have crossed a broad bridge which is mined—

283

If they can pass securely o'er, they soon may safety find.

Hark to the sudden hellish crash! these heroes' hope has gone!
The mine has prematurely burst—the careless stream rolls on;
The people fire from off the roofs, the foe press on the rear,
A moment 'tis of agony, of overwhelming fear.
Proud Poniatowski sees the flash of hostile sabres rise,
And to his Polish cuirassiers, he petulantly cries—
“'Tis best to fall with honour now while each his weapon plies.”

Turning his horse, he shapes his course 'mong bayonets all opposing,
Around his stalwart martial form the enemy are closing—
One shot has smote him in the arm, another midst his dress,

284

Striking the gay insignia which his great renown express.
He plunges madly through the Pleisse, the strength at his command
Is perfectly exhausted ere he feebly gains the land;
Alas! 'tis but to mark the foe thronging the Elster's shore,
And leaping swift into its tide, he sinks to rise no more.

Farewell, lost Poland's noble son! how meet the day would be
Whereon the land which gave thee birth once more was rendered free.

285

DUTY STRONGER THAN PAIN.

1795.

The good ship Rose with thirteen men and but eight guns is steering
Along the gay Italian coast, in quest of privateering,
When at the breaking of the day before upon the lee
What gallantly her crew have sought at last they gladly see.
Three armed feluccas are in view, and soon begins the fight,
And the ruthless Rose her broadside fires with overwhelming might,
For valiantly her noble crew with vigour ply each gun,
When suddenly a shot lays low of their small number, one;

293

His foot is crushed, and eager hands would bear him from the deck,
But with a voice which falters not he seeks their care to check—
“I shall not leave you, comrades bold,” heroically he cries,
“For I can use a musket still, although I cannot rise;
Then to your posts, nor think of me, our numbers are too few
To spare even one, and readily my duty I can do.”

The battle rages bravely on, and soon 'tis clear to see
That gallantly our doughty men have gained the victory—
And was it aught of wonder that so it should be when
Such fearless hearts impelled the hands of our staunch sailors then?
God grant that if once more our tars should fight upon the wave,
They may be then as free from fear, as generous, and as brave.

294

A SEA ENCOUNTER.

1758.

The gallant ships Southampton and Melampe brave the gale
In noble guise, as mutually they forth together sail,
With massive mast bent to the blast, and canvas full and free,
A stirring sight they seem—befitting well an English sea—
With many blithesome hearts on board as heedless and as gay
As if Life were merely made for mirth—nought save a holiday.

And now, behold, off Yarmouth roads there burst upon their sight
Two Gallic frigates in full sail, which they resolve to fight.

295

The Melampe is the swifter barque, and fastest gains the foe,
Who to return her fusillade with interest are not slow—
So ere the crew of the Southampton reach the strife, they learn
In a distressed disabled state she has been forced astern;
Then, like a dastard, one French ship in dread doth steer away,
But madly the Southampton's guns upon the other play
Like monsters of destruction, who cannot brook delay.

The French engage with reckless rage—the fight grows hour by hour,
Each vessel's crew, with purpose true, striving with passion's power;
Each seaman seeking still to keep the honour of his nation
By carrying mid the hostile ranks dire woe and desolation;

296

And the hissing roar of rushing shell and the blinding red-hot hail,
All demonstrate what dreadful force they now use to prevail.
Hour after hour thus passes swift in unremitting strife,
And of the French full eighty men have yielded up their life—
But as the sixth hour draweth on they suddenly give way,
Their falling flag proclaiming wide that they have lost the day.

We trust such times as these shall ne'er again mar Britain's story,
Yet bravery, howe'er displayed, shall aye retain its glory.