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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Young Kennedy.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
Young Kennedy.
THE SECOND BARD'S SONG.
When the gusts of October had rifled the thorn,
Had dappled the woodland, and umbered the plain,
In den of the mountain was Kennedy born;
There hushed by the tempest, baptized with the rain.
His cradle a mat that swung light on the oak;
His couch the sear mountain-fern, spread on the rock;
The white knobs of ice from the chilled nipple hung,
And loud winter-torrents his lullaby sung.
Had dappled the woodland, and umbered the plain,
In den of the mountain was Kennedy born;
There hushed by the tempest, baptized with the rain.
His cradle a mat that swung light on the oak;
His couch the sear mountain-fern, spread on the rock;
The white knobs of ice from the chilled nipple hung,
And loud winter-torrents his lullaby sung.
Unheeded he shivered, unheeded he cried;
Soon died on the breeze of the forest his moan.
To his wailings, the weary wood-echo replied;
His watcher, the wondering redbreast alone.
Oft gazed his young eye on the whirl of the storm,
And all the wild shades that the desert deform;
From cleft in the correi, which thunders had riven,
It oped on the pale fleeting billows of heaven.
Soon died on the breeze of the forest his moan.
To his wailings, the weary wood-echo replied;
His watcher, the wondering redbreast alone.
Oft gazed his young eye on the whirl of the storm,
And all the wild shades that the desert deform;
From cleft in the correi, which thunders had riven,
It oped on the pale fleeting billows of heaven.
The nursling of misery, young Kennedy learned
His hunger, his thirst, and his passions to feed:
With pity for others his heart never yearned—
Their pain was his pleasure—their sorrow his meed.
His eye was the eagle's, the twilight his hue;
His stature like pine of the hill where he grew;
His soul was the neal-fire, inhaled from his den,
And never knew fear, save for ghost of the glen.
His hunger, his thirst, and his passions to feed:
With pity for others his heart never yearned—
Their pain was his pleasure—their sorrow his meed.
His eye was the eagle's, the twilight his hue;
His stature like pine of the hill where he grew;
His soul was the neal-fire, inhaled from his den,
And never knew fear, save for ghost of the glen.
His father, a chief for barbarity known,
Proscribed, and by gallant Macdougal expelled;
Where rolls the dark Teith through the valley of Doune,
The conqueror's menial he toiled in the field.
His master he loved not, obeyed with a scowl,
Scarce smothered his hate, and his rancour of soul;
When challenged, his eye and his colour would change,
His proud bosom nursing and planning revenge.
Proscribed, and by gallant Macdougal expelled;
Where rolls the dark Teith through the valley of Doune,
The conqueror's menial he toiled in the field.
His master he loved not, obeyed with a scowl,
Scarce smothered his hate, and his rancour of soul;
When challenged, his eye and his colour would change,
His proud bosom nursing and planning revenge.
Matilda, ah! woe that the wild rose's dye,
Shed over thy maiden cheek, caused thee to rue!
O! why was the sphere of thy love-rolling eye
Inlaid with the diamond, and dipt in the dew?
Thy father's sole daughter; his hope and his care;
The child of his age, and the child of his prayer;
And thine was the heart that was gentle and kind,
And light as the feather that sports in the wind.
Shed over thy maiden cheek, caused thee to rue!
O! why was the sphere of thy love-rolling eye
Inlaid with the diamond, and dipt in the dew?
Thy father's sole daughter; his hope and his care;
The child of his age, and the child of his prayer;
And thine was the heart that was gentle and kind,
And light as the feather that sports in the wind.
To her home from the Lowlands, Matilda returned;
All fair was her form, and untainted her mind.
Young Kennedy saw her, his appetite burned
As fierce as the moor-flame impelled by the wind.
Was it love? No; the ray his dark soul never knew,
That spark which eternity burns to renew;
'Twas the flash of desire, kindled fierce by revenge,
Which savages feel the brown desert that range.
All fair was her form, and untainted her mind.
Young Kennedy saw her, his appetite burned
As fierce as the moor-flame impelled by the wind.
Was it love? No; the ray his dark soul never knew,
That spark which eternity burns to renew;
'Twas the flash of desire, kindled fierce by revenge,
Which savages feel the brown desert that range.
Sweet woman! too well is thy tenderness known;
Too often deep sorrow succeeds thy love-smile;
Too oft, in a moment, thy peace overthrown—
Fair butt of delusion, of passion, and guile!
What heart will not bleed for Matilda so gay,
To art and to long perseverance a prey?
Why sings yon scared blackbird in sorrowful mood?
Why blushes the daisy deep in the green-wood?
Too often deep sorrow succeeds thy love-smile;
Too oft, in a moment, thy peace overthrown—
Fair butt of delusion, of passion, and guile!
What heart will not bleed for Matilda so gay,
To art and to long perseverance a prey?
Why sings yon scared blackbird in sorrowful mood?
Why blushes the daisy deep in the green-wood?
Sweet woman! with virtue, thou'rt lofty, thou'rt free;
Yield that, thou'rt a slave, and the mark of disdain:
No blossom of spring is beleaguered like thee,
Though brushed by the lightning, the wind, and the rain.
Matilda is fallen! With tears in her eye
She seeks her destroyer, but only can sigh.
Matilda has fallen, and sorrow her doom—
The flower of the valley is nipt in the bloom.
Yield that, thou'rt a slave, and the mark of disdain:
No blossom of spring is beleaguered like thee,
Though brushed by the lightning, the wind, and the rain.
Matilda is fallen! With tears in her eye
She seeks her destroyer, but only can sigh.
Matilda has fallen, and sorrow her doom—
The flower of the valley is nipt in the bloom.
Ah! Kennedy, vengeance hangs over thine head!
Escape to thy native Glengary forlorn:
Why art thou at midnight away from thy bed?
Why quakes thy big heart at the break of the morn?
Why chatters yon magpie on gable so loud?
Why flits yon light vision in gossamer shroud?
How came yon white doves from the window to fly,
And hover on weariless wing to the sky?
Escape to thy native Glengary forlorn:
Why art thou at midnight away from thy bed?
Why quakes thy big heart at the break of the morn?
Why chatters yon magpie on gable so loud?
Why flits yon light vision in gossamer shroud?
How came yon white doves from the window to fly,
And hover on weariless wing to the sky?
Yon pie is the prophet of terror and death;
O'er Abel's green arbour that omen was given:
Yon pale boding phantom, a messenger wraith;
Yon doves two fair angels commissioned of Heaven.
The sun is in state, and the reapers in motion;
Why were they not called to their morning devotion?
Why slumbers Macdougal so long in his bed?
Ah! pale on his couch the old chieftain lies dead!
O'er Abel's green arbour that omen was given:
Yon pale boding phantom, a messenger wraith;
Yon doves two fair angels commissioned of Heaven.
The sun is in state, and the reapers in motion;
Why were they not called to their morning devotion?
Why slumbers Macdougal so long in his bed?
Ah! pale on his couch the old chieftain lies dead!
Though grateful the hope to the death-bed that flies,
That lovers and friends o'er our ashes will weep;
The soul, when released from her lingering ties,
In secret may see if their sorrows are deep.
Who wept for the worthy Macdougal?—Not one!
His darling Matilda, who, two months agone,
Would have mourned for her father in sorrow extreme,
Indulged in a painful delectable dream.
That lovers and friends o'er our ashes will weep;
The soul, when released from her lingering ties,
In secret may see if their sorrows are deep.
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His darling Matilda, who, two months agone,
Would have mourned for her father in sorrow extreme,
Indulged in a painful delectable dream.
But, why do the matrons, while dressing the dead,
Sit silent, and look as if something they knew?
Why gaze on the features? Why move they the head,
And point at the bosom so dappled and blue?
Say, was there foul play?—Then why sleeps the red thunder?
Ah! hold, for Suspicion stands silent with wonder.
The body's entombed, and the green turf laid over—
Matilda is wed to her dark Highland lover.
Sit silent, and look as if something they knew?
Why gaze on the features? Why move they the head,
And point at the bosom so dappled and blue?
Say, was there foul play?—Then why sleeps the red thunder?
Ah! hold, for Suspicion stands silent with wonder.
The body's entombed, and the green turf laid over—
Matilda is wed to her dark Highland lover.
Yes, the new moon that stooped over green Aberfoyle,
And shed her light dews on a father's new grave,
Beheld, in her wane, the gay wedding turmoil,
And lighted the bride to her chamber at eve:
Blue, blue was the heaven; and, o'er the wide scene,
A vapoury silver veil floated serene,
A fairy perspective, that bore from the eye
Wood, mountain, and meadow, in distance to lie.
And shed her light dews on a father's new grave,
Beheld, in her wane, the gay wedding turmoil,
And lighted the bride to her chamber at eve:
Blue, blue was the heaven; and, o'er the wide scene,
A vapoury silver veil floated serene,
A fairy perspective, that bore from the eye
Wood, mountain, and meadow, in distance to lie.
The scene was so still, it was all like a vision;
The lamp of the moon seemed as fading for ever:
'Twas awfully soft, without shade or elision;
And nothing was heard but the rush of the river.
But why won't the bride-maidens walk on the lea,
Nor lovers steal out to the sycamore tree?
Why turn to the hall with those looks of confusion?
There's nothing abroad!—'tis a dream!—a delusion!
The lamp of the moon seemed as fading for ever:
'Twas awfully soft, without shade or elision;
And nothing was heard but the rush of the river.
But why won't the bride-maidens walk on the lea,
Nor lovers steal out to the sycamore tree?
Why turn to the hall with those looks of confusion?
There's nothing abroad!—'tis a dream!—a delusion!
But why do the horses snort over their food,
And cling to the manger in seeming dismay?
What scares the old owlet afar to the wood?
Why screams the blue heron as hastening away?
Say, why is the dog hid so deep in his cover?
Each window barred up, and the curtain drawn over?
Each white maiden bosom still heaving so high,
And fixed on another each fear-speaking eye?
And cling to the manger in seeming dismay?
What scares the old owlet afar to the wood?
Why screams the blue heron as hastening away?
Say, why is the dog hid so deep in his cover?
Each window barred up, and the curtain drawn over?
Each white maiden bosom still heaving so high,
And fixed on another each fear-speaking eye?
'Tis all an illusion! the lamp let us trim;
Come, rouse thee, old minstrel, to strains of renown;
The old cup is empty, fill round to the brim,
And drink the young pair to their chamber just gone.
Ha! why is the cup from the lip ta'en away?
Why fixed every form like a statue of clay?
Say, whence is that outcry of horrid despair?
Haste, fly to the marriage bed-chamber—'tis there!
Come, rouse thee, old minstrel, to strains of renown;
The old cup is empty, fill round to the brim,
And drink the young pair to their chamber just gone.
Ha! why is the cup from the lip ta'en away?
Why fixed every form like a statue of clay?
Say, whence is that outcry of horrid despair?
Haste, fly to the marriage bed-chamber—'tis there!
O! haste thee, Strath-Allan, Glen Ogle, away,
These outcries betoken wild horror and woe;
The dull ear of midnight is stunned with dismay;
Glen-Ogle! Strath-Allan! fly swift as the roe.
'Mid darkness and death, on eternity's brim,
You stood with Macdonald and Arch'bald the Grim;
Then why do you hesitate? why do you stand
With claymore unsheathed, and red taper in hand?
These outcries betoken wild horror and woe;
The dull ear of midnight is stunned with dismay;
Glen-Ogle! Strath-Allan! fly swift as the roe.
'Mid darkness and death, on eternity's brim,
You stood with Macdonald and Arch'bald the Grim;
Then why do you hesitate? why do you stand
With claymore unsheathed, and red taper in hand?
The tumult is o'er; not a murmur nor groan:
What footsteps so madly pace through the saloon?
'Tis Kennedy, naked and ghastly, alone,
Who hies him away by the light of the moon.
All prostrate and bleeding, Matilda they found,
The threshold her pillow, her couch the cold ground;
Her features distorted, her colour the clay,
Her feelings, her voice, and her reason away.
What footsteps so madly pace through the saloon?
'Tis Kennedy, naked and ghastly, alone,
Who hies him away by the light of the moon.
All prostrate and bleeding, Matilda they found,
The threshold her pillow, her couch the cold ground;
Her features distorted, her colour the clay,
Her feelings, her voice, and her reason away.
Ere morn they returned; but how well had they never!
They brought with them horror too deep to sustain;
Returned but to chasten, and vanish for ever,
To harrow the bosom and fever the brain.
List, list to her tale, youth, levity, beauty;—
O! sweet is the path of devotion and duty!—
When pleasure smiles sweetest, dread danger and death.
And think of Matilda, the flower of the Teith.
They brought with them horror too deep to sustain;
Returned but to chasten, and vanish for ever,
To harrow the bosom and fever the brain.
List, list to her tale, youth, levity, beauty;—
O! sweet is the path of devotion and duty!—
When pleasure smiles sweetest, dread danger and death.
And think of Matilda, the flower of the Teith.
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |