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Mora Campbell.

When that dire year had come and gone,
That laid the pride of Caledon
At one infuriate venture, low,
Beneath the foot of cruel foe—
That cursed year, whose memory brands
With burning flame her northern lands,
And deep on mountain, fell, and flood,
Is graved in characters of blood—
It was when last was heard the jar,
The tempest, and the clang of war
Within our isle; when April's sun
Saw red Culloden lost and won,
And the bold lineage of the Gael
Trodden like dust o'er moor and dale;—
When the bright star of Stuart's race
Was dashed from its resplendent place,
That ruddy star which through the spheres
Had shone sublime a thousand years,
That rose through blood in times of yore,
A light ensanguined always bore,
Then set in blood for evermore;
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'Twas then and there, where England's bands
Lay mid Lochaber's ruined lands,
And held loud revels of delight,
Feasting and dancing day and night,
With every freak, and whim, and game,
That conqu'rors in despite could frame;
The chiefs of Diarmid all were there,
Noted for heroes tall and fair,
Of manly mete and noble mein,
All blazing in their tartans sheen;
A name of majesty and power,
Whose might in Scotia's darkest hour,
Had oft been roused and starkly tried,
But always on the strongest side.
For why, they say, with power avail?
'Tis they who always turn the scale;
For where they join their potent name,
The side of power must be with them.
Howe'er that be, or false or true,
A tale of love hath nought to do;
Suffice it, that the Campbells were
The chief great name of Scotland there;
And hence their dames and maidens fair
Came to the camp their joys to share:
And sooth such dancing and deray,
Such galliardise and gambols gay,
Ne'er sounded over shore and vale
On dark Lochaber's dusky gale.
Among the rest there came a maid
From green Glen-Lyon's mountain glade,
Hight Mora Campbell, one whose mien
Excell'd all beauty ever seen
In Scotia's stern and stormy reign,
Where beauty strove to bloom in vain.
But though the maidens of Argyle,
Gathered from continent and isle,
From Mull of Morven to Loch-Orn,
From gray Glenorchy and from Lorn,
Breadalbane's maidens, bronzed and tall,
And the blue eyes of Fortingall;
Yet Mora of Glen-Lyon shone
O'er all unequall'd, and alone,
Like the young moon on summer even,
Walking amid the stars of heaven.
Great was the friendly strife among
The courtly warriors of the throng,
To gain this peerless maiden's hand
At serenade or saraband;
For where a maiden shows her face,
Whate'er her nation or her race,
Man still will love, and still will woo
The best—of thousands—or of two.
Be she a savage, serf, or slave,
Or maiden of the emerald wave;
Nay, be she sable, brown, or fair,
She's loved, if better be not there.
So was it here; the southern host
Were feasted at their foemen's cost,
And there, in reckless riot, lay
Watching the north for many a day:
But, oh, what stir, and joy, and ramp,
When these young maidens sought the camp!
Then all was compliment and cooing,
With toying, teasing, love, and wooing.
But short their stay, a visit sped
More to the living than the dead,
Though some had sighs and tears to feign
Above the graves of kinsmen slain;
And now warm vows of love were cast
On ladies' ears, as thick and fast
As leaves fall from Lochaber trees,
Or snow-flakes from her northern breeze.
Among the rest, an English knight,
Sir Hugh De Vane of Barnard hight,
Made love to Mora in such way
That her young mind was moved to stay,
And take her lot for ill or good
With a young knight of noble blood.
Her brother, too, seemed to approve,
Vouching Sir Hugh's unblemished love,
But urged her not to stay or go,
Or answer him with yes or no.
The sequel scarcely need I tell—
They had no heart to say farewell;
The maid was won, you may foresee,
As all maids are, or wish to be;
For what fair maiden can refuse,
When gallant youthful warrior sues?
Their hands in holy bond were tied;
Sir Hugh was happy with his bride,
As youth could with such beauty be,
And drank of pleasure to the lee;
But ne'er his marriage would confess
To one of all the jocund mess,
Save her own brother, from whose hand
He got the flower of fair Scotland—
A proud and haughty youth was he,
As Highland captain needs must be.
The army's ordered by the crown
To foreign lands, to earn renown,
And all are forced, howe'er inclined,
To leave their Highland loves behind.
Mora prepared at break of day
To follow her dear lord away,
Wherever call'd to face a foe,
Or honour beckon'd him to go;
But by the general was withstood,
And order'd with her sisterhood.
Up came young Campbell of the glen,
Fierce as a lion from his den,
In mood provoking stern reply,
And fierce defiance in his eye:
“My lord,” said he, “I may not bear
Such court'sy to my sister dear.
Think'st thou her birth and lineage good,
The best of Albyn's noble blood,
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No better than that motley race
Brought by thy kinsmen to disgrace?
I tell thee, lord, unto thy brow,
My sister's higher born than thou;
And more, she is thy nephew's spouse,
By all the holy marriage vows—
Wed with a ring—his lawful wife—
I the maintainer with my life.”—
“Hence to thy post, thou saucy Scot,
Thy high descent I question not;
Nay, doubt not that thy sires renown'd
Were mighty kings, revered and crown'd,
O'er some poor glen of shaggy wood,
Before the universal flood;
But this I know, that blood of thine
Commingle never shall with mine,
To taint it with rebellion's ban,
Thy nation's curse since time began.
The charge is false—I know Sir Hugh
Not for his soul this thing durst do,
Without my knowledge and consent;
He would not stoop to circumvent
A beauteous maiden to disgrace—
I'll question him before her face.”
Up came Sir Hugh, and took his stand
Hard by his general's trembling hand;
He heard his words, and saw his look,
While Campbell with resentment shook,
And Mora stood as deadly pale
As floweret in December's gale;
Sooth the young warrior bore a mind
Not to be envied or defined.
“Sir, tell me, on your word, your life,
Is this young dame your wedded wife?”
Sir Hugh grew wan, Sir Hugh grew red,
He tried to speak, but speech had fled;
Three times he tried the truth to own,
And thrice the word he gulped down;
Then with a burst of gather'd breath,
“No,” he replied, as if in wrath.—
“Thou liest, thou dog! Darest thou deny
I witness'd with mine ear, mine eye,
Thy interchange of marriage vow?
The ring is on her finger now,
The lines of marriage in her breast;
And this dire wrong must be redress'd
To that dear maid, or, by the rood,
I'll cancel't in thy traitor blood.
For thy soul's worth this truth deny!”—
This Campbell's fierce and proud reply:
But ere the half of it was said,
Mora had sunk to earth as dead;
She heard its import, saw its meed,
And all the woe that would succeed.
Young Campbell, by affection tied,
Was quickly at his sister's side,
And aided by his kinsmen keen,
He bore her lifeless from the green.
Sir Hugh was moved, and struggled hard
'Twixt insult and sincere regard,
And would have follow'd to his harm,
But was withheld by strength of arm.
The Scot to reason did not try,
As deep his wrong his wrath was high.
As for the General, 'twas his will
Always to use the clansmen ill;
He seem'd to view them as a race
Destined for nothing but disgrace,
And therefore tried with all his care
To hound the dog and hold the hare.
The dire event I grieve to tell;
They challenged, fought, and Campbell fell;
And ere poor Mora's beauteous eye
Re-opened on the morning sky;
Ere reason had her throne resumed,
And darken'd intellect return'd,
Her only brother, her sole shield,
Was carried wounded from the field,
With all his tartans crimson-dyed,
And stretch'd down by his sister's side.
This was a trial too severe
For youth and beauty well to bear;
And that same day the English host
March'd off, and hope of love was lost;
And Mora's young elastic mind,
Brisk as Glen-Lyon's balmy wind,
And placid as the evening's fall
On the green bowers of Fortingall,
Was all at once, before its prime,
In misery plunged without a crime.
I know of no such deadly smart
To fall on maiden's bleeding heart.
When the Almighty's sacred sway
Calls our dear bosom friends away,
There is a cause we calm should be—
A reverence due to the decree—
A holy awe that swathes the past
And present, dark and overcast,
Both in a glorious future light,
Eternal, infinite, and bright;
And thus our deepest sorrow given,
Is mingled with a ray of heaven.
But when affection all and whole,
The very pillars of the soul,
Are placed on one sole being here,
For whom alone this life is dear,
To find that one our trust betray,
And all our hopes in ruin lay—
Then 'reaved, astonished, and forsaken,
The structure of the soul is shaken,
Without one prop whereon to rest,
That will not pierce the stooping breast,
Or thought of one beloved so well,
Unshaded by a tinge of hell;
This is a grief without remede—
This, this is wretchedness indeed!
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In this dire state of dumb dismay
And hopeless grief, for many a day,
Of every cheering ray bereft,
Was Mora of Glen-Lyon left.
She never waked one morn to cumber,
On which she wish'd not still to slumber;
She never sunk that night to rest,
On which she wish'd not to be blest
With dreamless sleep that break should never,
Unknown, unknowing ought for ever.
In that fond heart where love had reigned,
A vacancy alone remain'd,
A dreary void, which to supply
Nothing remain'd beneath the sky;
For with the husband of her youth,
His sacred honour and his truth,
Vanish'd her hope, her fear, her all.
But yet, at pity's gentle call,
Some kind emotions woke anew;
She to her suffering brother flew,
Yielded to nature's kindred sway,
And nursed and soothed him night and day;
Nor once produced unwelcome theme,
By mention of her husband's name.
Home to Glen-Lyon's lonely glade,
The wounded warrior was convey'd,
And after tedious illness borne,
Dejected, wearied, and outworn,
He yielded up his spirit brave,
And sunk to an untimely grave.
And just before his life's last close,
Glen-Lyon's flower, her faded rose,
Wept o'er a young and helpless guest,
And nursed him on her youthful breast—
A lovely babe; he throve and grew,
Prattled, and smiled, and nothing knew
Of all his mother's yearnings strong,
And all her deep and deadly wrong.
Sir Hugh, with feelings rack'd and torn,
And spirit wounded and forlorn,
At all the ills his hand had wrought,
And conduct with dishonour fraught,
Was hurried by his General far,
To combat in a foreign war,
And hold command in that campaign
That ravaged Alsace and the Rhine.
But from that day he first denied
His youthful wife in warrior pride,
And left her guardian and her shield
A-bleeding on Boleskine field,
From thence in fortune ill or good,
He was a man of altered mood—
A man who only seem'd to take
A thought of life for sorrow's sake;
Fought but to mitigate his woe,
And gloried not in friend or foe.
Three years of fierce and bloody feud
Produced a transient quietude,
And brave Sir Hugh's diminished corps
Returned to England's welcome shore.
Meanwhile his son on Highland brae,
By one more relative's decay,
Succeeded had, by birth allied,
To fair Glen-Lyon far and wide,
To castle, peel, and barbican,
The greatest laird of all his clan.
Why does fair Mora of the wild
Thus deck herself and comely child;
Not in Clan-Campbell's tartans sheen,
The red, the yellow, and the green;
But in new robes of southern hue,
Pale garments of cerulean blue;
And daily take a stand sublime,
Like meteors of a foreign clime?
Ask not again—thou know'st full well,
Nought of this world in which we dwell,
No fault nor failing, time nor space,
Can woman's maiden love efface.
It blossoms, still a virgin gem,
And offspring strengthens still the stem.
Sooner may maiden fresh and fair
Forget her locks of flowing hair,
That, heaving with her balmy breath,
To lover's heart throws shaft of death;
Sooner neglect its crescent bow,
And shed oblique above the brow,
And all her charms aright to set,
Than once an early love forget;
Nay, sooner may maternal love
A truant to her nature prove,
And her betrothed affections flee
The infant smiling on her knee,
Than she can from her heart dethrone
The father of that lovely one.
Even when poor Mora's heart was reft
Of all, still sovereign love was left.
And now she thought—what could she do,
But ween her husband still was true!
And, when in freedom, would not fail
To seek Glen-Lyon's Highland dale,
Where counts would soon have been made even,
And all forgotten and forgiven?
He sent not—came not once that way;
Though many a weary hour and day
She, and the boy of her delight,
Stood robed in southern garments bright,
Straining, with anxious eye intent,
South from the highest battlement,
Then every night she dreamed anew,
Of meeting with her own Sir Hugh;
And every day she took her stand,
And look'd unto the southern land:
While every time she kissed her boy,
A mother's pride, a mother's joy,
Waked ardent longings to attain
Sight of his father once again.
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Her heart could brook no more delay,
And southward on a dubious way,
She with her boy disguised is gone—
By land, by sea, they journey'd on,
And soon arrived with purpose shrewd,
Mid London's mingled multitude,
Where straight she went in courtly style,
To Lady Ella of Argyle,
And there did secretly impart
Each wish and purpose of her heart.
That lady welcomed her the more
As all her wrongs she knew before,
And oft had wish'd most fervently,
A mediatrix there to be;
Though, certes, little did she ween
Her friend was beauty's peerless queen.
What scope for matron's subtle aid!
Their potent measures soon were laid;
And forth came Mora of the glen,
Amid a wilderness of men,
All gazing—all entranced outright,
At her resplendent beauty bright:
For no such loveliness or worth
As this fair vision of the North
Had e'er been seen by mortal man,
Or heard of since the world began.
The lady took her friend so fair
To balls, assemblies, everywhere;
And sooth she was a comely sight,
In silken tartans blazing bright:
A comet of bedazzling ray;
A rainbow in a winter day;
A meteor of the frozen zone,
As bright in course as quickly gone.
For purpose justified and plain,
The lady surnamed her M'Vane,
Her husband's name, though unperceived,
Through Scottish breviat interweaved.
Then every day the clamour spread,
Of this unrivalled Highland maid,
And every day brought wooers store,
In splendour to Duke Archibald's door;
But all advances soon were check'd
By distant coldness and respect,
And lords and courtiers sued in vain
To the unparagon'd M'Vane.
Sir Hugh, so dull and saturnine;
Chanced to behold, without design,
In all her elegance unfurl'd,
This streamer of the northern world;
For there were many movements sly,
To bring her to his languid eye,
Which no inducement could invite
To look on lady with delight.
The effect was instant, powerful, strong,
Without the force of right or wrong
To rectify or countervail:
Once more was heaved the loaded scale.
Oh there was something in her air,
So comely, so divinely fair,
So fraught with beauty's genial glow,
Like angel dream'd of long ago,
That all his energies of mind
To this dear object were confined!
He durst not think of former spouse,
Nor dream of former broken vows;
Because, without this lady, he
Found life was utter misery.
Unto Argyle all was unknown;
The lady Ella knew alone;
But he, good man, was to his end,
A Campbell's best and firmest friend:
And judging this a proper fit,
He urged the beauty to submit.
No—she had reasons indirect
A Southern always to suspect;
And unto one should never yield,
Till bonds and contracts, sign'd and seal'd,
Were all made firm in liege and land,
And lodged in good Duke Archibald's hand.
Then lothly did she yield consent
To vows of love so vehement,
And they were wed in princely style,
Within the palace of Argyle.
If brave Sir Hugh loved well before,
This time was added ten times more:
'Twas as if love had raised its head,
In resurrection from the dead;
And fix'd on being all supreme,
Like something in a long-lost dream,
And with an energy intense,
As far surpassing mortal sense,
He loved, as blessed spirits prove,
When meeting in the realms above.
The joy that lighten'd in her eye,
Was watched by his with ecstasy;
On every accent of her tongue
His ravished ear enraptured hung;
And sometimes as its Highland twang
Out through his vitals thrilling rang,
It seem'd to bring a pang of woe,
And tears would all unbidden flow,
As linked in some mysterious way,
With visions of a former day.
But faithless lover never pass'd
Without due chastening at the last;
And grievous penalties in store
Were lurking now Sir Hugh before.
One eve, when rung the dinner bell,
His lady was announced unwell;
And worse—on some mysterious plea,
Firmly refused his face to see.
The warrior was astonished quite;
His senses seem'd involved in night,
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As if he struggled, conscience-check'd,
Some dire offence to recollect;
But could not all its weight perpend,
Nor its dimensions comprehend.
His spirit shrunk within his frame;
He watch'd the eye of noble dame,
And saw with dreadour and with doubt,
A flame enkindling him about,
That would his heart or honour sear;
But yet he wist not what to fear.
He moved about like troubled sprite,
And rested neither day nor night;
For still his darling, his espoused,
All access to her lord refused.
At length he sought, in rueful style,
The stately Ella of Argyle.
“Madam, by all the holy ties,
Which none knew more than thou to prize;
By those endearments prized the most,
Which thou hast sigh'd for, gain'd and lost,
Tell me my doom. What is my crime?
And why this painful pantomime?
To know the worst will be relief
From this exuberance of grief.”
“Sir Hugh, it grieves me much to be
The herald of perplexity,
But letters have arrived of late,
That of injurious matters treat;
This lovely dame, whom you have wed,
Hath our kind guardianship misled;
And is not seemingly the dame,
Either in lineage or in name,
Which she assumed. They hold it true,
That she's a wife and mother too;
That this is truth, I do not know,
But reasons have to dread it so.”
Sir Hugh shed some salt tears of grief,
Which brought more anguish than relief,
And thought, as naturally he must,
“I am a sinner! God is just!”
Then blazed he forth with storm and threat,
To blame the lady of deceit.
“Madam,” said he, “the lady came
Forth under your auspicious name;
And who could deem deceitful wile,
Used by the house of great Argyle?
I to the duke make my appeal;
From all his princely honest zeal,
I know he'll rid me of this shame,
So derogating to his name.
If she's a wife, I her forego,
To censures fitting thereunto;
And if a mistress, must disclaim
All union with her bloated name;
For though I love her more than life
She ne'er can be my lady wife.
Unto the duke's awards I bow,
I know this deed he'll disallow.”
Unto Duke Archibald straight he went,
His grievous injuries to vent;
Who heard him with his known degree
Of calm respect and dignity:
Then said, “I take no blame in ought;
The comely dame my sister brought
Unto my halls, as courtly guest,
And she's incapable of jest.
If this fair dame you have espoused,
Hath our high name, and you, abused,
I give her up without defence,
To suffer for her fraudulence.
Let officers attend, and bear
Her to a jail, till she appear
In court, and this sad blame remove;
I hope her innocence she'll prove.”
The officers arrived in haste;
Argyle went to his lovely guest,
To learn if she was not belied;
But no one knew what she replied;
For back he came in sullen mood,
Without remark, evil or good,
And seem'd determined to consign
Mora to punishment condign.
Ere her commitment was made out,
Sir Hugh, in choler and in doubt,
Pleaded to hear from her own mouth,
Whate'er it was, the honest truth;
Then he, impassioned and uproused,
Made rank confusion more confused,
By raging on with stormy din,
Threatening Argyle and all his kin—
When lo! in manifest concern,
The Lady Ella, flush'd and stern,
Came in and with reproving look,
Accosted the astonished duke.
“My lord, your writ you may affere;
'Tis well the officers are here—
For such an injury propense,
Such dark degrading delinquence,
Ne'er proffer'd was by mortal man
To lady of our kin and clan.
Let the offence have judgment due!”
“'Tis my request,” replied Sir Hugh.
“Yes, warrior! vengeance shall be had—
And for thy sake, we'll superadd,
As said the prophet to the king,
Thou art the man hath done the thing.
My lord, the criminal malign,
Is this high favourite of thine,
Who hath us proffer'd that disgrace,
Which no effrontery can outface.
False the advice to us was brought—
'Tis he the misery hath wrought,
Unto the lovely dame agrieved,
Whom late he from your hand received.
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Poor lady! reft of hope and fame,
And all that was her rightful claim—
My lord, believe it if you can,
This bold Sir Hugh was married man—
Married for seven years before
He came a wooer to your door.”
“I'll not believe,” Argyle replied,
“That man alive durst have defied
Me to my face in such a way.
Sir, straight this calumny gainsay,
If thou the least respect wouldst claim
To noble warrior's honour'd name.”
“All false! all false, my lord, in faith,”
Sir Hugh replied with stifled breath:
“A hoax, a flam your grace to gall;
To prove it I defy them all.”
“The proof, Sir Knight, shall soon be brought,
Home to your heart with vengeance fraught.
Your former spouse, from Highland wood,
Is here in blooming lustihood;
And as appropriate garniture,
And a kind welcome to secure,
A sweet young family hath brought,
Wild as young cubs in forest caught—
Whose thews and features are no shams,
Whose carrot locks and kilted hams
The darkest secrets might betray,
Were there no other 'mergent way.
She has call'd here in deep distress—
Our fair friend's anguish you may guess;
From this, what marvel can there be
That she denies your face to see?”
Hast thou not seen the morning ray
Ascend the east with springing day,
Now red, now purple, and now pale,
The herald of the stormy gale?
Thou hast. Yet thou can'st never view
The dead blank look of brave Sir Hugh.
Two wives at once to deprehend him—
And Highland wives—The Lord defend him!
Argyle was wroth, it might be seen,
Yet still preserved his look serene,
He saw the guilty deed confess'd,
By signs which could not be repress'd;
And studied in his lordly mind,
The sharpest punishment assign'd,
When Duncan with broad Highland face,
Came in with bow, and “Please her grace,
Tere pe fine lhady at her gate,
Whose grhief of mhind pe very grheat;
And pretty poy upon her hand,
As was not porn in any land—
Prave Highlander so prave and young,
And spaiks in her own moter tongue;
What shall her nainsel say or dhoo?
She cries to speak with prave Sir Hugh.”
Sir Hugh then thought without a doubt
That evils compass'd him about.
“O lord!” he cried, in fervent way,
Then turned in manifest dismay—
“I'll go,” said he, “straight to the gate—
I must not let the lady wait.”—
“No,” cried Argyle, “you 'scape not so.
Guards, keep the door, till once we know
How he himself of this can clear.
Duncan, go bring the lady here.”
Duncan bow'd low, and off he ran,
A pliant and right joyful man—
Deeming the lady sure of grace,
When brought before his master's face;
For tartan'd dame from glen or isle,
Ne'er sued in vain to great Argyle.
In came young Mora, blushing deep,
Fresh from Glen-Lyon's lordly steep;
The healthful odours of the wild,
Breathing around her and her child.
Their fragrance came like freshening gale,
For grateful travellers to inhale—
Like kindred roses sweet and bland,
Or wandering wind from fairy land.
The boy was robed like royal fay,
In bold Clan-Gillan's bright array—
Belted and plumed, the elfin smiled,
The phœnix of his native wild;
Herself in the same robes bedight
She wore on her first bridal night,
When he she long had nursed in pain,
Led her unto the darksome fane,
And gave her hand without a stain,
And heart, never to change again,
While torches glimmer'd dimly on
Boleskine's sacred altar-stone.
The astonish'd group stood moveless still,
And neither utter'd good nor ill.
Such beauty, grace, and comely mould,
Said more than language ever told
For her and hers. Ere she'd begun
To speak, some favour she had won—
But some resemblance that she bore,
Some unacknowledged likeness more—
Even great Argyle, of tranquil mien,
And noted for perception keen,
Held no suspicion that the dame,
That comely mother, was the same
Who queen of beauty rank'd the while
In the emporium of our isle.
He was the first that silence broke;
Taking her hand, these words he spoke:
“Fair lady, I have heard a part
Of how much wrong'd and grieved thou art.
What share I had by suit or sway,
I'll rue until my dying day;
But this I promise, that thy right
Shall be as sacred in my sight
As thou of kindred had'st a claim,
And she an alien to our name:
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Declare thy grievous wrongs erewhile,
And trust the issue to Argyle.”
“My honoured liege, thy handmaid, I,
And of M'Calan's lineage high;
Glen-Lyon's verdant hills I claim,
And Mora Campbell is my name,
His sister, who commission bore
Under Young Campbell of Mamore,
Who led your grace's clansmen bold,
On that dark Culloden's bloody wold.
“That summer when the English host
Lay on Lochaber's ruined coast,
Some dames and maidens of your line
Went to the camp, to intertwine
With laurel every hero's plume
Who fought rebellion to consume.
Too much elated there and then,
This gallant knight, Sir Hugh de Vane,
Made love to me by suit and boon,
And won my youthful heart too soon.
We married were by chaplain vile,
In old Boleskine's holy isle—
My brother present; here's the ring;
The registers, the entering,
As safe and solemn to my mind
As man alive could couple bind.
Sir Hugh dares not the truth deny,
Nor in one point give me the lie.
“But when the order questionless
Came for the host to march express,
His tongue, to truth and honour dead,
Denied me at the army's head;
While the base chaplain stood as glum
As rigid statue, deaf and dumb—
A mere automaton, subjected
To do as general's eye directed.
“My brother charged Sir Hugh in wrath,
Fought him, and met untimely death;
While I, in sorrow and in pain,
Fled to my native hills again;
Where, of young mother all forlorn,
This sweet unfather'd babe was born,
Who now is rightful heir to all
Glen-Lyon's braes and Fortingall.
“But yet, my lord—who would believe't?—
For all the injuries I received,
I found my heart, in woeful plight,
Still clung unto this cruel knight,
With such a fondness, mix'd with pain,
I found I ne'er could love again.
Therefore, in thine and Heaven's sight,
I claim him as my primal right.”
“Certes, you may, and him obtain;
Your claim's substantial, fair, and plain;
Your suit you will not—cannot miss.
But then the worst of all is this,
That he'll be hung for felony;
Then what hast thou, or what has she?”
“I think, my lord,” Sir Hugh replied,
With haggard air and look aside,
“Since hanging's doom must overtake,
Let it be now for pity's sake.
I've fought in battle-field and glen
The fiercest of the sons of men;
The Mackintoshes, stern and gray,
And the blue Camerons of the brae;
I've braved the Frenchmen's serried might,
At morn, at eve, at dead of night:
But all these battles, fierce and famed,
Compared with this, can ne'er be named;
Mere pigmies to a giant's form,
A zephyr to a raging storm,
A lady's pinpoint to a block,
A chariot's to an earthquake's shock.
Most loved, most lovely, dreaded two!
I never was o'ercome till now,
Nor felt so feverishly. In brief,
A hanging would be great relief:
My lord—'tis truth—(I'll not evade)—
Each word that lovely dame hath said.”
“Good lord!” exclaimed the ancient chief,
“This deed unhinges all belief!
What fiend could move thee thus to treat
Our kinswoman, so fair, so sweet;
And then to come with front of brass
To our own house—and, by the mass,
Straight wed—another to destroy,
As if a Campbell were a toy?
What spirit from the dark abyss
Could move thee to such deed as this?”
“God knows, my lord! The thing to me
Is an unfathom'd mystery;
But I suppose it was alone
The devil himself that urged me on;
For I declare, as I've to die,
No man e'er loved so well as I
This lovely dame. But I was bit
And bullied till I lost my wit;
Yet never since that hour of teen
One happy moment have I seen.
I love this last one too, 'tis true;
But, Mora, by my soul I vow,
'Tis for her likeness unto you.”
The tears ran down young Mora's cheek;
She turn'd away, but could not speak,
Till Lady Ella of Argyle,
With face uplighted by a smile,
Arose, and took a hand of each,
And said, “Sir Hugh, this shameful breach
Of truth and honour quite o'erpowers
This dame, whose virgin love was yours,
And never will from you depart,
While the warm tide pervades her heart.
308

But though that heart you sore have wrung,
She cannot bear to see you hung;
And she is right; for, to my mind,
Hanging's no joke, and that you'll find.
And what may this dear boy betide,
Without a father him to guide?
And what disgrace the cant will be,
‘Your father hung on Tyburn tree!’
Take both the dames then, as you can,
Speed to Cathay or Hindoostan,
Where you may take a score or two,
And none to say, 'Tis wrong you do.”
“Yes, there is one,” Dame Mora said,
While tears came streaming to her aid.
But ere another word she spoke,
Old Duncan Glas the silence broke,
With face as grim and as demure,
As winter cloud before the shower—
“Oh plaise her grace, fwat shall she too?
Mattam Te-fane waits here pelow,
Wit salt tears stotting o'er her chin,
And very mat for to pe in.”
Wild as a maniac looked De Vane;
Then to the window ran amain,
And threw it open, quite intent
To brain himself, and supervent
This dreadful war of Highland wives,
And both their shameful narratives,
Before the just but proud Argyle,
The greatest subject of our isle;
But both the ladies held him fast,
To take one farewell for the last.
Argyle looked stern in troubled way,
And wist not what to do or say,
Till Lady Ella once again
Address'd the knight in cheerful strain:—
“Cheer up, Sir Hugh; for, on my life,
Your first, your last, your only wife,
Your virgin love, whose heart you won,
And mother of your comely son,
Now takes your hand. The scheme was mine,
And happy be you and your line;
The lovely dames are both the same,
In hers how knew you not your name?
Twice married now—Unequall'd lot!
But law redoubled breaks it not.
I join your hands, too long apart,
And wish you joy with all my heart!”
The crystal tears from his blue eyes
Pour'd bright as dew-drops from the skies;
His manly frame with joy was shivering,
And his round ruby lip was quivering,
As down he kneel'd in guise unmeet,
Embraced and kiss'd the ladies' feet;
Then seized his child in boyhood's bloom,
And danced and caper'd round the room.
But such a night of social glee,
Of wassail, song, and revelry,
Was not that night in Britain's isle,
As in the house of great Argyle.
 

This was not the Duchess of Argyle, who had died previously to this adventure; but the Lady Elizabeth Campbell, or Ella, as the duke called her familiarly, who then lived with him.

This lady was then the widow of her cousin, the Right Hon. Lord M'Kenzie, of Rosehaugh.

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