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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The Field of Waterloo,
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
The Field of Waterloo,
AND DEATH-BED PRAYER OF A SOLDIER.
The eventful day had come and gone,
And the night in majesty drew on;
For just as the twilight shed a ray
On the plains of Belgium west away,
The eastern heaven was all o'erspread
With a veil of high and murky red;
And there was awe in the soldier's eye,
Whenever it met that lurid sky,
For he thought, as he lifted his visage swarth,
There was blood on the heaven, and blood on the earth.
And the night in majesty drew on;
For just as the twilight shed a ray
On the plains of Belgium west away,
The eastern heaven was all o'erspread
With a veil of high and murky red;
And there was awe in the soldier's eye,
Whenever it met that lurid sky,
For he thought, as he lifted his visage swarth,
There was blood on the heaven, and blood on the earth.
The day was past, the fateful day,
The pride of the tyrant prostrate lay;
And the battle-clang, and the trumpet's tone,
Were rolling to the southward on,
When a war-worn soldier far behind
On the verge of a rising height reclined;
A wounded hero, of courage true,
Who of his deadly wound not knew;
For he weened the blood that swathed him so,
The blood of a proud and hateful foe;
And much he marvelled why he lay
Thus faint and weary by the way.
The pride of the tyrant prostrate lay;
And the battle-clang, and the trumpet's tone,
Were rolling to the southward on,
When a war-worn soldier far behind
On the verge of a rising height reclined;
A wounded hero, of courage true,
Who of his deadly wound not knew;
For he weened the blood that swathed him so,
The blood of a proud and hateful foe;
And much he marvelled why he lay
Thus faint and weary by the way.
Though round his form the tartans hung,
Yet his tall mould and Doric tongue
Bespoke his lineage from the scene
Of crystal rill and mountain green;
From that fair land of warlike fame
Where Douglas fought and overcame;
The land of forays, feuds, and plots,
Of Elliots and of valiant Scotts;—
That Border land, so nobly blent
With hill, and dale of green extent,
With camp, and tower, and battlement.
Yet his tall mould and Doric tongue
333
Of crystal rill and mountain green;
From that fair land of warlike fame
Where Douglas fought and overcame;
The land of forays, feuds, and plots,
Of Elliots and of valiant Scotts;—
That Border land, so nobly blent
With hill, and dale of green extent,
With camp, and tower, and battlement.
That is a land, full well 'tis known,
Where cottage maid and matron brown,
Where shepherd boy or peasant elf,
Reads, thinks, and judges for himself.
Deep there of Heaven's awards the sense,
And trust in sacred Providence;
The old, the young, deep reverence pay
To God's own blessed and holy day;
'Tis there, by hamlet and by hill,
A day of holy resting still.
Where cottage maid and matron brown,
Where shepherd boy or peasant elf,
Reads, thinks, and judges for himself.
Deep there of Heaven's awards the sense,
And trust in sacred Providence;
The old, the young, deep reverence pay
To God's own blessed and holy day;
'Tis there, by hamlet and by hill,
A day of holy resting still.
There had our soldier spent his youth
In ways of happiness and truth,
Till scorn cast from a maiden's eye
Drove him in distant fields to die.
Now on that height he lay forlorn,
Where Gallia's troops, at break of morn,
Did first with ready wheel combine,
And form the mighty crescent line;
And then he saw, and heard, and felt
The dire effects of human guilt.
Oh, such a day of dole and pain
May human nature ne'er again
Behold, while earth and heaven remain!
In ways of happiness and truth,
Till scorn cast from a maiden's eye
Drove him in distant fields to die.
Now on that height he lay forlorn,
Where Gallia's troops, at break of morn,
Did first with ready wheel combine,
And form the mighty crescent line;
And then he saw, and heard, and felt
The dire effects of human guilt.
Oh, such a day of dole and pain
May human nature ne'er again
Behold, while earth and heaven remain!
Soon as the gloaming drew her screen
Over the red and rueful scene,
Then every moan was heard as near,
And every plaint fell on the ear;
The parting throb, the smothered sigh,
And shriek of sharpest agony:
But every anathema said
By widowed dame and weeping maid,
Or passed in soldier's dying groan,
All cursed one, and one alone.
All tongues and languages were blent,
But all was sorrow and lament—
Or weeping for the valiant dead,
Or curses on a tyrant's head.
Over the red and rueful scene,
Then every moan was heard as near,
And every plaint fell on the ear;
The parting throb, the smothered sigh,
And shriek of sharpest agony:
But every anathema said
By widowed dame and weeping maid,
Or passed in soldier's dying groan,
All cursed one, and one alone.
All tongues and languages were blent,
But all was sorrow and lament—
Or weeping for the valiant dead,
Or curses on a tyrant's head.
Our soldier raised him from the sod,
And lifting up his eyes to God,
He leaned upon his bloody wrist,
And cried aloud, with throbbing breast:
“Oh grant, thou Being all divine,
Such load of guilt be never mine,
As his—that scourge of human life,
Who flies inglorious from the strife;
For since the fields of war were seen,
Such desolation hath not been.
Thou knowest why; thy will be done:
Blessed be thy name, the field is won!”
And lifting up his eyes to God,
He leaned upon his bloody wrist,
And cried aloud, with throbbing breast:
“Oh grant, thou Being all divine,
Such load of guilt be never mine,
As his—that scourge of human life,
Who flies inglorious from the strife;
For since the fields of war were seen,
Such desolation hath not been.
Thou knowest why; thy will be done:
Blessed be thy name, the field is won!”
As thus he said, there by him stood
Two strangers tall, of gentle mood;
Soldiers they were, or late had been,
And many a bloody field had seen:
One was from Prussia's forests wide,
And one from Wolga's stormy side;
Their message done, they paused to view
The havoc done on Waterloo.
Two strangers tall, of gentle mood;
Soldiers they were, or late had been,
And many a bloody field had seen:
One was from Prussia's forests wide,
And one from Wolga's stormy side;
Their message done, they paused to view
The havoc done on Waterloo.
“Soldier,” they said, “why liest thou thus,
As all were peace and quietness?
Such deeds you Scots have ne'er achieved,
Since Wallace fought and Douglas reaved.
Swift flies the foe as flies the wind;
There's fame before, and spoil behind;
O soldier, it befits thee ill
To rest like hind upon the hill.”
As all were peace and quietness?
Such deeds you Scots have ne'er achieved,
Since Wallace fought and Douglas reaved.
Swift flies the foe as flies the wind;
There's fame before, and spoil behind;
O soldier, it befits thee ill
To rest like hind upon the hill.”
“Sore am I grieved, but toil severe,
And drowsy faintness keep me here;
My soul is burning to pursue,
And fain would move from Waterloo;
For such a din my ear assails
Of piteous plaint, and dying wails,
Methinks it would be perfect bliss
To be in any place but this!”
And drowsy faintness keep me here;
My soul is burning to pursue,
And fain would move from Waterloo;
For such a din my ear assails
Of piteous plaint, and dying wails,
Methinks it would be perfect bliss
To be in any place but this!”
“Peace to thy heart, brave soldier:—say
How think'st thou of this wondrous day?”
How think'st thou of this wondrous day?”
“How think I?”—From the dust he reared
His ghastly cheek with blood besmeared:
“How think I? By this heart forlorn,
An oath I ne'er before have sworn,
I think, that first since human guilt
Provoked to war, and blood was spilt
In battle field, beneath the sun
Such doughty deeds were never done,
So boldly fought, so bravely won.
Nay, pardon me; in ardour hot
My darling theme I had forgot,
But sure, of earthly well-fought fields,
To Bannockburn alone it yields.”
His ghastly cheek with blood besmeared:
“How think I? By this heart forlorn,
An oath I ne'er before have sworn,
I think, that first since human guilt
Provoked to war, and blood was spilt
In battle field, beneath the sun
Such doughty deeds were never done,
So boldly fought, so bravely won.
Nay, pardon me; in ardour hot
My darling theme I had forgot,
But sure, of earthly well-fought fields,
To Bannockburn alone it yields.”
The bold Silesian smiled in spite,
He thought of Leipsic's bloody fight;
The Russian cast a glance of flame,
But Borodino scorned to name.
He thought of Leipsic's bloody fight;
The Russian cast a glance of flame,
But Borodino scorned to name.
“Soldier,” they said, “thou sawest the strife;
Say, sooth, in all thy by-past life
Hast thou not seen, nor read, nor heard
Of ought with this to be compared?”
Say, sooth, in all thy by-past life
Hast thou not seen, nor read, nor heard
Of ought with this to be compared?”
“I could compare 't with cloud of morn,
Fleet on the whirlwind's eddies borne,
That, melting denser folds of rain,
Rebounding bursts, and wheels again.
I might compare it with the force
Of mountain river's roaring course,
And one small mound raised in its way,
To bear its whole resistless sway,
Which firmly stemmed the whelming tide,
That foamed, and fled to either side.
I could compare 't to ocean's roar
Against the adamantine shore.
But in all ages that shall spring,
When man shall tell, or poet sing,
Of what he would the most impress
Upon the heart with powerfulness;
Of nature's terrors in the cloud,
The tempest's rage, the roaring flood,
Or lightning bursting on the view,
He'll liken it to Waterloo.
I saw it: but to me it seems
A train of long-past hideous dreams,
Of things half known and half forgot,
I know not whether seen or not.
E'er since I bore the onset's shock,
And was involved in fire and smoke,
I've had no knowledge what hath been,
Nor thought, nor mind—a mere machine.
I only viewed it as my meed,
To stand or fall, as Heaven decreed;
For honour's cause to do my best,
And to the Almighty leave the rest.
Blessed be his hand that swayed the fight
For mankind's and for freedom's right!
Fleet on the whirlwind's eddies borne,
That, melting denser folds of rain,
Rebounding bursts, and wheels again.
I might compare it with the force
Of mountain river's roaring course,
And one small mound raised in its way,
To bear its whole resistless sway,
Which firmly stemmed the whelming tide,
That foamed, and fled to either side.
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Against the adamantine shore.
But in all ages that shall spring,
When man shall tell, or poet sing,
Of what he would the most impress
Upon the heart with powerfulness;
Of nature's terrors in the cloud,
The tempest's rage, the roaring flood,
Or lightning bursting on the view,
He'll liken it to Waterloo.
I saw it: but to me it seems
A train of long-past hideous dreams,
Of things half known and half forgot,
I know not whether seen or not.
E'er since I bore the onset's shock,
And was involved in fire and smoke,
I've had no knowledge what hath been,
Nor thought, nor mind—a mere machine.
I only viewed it as my meed,
To stand or fall, as Heaven decreed;
For honour's cause to do my best,
And to the Almighty leave the rest.
Blessed be his hand that swayed the fight
For mankind's and for freedom's right!
“Glancing along our Scottish files,
I marked our foemen's powerful wiles,
And scarcely weened that we could stand
Against such odds of spear and brand;
Of harnessed horse, in column deep,
And red artillery's wasting sweep;
Yet only closed fast as we fell,
Without one thought but to repel.
O Scotia, land of old renown,
Thy prowess yet is never known—
I glory that thou art mine own!
I marked our foemen's powerful wiles,
And scarcely weened that we could stand
Against such odds of spear and brand;
Of harnessed horse, in column deep,
And red artillery's wasting sweep;
Yet only closed fast as we fell,
Without one thought but to repel.
O Scotia, land of old renown,
Thy prowess yet is never known—
I glory that thou art mine own!
“Methinks I hear, in after time,
The hamlet song in rustic rhyme,
Wove by some shepherd of the dale
Where first I breathed the mountain gale,
And listed first the magic lore
Which I, alas! shall hear no more;
Telling of deeds that here were wrought,
What heroes fell, what lions fought,
Till all the striplings stare and sigh,
With round tears dropping from the eye,
Begging again to hear the song,
Though homely be the rhyme and long.
The hamlet song in rustic rhyme,
Wove by some shepherd of the dale
Where first I breathed the mountain gale,
And listed first the magic lore
Which I, alas! shall hear no more;
Telling of deeds that here were wrought,
What heroes fell, what lions fought,
Till all the striplings stare and sigh,
With round tears dropping from the eye,
Begging again to hear the song,
Though homely be the rhyme and long.
“Oh might my name but mentioned be
In land of my nativity,
How would my parting spirit joy,
And spring from earth without alloy!
Yes, I will hope that men shall tell
Of all our deeds, and fondly dwell
On every humble soldier's name
That stood on this day's list of fame,
And at the call of morning roll,
Was blotted from the bloody scroll.
In land of my nativity,
How would my parting spirit joy,
And spring from earth without alloy!
Yes, I will hope that men shall tell
Of all our deeds, and fondly dwell
On every humble soldier's name
That stood on this day's list of fame,
And at the call of morning roll,
Was blotted from the bloody scroll.
“Of Wellesley these songs shall tell;
And how the gallant Picton fell;
And how the lancer's steady eye
Aimed to the heart of Ponsonby.
O Ponsonby, the brave, the just,
A soldier sorrows o'er thy dust!
And how the gallant Picton fell;
And how the lancer's steady eye
Aimed to the heart of Ponsonby.
O Ponsonby, the brave, the just,
A soldier sorrows o'er thy dust!
“Ah me! The last time e'er I strayed,
Like hermit in my native glade,
I followed him o'er mountain gray
With Border chief of mighty sway,
The heathfowl from the moor to spring,
And lower the blackcock on the wing:
Then blithe his heart; he little knew
Of such a fate at Waterloo!
Like hermit in my native glade,
I followed him o'er mountain gray
With Border chief of mighty sway,
The heathfowl from the moor to spring,
And lower the blackcock on the wing:
Then blithe his heart; he little knew
Of such a fate at Waterloo!
“Yet sooth he might, for he heard tell
Of prophecy remembered well.
'Twas a weird dame his fate that read,
The shepherd's and the maiden's dread.
What's this? Ah, well may I repine!
For with his death she coupled mine:
And though in wrath she us assailed,
Yet what she says hath never failed.
Of prophecy remembered well.
'Twas a weird dame his fate that read,
The shepherd's and the maiden's dread.
What's this? Ah, well may I repine!
For with his death she coupled mine:
And though in wrath she us assailed,
Yet what she says hath never failed.
“‘Avaunt,’ she cried, ‘thou droich of three!
Thou'rt nought in life; nor thou, nor he,
But passing shadows—a mere blot!
Men trowed it was, but it is not.
But mark me, there is thee before
A hideous flood, a tideless shore,
From which a wolf shall turn and run,
An eagle fall, and a harper won:
Then down shall sink an angel grim,
But falling, you shall fall with him.
On such an eve of such a day
Thou shalt remember what I say!’
Thou'rt nought in life; nor thou, nor he,
But passing shadows—a mere blot!
Men trowed it was, but it is not.
But mark me, there is thee before
A hideous flood, a tideless shore,
From which a wolf shall turn and run,
An eagle fall, and a harper won:
Then down shall sink an angel grim,
But falling, you shall fall with him.
On such an eve of such a day
Thou shalt remember what I say!’
“Ah me! who can his fate control?
That sibyl's words now shake my soul.
That very day, and hour, she knew
Of this day's doom at Waterloo.
Oh, pardon me! I sink aghast
At memory of some visions past.
My doom is sealed, here I must bow
To death's arrest, I know not how.”
That sibyl's words now shake my soul.
That very day, and hour, she knew
Of this day's doom at Waterloo.
Oh, pardon me! I sink aghast
At memory of some visions past.
My doom is sealed, here I must bow
To death's arrest, I know not how.”
“Soldier, take heart, and be advised,
In time to come whene'er thou try'st
Of this day's deeds to take the sum,
Of Leipsic think, and then be dumb!”
In time to come whene'er thou try'st
Of this day's deeds to take the sum,
Of Leipsic think, and then be dumb!”
“Or heard'st thou ne'er of Moscow's flame?
Nor Borodino's chilling name,
Where slaughtered myriads only gave
New ardour to the living brave?
I saw at morn proud Moscow stand
The glory of our northern land,
With gilded spires and turrets blent
That pierced the yielding firmament;
But ere the midnight watch was o'er
The ancient Moscow was no more.
Nor Borodino's chilling name,
Where slaughtered myriads only gave
New ardour to the living brave?
I saw at morn proud Moscow stand
The glory of our northern land,
With gilded spires and turrets blent
That pierced the yielding firmament;
But ere the midnight watch was o'er
The ancient Moscow was no more.
335
“I saw, through weary wastes of snow,
Thousands of hopeless journeyers go,
O'er all the forests wandering wide,
Without a home their heads to hide.
I saw the babe oft hushed to rest
On mother's agonized breast,
But long ere day that breast beloved
The death-bed of its darling proved;
There did they rest, in death laid low,
Their grave the drifted wreath of snow.
Thousands of hopeless journeyers go,
O'er all the forests wandering wide,
Without a home their heads to hide.
I saw the babe oft hushed to rest
On mother's agonized breast,
But long ere day that breast beloved
The death-bed of its darling proved;
There did they rest, in death laid low,
Their grave the drifted wreath of snow.
“I saw the stripling, worn and bent,
Halting and crying as he went,
Straining his eyes o'er flood and field,
Loath his young life so soon to yield:
Weak grew his plaint, his motion slow,
I saw the blood-drops on the snow,
And glad was I, his sufferings o'er,
When down he sunk to rise no more.
Halting and crying as he went,
Straining his eyes o'er flood and field,
Loath his young life so soon to yield:
Weak grew his plaint, his motion slow,
I saw the blood-drops on the snow,
And glad was I, his sufferings o'er,
When down he sunk to rise no more.
“On message sent, I crossed in haste,
Kaluga's northmost dreary waste,
Where many a maiden's youthful form
Had sunk beneath the ruthless storm.
I saw the beauteous taper limb,
That made the winter wreath look dim;
The young, the fair, half-moulded breast,
That icicles even gentlier pressed!
The whole so pure, and stretched so low,
Seemed but some mould of lovelier snow.
Though all was lost that life held dear,
And all was suffered mind could bear,
Yet not a plaint was heard to fall;
Our country and our cause was all:
Now, soldier, has that land of thine
Done half, or suffered half of mine?
Kaluga's northmost dreary waste,
Where many a maiden's youthful form
Had sunk beneath the ruthless storm.
I saw the beauteous taper limb,
That made the winter wreath look dim;
The young, the fair, half-moulded breast,
That icicles even gentlier pressed!
The whole so pure, and stretched so low,
Seemed but some mould of lovelier snow.
Though all was lost that life held dear,
And all was suffered mind could bear,
Yet not a plaint was heard to fall;
Our country and our cause was all:
Now, soldier, has that land of thine
Done half, or suffered half of mine?
“On Borodino not alone
The dying and the dead were strewn;
The tyrant's route was tracked in blood
From Moscow's gate to Niemen's flood;
Far as could reach the roving eye
O'er lands that waste and open lie,
I saw myself, and marked it well,
The snow-flakes redden as they fell.
The drifted wreathes were purpled o'er,
Crusted and gorged with human gore,
While o'er them rose a forest dim
Of horses' hoof and human limb.
The dying and the dead were strewn;
The tyrant's route was tracked in blood
From Moscow's gate to Niemen's flood;
Far as could reach the roving eye
O'er lands that waste and open lie,
I saw myself, and marked it well,
The snow-flakes redden as they fell.
The drifted wreathes were purpled o'er,
Crusted and gorged with human gore,
While o'er them rose a forest dim
Of horses' hoof and human limb.
“Soldier, I tell thee, though I love
Thy ardour, and thy zeal approve,
If thou hast seen no field like this,
Thou know'st not yet what warfare is.
Thy ardour, and thy zeal approve,
If thou hast seen no field like this,
Thou know'st not yet what warfare is.
“Say of my country what you will,
And call us rude and savage still;
I'll say't to Europe and to thee,
Though left alone, we dared be free,
And stood for death or liberty.
And call us rude and savage still;
I'll say't to Europe and to thee,
Though left alone, we dared be free,
And stood for death or liberty.
“Yes, Europe cringed to tyrant's might;
'Twas we who turned the scale of right;
'Twas we who bruised the monster's head;
The Germans joined to make him bleed.
What have you Britons done t'avail,
By this defence and bold assail,
But only crushed the severed tail?”
'Twas we who turned the scale of right;
'Twas we who bruised the monster's head;
The Germans joined to make him bleed.
What have you Britons done t'avail,
By this defence and bold assail,
But only crushed the severed tail?”
“And might I judge from what I saw,
I would this simple inference draw—
Had it not been our brave Bulow,
This had to them been day of woe,
And ended in their overthrow.”
I would this simple inference draw—
Had it not been our brave Bulow,
This had to them been day of woe,
And ended in their overthrow.”
“What! Veteran Britons overthrown
Led on by warlike Wellington?—
No! Who can brow the heaven with me
So proud a claim to verify?
They never were. If one knows when,
Let him talk of it—not till then.
Led on by warlike Wellington?—
No! Who can brow the heaven with me
So proud a claim to verify?
They never were. If one knows when,
Let him talk of it—not till then.
“But cease, my friends, this poignant strain,
For friends we are, and must remain.
I too might say, in scorn and pride,
With fair pretext upon my side,
That during Russia's vaunted plea,
She only fought to turn and flee;
And feebly still the strife renewed,
Till Heaven fought, then she pursued.
For friends we are, and must remain.
I too might say, in scorn and pride,
With fair pretext upon my side,
That during Russia's vaunted plea,
She only fought to turn and flee;
And feebly still the strife renewed,
Till Heaven fought, then she pursued.
“And I might say of Prussia's boast,
'Tis right equivocal at most;
Her head she raised with martial show,
But stooped the lowest of the low;
Dragged on her chain of galling steel,
And followed at the tyrant's heel;
But when the royal beast grew lame,
Then turned the ass, his bulk to maim.
This I might say with courtesy,
For such the taunts you cast on me;
But hard it sounds from friendship's mouth,
To those who list to learn the truth.
'Tis right equivocal at most;
Her head she raised with martial show,
But stooped the lowest of the low;
Dragged on her chain of galling steel,
And followed at the tyrant's heel;
But when the royal beast grew lame,
Then turned the ass, his bulk to maim.
This I might say with courtesy,
For such the taunts you cast on me;
But hard it sounds from friendship's mouth,
To those who list to learn the truth.
“In that sweet dale where I was born,
Where green Mount Benger greets the morn,
It is our wont, on either side
Reason to hear, and then decide;
So let us now. For I will stand
By the honour of my native land,
While I have tongue t'assert her right,
Or foot to move, or hand to fight.
Where green Mount Benger greets the morn,
It is our wont, on either side
Reason to hear, and then decide;
So let us now. For I will stand
By the honour of my native land,
While I have tongue t'assert her right,
Or foot to move, or hand to fight.
“I then allow of what befell,
You fought the foe, and fought him well;
You fought for home, you fought for life,
For monarch, kinsmen, children, wife;
For very name and being's sake:
Say was not then your all at stake?”
You fought the foe, and fought him well;
You fought for home, you fought for life,
For monarch, kinsmen, children, wife;
For very name and being's sake:
Say was not then your all at stake?”
“All was at stake; religion, fame,
Nay, more than human tongue can name.”
Nay, more than human tongue can name.”
“The less your merit and your meed,
'Twas desperation did the deed;
And where's the creature forced to strife
That will not fight for breath and life?
The hunted deer can hold at bay
The gallant hound—yet who will say
The deer is brave, or yeaning ewe
That drives the fox along the dew?
There is no beast of hill or wood
That will not fight to save its brood;
So that the man who shuns such strife,
Is less than ought in brutal life:
Such is the model of your fame,
And such the honours you can claim.
'Twas desperation did the deed;
And where's the creature forced to strife
That will not fight for breath and life?
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The gallant hound—yet who will say
The deer is brave, or yeaning ewe
That drives the fox along the dew?
There is no beast of hill or wood
That will not fight to save its brood;
So that the man who shuns such strife,
Is less than ought in brutal life:
Such is the model of your fame,
And such the honours you can claim.
“But Britain lay secure and free,
Encircled by her guardian sea,
Her flag of sovereignty unfurled
In every bay that cleaves the world:
One cause alone had she to fight—
The glorious cause of human right,
And for that prize to her endeared,
The cause of freedom, long revered,
Where is the foe, say if you can,
That e'er has braved us man to man?
And be the leader's name revealed,
That e'er has driven us from the field.
Encircled by her guardian sea,
Her flag of sovereignty unfurled
In every bay that cleaves the world:
One cause alone had she to fight—
The glorious cause of human right,
And for that prize to her endeared,
The cause of freedom, long revered,
Where is the foe, say if you can,
That e'er has braved us man to man?
And be the leader's name revealed,
That e'er has driven us from the field.
“High be your deeds to your own thought;
To fight for life I count it nought.
But he who, seeing friend o'erthrown
By sordid guile, and trodden down,
Flies to his aid, and ventures all
At friendship's and at honour's call;
And, by his blood and jeopardy,
Succeeds, and sets the injured free—
This, this, I say, is bravery!”
To fight for life I count it nought.
But he who, seeing friend o'erthrown
By sordid guile, and trodden down,
Flies to his aid, and ventures all
At friendship's and at honour's call;
And, by his blood and jeopardy,
Succeeds, and sets the injured free—
This, this, I say, is bravery!”
The Russian turned his sullen eye,
His silent comrade's mood to spy,
And saw him bent in thought profound,
Moulding wide figures on the ground:
“By heaven!” he cried, as up he threw
His manly eyes of azure blue,
“What the Scots soldier says is true!”
His silent comrade's mood to spy,
And saw him bent in thought profound,
Moulding wide figures on the ground:
“By heaven!” he cried, as up he threw
His manly eyes of azure blue,
“What the Scots soldier says is true!”
When this assent our soldier heard,
He moaned and stretched him on the sward;
He felt the sand of life near run,
And deemed the day now doubly won.
The strangers friendly aid impart,
Give him to drink, and cheer his heart,
Then down they sat, on converse keen,
Beneath the heaven's own starry sheen.
He moaned and stretched him on the sward;
He felt the sand of life near run,
And deemed the day now doubly won.
The strangers friendly aid impart,
Give him to drink, and cheer his heart,
Then down they sat, on converse keen,
Beneath the heaven's own starry sheen.
The Prussian was a stoic cool,
Of Voltaire's and of Frederick's school;
And much he said in earnest way,
Of things unfitting poet's lay;
Of needful waste of human kind;
Of mankind's late enlightened mind;
How nations first bowed to the yoke;
How furiously the bonds they broke;
And how the soul arose in might,
Grasping its own eternal right.
“The time,” said he, “is ever gone
That Europe dreads tyrannic sway;
No more we'll toil in error on,
Groping at noon to find our way.
It was the love of freedom, given
To man as his prerogative—
That sacred thing conferred by heaven,
The noblest gift that it could give—
'Twas that which made the tyrant rise,
Made kings and kingdoms to divide;
He came with words of specious guise,
The hearts of men were on his side.
Oh, he might conquer idiot kings,
These bars in nature's onward plan!
But fool is he the yoke that flings
O'er the unshackled soul of man!
'Tis like a cobweb o'er the breast,
That binds the giant while asleep;
Or curtain hung upon the east,
The day-light from the world to keep:
The giant wakes in all his might;
The light of heaven is unconfined;
And man asserts his primal right—
Thanks to the unconquerable mind!”
Of Voltaire's and of Frederick's school;
And much he said in earnest way,
Of things unfitting poet's lay;
Of needful waste of human kind;
Of mankind's late enlightened mind;
How nations first bowed to the yoke;
How furiously the bonds they broke;
And how the soul arose in might,
Grasping its own eternal right.
“The time,” said he, “is ever gone
That Europe dreads tyrannic sway;
No more we'll toil in error on,
Groping at noon to find our way.
It was the love of freedom, given
To man as his prerogative—
That sacred thing conferred by heaven,
The noblest gift that it could give—
'Twas that which made the tyrant rise,
Made kings and kingdoms to divide;
He came with words of specious guise,
The hearts of men were on his side.
Oh, he might conquer idiot kings,
These bars in nature's onward plan!
But fool is he the yoke that flings
O'er the unshackled soul of man!
'Tis like a cobweb o'er the breast,
That binds the giant while asleep;
Or curtain hung upon the east,
The day-light from the world to keep:
The giant wakes in all his might;
The light of heaven is unconfined;
And man asserts his primal right—
Thanks to the unconquerable mind!”
The Russian said, it was not so;
What mind could do he did not know;
'Twas God, the Russian's guard and guide,
And Alexander, turned the tide.
If these were part of mind or soul,
Then that might rule and rein the whole.
What mind could do he did not know;
'Twas God, the Russian's guard and guide,
And Alexander, turned the tide.
If these were part of mind or soul,
Then that might rule and rein the whole.
The Scottish soldier raised his eye
As if about to make reply,
But faint from weariness and pain,
He moaned, and laid him down again.
The strangers raised him from the ground;
They searched, and found a mortal wound:
“Alas!” they said, “thou gallant youth;
Thou friend to loyalty and truth,
What shall be done some help to give!
For short the date thou hast to live.”
As if about to make reply,
But faint from weariness and pain,
He moaned, and laid him down again.
The strangers raised him from the ground;
They searched, and found a mortal wound:
“Alas!” they said, “thou gallant youth;
Thou friend to loyalty and truth,
What shall be done some help to give!
For short the date thou hast to live.”
“And is it so?” said he, “I knew
The sibyl's saying would prove true.
Heaven's will be done! Take ye no heed;
I meet without dismay or dread
Man's last great foe—a welcome guest;
I know him conquered like the rest.
One last request I have to make—
For my departing spirit's sake,
Kneel here, before the eye divine,
A dying soldier's prayer to join.”
The sibyl's saying would prove true.
Heaven's will be done! Take ye no heed;
I meet without dismay or dread
Man's last great foe—a welcome guest;
I know him conquered like the rest.
One last request I have to make—
For my departing spirit's sake,
Kneel here, before the eye divine,
A dying soldier's prayer to join.”
The strangers readily agreed,
Saying, they wished no higher meed;
For though from far and foreign parts,
Yet they were men of gentle hearts.
They kneeled amid the ensanguined scene,
Beneath the midnight heaven serene,
While the young gallant soldier lay
Prostrate along the bloody clay;
And as a taper's wasting light
In its last glimmer shines more bright,
So was his soul aroused to share,
High energies in his last prayer.
Saying, they wished no higher meed;
For though from far and foreign parts,
Yet they were men of gentle hearts.
They kneeled amid the ensanguined scene,
Beneath the midnight heaven serene,
While the young gallant soldier lay
Prostrate along the bloody clay;
337
In its last glimmer shines more bright,
So was his soul aroused to share,
High energies in his last prayer.
“O thou of existence the fountain and head,
The God of the living, and God of the dead;
This world is thine, and the starry frame—
The Lord Jehovah is thy name.
How shall I come my vows to pay?
What offering on thine altar lay?
Alas, my God! if e'er thine eyes
Accepted earthly sacrifice,
I bring the last that man can bring;
I am myself that offering;
And here I cry from the altar of death,
From the tabernacle of thy wrath,
'Mid the cries and the groans of the human race:
Oh hear in heaven thy dwelling-place!
The God of the living, and God of the dead;
This world is thine, and the starry frame—
The Lord Jehovah is thy name.
How shall I come my vows to pay?
What offering on thine altar lay?
Alas, my God! if e'er thine eyes
Accepted earthly sacrifice,
I bring the last that man can bring;
I am myself that offering;
And here I cry from the altar of death,
From the tabernacle of thy wrath,
'Mid the cries and the groans of the human race:
Oh hear in heaven thy dwelling-place!
“Though, hid in mystery, none can pierce
Thy reign of the ample universe;
Yet he who owns not thy hand alone,
In the high events that have come and gone,
Deserves not to possess of thee
The power of the reasoning faculty.
Thy reign of the ample universe;
Yet he who owns not thy hand alone,
In the high events that have come and gone,
Deserves not to possess of thee
The power of the reasoning faculty.
“When the destroyer left his throne,
To brave the eye of the frigid zone,
Was there a human head could guess
Or count on probable success?
Or was there a way in nature's course
So to o'erwhelm that cumbrous force,
Which strove the nations to enchain,
Or rouse them from their torpor again?
Thy bolts of wrath thou might'st have driven,
Or loosed the artillery of heaven;
Or, as just guerdon of offence,
Sent forth the wasteful pestilence:
But not in nature's wide command,
(And nature ever is thy hand),
Was other way so to destroy
That armed horde, the world's annoy.
To brave the eye of the frigid zone,
Was there a human head could guess
Or count on probable success?
Or was there a way in nature's course
So to o'erwhelm that cumbrous force,
Which strove the nations to enchain,
Or rouse them from their torpor again?
Thy bolts of wrath thou might'st have driven,
Or loosed the artillery of heaven;
Or, as just guerdon of offence,
Sent forth the wasteful pestilence:
But not in nature's wide command,
(And nature ever is thy hand),
Was other way so to destroy
That armed horde, the world's annoy.
“Yes, still as the northern patriot bled,
When the Russian eagles turned and fled,
Thy arm was seen in the foemen's wrath
That hurried them on to the bourn of death.
When first Iberia spurned the yoke
The judgment was set, and the seals were broke;
But when the city of sacred fame
Enwrapt the northern heaven in flame,
Their sentence thou passed'st ne'er to annul,
For the cup of the Amorite then was full!
When the Russian eagles turned and fled,
Thy arm was seen in the foemen's wrath
That hurried them on to the bourn of death.
When first Iberia spurned the yoke
The judgment was set, and the seals were broke;
But when the city of sacred fame
Enwrapt the northern heaven in flame,
Their sentence thou passed'st ne'er to annul,
For the cup of the Amorite then was full!
“The spirit of man awoke at thy nod,
The elements rose and owned their God;
The sun, and the moon, and the floods below,
And the stars in their courses fought thy foe;
The very heavens and earth seemed blent
In the lowering toiling firmament.
The clouds poured swiftly along the sky,
They thickened, they frowned, but they past not by!
The ravens called with boding sound,
The dogs of Moscow howled around;
And the shades of men and of maidens fair,
Were seen on the dull and cumbered air.
The storm descended, the tempest blew,
Thy vengeance poured on the ruthless crew.
O God! thy vengeance was never so due!
The elements rose and owned their God;
The sun, and the moon, and the floods below,
And the stars in their courses fought thy foe;
The very heavens and earth seemed blent
In the lowering toiling firmament.
The clouds poured swiftly along the sky,
They thickened, they frowned, but they past not by!
The ravens called with boding sound,
The dogs of Moscow howled around;
And the shades of men and of maidens fair,
Were seen on the dull and cumbered air.
The storm descended, the tempest blew,
Thy vengeance poured on the ruthless crew.
O God! thy vengeance was never so due!
“I saw thy hand in the coil of the war;
I heard thy voice in the thunder afar,
When the Elbe waved slow with the blood of man,
And the Saale scarce gurgled as it ran.
O Father! forgive the insensate heart
That ascribes such wonders to human part.
'Twas thou madest the hearts of the nations combine:
Yes, thine is the work, and the glory be thine.
I heard thy voice in the thunder afar,
When the Elbe waved slow with the blood of man,
And the Saale scarce gurgled as it ran.
O Father! forgive the insensate heart
That ascribes such wonders to human part.
'Twas thou madest the hearts of the nations combine:
Yes, thine is the work, and the glory be thine.
“But chiefly when he, the scourge of the earth,
Was proffered the friendship and hands of the north,
And thus, in that empire, the bane of the day,
His dynasty might have been 'stablished for aye;
What counsel of man could the proffer have scorned!
Nor reason, nor madness, could that have suborned.
But the hearts of men are thine own alone,
As the streams of water thou windest them on;
And save when thou parted'st Jordan's tide,
And the gates of the Red Sea opened'st wide,
Oh never so well since time hath been,
Was the governing arm of thy providence seen.
Was proffered the friendship and hands of the north,
And thus, in that empire, the bane of the day,
His dynasty might have been 'stablished for aye;
What counsel of man could the proffer have scorned!
Nor reason, nor madness, could that have suborned.
But the hearts of men are thine own alone,
As the streams of water thou windest them on;
And save when thou parted'st Jordan's tide,
And the gates of the Red Sea opened'st wide,
Oh never so well since time hath been,
Was the governing arm of thy providence seen.
“But the injured still were unavenged,
And the men of crimes remained unchanged,
Till thou roused'st them again in triple wrath,
And brought them like beasts to the house of death.
With other kings and armies leagued,
They might have contended or intrigued,
But the judgment was passed which they could not shun;
Thou brought'st them here, and the work was done!
The victory is thine, we nothing abate,
But thou gavest it the good as well as the great;
And their names are registered with thee
Who have bled for the cause of liberty.
And the men of crimes remained unchanged,
Till thou roused'st them again in triple wrath,
And brought them like beasts to the house of death.
With other kings and armies leagued,
They might have contended or intrigued,
But the judgment was passed which they could not shun;
Thou brought'st them here, and the work was done!
The victory is thine, we nothing abate,
But thou gavest it the good as well as the great;
And their names are registered with thee
Who have bled for the cause of liberty.
“This morn I bowed above my blade,
I bowed to thee, and for victory prayed;
I prayed that my countrymen might gain,
Though my heart's blood should steep the plain.
Thou hast heard my prayer, and answered me,
And with joy I yield my spirit to thee.
I bowed to thee, and for victory prayed;
I prayed that my countrymen might gain,
Though my heart's blood should steep the plain.
Thou hast heard my prayer, and answered me,
And with joy I yield my spirit to thee.
“And now, O God! the time is near
When I may no more address thine ear;
Few moments, and human scrutiny,
Tell me not what I then shall be:
An igneous lamp in the fields below;
A dye of heaven's aërial bow;
A stilly vapour on space reclined,
Or a breath of discoloured wandering wind:—
But oh, while I have speech to say
The thing that I would, I humbly pray
That I for a space may wander free,
To visit the scenes of my infancy:
The tiny green, where the schoolboys play;
The level pool, with its bridge so gray;
And oh, there's a cot by the lonely flood,
With its verdant steep, and its ancient wood,
Its willow ring, and its sounding stream,
So like the scene of a fairy dream;—
Oh might I there a while reside,
To rest with the lamb on the mountain's side,
Or stand by the heath-cock's ruby eye,
And wonder he cannot my form espy.
When I may no more address thine ear;
Few moments, and human scrutiny,
Tell me not what I then shall be:
An igneous lamp in the fields below;
A dye of heaven's aërial bow;
A stilly vapour on space reclined,
Or a breath of discoloured wandering wind:—
But oh, while I have speech to say
The thing that I would, I humbly pray
338
To visit the scenes of my infancy:
The tiny green, where the schoolboys play;
The level pool, with its bridge so gray;
And oh, there's a cot by the lonely flood,
With its verdant steep, and its ancient wood,
Its willow ring, and its sounding stream,
So like the scene of a fairy dream;—
Oh might I there a while reside,
To rest with the lamb on the mountain's side,
Or stand by the heath-cock's ruby eye,
And wonder he cannot my form espy.
“And in that cot there is a dame,
I cannot, dare not say her name!
Oh, how I long to listen there,
To hear that loved one's evening prayer;
And in that cot a cradle moves,
Where sleeps the infant that she loves:
Oh I would like to hover by,
When none but she and that child are nigh,
When her arms stretch to the dear embrace,
And the baby smiles her in the face;
Or when she presses him to her heart,
To watch when the holy tear shall start,
And list no other ear to hear,
If she named a name she once held dear.
I cannot, dare not say her name!
Oh, how I long to listen there,
To hear that loved one's evening prayer;
And in that cot a cradle moves,
Where sleeps the infant that she loves:
Oh I would like to hover by,
When none but she and that child are nigh,
When her arms stretch to the dear embrace,
And the baby smiles her in the face;
Or when she presses him to her heart,
To watch when the holy tear shall start,
And list no other ear to hear,
If she named a name she once held dear.
“O God, if such a thing might be
That a guardian spirit, empowered by thee,
Still round that dwelling linger must,
Oh may I beg the sacred trust?
I'll do, all evil to cause them shun,
More than a spirit before has done;
Against each danger I'll forecast,
And bring them to thyself at last.
That a guardian spirit, empowered by thee,
Still round that dwelling linger must,
Oh may I beg the sacred trust?
I'll do, all evil to cause them shun,
More than a spirit before has done;
Against each danger I'll forecast,
And bring them to thyself at last.
“But wherever my future lot may be,
I have no dread of wrath from thee;
For I know thee merciful and good,
Beyond the fathom of flesh and blood:
And there is a bond 'twixt man and thee,
'Twas sealed and finished on the tree;
Of that, too mystic to unfold,
I will not, cannot quit my hold.
Accept me, Lord, that I may bless
Thy name in better world than this.
I have no dread of wrath from thee;
For I know thee merciful and good,
Beyond the fathom of flesh and blood:
And there is a bond 'twixt man and thee,
'Twas sealed and finished on the tree;
Of that, too mystic to unfold,
I will not, cannot quit my hold.
Accept me, Lord, that I may bless
Thy name in better world than this.
“I have but one remembrance left,
Before my tongue of speech is reft.
My widowed parent oh regard,
And all her love to me reward.
Fondly she nursed my tender years,
With buoyant hopes, and yearning fears;
She weened not, in these hours of bliss,
That she reared her child to an end like this.
To save her declining age from woe,
Her darling's fate may she never know;
But still look down the mountain burn
To see her wandering son return,
Her parting blessing to receive,
And lay her head in an honoured grave:
That hope may still support her heart,
Till we meet again no more to part.”
Before my tongue of speech is reft.
My widowed parent oh regard,
And all her love to me reward.
Fondly she nursed my tender years,
With buoyant hopes, and yearning fears;
She weened not, in these hours of bliss,
That she reared her child to an end like this.
To save her declining age from woe,
Her darling's fate may she never know;
But still look down the mountain burn
To see her wandering son return,
Her parting blessing to receive,
And lay her head in an honoured grave:
That hope may still support her heart,
Till we meet again no more to part.”
The light of life blazed not again;
He could not say the word Amen;
But he turned his eye, and spread his hand
To the star above his native land;
Serenely in that posture lay,
And breathed his generous soul away.
He could not say the word Amen;
But he turned his eye, and spread his hand
To the star above his native land;
Serenely in that posture lay,
And breathed his generous soul away.
The Russian heaved a sigh profound,
And gazed insensate on the ground,
The burning tear struck from his eye,
And flung it on the breeze to dry.
The stoic Prussian, in his pride,
Unstaidly looked from side to side,
Then fixed on heaven a solemn scowl,
Impelled by his unfathomed soul,
That felt deep yearnings unconfest
For some eternal home of rest.
“What's this?” said he, “who can conceive?
I cannot fathom, nor believe
The substance of this Christian faith;
But 'tis a steadfast hold in death!
I never saw its hideous door
Entered with such a mien before!”
And gazed insensate on the ground,
The burning tear struck from his eye,
And flung it on the breeze to dry.
The stoic Prussian, in his pride,
Unstaidly looked from side to side,
Then fixed on heaven a solemn scowl,
Impelled by his unfathomed soul,
That felt deep yearnings unconfest
For some eternal home of rest.
“What's this?” said he, “who can conceive?
I cannot fathom, nor believe
The substance of this Christian faith;
But 'tis a steadfast hold in death!
I never saw its hideous door
Entered with such a mien before!”
Onward they passed in moody plight,
Leaving the pale corse on the height,
And said before to British lords
This soldier's prayer and dying words,
Who well can vouch this tale is true
Of converse held on Waterloo.
Leaving the pale corse on the height,
And said before to British lords
This soldier's prayer and dying words,
Who well can vouch this tale is true
Of converse held on Waterloo.
We learned our comrade was no more,
And many an eye for him ran o'er,
In friendship's little circle kind,
For who not leaves some friends behind?
But yet his prayer was heard in part,
For no one had the cruel heart
His parent of his fate to tell;—
She died believing he was well.
And many an eye for him ran o'er,
In friendship's little circle kind,
For who not leaves some friends behind?
But yet his prayer was heard in part,
For no one had the cruel heart
His parent of his fate to tell;—
She died believing he was well.
Ofttimes I visit for his sake
The cottage by the lonely lake,
And I have heard its beauteous dame
With tears pronounce her lover's name:
And once I saw her comely child;
It bent its eyes on air and smiled,
Stretching its arms with fervent mien,
As if to reach to something seen.
I've seen the wild-fowl watch and quake,
And cower in terror 'mid the brake,
And the mild lamb with steady eye
Gazing intent, I knew not why;
Then chilling thoughts have on me pressed
Of an unbodied heavenly guest,
Sent there to roam the lonely wild,
To guard the mother and the child;
For to the death-bed prayer is given
Free passage to the throne of heaven!
The cottage by the lonely lake,
And I have heard its beauteous dame
With tears pronounce her lover's name:
And once I saw her comely child;
It bent its eyes on air and smiled,
Stretching its arms with fervent mien,
As if to reach to something seen.
I've seen the wild-fowl watch and quake,
And cower in terror 'mid the brake,
And the mild lamb with steady eye
Gazing intent, I knew not why;
Then chilling thoughts have on me pressed
Of an unbodied heavenly guest,
Sent there to roam the lonely wild,
To guard the mother and the child;
For to the death-bed prayer is given
Free passage to the throne of heaven!
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |