The Poetical Remains of the late Dr. John Leyden with Memoirs of his Life, by the Rev. James Morton |
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| III. | PART III. |
| IV. |
 | The Poetical Remains of the late Dr. John Leyden |  |
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III. PART III.
Heureux qui dans le sein de ses dieux domestiques
Se dèrobe au fracas des tempêtes publiques,
Et, dans un doux abri, trompant tous les regards,
Cultive ses jardins, les vertus et les arts!
Delille.
Se dèrobe au fracas des tempêtes publiques,
Et, dans un doux abri, trompant tous les regards,
Cultive ses jardins, les vertus et les arts!
Delille.
365
Blest are the sons of life's sequester'd vale:
No storms of fate their humble heads assail.
Smooth as the riv'let glides along the plain,
To lose its noiseless waters in the main,
Unheard, unnoted, moves the tranquil stream
Of rural life, that haunts each waking dream;
When fond regret for all I leave behind,
With sighs unbidden, lingers o'er my mind.
No storms of fate their humble heads assail.
Smooth as the riv'let glides along the plain,
To lose its noiseless waters in the main,
Unheard, unnoted, moves the tranquil stream
Of rural life, that haunts each waking dream;
When fond regret for all I leave behind,
With sighs unbidden, lingers o'er my mind.
Again, with youth's sensations wild, I hear
The sabbath-chimes roll sweetly on mine ear,
And view with solemn gait and serious eye
Long moving lines of peasants churchward hie.
The rough-ton'd bell, which many a year hath seen,
And drizzling mists have long since crusted green,
Wide o'er the village flings its muffled sound:
With quicken'd pace they throng the burial ground;
As each selects his old paternal seat,
Bright flash the sparkles round their iron feet.
From crowded pews, arrang'd in equal row,
The dirge-like music rises soft and slow;
Uncultur'd strains! which yet the warmth impart
Of true devotion to the peasant's heart.
The sabbath-chimes roll sweetly on mine ear,
And view with solemn gait and serious eye
Long moving lines of peasants churchward hie.
The rough-ton'd bell, which many a year hath seen,
And drizzling mists have long since crusted green,
366
With quicken'd pace they throng the burial ground;
As each selects his old paternal seat,
Bright flash the sparkles round their iron feet.
From crowded pews, arrang'd in equal row,
The dirge-like music rises soft and slow;
Uncultur'd strains! which yet the warmth impart
Of true devotion to the peasant's heart.
I mark the preacher's air, serene and mild:
In every face he sees a listening child,
Unfolds with reverend air the sacred book,
Around him casts a kind paternal look,
And hopes, when all his mortal toils are past,
This filial family to join at last.
He paints the modest virtues of the swains,
Content and happy on their native plains,
Uncharm'd by pomp, by gold's refulgent glare,
Or fame's shrill clarion pealing through the air,
That bids the hind a heart untainted yield
For laurels, crimson'd in the gory field.
“Beyond this life, and life's dark barrier-stream,
“How bright the rays of light celestial gleam,
“Green fields of bliss, and heavens of cloudless blue,
“While Eden spreads her flowery groves anew!
“Farewell the sickening sigh, that virtue owes
“To mortal life's immedicable woes,
“Sweet pity's tear, that loves to fall unseen,
“Like dews of eve on meads of tender green!
“The trees of life, that on the margin rise
“Of Eden's stream, shall calm the sufferer's sighs,
“From the dark brow the wrinkle charm away,
“And soothe the heart whose pulses madly play;
“Till, pure from passion, free from earthly stain,
“One pleasing memory of the past remain,
“Full tides of bliss in ceaseless circles roll,
“And boundless rapture renovate the soul.”
In every face he sees a listening child,
Unfolds with reverend air the sacred book,
Around him casts a kind paternal look,
And hopes, when all his mortal toils are past,
This filial family to join at last.
He paints the modest virtues of the swains,
Content and happy on their native plains,
Uncharm'd by pomp, by gold's refulgent glare,
Or fame's shrill clarion pealing through the air,
That bids the hind a heart untainted yield
For laurels, crimson'd in the gory field.
“Beyond this life, and life's dark barrier-stream,
“How bright the rays of light celestial gleam,
“Green fields of bliss, and heavens of cloudless blue,
“While Eden spreads her flowery groves anew!
367
“To mortal life's immedicable woes,
“Sweet pity's tear, that loves to fall unseen,
“Like dews of eve on meads of tender green!
“The trees of life, that on the margin rise
“Of Eden's stream, shall calm the sufferer's sighs,
“From the dark brow the wrinkle charm away,
“And soothe the heart whose pulses madly play;
“Till, pure from passion, free from earthly stain,
“One pleasing memory of the past remain,
“Full tides of bliss in ceaseless circles roll,
“And boundless rapture renovate the soul.”
When mortals, vainly wise, renounce their God,
To vaunt their kindred to the crumbling clod,
Bid o'er their graves the blasted hemlock bloom,
And woo the eternal slumber of the tomb,
The long, long night, unsooth'd by fancy's dream;—
Unheard the vultures, o'er their bones that scream—
Though mimic pity half conceals their fear,
Aw'd, to the good man's voice they lend an ear.
But, as the father speaks, they wondering find
New doubts, new fears, infest the obdurate mind;
Wild scenes of woe with ghastly light illume
The sullen regions of the desert tomb;
His potent words the mental film dispart,
Pierce the dark crust that wraps the atheist's heart,
And stamp in characters of livid fire
The fearful doom of heaven's avenging ire.
But, when he saw each cherish'd bosom-sin,
Like nestling serpents, gnaw the breast within,
To sooth the soften'd soul his doctrine fell,
Like April-drops that nurse the primrose-bell,
Whose timid beauty first adorns the mead,
When spring's warm showers to winter's blights succeed.
To vaunt their kindred to the crumbling clod,
Bid o'er their graves the blasted hemlock bloom,
And woo the eternal slumber of the tomb,
The long, long night, unsooth'd by fancy's dream;—
Unheard the vultures, o'er their bones that scream—
Though mimic pity half conceals their fear,
Aw'd, to the good man's voice they lend an ear.
But, as the father speaks, they wondering find
New doubts, new fears, infest the obdurate mind;
Wild scenes of woe with ghastly light illume
The sullen regions of the desert tomb;
368
Pierce the dark crust that wraps the atheist's heart,
And stamp in characters of livid fire
The fearful doom of heaven's avenging ire.
But, when he saw each cherish'd bosom-sin,
Like nestling serpents, gnaw the breast within,
To sooth the soften'd soul his doctrine fell,
Like April-drops that nurse the primrose-bell,
Whose timid beauty first adorns the mead,
When spring's warm showers to winter's blights succeed.
As home the peasants move with serious air,
For sober talk they mingle, pair and pair;
Though quaint remark unbend the stedfast mien,
And thoughts less holy sometimes intervene,
No burst of noisy mirth disturbs their walk;
Each seems afraid of worldly things to talk,
Save yon fond pair, who speak with meeting eyes;—
The sacred day profaner speech denies.
For sober talk they mingle, pair and pair;
Though quaint remark unbend the stedfast mien,
And thoughts less holy sometimes intervene,
No burst of noisy mirth disturbs their walk;
Each seems afraid of worldly things to talk,
Save yon fond pair, who speak with meeting eyes;—
The sacred day profaner speech denies.
Some love to trace the plain of graves, alone,
Peruse the lines that crowd the sculptur'd stone,
And, as their bosoms heave at thoughts of fame,
Wish that such homely verse may save their name,
Hope that their comrades, as the words they spell,
To greener youth their ploughman-skill may tell,
And add, that none sung clearer at the ale,
Or told at winter's eve a merrier tale,
When drowsy shepherds round the embers gaze
At tiny forms that tread the mounting blaze,
And songs and jokes the laughing hours beguile,
And borrow sweetness from the damsels' smile.
Vain wish! the letter'd stones, that mark his grave,
Can ne'er the swain from dim oblivion save:
Ere thrice yon sun his annual course has roll'd,
Is he forgotten, and the tales he told.
At fame so transient, peasants, murmur not!
In one great book your deeds are not forgot:
Your names, your blameless lives, impartial fate
Records, to triumph o'er the guilty great,
When each unquiet grave upheaves the dead,
And awful blood-drops stain the laurell'd head.
Peruse the lines that crowd the sculptur'd stone,
And, as their bosoms heave at thoughts of fame,
Wish that such homely verse may save their name,
Hope that their comrades, as the words they spell,
To greener youth their ploughman-skill may tell,
369
Or told at winter's eve a merrier tale,
When drowsy shepherds round the embers gaze
At tiny forms that tread the mounting blaze,
And songs and jokes the laughing hours beguile,
And borrow sweetness from the damsels' smile.
Vain wish! the letter'd stones, that mark his grave,
Can ne'er the swain from dim oblivion save:
Ere thrice yon sun his annual course has roll'd,
Is he forgotten, and the tales he told.
At fame so transient, peasants, murmur not!
In one great book your deeds are not forgot:
Your names, your blameless lives, impartial fate
Records, to triumph o'er the guilty great,
When each unquiet grave upheaves the dead,
And awful blood-drops stain the laurell'd head.
See, how each barbarous trophy wastes away!
All, save great Egypt's pyramids, decay.
Green waves the harvest, and the peasant-boy
Stalls his rough herds within the towers of Troy;
Prowls the sly fox, the jackall rears her brood,
Where once the towers of mighty Ilium stood.
And you, stern children of the northern sun,
Each stubborn Tartar, and each swarthy Hun,
Toumen, and Mothe, who led your proud Monguls
And pil'd in mountain-heaps your foemen's skulls!
Broad swarm'd your bands o'er every peopled clime,
And trode the nations from the rolls of time.
Where is your old renown?—On Sibir's plain,
Nameless and vast, your tombs alone remain.
How soon the fame of Niger's lord decay'd,
Whose arm Tombuto's golden sceptre sway'd!
Dark Izkia! name, by dusky hosts rever'd,
Who first the pile of negro-glory rear'd!
O'er many a realm beneath the burning zone
How bright his ruby-studded standard shone!
How strong that arm the glittering spear to wield,
While sable nations gather'd round his shield!
But chief when, conquest-crown'd, his radiant car
From Niger's banks repuls'd the surge of war,
When rose convuls'd in clouds the desert gray,
And Arab lances gleam'd in long array!
At every shout a grove of spears was flung,
From cany bows a million arrows sprung;
While, prone and panting, on the sandy plain
Sunk the fleet barb, and welter'd mid the slain.
Niger, exulting o'er her sands of gold,
Down her broad wave the Moorish warriors roll'd;
While each dark tribe, along her sylvan shore,
Gaz'd on the bloody tide, and arms unseen before.—
Unknown the grave where Izkia's ashes lie:—
Thy fame has fled, like lightning o'er the sky.
E'en he, who first, with garments roll'd in blood,
Rear'd the huge piles by Nile's broad moon-horn'd flood,
Swore that his fame the lapse of time should mock,
Grav'd on the granite's everlasting rock,
Sleeps in his catacomb, unnam'd, unknown;—
While sages vainly scan the sculptur'd stone.
All, save great Egypt's pyramids, decay.
Green waves the harvest, and the peasant-boy
Stalls his rough herds within the towers of Troy;
Prowls the sly fox, the jackall rears her brood,
Where once the towers of mighty Ilium stood.
And you, stern children of the northern sun,
Each stubborn Tartar, and each swarthy Hun,
370
And pil'd in mountain-heaps your foemen's skulls!
Broad swarm'd your bands o'er every peopled clime,
And trode the nations from the rolls of time.
Where is your old renown?—On Sibir's plain,
Nameless and vast, your tombs alone remain.
How soon the fame of Niger's lord decay'd,
Whose arm Tombuto's golden sceptre sway'd!
Dark Izkia! name, by dusky hosts rever'd,
Who first the pile of negro-glory rear'd!
O'er many a realm beneath the burning zone
How bright his ruby-studded standard shone!
How strong that arm the glittering spear to wield,
While sable nations gather'd round his shield!
But chief when, conquest-crown'd, his radiant car
From Niger's banks repuls'd the surge of war,
371
And Arab lances gleam'd in long array!
At every shout a grove of spears was flung,
From cany bows a million arrows sprung;
While, prone and panting, on the sandy plain
Sunk the fleet barb, and welter'd mid the slain.
Niger, exulting o'er her sands of gold,
Down her broad wave the Moorish warriors roll'd;
While each dark tribe, along her sylvan shore,
Gaz'd on the bloody tide, and arms unseen before.—
Unknown the grave where Izkia's ashes lie:—
Thy fame has fled, like lightning o'er the sky.
E'en he, who first, with garments roll'd in blood,
Rear'd the huge piles by Nile's broad moon-horn'd flood,
Swore that his fame the lapse of time should mock,
Grav'd on the granite's everlasting rock,
Sleeps in his catacomb, unnam'd, unknown;—
While sages vainly scan the sculptur'd stone.
So fades the palm by blighting blood-drops stain'd,
The laurel-wreath by ruffian war profan'd;
So fades his name, whom first the nations saw
Ordain a mortal's blind caprice for law,
The fainting captive drag to slavery's den,
And truck for gold the souls of free-born men.
But hope not, tyrants! in the grave to rest,
(The blood, the tears of nations unredress'd,)
While sprites celestial mortal woes bemoan,
And join the vast creation's funeral groan!
For still, to heaven when fainting nature calls,
On deeds accurs'd the darker vengeance falls.
The laurel-wreath by ruffian war profan'd;
So fades his name, whom first the nations saw
Ordain a mortal's blind caprice for law,
The fainting captive drag to slavery's den,
And truck for gold the souls of free-born men.
372
(The blood, the tears of nations unredress'd,)
While sprites celestial mortal woes bemoan,
And join the vast creation's funeral groan!
For still, to heaven when fainting nature calls,
On deeds accurs'd the darker vengeance falls.
Nor deem the negro's sighs and anguish vain,
Who hopeless grinds the harden'd trader's chain;
As, wafted from his country far away,
He sees Angola's hills of green decay.
The dry harmattan flits along the flood,
To parch his veins, and boil his throbbing blood.
In dreams he sees Angola's plains appear;
In dreams he seems Angola's strains to hear;
And when the clanking fetter bursts his sleep,
Silent and sad he plunges in the deep.
Who hopeless grinds the harden'd trader's chain;
As, wafted from his country far away,
He sees Angola's hills of green decay.
The dry harmattan flits along the flood,
To parch his veins, and boil his throbbing blood.
In dreams he sees Angola's plains appear;
In dreams he seems Angola's strains to hear;
And when the clanking fetter bursts his sleep,
Silent and sad he plunges in the deep.
Stout was the ship, from Benin's palmy shore
That first the freight of barter'd captives bore:
Bedimm'd with blood, the sun with shrinking beams
Beheld her bounding o'er the ocean-streams;
But, ere the moon her silver horns had rear'd,
Amid the crew the speckled plague appear'd.
Faint and despairing on their watery bier,
To every friendly shore the sailors steer;
Repell'd from port to port they sue in vain,
And track with slow unsteady sail the main.
Where ne'er the bright and buoyant wave is seen
To streak with wandering foam the sea-weeds green,
Towers the tall mast, a lone and leafless tree;
Till, self-impell'd, amid the waveless sea,
Where summer breezes ne'er were heard to sing,
Nor hovering snow-birds spread the downy wing,
Fix'd as a rock, amid the boundless plain,
The yellow steam pollutes the stagnant main;
Till far through night the funeral flames aspire,
As the red lightning smites the ghastly pyre.
That first the freight of barter'd captives bore:
373
Beheld her bounding o'er the ocean-streams;
But, ere the moon her silver horns had rear'd,
Amid the crew the speckled plague appear'd.
Faint and despairing on their watery bier,
To every friendly shore the sailors steer;
Repell'd from port to port they sue in vain,
And track with slow unsteady sail the main.
Where ne'er the bright and buoyant wave is seen
To streak with wandering foam the sea-weeds green,
Towers the tall mast, a lone and leafless tree;
Till, self-impell'd, amid the waveless sea,
Where summer breezes ne'er were heard to sing,
Nor hovering snow-birds spread the downy wing,
Fix'd as a rock, amid the boundless plain,
The yellow steam pollutes the stagnant main;
374
As the red lightning smites the ghastly pyre.
Still doom'd by fate, on weltering billows roll'd,
Along the deep their restless course to hold,
Scenting the storm, the shadowy sailors guide
The prow, with sails oppos'd to wind and tide.
The spectre-ship, in livid glimpsing light,
Glares baleful on the shuddering watch at night,
Unblest of God and man!—Till time shall end,
Its view strange horror to the storm shall lend.
Along the deep their restless course to hold,
Scenting the storm, the shadowy sailors guide
The prow, with sails oppos'd to wind and tide.
The spectre-ship, in livid glimpsing light,
Glares baleful on the shuddering watch at night,
Unblest of God and man!—Till time shall end,
Its view strange horror to the storm shall lend.
Land of my fathers!—though no mangrove here
O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear,
Nor scaly palm her finger'd scions shoot,
Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit,
Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree—
Land of dark heaths and mountains! thou art free.
O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear,
Nor scaly palm her finger'd scions shoot,
Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit,
Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree—
Land of dark heaths and mountains! thou art free.
Untainted yet, thy stream, fair Teviot! runs,
With unatoned blood of Gambia's sons:
No drooping slave, with spirit bow'd to toil,
Grows, like the weed, self-rooted to the soil,
Nor cringing vassal on these pansied meads
Is bought and barter'd, as the flock he feeds.
Free, as the lark that carols o'er his head,
At dawn the healthy ploughman leaves his bed,
Binds to the yoke his sturdy steers with care,
And whistling loud directs the mining share;
Free, as his lord, the peasant treads the plain,
And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain;
Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right,
And vain of Scotia's old unconquer'd might.
With unatoned blood of Gambia's sons:
No drooping slave, with spirit bow'd to toil,
Grows, like the weed, self-rooted to the soil,
Nor cringing vassal on these pansied meads
Is bought and barter'd, as the flock he feeds.
375
At dawn the healthy ploughman leaves his bed,
Binds to the yoke his sturdy steers with care,
And whistling loud directs the mining share;
Free, as his lord, the peasant treads the plain,
And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain;
Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right,
And vain of Scotia's old unconquer'd might.
Dear native vallies! may ye long retain
The charter'd freedom of the mountain swain!
Long mid your sounding glades in union sweet
May rural innocence and beauty meet!
And still be duly heard at twilight calm
From every cot the peasant's chaunted psalm!
Then, Jedworth! though thy ancient choirs shall fade,
And time lay bare each lofty colonnade,
From the damp roof the massy sculptures die,
And in their vaults thy rifted arches lie,
Still in these vales shall angel harps prolong
By Jed's pure stream a sweeter even-song,
Than long processions once with mystic zeal
Pour'd to the harp and solemn organ's peal.
The charter'd freedom of the mountain swain!
Long mid your sounding glades in union sweet
May rural innocence and beauty meet!
And still be duly heard at twilight calm
From every cot the peasant's chaunted psalm!
Then, Jedworth! though thy ancient choirs shall fade,
And time lay bare each lofty colonnade,
From the damp roof the massy sculptures die,
And in their vaults thy rifted arches lie,
Still in these vales shall angel harps prolong
By Jed's pure stream a sweeter even-song,
Than long processions once with mystic zeal
Pour'd to the harp and solemn organ's peal.
O softly, Jed! thy sylvan current lead
Round every hazel copse and smiling mead,
Where lines of firs the glowing landscape screen,
And crown the heights with tufts of deeper green.
While, mid the cliffs, to crop the flowery thyme,
The shaggy goats with steady footsteps climb,
How wantonly the ruffling breezes stir
The wavering trains of tinsel gossamer,
In filmy threads of floating gold, which slide
O'er the green upland's wet and sloping side,
While, ever varying in the beating ray,
The fleeting net-work glistens bright and gay!
To thee, fair Jed! a holier wreath is due,
Who gav'st thy Thomson all thy scenes to view,
Bad'st forms of beauty on his vision roll,
And mould to harmony his ductile soul;
Till fancy's pictures rose as nature bright,
And his warm bosom glow'd with heavenly light.
Round every hazel copse and smiling mead,
376
And crown the heights with tufts of deeper green.
While, mid the cliffs, to crop the flowery thyme,
The shaggy goats with steady footsteps climb,
How wantonly the ruffling breezes stir
The wavering trains of tinsel gossamer,
In filmy threads of floating gold, which slide
O'er the green upland's wet and sloping side,
While, ever varying in the beating ray,
The fleeting net-work glistens bright and gay!
To thee, fair Jed! a holier wreath is due,
Who gav'st thy Thomson all thy scenes to view,
Bad'st forms of beauty on his vision roll,
And mould to harmony his ductile soul;
Till fancy's pictures rose as nature bright,
And his warm bosom glow'd with heavenly light.
In March, when first, elate on tender wing,
O'er frozen heaths the lark essays to sing;
In March, when first, before the lengthening days,
The snowy mantle of the earth decays,
The wreaths of crusted snows are painted blue,
And yellowy moss assumes a greener hue,—
How smil'd the bard, from winter's funeral urn
To see more fair the youthful earth return!
O'er frozen heaths the lark essays to sing;
In March, when first, before the lengthening days,
The snowy mantle of the earth decays,
377
And yellowy moss assumes a greener hue,—
How smil'd the bard, from winter's funeral urn
To see more fair the youthful earth return!
When morn's wan rays with clearer crimson blend,
And first the gilded mists of spring ascend,
The sun-beams swim through April's silver showers,
The daffodils expand their yellow flowers,
The lusty stalk with sap luxuriant swells,
And, curling round it, smile the bursting bells,
The blowing king-cup bank and valley studs,
And on the rosiers nod the folded buds;—
Warm beats his heart, to view the mead's array,
When flowers of summer hear the steps of May.
And first the gilded mists of spring ascend,
The sun-beams swim through April's silver showers,
The daffodils expand their yellow flowers,
The lusty stalk with sap luxuriant swells,
And, curling round it, smile the bursting bells,
The blowing king-cup bank and valley studs,
And on the rosiers nod the folded buds;—
Warm beats his heart, to view the mead's array,
When flowers of summer hear the steps of May.
But, when the wintry blast the forest heaves,
And shakes the harvest of the ripen'd leaves;
When brighter scenes the painted woods display
Than fancy's fairy pencil can pourtray,
He pensive strays the sadden'd groves among,
To hear the twittering swallow's farewell-song.
The finch no more on pointed thistles feeds,
Pecks the red leaves, or crops the swelling seeds;
But water-crows by cold brook-margins play,
Lave their dark plumage in the freezing spray,
And, wanton as from stone to stone they glide,
Dive at their beckoning forms beneath the tide.
He hears at eve the fetter'd bittern's scream,
Ice-bound in sedgy marsh, or mountain stream,
Or sees, with strange delight, the snow-clouds form
When Ruberslaw conceives the mountain storm;
Dark Ruberslaw,—that lifts his head sublime,
Rugged and hoary with the wrecks of time!
On his broad misty front the giant wears
The horrid furrows of ten thousand years;
His aged brows are crown'd with curling fern,
Where perches, grave and lone, the hooded Erne,
Majestic bird! by ancient shepherds styl'd
The lonely hermit of the russet wild,
That loves amid the stormy blast to soar,
When through disjointed cliffs the tempests roar,
Climbs on strong wing the storm, and, screaming high,
Rides the dim rack that sweeps the darken'd sky.
And shakes the harvest of the ripen'd leaves;
When brighter scenes the painted woods display
Than fancy's fairy pencil can pourtray,
He pensive strays the sadden'd groves among,
To hear the twittering swallow's farewell-song.
The finch no more on pointed thistles feeds,
Pecks the red leaves, or crops the swelling seeds;
But water-crows by cold brook-margins play,
Lave their dark plumage in the freezing spray,
378
Dive at their beckoning forms beneath the tide.
He hears at eve the fetter'd bittern's scream,
Ice-bound in sedgy marsh, or mountain stream,
Or sees, with strange delight, the snow-clouds form
When Ruberslaw conceives the mountain storm;
Dark Ruberslaw,—that lifts his head sublime,
Rugged and hoary with the wrecks of time!
On his broad misty front the giant wears
The horrid furrows of ten thousand years;
His aged brows are crown'd with curling fern,
Where perches, grave and lone, the hooded Erne,
Majestic bird! by ancient shepherds styl'd
The lonely hermit of the russet wild,
That loves amid the stormy blast to soar,
When through disjointed cliffs the tempests roar,
Climbs on strong wing the storm, and, screaming high,
Rides the dim rack that sweeps the darken'd sky.
Such were the scenes his fancy first refin'd,
And breath'd enchantment o'er his plastic mind,
Bade every feeling flow to virtue dear,
And form'd the poet of the varied year.
And breath'd enchantment o'er his plastic mind,
Bade every feeling flow to virtue dear,
And form'd the poet of the varied year.
Bard of the Seasons! could my strain, like thine,
Awake the heart to sympathy divine,
Sweet Osna's stream, by thin-leav'd birch o'erhung,
No more should roll her modest waves unsung.—
Though now thy silent waters, as they run,
Refuse to sparkle in the morning sun,
Though dark their wandering course, what voice can tell
Who first for thee shall strike the sounding shell,
And teach thy waves, that dimly wind along,
To tune to harmony their mountain-song!
Thus Meles roll'd a stream unknown to fame,
Not yet renown'd by Homer's mighty name;
Great sun of verse, who self-created shone,
To lend the world his light, and borrow none!
Awake the heart to sympathy divine,
379
No more should roll her modest waves unsung.—
Though now thy silent waters, as they run,
Refuse to sparkle in the morning sun,
Though dark their wandering course, what voice can tell
Who first for thee shall strike the sounding shell,
And teach thy waves, that dimly wind along,
To tune to harmony their mountain-song!
Thus Meles roll'd a stream unknown to fame,
Not yet renown'd by Homer's mighty name;
Great sun of verse, who self-created shone,
To lend the world his light, and borrow none!
Through richer fields, her milky wave that stain,
Slow Cala flows o'er many a chalky plain;
With silvery spikes of wheat, in stately row,
And golden oats, that on the uplands grow,
Gray fields of barley crowd the water edge,
Drink the pale stream, and mingle with the sedge.
Slow Cala flows o'er many a chalky plain;
With silvery spikes of wheat, in stately row,
And golden oats, that on the uplands grow,
Gray fields of barley crowd the water edge,
Drink the pale stream, and mingle with the sedge.
Pure blows the summer breeze o'er moor and dell,
Since first in Wormiswood the serpent fell:
From years in distance lost his birth he drew,
And with the ancient oaks the monster grew,
Till venom, nurs'd in every stagnant vein,
Shed o'er his scaly sides a yellow stain,
Save where uprear'd his purfled crest was seen,
Bedropt with purple blots and streaks of green.
Deep in a sedgy fen, conceal'd from day,
Long ripening, on his oozy bed he lay;
Till, as the poison-breath around him blew,
From every bough the shrivell'd leaflet flew,
Gray moss began the wrinkled trees to climb,
And the tall oaks grew old before their time.
Since first in Wormiswood the serpent fell:
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And with the ancient oaks the monster grew,
Till venom, nurs'd in every stagnant vein,
Shed o'er his scaly sides a yellow stain,
Save where uprear'd his purfled crest was seen,
Bedropt with purple blots and streaks of green.
Deep in a sedgy fen, conceal'd from day,
Long ripening, on his oozy bed he lay;
Till, as the poison-breath around him blew,
From every bough the shrivell'd leaflet flew,
Gray moss began the wrinkled trees to climb,
And the tall oaks grew old before their time.
On his dark bed the grovelling monster long
Blew the shrill hiss, and launch'd the serpent prong,
Or, writh'd on frightful coils, with powerful breath
Drew the faint herds to glut the den of death,
Dragg'd with unwilling speed across the plain
The snorting steed, that gaz'd with stiffen'd mane,
The forest bull, that lash'd with hideous roar
His sides indignant, and the ground uptore.
Bold as the chief who, mid black Lerna's brake,
With mighty prowess quell'd the water-snake,
To rouse the monster from his noisome den,
A dauntless hero pierc'd the blasted fen.
He mounts, he spurs his steed; in bold career,
His arm gigantic wields a fiery spear;
With aromatic moss the shaft was wreath'd,
And favouring gales around the champion breath'd;
By power invisible the courser drawn,
Now quick, and quicker, bounds across the lawn;
Onward he moves, unable now to pause,
And fearless meditates the monster's jaws,
Impels the struggling steed, that strives to shun,
Full on his wide unfolding fangs to run;
Down his black throat he thrusts the fiery dart,
And hears the frightful hiss that rends his heart;
Then, wheeling light, reverts his swift career.
The writhing serpent grinds the ashen spear;
Roll'd on his head, his awful volum'd train
He strains in tortur'd folds, and bursts in twain.
On Cala's banks, his monstrous fangs appal
The rustics pondering on the sacred wall,
Who hear the tale the solemn rites between,
On summer sabbaths in the churchyard green.
Blew the shrill hiss, and launch'd the serpent prong,
Or, writh'd on frightful coils, with powerful breath
Drew the faint herds to glut the den of death,
Dragg'd with unwilling speed across the plain
The snorting steed, that gaz'd with stiffen'd mane,
The forest bull, that lash'd with hideous roar
His sides indignant, and the ground uptore.
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With mighty prowess quell'd the water-snake,
To rouse the monster from his noisome den,
A dauntless hero pierc'd the blasted fen.
He mounts, he spurs his steed; in bold career,
His arm gigantic wields a fiery spear;
With aromatic moss the shaft was wreath'd,
And favouring gales around the champion breath'd;
By power invisible the courser drawn,
Now quick, and quicker, bounds across the lawn;
Onward he moves, unable now to pause,
And fearless meditates the monster's jaws,
Impels the struggling steed, that strives to shun,
Full on his wide unfolding fangs to run;
Down his black throat he thrusts the fiery dart,
And hears the frightful hiss that rends his heart;
Then, wheeling light, reverts his swift career.
The writhing serpent grinds the ashen spear;
Roll'd on his head, his awful volum'd train
He strains in tortur'd folds, and bursts in twain.
On Cala's banks, his monstrous fangs appal
The rustics pondering on the sacred wall,
Who hear the tale the solemn rites between,
On summer sabbaths in the churchyard green.
382
On Yeta's banks the vagrant gypsies place
Their turf-built cots; a sun-burn'd swarthy race!
From Nubian realms their tawny line they bring,
And their brown chieftain vaunts the name of king.
With loitering steps from town to town they pass,
Their lazy dames rock'd on the panier'd ass.
From pilfer'd roots or nauseous carrion fed,
By hedge-rows green they strew the leafy bed,
While scarce the cloak of taudry red conceals
The fine-turn'd limbs, which every breeze reveals:
Their bright black eyes through silken lashes shine,
Around their necks their raven tresses twine;
But chilling damps and dews of night impair
Its soft sleek gloss, and tan the bosom bare.
Adroit the lines of palmistry to trace,
Or read the damsel's wishes in her face,
Her hoarded silver-store they charm away,
A pleasing debt, for promis'd wealth to pay.
Their turf-built cots; a sun-burn'd swarthy race!
From Nubian realms their tawny line they bring,
And their brown chieftain vaunts the name of king.
With loitering steps from town to town they pass,
Their lazy dames rock'd on the panier'd ass.
From pilfer'd roots or nauseous carrion fed,
By hedge-rows green they strew the leafy bed,
While scarce the cloak of taudry red conceals
The fine-turn'd limbs, which every breeze reveals:
Their bright black eyes through silken lashes shine,
Around their necks their raven tresses twine;
But chilling damps and dews of night impair
Its soft sleek gloss, and tan the bosom bare.
Adroit the lines of palmistry to trace,
Or read the damsel's wishes in her face,
Her hoarded silver-store they charm away,
A pleasing debt, for promis'd wealth to pay.
But in the lonely barn, from towns remote,
The pipe and bladder opes its screaking throat,
To aid the revels of the noisy rout,
Who wanton dance, or push the cups about:
Then for their paramours the maddening brawl,
Shrill, fierce, and frantic, echoes round the hall.
No glimmering light to rage supplies a mark,
Save the red firebrand, hissing through the dark;
And oft the beams of morn, the peasants say,
The blood-stain'd turf, and new-form'd graves display.
Fell race, unworthy of the Scotian name!
Your brutal deeds your barbarous line proclaim;
With dreadful Galla's link'd in kindred bands,
The locust brood of Ethiopia's sands,
Whose frantic shouts the thunder blue defy,
And launch their arrows at the glowing sky.
In barbarous pomp, they glut the inhuman feast
With dismal viands man abhors to taste;
And grimly smile, when red the goblets shine,
When mantles red the shell—but not with wine.
The pipe and bladder opes its screaking throat,
To aid the revels of the noisy rout,
Who wanton dance, or push the cups about:
Then for their paramours the maddening brawl,
Shrill, fierce, and frantic, echoes round the hall.
383
Save the red firebrand, hissing through the dark;
And oft the beams of morn, the peasants say,
The blood-stain'd turf, and new-form'd graves display.
Fell race, unworthy of the Scotian name!
Your brutal deeds your barbarous line proclaim;
With dreadful Galla's link'd in kindred bands,
The locust brood of Ethiopia's sands,
Whose frantic shouts the thunder blue defy,
And launch their arrows at the glowing sky.
In barbarous pomp, they glut the inhuman feast
With dismal viands man abhors to taste;
And grimly smile, when red the goblets shine,
When mantles red the shell—but not with wine.
Ye sister-streams, whose mountain waters glide
To lose your names in Teviot's crystal tide,
Not long through greener fields ye wander slow,
While heavens of azure widen as ye grow!
For soon, where scenes of sweeter beauty smile
Around the mounds of Roxburgh's ruin'd pile,
No more the mistress of each lovely field,
Her name, her honours Teviot soon must yield.
To lose your names in Teviot's crystal tide,
Not long through greener fields ye wander slow,
While heavens of azure widen as ye grow!
For soon, where scenes of sweeter beauty smile
Around the mounds of Roxburgh's ruin'd pile,
No more the mistress of each lovely field,
Her name, her honours Teviot soon must yield.
Roxburgh! how fallen, since first in Gothic pride
Thy frowning battlements the war defied,
Call'd the bold chief to grace thy blazon'd halls,
And bade the rivers gird thy solid walls!
Fallen are thy towers, and, where the palace stood,
In gloomy grandeur waves yon hanging wood;
Crush'd are thy halls, save where the peasant sees
One moss-clad ruin rise between the trees;
The still-green trees, whose mournful branches wave
In solemn cadence o'er the hapless brave.
Proud castle! Fancy still beholds thee stand,
The curb, the guardian of this Border land,
As when the signal-flame, that blaz'd afar,
And bloody flag, proclaim'd impending war,
While in the lion's place the leopard frown'd,
And marshall'd armies hemm'd thy bulwarks round.
Thy frowning battlements the war defied,
384
And bade the rivers gird thy solid walls!
Fallen are thy towers, and, where the palace stood,
In gloomy grandeur waves yon hanging wood;
Crush'd are thy halls, save where the peasant sees
One moss-clad ruin rise between the trees;
The still-green trees, whose mournful branches wave
In solemn cadence o'er the hapless brave.
Proud castle! Fancy still beholds thee stand,
The curb, the guardian of this Border land,
As when the signal-flame, that blaz'd afar,
And bloody flag, proclaim'd impending war,
While in the lion's place the leopard frown'd,
And marshall'd armies hemm'd thy bulwarks round.
Serene in might, amid embattled files,
From Morven's hills, and the far Western Isles,
From barrier Tweed, and Teviot's Border tide,
See through the host the youthful monarch ride!
In streaming pomp, above each mailed line,
The chiefs behold his plumy helmet shine,
And, as he points the purple surge of war,
His faithful legions hail their guiding star.
From Morven's hills, and the far Western Isles,
From barrier Tweed, and Teviot's Border tide,
See through the host the youthful monarch ride!
In streaming pomp, above each mailed line,
The chiefs behold his plumy helmet shine,
And, as he points the purple surge of war,
His faithful legions hail their guiding star.
From Lothian's plains, a hardy band uprears
In serried ranks a glittering grove of spears:
The Border chivalry more fierce advance;
Before their steeds projects the bristling lance;
The panting steeds that, bridled in with pain,
Arch their proud crests, and ardent paw the plain:
With broad claymore and dirk the Island clan
Clang the resounding targe, and claim the van,
Flash their bright swords as stormy bugles blow,
Unconscious of the shaft and Saxon bow.
In serried ranks a glittering grove of spears:
385
Before their steeds projects the bristling lance;
The panting steeds that, bridled in with pain,
Arch their proud crests, and ardent paw the plain:
With broad claymore and dirk the Island clan
Clang the resounding targe, and claim the van,
Flash their bright swords as stormy bugles blow,
Unconscious of the shaft and Saxon bow.
Now sulphurous clouds involve the sickening morn,
And the hoarse bombal drowns the pealing horn;
Crash the disparted walls, the turrets rock,
And the red flame bursts through the smouldering smoke.
But, hark! with female shrieks the vallies ring!
The death-dirge sounds for Scotia's warrior-king:
Fallen in his youth, ere on the listed field
The tinge of blood had dyed his silver shield;
Fallen in his youth, ere from the banner'd plain
Return'd his faulchion, crimson'd with the slain.
His sword is sheath'd, his bow remains unstrung,
His shield unblazon'd, and his praise unsung:
The holly's glossy leaves alone shall tell,
How on these banks the martial monarch fell.
And the hoarse bombal drowns the pealing horn;
Crash the disparted walls, the turrets rock,
And the red flame bursts through the smouldering smoke.
But, hark! with female shrieks the vallies ring!
The death-dirge sounds for Scotia's warrior-king:
Fallen in his youth, ere on the listed field
The tinge of blood had dyed his silver shield;
Fallen in his youth, ere from the banner'd plain
Return'd his faulchion, crimson'd with the slain.
His sword is sheath'd, his bow remains unstrung,
His shield unblazon'd, and his praise unsung:
386
How on these banks the martial monarch fell.
Lo! as to grief the drooping squadrons yield,
And quit with tarnish'd arms the luckless field,
His gallant consort wipes her tears away,
Renews their courage, and restores the day.
“Behold your king!” the lofty heroine cried,
“He seeks his vengeance where his father died.
“Behold your king!”—Rekindling fury boils
In every breast;—the Saxon host recoils:—
Wide o'er the walls the billowy flames aspire,
And streams of blood hiss through the curling fire.
And quit with tarnish'd arms the luckless field,
His gallant consort wipes her tears away,
Renews their courage, and restores the day.
“Behold your king!” the lofty heroine cried,
“He seeks his vengeance where his father died.
“Behold your king!”—Rekindling fury boils
In every breast;—the Saxon host recoils:—
Wide o'er the walls the billowy flames aspire,
And streams of blood hiss through the curling fire.
Teviot, farewell! for now thy silver tide
Commix'd with Tweed's pellucid stream shall glide
But all thy green and pastoral beauties fail
To match the softness of thy parting vale.
Bosom'd in woods where mighty rivers run,
Kelso's fair vale expands before the sun:
Its rising downs in vernal beauty swell,
And fring'd with hazel winds each flowery dell:
Green spangled plains to dimpling lawns succeed,
And Tempe rises on the banks of Tweed.
Blue o'er the river Kelso's shadow lies,
And copse-clad isles amid the waters rise;
Where Tweed her silent way majestic holds,
Float the thin gales in more transparent folds.
New powers of vision on the eye descend,
As distant mountains from their bases bend,
Lean forward from their seats to court the view,
While melt their soften'd tints in vivid blue.
But fairer still, at midnight's shadowy reign,
When liquid silver floods the moonlight plain,
And lawns, and fields, and woods of varying hue
Drink the wan lustre, and the pearly dew;
While the still landscape, more than noontide bright,
Glistens with mellow tints of fairy light.
Commix'd with Tweed's pellucid stream shall glide
But all thy green and pastoral beauties fail
To match the softness of thy parting vale.
Bosom'd in woods where mighty rivers run,
Kelso's fair vale expands before the sun:
Its rising downs in vernal beauty swell,
And fring'd with hazel winds each flowery dell:
Green spangled plains to dimpling lawns succeed,
And Tempe rises on the banks of Tweed.
Blue o'er the river Kelso's shadow lies,
And copse-clad isles amid the waters rise;
387
Float the thin gales in more transparent folds.
New powers of vision on the eye descend,
As distant mountains from their bases bend,
Lean forward from their seats to court the view,
While melt their soften'd tints in vivid blue.
But fairer still, at midnight's shadowy reign,
When liquid silver floods the moonlight plain,
And lawns, and fields, and woods of varying hue
Drink the wan lustre, and the pearly dew;
While the still landscape, more than noontide bright,
Glistens with mellow tints of fairy light.
Yet, sure, these pastoral beauties ne'er can vie
With those, which fondly rise to Memory's eye,
When, absent long, my soul delights to dwell
On scenes in early youth she lov'd so well.
'Tis fabling Fancy, with her radiant hues,
That gilds the modest scenes which Memory views;
And softer, finer tints she loves to spread,
For which we search in vain the daisied mead,
In vain the grove, the riv'let's mossy cell—
'Tis the delusive charm of Fancy's spell.
With those, which fondly rise to Memory's eye,
When, absent long, my soul delights to dwell
On scenes in early youth she lov'd so well.
'Tis fabling Fancy, with her radiant hues,
That gilds the modest scenes which Memory views;
And softer, finer tints she loves to spread,
For which we search in vain the daisied mead,
In vain the grove, the riv'let's mossy cell—
'Tis the delusive charm of Fancy's spell.
| The Poetical Remains of the late Dr. John Leyden | |