The Poetical Remains of the late Dr. John Leyden with Memoirs of his Life, by the Rev. James Morton |
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| IV. | PART IV. |
 | The Poetical Remains of the late Dr. John Leyden |  |
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IV. PART IV.
Mervcilleuses histoires racontées autour du foyer, tendres
epanchemens du cœur, longues habitudes d'aimer si nécessaires à la vie;
vous avez rempli les journees de ceux qui n'ont point quitte leur pays
natal. Leurs tombeaux sont dans leur patrie, avec le soleil couchant,
les pleurs de leurs amis et les charmes de la religion.
Atala.
391
Once more, inconstant shadow! by my side
I see thee stalk with vast gigantic stride,
Pause when I stop, and where I careless bend
My steps, obsequiously their course attend:
So faithless friends, that leave the wretch to mourn,
Still with the sunshine of his days return.
Yet oft, since first I left these vallies green,
I, but for thee, companionless had been.
To thee I talk'd, nor felt myself alone,
While summer-suns and living moon-beams shone.
Oft, while an infant, playful in the sun,
I hop'd thy silent gambols to outrun,
And, as I view'd thee ever at my side,
To overleap thy hastening figure tried.
I see thee stalk with vast gigantic stride,
Pause when I stop, and where I careless bend
My steps, obsequiously their course attend:
So faithless friends, that leave the wretch to mourn,
Still with the sunshine of his days return.
Yet oft, since first I left these vallies green,
I, but for thee, companionless had been.
To thee I talk'd, nor felt myself alone,
While summer-suns and living moon-beams shone.
Oft, while an infant, playful in the sun,
I hop'd thy silent gambols to outrun,
And, as I view'd thee ever at my side,
To overleap thy hastening figure tried.
392
Oft, when with flaky snow the fields were white,
Beneath the moon I started at thy sight,
Eyed thy huge stature with suspicious mien,
And thought I had my evil genius seen.
But when I left my father's old abode,
And thou the sole companion of my road,
As sad I paus'd, and fondly look'd behind,
And almost deem'd each face I met unkind,
While kindling hopes to boding fears gave place,
Thou seem'dst the ancient spirit of my race.
In startled Fancy's ear I heard thee say,
“Ha! I will meet thee after many a day,
“When youth's impatient joys, too fierce to last,
“And fancy's wild illusions, all are past;
“Yes! I will come, when seenes of youth depart,
“To ask thee for thy innocence of heart,
“To ask thee, when thou bidst this light adieu,
“Ha! wilt thou blush thy ancestors to view?”
Beneath the moon I started at thy sight,
Eyed thy huge stature with suspicious mien,
And thought I had my evil genius seen.
But when I left my father's old abode,
And thou the sole companion of my road,
As sad I paus'd, and fondly look'd behind,
And almost deem'd each face I met unkind,
While kindling hopes to boding fears gave place,
Thou seem'dst the ancient spirit of my race.
In startled Fancy's ear I heard thee say,
“Ha! I will meet thee after many a day,
“When youth's impatient joys, too fierce to last,
“And fancy's wild illusions, all are past;
“Yes! I will come, when seenes of youth depart,
“To ask thee for thy innocence of heart,
“To ask thee, when thou bidst this light adieu,
“Ha! wilt thou blush thy ancestors to view?”
Now, as the sun descends with westering beam,
I see thee lean across clear Teviot's stream:
Through thy dim figure, fring'd with wavy gold,
Their gliding course the restless waters hold;
But, when a thousand waves have roll'd away,
The incumbent shadow suffers no decay.
Thus, wide through mortal life delusion reigns;
The substance changes, but the form remains:
Or, if the substance still remains the same,
We see another form, and hear another name.
I see thee lean across clear Teviot's stream:
Through thy dim figure, fring'd with wavy gold,
Their gliding course the restless waters hold;
But, when a thousand waves have roll'd away,
The incumbent shadow suffers no decay.
393
The substance changes, but the form remains:
Or, if the substance still remains the same,
We see another form, and hear another name.
So, when I left sweet Teviot's woodland green,
And hills, the only hills mine eyes had seen,
With what delight I hop'd to mark anew
Each well-known object rising on my view!
Ah fruitless hope! when youth's warm light is o'er,
Can ought to come its glowing hues restore?
As lovers, absent long, with anguish trace
The marks of time on that familiar face,
Whose bright and ripening bloom could once impart
Such melting fondness to the youthful heart,
I sadly stray by Teviot's pastoral shore,
And every change with fond regret deplore.
No more the black-cock struts along the heath,
Where berries cluster blue the leaves beneath,
Spreads the jet wing, or flaunts the dark-green train,
In labour'd flight the tufted moors to gain,
But, far remote, on flagging plume he flies,
Or shuts in death his ruddy sparkling eyes.
No more the screaming bittern, bellowing harsh,
To its dark bottom shakes the shuddering marsh;
Proud of his shining breast and emerald crown,
The wild-drake leaves his bed of eider-down,
Stretches his helming neck before the gales,
And sails on winnowing wing for other vales.
And hills, the only hills mine eyes had seen,
With what delight I hop'd to mark anew
Each well-known object rising on my view!
Ah fruitless hope! when youth's warm light is o'er,
Can ought to come its glowing hues restore?
As lovers, absent long, with anguish trace
The marks of time on that familiar face,
Whose bright and ripening bloom could once impart
Such melting fondness to the youthful heart,
I sadly stray by Teviot's pastoral shore,
And every change with fond regret deplore.
No more the black-cock struts along the heath,
Where berries cluster blue the leaves beneath,
394
In labour'd flight the tufted moors to gain,
But, far remote, on flagging plume he flies,
Or shuts in death his ruddy sparkling eyes.
No more the screaming bittern, bellowing harsh,
To its dark bottom shakes the shuddering marsh;
Proud of his shining breast and emerald crown,
The wild-drake leaves his bed of eider-down,
Stretches his helming neck before the gales,
And sails on winnowing wing for other vales.
Where the long heaths in billowy roughness frown,
The pine, the heron's ancient home, goes down,
Though wintry storms have toss'd its spiry head,
Since first o'er Scotia's realm the forests spread.
The pine, the heron's ancient home, goes down,
Though wintry storms have toss'd its spiry head,
Since first o'er Scotia's realm the forests spread.
The mountain-ash, whose crimson berries shine;
The flaxen birch, that yields the palmy wine;
The guine, whose luscious sable cherries spring,
To lure the blackbird mid her boughs to sing;
The shining beech, that holier reverence claims,
Along whose bark our fathers carv'd their names;
Yield to the ponderous axe, whose frequent stroke
Re-echoes loudly from the ezlar rock,
While frighted stock-doves listen, silent long,
Then from the hawthorn crowd their gurgling song.
The flaxen birch, that yields the palmy wine;
The guine, whose luscious sable cherries spring,
To lure the blackbird mid her boughs to sing;
The shining beech, that holier reverence claims,
Along whose bark our fathers carv'd their names;
Yield to the ponderous axe, whose frequent stroke
Re-echoes loudly from the ezlar rock,
While frighted stock-doves listen, silent long,
Then from the hawthorn crowd their gurgling song.
395
Green downs ascending drink the moorish rills,
And yellow corn-fields crown the heathless hills,
Where to the breeze the shrill brown linnet sings,
And prunes with frequent bill his russet wings.
High and more high the shepherds drive their flocks,
And climb with timid step the hoary rocks;
From cliff to cliff the ruffling breezes sigh,
Where idly on the sun-beat steeps they lie,
And wonder, that the vale no more displays
The pastoral scenes that pleas'd their early days.
And yellow corn-fields crown the heathless hills,
Where to the breeze the shrill brown linnet sings,
And prunes with frequent bill his russet wings.
High and more high the shepherds drive their flocks,
And climb with timid step the hoary rocks;
From cliff to cliff the ruffling breezes sigh,
Where idly on the sun-beat steeps they lie,
And wonder, that the vale no more displays
The pastoral scenes that pleas'd their early days.
No more the cottage roof, fern-thatch'd and gray,
Invites the weary traveller from the way,
To rest, and taste the peasant's simple cheer,
Repaid by news and tales he lov'd to hear;
The clay-built wall, with woodbine twisted o'er,
The house-leek, clustering green above the door,
While through the sheltering elms, that round them grew,
The winding smoke arose in columns blue;—
These all have fled; and from their hamlets brown
The swains have gone, to sicken in the town,
To pine in crowded streets, or ply the loom;
For splendid halls deny the cottage room.
Yet on the neighbouring heights they oft convene,
With fond regret to view each former scene,
The level meads, where infants wont to play
Around their mothers, as they pil'd the hay,
The hawthorn hedge-row, and the hanging wood,
Beneath whose boughs their humble cottage stood.
Invites the weary traveller from the way,
To rest, and taste the peasant's simple cheer,
Repaid by news and tales he lov'd to hear;
The clay-built wall, with woodbine twisted o'er,
The house-leek, clustering green above the door,
While through the sheltering elms, that round them grew,
The winding smoke arose in columns blue;—
These all have fled; and from their hamlets brown
The swains have gone, to sicken in the town,
To pine in crowded streets, or ply the loom;
For splendid halls deny the cottage room.
Yet on the neighbouring heights they oft convene,
With fond regret to view each former scene,
396
Around their mothers, as they pil'd the hay,
The hawthorn hedge-row, and the hanging wood,
Beneath whose boughs their humble cottage stood.
Gone are the peasants from the humble shed,
And with them too the humble virtues fled.
No more the farmer, on these fertile plains,
Is held the father of the meaner swains,
Partakes as he directs the reaper's toil,
Or with his shining share divides the soil,
Or in his hall, when winter nights are long,
Joins in the burthen of the damsel's song,
Repeats the tales of old heroic times,
While Bruce and Wallace consecrate the rhymes.
These all are fled—and, in the farmer's place,
Of prouder look, advance a dubious race,
That ape the pride of rank with awkward state,
The vice, but not the polish of the great,
Flaunt, like the poppy mid the ripening grain,
A nauseous weed, that poisons all the plain.
The peasant, once a friend, a friend no more,
Cringes, a slave, before the master's door:
Or else, too proud where once he lov'd to fawn,
For distant climes deserts his native lawn,
And fondly hopes beyond the western main
To find the virtues here belov'd in vain.
And with them too the humble virtues fled.
No more the farmer, on these fertile plains,
Is held the father of the meaner swains,
Partakes as he directs the reaper's toil,
Or with his shining share divides the soil,
Or in his hall, when winter nights are long,
Joins in the burthen of the damsel's song,
Repeats the tales of old heroic times,
While Bruce and Wallace consecrate the rhymes.
These all are fled—and, in the farmer's place,
Of prouder look, advance a dubious race,
That ape the pride of rank with awkward state,
The vice, but not the polish of the great,
Flaunt, like the poppy mid the ripening grain,
A nauseous weed, that poisons all the plain.
The peasant, once a friend, a friend no more,
Cringes, a slave, before the master's door:
Or else, too proud where once he lov'd to fawn,
For distant climes deserts his native lawn,
397
To find the virtues here belov'd in vain.
So the red Indian, by Ontario's side,
Nurs'd hardy on the brindled panther's hide,
Who, like the bear, delights his woods to roam,
And on the maple finds at eve a home,
As fades his swarthy race, with anguish sees
The white man's cottage rise beneath his trees,
While o'er his vast and undivided lawn
The hedge-row and the bounding trench are drawn,
From their dark beds his aged forests torn,
While round him close long fields of reed-like corn.
He leaves the shelter of his native wood,
He leaves the murmur of Ohio's flood,
And forward rushing in indignant grief,
Where never foot has trod the falling leaf,
He bends his course, where twilight reigns sublime
O'er forests silent since the birth of time;
Where roll on spiral folds, immense and dun,
The ancient snakes, the favourites of the sun,
Or in the lonely vales serene repose;
While the clear carbuncle its lustre throws,
From each broad brow, star of a baleful sky,
Which luckless mortals only view to die!
Lords of the wilderness since time began,
They scorn to yield their ancient sway to man.
Nurs'd hardy on the brindled panther's hide,
Who, like the bear, delights his woods to roam,
And on the maple finds at eve a home,
As fades his swarthy race, with anguish sees
The white man's cottage rise beneath his trees,
While o'er his vast and undivided lawn
The hedge-row and the bounding trench are drawn,
From their dark beds his aged forests torn,
While round him close long fields of reed-like corn.
He leaves the shelter of his native wood,
He leaves the murmur of Ohio's flood,
398
Where never foot has trod the falling leaf,
He bends his course, where twilight reigns sublime
O'er forests silent since the birth of time;
Where roll on spiral folds, immense and dun,
The ancient snakes, the favourites of the sun,
Or in the lonely vales serene repose;
While the clear carbuncle its lustre throws,
399
Which luckless mortals only view to die!
Lords of the wilderness since time began,
They scorn to yield their ancient sway to man.
Long may the Creek, the Cherokee, retain
The desert woodlands of his old domain,
Ere Teviot's sons, far from their homes beguil'd,
Expel their wattled wigwams from the wild!
For ah! not yet the social virtues fly,
That wont to blossom in our northern sky,
And in the peasant's free-born soul produce
The patriot glow of Wallace and of Bruce;
(Like that brave band, great Abercromby led
To fame or death, by Nile's broad swampy bed,
To whom the unconquer'd Gallic legions yield
The trophied spoils of many a stormy field:)
Not yet our swains, their former virtues lost,
In dismal exile roam from coast to coast.
But soon, too soon, if lordly wealth prevail,
The healthy cottage shall desert the dale,
The active peasants trust their hardy prime
To other skies, and seek a kinder clime.
From Teviot's banks I see them wind their way:
“Tweedside,” in sad farewell, I hear them play:—
The plaintive song, that wont their toils to cheer,
Sounds to them doubly sad, but doubly dear;—
As, slowly parting from the osier'd shore,
They leave these waters to return no more.
But, ah! where'er their wandering steps sojourn,
To these lov'd shores their pensive thoughts shall turn,
There picture scenes of innocent repose,
When garrulous, at waning age's close,
They to their children shall securely tell
The hazards which in foreign lands befell.
The desert woodlands of his old domain,
Ere Teviot's sons, far from their homes beguil'd,
Expel their wattled wigwams from the wild!
For ah! not yet the social virtues fly,
That wont to blossom in our northern sky,
And in the peasant's free-born soul produce
The patriot glow of Wallace and of Bruce;
(Like that brave band, great Abercromby led
To fame or death, by Nile's broad swampy bed,
To whom the unconquer'd Gallic legions yield
The trophied spoils of many a stormy field:)
Not yet our swains, their former virtues lost,
In dismal exile roam from coast to coast.
But soon, too soon, if lordly wealth prevail,
The healthy cottage shall desert the dale,
The active peasants trust their hardy prime
To other skies, and seek a kinder clime.
From Teviot's banks I see them wind their way:
“Tweedside,” in sad farewell, I hear them play:—
400
Sounds to them doubly sad, but doubly dear;—
As, slowly parting from the osier'd shore,
They leave these waters to return no more.
But, ah! where'er their wandering steps sojourn,
To these lov'd shores their pensive thoughts shall turn,
There picture scenes of innocent repose,
When garrulous, at waning age's close,
They to their children shall securely tell
The hazards which in foreign lands befell.
Teviot! while o'er thy sons I pour the tear,
Why swell thy murmurs sudden on my ear?
Still shall thy restless waters hold their way,
Nor fear the fate that bids our race decay!
Still shall thy waves their mazy course pursue,
Till every scene be chang'd that meets my view:
And many a race has trac'd its narrow span,
Since first thy waters down these vallies ran!
Ye distant ages, that have past away,
Since dawn'd the twilight of creation's day!
Again to Fancy's eye your course unroll,
And let your visions soothe my pensive soul!
Why swell thy murmurs sudden on my ear?
Still shall thy restless waters hold their way,
Nor fear the fate that bids our race decay!
Still shall thy waves their mazy course pursue,
Till every scene be chang'd that meets my view:
And many a race has trac'd its narrow span,
Since first thy waters down these vallies ran!
Ye distant ages, that have past away,
Since dawn'd the twilight of creation's day!
401
And let your visions soothe my pensive soul!
And lo! emerging from the mist of years,
In shadowy pomp a woodland scene appears,
Woods of dark oak, that once o'er Teviot hung,
Ere on their swampy beds her mosses sprung.
On these green banks the ravening wolf-dogs prowl,
And fitful to the hoarse night-thunder howl,
Or, hunger-gnawn, by maddening fury bold,
Besiege the huts, and scale the wattled fold.
The savage chief, with soul devoid of fear,
Hies to the chace, and grasps his pliant spear,
Or, while his nervous arm its vigour tries,
The knotted thorn a massy club supplies.
He calls his hounds; his moony shield afar
With clanging boss convokes the sylvan war;
The tainted steps his piercing eyes pursue
To some dark lair which sapless bones bestrew:
His foamy chaps the haggard monster rears,
Champs his gaunt jaws which clotted blood besmears,
Growls surly, rolls his eyes that sparkle fire,
While hounds and hunters from his fangs retire;
Till, writhing on the tough transfixing lance,
With boisterous shouts the shrinking rout advance;
His shaggy fur the chieftain bears away,
And wears the spoils on every festive day.
In shadowy pomp a woodland scene appears,
Woods of dark oak, that once o'er Teviot hung,
Ere on their swampy beds her mosses sprung.
On these green banks the ravening wolf-dogs prowl,
And fitful to the hoarse night-thunder howl,
Or, hunger-gnawn, by maddening fury bold,
Besiege the huts, and scale the wattled fold.
The savage chief, with soul devoid of fear,
Hies to the chace, and grasps his pliant spear,
Or, while his nervous arm its vigour tries,
The knotted thorn a massy club supplies.
He calls his hounds; his moony shield afar
With clanging boss convokes the sylvan war;
The tainted steps his piercing eyes pursue
To some dark lair which sapless bones bestrew:
His foamy chaps the haggard monster rears,
Champs his gaunt jaws which clotted blood besmears,
Growls surly, rolls his eyes that sparkle fire,
While hounds and hunters from his fangs retire;
Till, writhing on the tough transfixing lance,
With boisterous shouts the shrinking rout advance;
402
And wears the spoils on every festive day.
Not his the puny chace, that from her lair
Urges in safe pursuit the timorous hare,
Detects her mazes as she circling wheels,
And venturous treads on her pursuers' heels;
Through fields of grain the laggard harriers guides,
Or, plunging through the brake, impetuous rides,
Whoops the shrill view-halloo, to see her scud
The plain, and drinks the tremulous scream of blood.
Urges in safe pursuit the timorous hare,
Detects her mazes as she circling wheels,
And venturous treads on her pursuers' heels;
Through fields of grain the laggard harriers guides,
Or, plunging through the brake, impetuous rides,
Whoops the shrill view-halloo, to see her scud
The plain, and drinks the tremulous scream of blood.
Hark! the dark forest rings with shrill alarms:
Another foe invites the chieftains' arms.
Where Teviot's damsels late in long array
Led the light dance beneath the moonlight spray,
Lords of the earth, the Roman legions wheel
Their glittering files, and stamp with gory heel,
Bathe the keen javelin's edge in purple dew;
While Death smiles dimly o'er the faulchion blue.
Wake the hoarse trumpet, swell the song of war,
And yoke the steed to the careering car,
With azure streaks the warrior's visage stain,
And let the arrowy clouds obscure the plain!
The bards, as o'er their sky-blue vestures flow
Their long redundant locks of reverend snow,
Invoke their ancestors of matchless might,
To view their offspring in the toil of fight.
Another foe invites the chieftains' arms.
Where Teviot's damsels late in long array
Led the light dance beneath the moonlight spray,
Lords of the earth, the Roman legions wheel
Their glittering files, and stamp with gory heel,
Bathe the keen javelin's edge in purple dew;
While Death smiles dimly o'er the faulchion blue.
Wake the hoarse trumpet, swell the song of war,
And yoke the steed to the careering car,
With azure streaks the warrior's visage stain,
And let the arrowy clouds obscure the plain!
The bards, as o'er their sky-blue vestures flow
Their long redundant locks of reverend snow,
403
To view their offspring in the toil of fight.
“Let the wide field of slain be purpled o'er,
“One red capacious drinking-cup of gore!
“Blest are the brave that for their country die!
“On viewless steeds they climb the waste of sky;
“Embrued in blood on eagle's wings they soar,
“Drink as they rise the battle's mingled roar:
“Their deeds the bards on sculptur'd rocks shall grave,
“Whose marble page shall northern tempests brave.
“E'en Time's slow wasting foot shall ne'er erase
“The awful chronicle of elder days:
“Then drink the pure metheglin of the bee,
“The heath's brown juice, and live or perish free!”
“One red capacious drinking-cup of gore!
“Blest are the brave that for their country die!
“On viewless steeds they climb the waste of sky;
“Embrued in blood on eagle's wings they soar,
“Drink as they rise the battle's mingled roar:
“Their deeds the bards on sculptur'd rocks shall grave,
“Whose marble page shall northern tempests brave.
“E'en Time's slow wasting foot shall ne'er erase
“The awful chronicle of elder days:
“Then drink the pure metheglin of the bee,
“The heath's brown juice, and live or perish free!”
In vain!—for, wedg'd beneath the arch of shields,
Where'er the legions move, the combat yields;
Break the dark files, the thronging ranks give way,
And o'er the field the vacant chariots stray.
Woe to the tribes who shun the faulchion's stroke,
And bend their necks beneath the captive's yoke!
The rattling folds of chains, that round them fall,
They madly grind against the dungeon wall.
Die! cowards, die! nor wait your servile doom,
Dragg'd in base triumph through the streets of Rome!
The night descends: the sounding woods are still:
No more the watchfire blazes from the hill:—
The females now their dusky locks unbind,
To float dishevell'd in the midnight wind:
Inspir'd with black despair they grasp the steel,
Nor fear to act the rage their bosoms feel:
Then maids and matrons dare a fearful deed,
And recreant lovers, sons, and husbands, bleed:
They scan each long-lov'd face with ghastly smile,
And light with bloody hands the funeral pile,
Then, fierce retreat to woods and wilds afar,
To nurse a race that never shrunk from war.
Where'er the legions move, the combat yields;
Break the dark files, the thronging ranks give way,
And o'er the field the vacant chariots stray.
Woe to the tribes who shun the faulchion's stroke,
And bend their necks beneath the captive's yoke!
The rattling folds of chains, that round them fall,
They madly grind against the dungeon wall.
Die! cowards, die! nor wait your servile doom,
Dragg'd in base triumph through the streets of Rome!
404
No more the watchfire blazes from the hill:—
The females now their dusky locks unbind,
To float dishevell'd in the midnight wind:
Inspir'd with black despair they grasp the steel,
Nor fear to act the rage their bosoms feel:
Then maids and matrons dare a fearful deed,
And recreant lovers, sons, and husbands, bleed:
They scan each long-lov'd face with ghastly smile,
And light with bloody hands the funeral pile,
Then, fierce retreat to woods and wilds afar,
To nurse a race that never shrunk from war.
Long ages, next, in sullen gloom go by,
And desert still these barrier-regions lie;
While oft the Saxon raven, pois'd for flight,
Receding owns the British dragon's might:
Till, rising from the mix'd and martial breed,
The nations see an iron race succeed.
Fierce as the wolf, they rush'd to seize their prey;
The day was all their night, the night their day;
Or, if the night was dark, along the air
The blazing village shed a sanguine glare.
Theirs was the skill with venturous pace to lead
Along the sedgy marsh the floundering steed,
To fens and misty heaths conduct their prey,
And lure the bloodhound from his scented way.
The chilly radiance of the harvest-moon
To them was fairer than the sun at noon;
For blood pursuing, or for blood pursued,
The palac'd courtier's life with scorn they view'd,
Pent, like the snail, within the circling shell;
While hunters lov'd beneath the oak to dwell,
Rous'd the fleet roe, and twang'd their bows of yew,
While staghounds yell'd, and merry bugles blew.
And desert still these barrier-regions lie;
While oft the Saxon raven, pois'd for flight,
Receding owns the British dragon's might:
405
The nations see an iron race succeed.
Fierce as the wolf, they rush'd to seize their prey;
The day was all their night, the night their day;
Or, if the night was dark, along the air
The blazing village shed a sanguine glare.
Theirs was the skill with venturous pace to lead
Along the sedgy marsh the floundering steed,
To fens and misty heaths conduct their prey,
And lure the bloodhound from his scented way.
The chilly radiance of the harvest-moon
To them was fairer than the sun at noon;
For blood pursuing, or for blood pursued,
The palac'd courtier's life with scorn they view'd,
Pent, like the snail, within the circling shell;
While hunters lov'd beneath the oak to dwell,
Rous'd the fleet roe, and twang'd their bows of yew,
While staghounds yell'd, and merry bugles blew.
Not theirs the maiden's song of war's alarms,
But the loud clarion, and the clang of arms,
The trumpet's voice, when warring hosts begin
To swell impatient battle's stormy din,
The groans of wounded on the blood-red plain,
And victor-shouts exulting o'er the slain.
No wailing shriek, no useless female tear,
Was ever shed around their battle-bier;
But heaps of corses on the slippery ground
Were pil'd around them, for their funeral mound.
But the loud clarion, and the clang of arms,
406
To swell impatient battle's stormy din,
The groans of wounded on the blood-red plain,
And victor-shouts exulting o'er the slain.
No wailing shriek, no useless female tear,
Was ever shed around their battle-bier;
But heaps of corses on the slippery ground
Were pil'd around them, for their funeral mound.
So rose the stubborn race, unknown to bow;
And Teviot's sons were, once, like Erin's now:—
Erin, whose waves a favour'd region screen!
Green are her vallies, and her mountains green;
No mildews hoar the soft sea-breezes bring,
Nor breath envenom'd blasts the flowers of spring,
But rising gently o'er the wave she smiles;
And travellers hail the emerald queen of isles.
And Teviot's sons were, once, like Erin's now:—
407
Green are her vallies, and her mountains green;
No mildews hoar the soft sea-breezes bring,
Nor breath envenom'd blasts the flowers of spring,
But rising gently o'er the wave she smiles;
And travellers hail the emerald queen of isles.
408
Tall and robust, on Nature's ancient plan,
Her mother-hand here frames her favourite man:
His form, which Grecian artists might admire,
She bids awake and glow with native fire;
For, not to outward form alone confin'd,
Her gifts impartial settle on his mind.
Hence springs the lightning of the speaking eye,
The quick suggestion, and the keen reply,
The powerful spell, that listening senates binds,
The sparkling wit of fine elastic minds,
The milder charms, which feeling hearts engage,
That glow unrivall'd in her Goldsmith's page.
Her mother-hand here frames her favourite man:
His form, which Grecian artists might admire,
She bids awake and glow with native fire;
For, not to outward form alone confin'd,
Her gifts impartial settle on his mind.
Hence springs the lightning of the speaking eye,
The quick suggestion, and the keen reply,
The powerful spell, that listening senates binds,
The sparkling wit of fine elastic minds,
The milder charms, which feeling hearts engage,
That glow unrivall'd in her Goldsmith's page.
But kindred vices, to these powers allied,
With ranker growth their shaded lustre hide.
As crops, from rank luxuriance of the soil,
In richest fields defraud the farmer's toil,
And when, from every grain the sower flings
In earth's prolific womb, a thousand springs,
The swelling spikes in matted clusters grow,
And greener stalks shoot constant from below,
Debarr'd the fostering sun; till, crude and green,
The milky ears mid spikes matur'd are seen:
Thus, rankly shooting in the mental plain,
The ripening powers no just proportion gain;
The buoyant wit, the rapid glance of mind,
By taste, by genuine science unrefin'd,
For solid views the ill-pois'd soul unfit,
And bulls and blunders substitute for wit.
As, with swift touch, the Indian painter draws
His ready pencil o'er the trembling gauze,
While, as it glides, the forms in mimic strife
Seem to contend which first shall start to life;
But careless haste presents each shapeless limb,
Awkwardly clumsy, or absurdly slim:
So rise the hotbed embryos of the brain,
Formless and mix'd, a crude abortive train,
Vigorous of growth, with no proportion grac'd,
The seeds of genius immatur'd by taste.
With ranker growth their shaded lustre hide.
As crops, from rank luxuriance of the soil,
In richest fields defraud the farmer's toil,
And when, from every grain the sower flings
In earth's prolific womb, a thousand springs,
The swelling spikes in matted clusters grow,
And greener stalks shoot constant from below,
Debarr'd the fostering sun; till, crude and green,
The milky ears mid spikes matur'd are seen:
Thus, rankly shooting in the mental plain,
The ripening powers no just proportion gain;
409
By taste, by genuine science unrefin'd,
For solid views the ill-pois'd soul unfit,
And bulls and blunders substitute for wit.
As, with swift touch, the Indian painter draws
His ready pencil o'er the trembling gauze,
While, as it glides, the forms in mimic strife
Seem to contend which first shall start to life;
But careless haste presents each shapeless limb,
Awkwardly clumsy, or absurdly slim:
So rise the hotbed embryos of the brain,
Formless and mix'd, a crude abortive train,
Vigorous of growth, with no proportion grac'd,
The seeds of genius immatur'd by taste.
Such, sea-girt Erin, are thy sons confest!
And such, ere order lawless feud redrest,
Were Teviot's sons; who now, devoid of fear,
Bind to the rush by night the theftless steer.
Fled is the banner'd war, and hush'd the drum;
The shrill-ton'd trumpet's angry voice is dumb;
Invidious rust corrodes the bloody steel;
Dark and dismantled lies each ancient peel:
Afar, at twilight gray, the peasants shun
The dome accurst where deeds of blood were done.
No more the staghounds, and the huntsman's cheer,
From their brown coverts rouse the startled deer:
Their native turbulence resign'd, the swains
Feed their gay flocks along these heaths and plains;
While, as the fiercer passions feel decay,
Religion's milder mood assumes its sway.
And such, ere order lawless feud redrest,
Were Teviot's sons; who now, devoid of fear,
Bind to the rush by night the theftless steer.
Fled is the banner'd war, and hush'd the drum;
The shrill-ton'd trumpet's angry voice is dumb;
Invidious rust corrodes the bloody steel;
Dark and dismantled lies each ancient peel:
Afar, at twilight gray, the peasants shun
The dome accurst where deeds of blood were done.
410
From their brown coverts rouse the startled deer:
Their native turbulence resign'd, the swains
Feed their gay flocks along these heaths and plains;
While, as the fiercer passions feel decay,
Religion's milder mood assumes its sway.
And lo, the peasant lifts his glistening eye,
When the pale stars are sprinkled o'er the sky!
In those fair orbs, with friends departed long,
Again he hopes to hymn the choral song;
While on his glowing cheek no more remains
The trace of former woes, of former pains.
As o'er his soul the vision rises bright,
His features sparkle with celestial light;
To his tranc'd eye, the mighty concave bends
Its azure arch to earth, and heaven descends.
When the pale stars are sprinkled o'er the sky!
In those fair orbs, with friends departed long,
Again he hopes to hymn the choral song;
While on his glowing cheek no more remains
The trace of former woes, of former pains.
As o'er his soul the vision rises bright,
His features sparkle with celestial light;
To his tranc'd eye, the mighty concave bends
Its azure arch to earth, and heaven descends.
Cold are the selfish hearts, that would control
The simple peasant's grateful glow of soul,
When, raising with his hands his heart on high,
The sacred tear-drops trembling in his eye,
With firm untainted zeal, he swears to hold
The reverend faith his fathers held of old.—
Hold firm thy faith! for, on the sacred day,
No sabbath-bells invite thy steps to pray;
But, as the peasants seek the churchyard's ground,
Afar they hear the swelling bugle's sound,
With shouts and trampling steeds approaching near,
And oaths and curses murmuring in the rear.
Quick they disperse, to moors and woodlands fly,
And fens, that hid in misty vapours lie:
But, though the pitying sun withdraws his light,
The lapwing's clamorous whoop attends their flight,
Pursues their steps, where'er the wanderers go,
Till the shrill scream betrays them to the foe.
The simple peasant's grateful glow of soul,
When, raising with his hands his heart on high,
The sacred tear-drops trembling in his eye,
With firm untainted zeal, he swears to hold
The reverend faith his fathers held of old.—
Hold firm thy faith! for, on the sacred day,
No sabbath-bells invite thy steps to pray;
411
Afar they hear the swelling bugle's sound,
With shouts and trampling steeds approaching near,
And oaths and curses murmuring in the rear.
Quick they disperse, to moors and woodlands fly,
And fens, that hid in misty vapours lie:
But, though the pitying sun withdraws his light,
The lapwing's clamorous whoop attends their flight,
Pursues their steps, where'er the wanderers go,
Till the shrill scream betrays them to the foe.
Poor bird! where'er the roaming swain intrudes
On thy bleak heaths and desart solitudes,
He curses still thy scream, thy clamorous tongue,
And crushes with his foot thy moulting young:
In stern vindictive mood, he still recalls
The days, when, by the mountain water-falls,
Beside the streams with ancient willows gray,
Or narrow dells, where drifted snow-wreaths lay,
And rocks that shone with fretted ice-work hung,
The prayer was heard, and sabbath-psalms were sung.
On thy bleak heaths and desart solitudes,
He curses still thy scream, thy clamorous tongue,
And crushes with his foot thy moulting young:
In stern vindictive mood, he still recalls
The days, when, by the mountain water-falls,
Beside the streams with ancient willows gray,
Or narrow dells, where drifted snow-wreaths lay,
And rocks that shone with fretted ice-work hung,
The prayer was heard, and sabbath-psalms were sung.
Of those dire days the child, untaught to spell,
Still learns the tale he hears his father tell;
How from his sheltering hut the peasant fled,
And in the marshes dug his cold damp bed;
His rimy locks by blasts of winter tost,
And stiffened garments rattling in the frost.
Still learns the tale he hears his father tell;
How from his sheltering hut the peasant fled,
And in the marshes dug his cold damp bed;
412
And stiffened garments rattling in the frost.
In vain the feeble mother strove to warm
The shivering child, close cradled on her arm;
The cold, that crept along each freezing vein,
Congeal'd the milk the infant sought to drain.
The shivering child, close cradled on her arm;
The cold, that crept along each freezing vein,
Congeal'd the milk the infant sought to drain.
Still, as the fearful tale of blood goes round,
From lips comprest is heard a muttering sound;
Flush the warm cheeks, the eyes are bright with dew,
And curses fall on the unholy crew;
Spreads the enthusiast glow:—With solemn pause,
An ancient sword the aged peasant draws,
Displays its rusty edge, and weeps to tell,
How he that bore it for religion fell,
And bids his offspring consecrate the day,
To dress the turf that wraps the martyr's clay.
From lips comprest is heard a muttering sound;
Flush the warm cheeks, the eyes are bright with dew,
And curses fall on the unholy crew;
Spreads the enthusiast glow:—With solemn pause,
An ancient sword the aged peasant draws,
Displays its rusty edge, and weeps to tell,
How he that bore it for religion fell,
And bids his offspring consecrate the day,
To dress the turf that wraps the martyr's clay.
So, when by Erie's lake the Indians red
Display the dismal banquet of the dead,
While streams descend in foam, and tempests rave,
They call their fathers from the funeral cave,
In that green mount, where virgins go, to weep
Around the lonely tree of tears and sleep.
Silent they troop, a melancholy throng,
And bring the ancient fleshless shapes along,
The painted tomahawks, embrown'd with rust,
And belts of wampum, from the sacred dust,
The bow unbent, the tall unfurbish'd spear,
Mysterious symbols! from the grave they rear.
With solemn dance and song the feast they place,
To greet the mighty fathers of their race:
Their robes of fur the warrior youths expand,
And silent sit, the dead on either hand;
Eye with fix'd gaze the ghastly forms, that own
No earthly name, and live in worlds unknown;
In each mysterious emblem round them trace
The feuds and friendships of their ancient race;
With awful reverence from the dead imbibe
The rites, the customs, sacred to the tribe,
The spectre-forms in gloomy silence scan,
And swear to finish what their sires began.
Display the dismal banquet of the dead,
413
They call their fathers from the funeral cave,
In that green mount, where virgins go, to weep
Around the lonely tree of tears and sleep.
Silent they troop, a melancholy throng,
And bring the ancient fleshless shapes along,
The painted tomahawks, embrown'd with rust,
And belts of wampum, from the sacred dust,
The bow unbent, the tall unfurbish'd spear,
Mysterious symbols! from the grave they rear.
With solemn dance and song the feast they place,
To greet the mighty fathers of their race:
Their robes of fur the warrior youths expand,
And silent sit, the dead on either hand;
414
No earthly name, and live in worlds unknown;
In each mysterious emblem round them trace
The feuds and friendships of their ancient race;
With awful reverence from the dead imbibe
The rites, the customs, sacred to the tribe,
The spectre-forms in gloomy silence scan,
And swear to finish what their sires began.
By fancy rapt, where tombs are crusted gray,
I seem by moon-illumin'd graves to stray,
Where, mid the flat and nettle-skirted stones,
My steps remove the yellow crumbling bones.
The silver moon, at midnight cold and still,
Looks sad and silent, o'er yon western hill;
While large and pale the ghostly structures grow,
Rear'd on the confines of the world below.
Is that dull sound the hum of Teviot's stream?
Is that blue light the moon's, or tomb-fire's gleam,
By which a mouldering pile is faintly seen,
The old deserted church of Hazel-dean,
Where slept my fathers in their natal clay,
Till Teviot's waters roll'd their bones away?
I seem by moon-illumin'd graves to stray,
Where, mid the flat and nettle-skirted stones,
My steps remove the yellow crumbling bones.
The silver moon, at midnight cold and still,
Looks sad and silent, o'er yon western hill;
While large and pale the ghostly structures grow,
Rear'd on the confines of the world below.
Is that dull sound the hum of Teviot's stream?
Is that blue light the moon's, or tomb-fire's gleam,
By which a mouldering pile is faintly seen,
The old deserted church of Hazel-dean,
Where slept my fathers in their natal clay,
Till Teviot's waters roll'd their bones away?
415
Their feeble voices from the stream they raise—
“Rash youth! unmindful of thy early days,
“Why didst thou quit the peasant's simple lot?
“Why didst thou leave the peasant's turf-built cot,
“The ancient graves, where all thy fathers lie,
“And Teviot's stream, that long has murmur'd by?
“And we—when death so long has clos'd our eyes,—
“How wilt thou bid us from the dust arise,
“And bear our mouldering bones across the main
“From vales, that knew our lives devoid of stain?
“Rash youth, beware! thy home-bred virtues save,
“And sweetly sleep in thy paternal grave!”
“Rash youth! unmindful of thy early days,
“Why didst thou quit the peasant's simple lot?
“Why didst thou leave the peasant's turf-built cot,
“The ancient graves, where all thy fathers lie,
“And Teviot's stream, that long has murmur'd by?
“And we—when death so long has clos'd our eyes,—
“How wilt thou bid us from the dust arise,
“And bear our mouldering bones across the main
“From vales, that knew our lives devoid of stain?
“Rash youth, beware! thy home-bred virtues save,
“And sweetly sleep in thy paternal grave!”
| The Poetical Remains of the late Dr. John Leyden | |