Occasional Poems | ||
THE FATE OF JULIA
AN ELEGIAC POEM, IN TWO CANTOS, Sacred to the Memory of L---dy J---n D---g---s.
DEDICATION.
- To her Grace Margaret Duchess of Douglas,
- To his Grace Charles Duke of Queensberry,
- To his Grace Holles Duke of Newcastle,
- To his Grace Hugh Duke of Northumberland,
- To the Most Hon. William Marquis of Lothian,
- To the Right Hon. William Earl of March and Ruglen,
- To the Right Honourable John Earl of Strathmore,
- To the Right Honourable the Lord Cathcart,
- To the Lord High Chancellor,
- To the Lord Chief Justice,
- To the Honourable Francis Charteris of Amisfield,
- To the Right Honourable Alexander Lord Balgony,
- To the Right Honourable James Lord Deskford,
- To Sir John Whitefoord, Baronet,
- To the Lord Advocate,
- To Sir Fletcher Norton, Knight,
- To Ilay Campbell, Esq;
- To James Boswell, Esq;
CANTO I.
And many a strife of mortal pride was o'er,
And folly vain that shuns bright reason's beam
When she with Hesper gilds eve's silent hour.
Of stately winding Forth, and hush'd the roar
Of dashing waves, which now with gentle glide,
And hollow murmurs, lull'd the peaceful shore.
Save that the screaming sea-fowl urg'd their flight;
Save that o'er head the flapping vultures steer,
And from the spire loud wail'd the bird of night.
The northern tribes their toilsome march explore;
Or by the moon with wildly pleasing cry
They pasture fervent o'er some marshy shore.
Her trembling beams o'er hill, and rural plain,
I went with fun'ral dirge, and honours due,
Mine annual task to Julia's mournful fane;
The year's first tribute to her virtues paid;
With pious grief to drop the silent tear,
And sing soft rest to the departed shade.
The mighty dead repose in narrow cell;
Beneath whose scutcheon'd arch, and fretted isle,
Pale death, and grief, and solemn silence dwell:
To tune your echoes to my tale of woe:
To rend your cypress boughs for Julia's tomb,
Your twining ivy where they useless grow.
Ye nymphs! who dwell by Fortha's winding tide,
Or flow'ry banks of Tweed, your succour bring,
Or ye who haunt the pleasing dales of Clyde!
Like pitying saints to melt at human woe!
Come pour your saddest plaint at Julia's shrine,
Melodious sorrows which for virtue flow.
In whose fair form sojourn'd the noblest mind,
In whose blue eyes enthron'd in peaceful light,
The gentlest virtues smil'd on human kind,
That awful beauty which the soul commands,
That elegance which heightens female bloom,
And dignity and grace by death's rude hands
Much injur'd shade! Sweet peace shall seal thine eyes;
For thou hast brav'd the storms of adverse fate,
Hast seen affliction's direful forms arise.
With suff'ring virtue, in ignoble shade:
Explor'd of chearless want, the gloomy cell,
And sad misfortune her associate made.
And who can stem the dragon's torrent flood!
At slander's blast she shrunk, so shrinks o'erborn,
The flow'r of May by Boreas ruffian mood.
Like Charity she sooth'd affliction's stound;
Like Pity gave the wretched many a tear;
Like Patience firm she hid her rankling wound.
And worth, which modesty essay'd to hide,
Here met with honour high, and virtue fair,
Which shone unsullied by forbidding pride:
Of fortune, strong to quench each feebler light;
Shone with new spangl'd ore like Hesper's form,
Bright sparkling on the raven-brow of night.
Our Cynosure set never more to rise:
O vainly hop'd through life's bewilder'd way
To point the path ascending to the skies!
Through all the hardships of an adverse fate:
To rear up dawning Worth to virtues high
Of heroes, patriots, ardent to be great.
E're noon-tide long was quench'd in chearless gloom,
The sadd'ning years in heavy tenor run,
Like frost untimely blasting nature's bloom.
With bitter mixture dash'd the cup of joy;
With cruel change the dream of state beguil'd,
The plume of grandeur soil'd with sad annoy.
When loud tongu'd slander deaf'd a Brother's ear;
When ruthless villany their purpose gain'd,
And falsehood vile depress'd her fame so clear.
Which sharpest pains she mourn'd for nought beside,
What peace, joy, hope, or friendship faithless found,
Or clamant want , or mis'ry might betide.
Like some poor stricken deer which sad complains
Of archer's galling shaft, and breathless faint,
Sighs to the list'ning herd her piteous strains.
A thankless people to her birth deny'd;
There shunn'd the cruel scorn bestow'd on grief,
By scoundrel ins'lence and low minded pride.
The lovely Mourner, with a mother's pain
Shed o'er her smiling boys the helpless tear,
Then cry to heav'n that hears the just complain.
A Mother's tears, a Mother's deep distress,
Stoop'd down with soothing comfort from on high,
Then just arose her suff'rings to redress.
Or high descent should ward affliction's dart!
Virtue with these, with Heav'n itself ally'd
Is doom'd to mourn, and oft with ling'ring smart.
Of stern misfortune, and her scorpions felt;
The crush of poverty oppress'd the good,
And virtue groan'd beneath the scourge of guilt.
Of sorrow sad has eat the bitter bread;
Felt many a pang which conscious virtue bears,
When vile oppression sinks her sacred head.
Whose days in feast, whose nights in revel waste,
How virtue pines by famine and by wrong,
What bitter cup the good are doom'd to taste.
Insults the wretched, struggling with their fate:
How modest worth, from all her comforts torn,
In want neglected dies, while pride is gorg'd in state.
The shafts of envy pouring in her breast:
Vice bask in noon-day, while the gloomy stow'r
And iron scourge of fate afflicts the best.
Nor with illib'ral insult spurn her dust;
Say not, the skies their darling child disdain,
Tho' fate or vice by turns depress the just.
Thro' pleasures basking fair in summer's ray;
Repels their cup from her etherial race,
With-holds the world which haply might betray.
To patience, temp'rance, and humility:
Trains for the sphere where her bless'd choirs reside,
More perfect from the taste of human misery.
With transient gleam of earth's deceitful joy,
Spread your gay plumes! ere shades of death combine
To drown the jocund harp with sounds of sad annoy.
Heav'n bid unthank'd your prosp'rous fortune rise,
While patience starv'd; now drain'd the joyful tide,
Lament thine evil day while virtue climbs the skies.
Abbay of Holyroodhouse, where many of the nobility of Scotland ly interred. The remains of this very excellent and unfortunate Lady were buried here in the most private and indifferent manner.
Upon her marriage with Sir J---n St---t of Grand---l---y, a gentleman of honour and family, tho' no fortune, the D---ke of D---g---s was intirely alienated from his sister by interested designing friends. He stopp'd her annuity, abandon'd her to poverty and insults of every kind. This excellent woman must have sunk beneath a train of the most severe misfortunes, had not some noble friends interposed on occasions, more especially, the Hon. Mr Pel---m, and the Hon. Mr S---t Mack---zie: Their humanity will ever reflect honour on the high stations which they fill in the state.
These reflections, it must be confessed, are too long, but as they are intimately connected with the subject of the poem, the candid reader may possibly admit them in the close of this Canto.
CANTO II.
With angel-tears augmenting pity's spring,
Steep my rude reed in sorrow's sacred well,
Your bitter grief into my numbers wring;
A song of death, and dolor, to the sound
Of sadly warbling lyres, and plain a verse
Which ruthless men may read relenting round.
A Sister begging at a Brother's gate;
With smiling Boys, who well might charm the ear
Of Ruffian stern, and soothe invidious hate.
To beg protection for her high born Race,
A Brother's cordial friendship to regain
She sued, nor could have sued in vain for grace.
Of false friends coveting the Childrens right,
With malice, fraud, and outrage on their side,
Deceiv'd Him Good, and forc'd her from his sight.
But loud tongu'd slander with Cerberean mouth;
Fierce champion ins'lence who defies the laws,
Low vice, and envy with invenom'd tooth.
Of courteous Amity, who wont to wait
When Julia came, now fled the Stygian glare
Of fiends usurping at the castle's gate.
Her Brother mourn'd in magic durance bound;
Thrice o'er the bridge they rush'd in hideous fray,
The Heir expelling from his rightful ground.
And o'er the skies her sable mantle flung,
While conscious guilt conspir'd to soothe her foes,
Th' indignant world, with a deceitful tongue.
Branding the guiltless with so foul a stain:
With impious show of pity strove to wail,
Nor shed the tears of crocodiles in vain.
In freedom's land where right and wisdom reign:
Evade strict justice with her hundred eyes,
Oppress their kindred and insult the slain.
To drain a nation's and her heroes blood,
Should cloud our glory in these best of times,
And crush the helpless like a foaming flood.
To nature, mercy, justice, conscience lost;
Revile their country and insult her laws,
Then, self-convicted of their madness, boast,
Nor spurn the sacred ashes of the dead;
Cease calumny, for shame! thy spiteful strains,
Discordant now, and hide thine impious head
Then pain'd, all nature bleeding in thy breast:
No hope to blunt affliction's galling thorn,
No hand of mercy to thine wounds addrest.
A wretched mother o'er her children weep,
Wearying the moon with tales of sad despair,
Ye only can rehearse her sorrows deep.
Patient of wrongs, which heav'n and earth defy'd,
Like the fair musk-rose which perfumes the plain,
Tho' ruffian winds distain her virgin pride.
By pitying death who mourn'd the fatal blow,
Dropp'd like the tender bud, in sadd'ning gloom
She shrunk involv'd to nourish endless woe
Of her lov'd pledge whom heav'n vouchsaf'd to spare,
The blooming hope of her heroic race,
Could charm her grief, or soothe corroding care.
A myrtle fair of half her branches shorn,
Droop her wan head amid the forest green,
Her pining boughs which late to heav'n were born.
Pois'ning her blossoms, while the canker-worm
Of heart-corroding grief, in baleful hour,
Invading life consum'd her tender form.
Like the poor bird in cruel fow'ler's snare,
Julia long struggling pray'd in heav'n to rest,
To chace this tempest with a morn so fair.
The pangs of nature with the balm of grace:
A broken heart beneath a Saviour's wound,
Which comfort streams the weary to solace.
Renounce the world, and wing her soul for heav'n;
For friends, for foes, preferr'd her last request,
Forgiving all, she pray'd to be forgiv'n.
Of a rough race, she call'd her only Son;
For this she staid, though mounting to the pole,
To point the course his virtue joy'd to run.
Bedews that hand, which he must kiss no more:
Then on her couch, depress'd with mournful fears,
Sunk down his dying parent to deplore.
Swimming in grief; to catch her latest breath
Clung to her lips: while mix'd with broken sighs,
She thus address'd him in the pangs of death.
“I leave thee safe on Providence's care;
“Nor wealth, nor grandeur, I on thee bestow,
“Tho' born both wealth and grandeur high to share.
“Thy steps to virtue, and thy country's love;
“Humble the proud who may thy worth deride,
“Fire thee to deeds which envy shall approve.
“The Sword of Douglas in the battle wield;
“Tread in each kindred Hero's steps to fame,
“The pride of peace, in war a nation's shield.
“But deck thy mind with Truth and Virtue's pride:
“Pow'r without worth, and high descent are vain,
“And pageant coronets the great deride.
“Some Noble Mind to bear thine head on high;
“To right the Orphan, while thy prosp'rous days;
“Shall shine with glory, and these shadows fly.”
And, smiling on her son, she took her slight,
On angels wings, to mansions of the bless'd,
To lave her grief's sad wound in rivers of delight.
I'd fill the world with thy too rigid fate,
That brightest eyes should weep o'er thy sad tale,
And fame to distant climes thy wrongs relate.
And all ye Fair! whose hearts in sorrow bleed,
Sad pilgrims yearly to bedeck thy tomb
With vernal flow'rs, and carols for the dead.
Their lyres unto the voice attemp'ring sweet,
With Julia's story charm the list'ning air,
The trembling air the plaintive strains repeat.
Whose waves according with soft warbling gales,
Should charm sad echo down the rocky steep,
Responding wild her notes thro'long with-drawing vales.
Shed o'er the grave, which holds thy silent urn:
What tho' beyond the sphere, of grief and pain
You taste no more, nor ever can return:
A tribute due to thy neglected shade,
Who left the world with scarce one friendly tear,
Or hallow'd dirge, or fun'ral honours paid.
With balm of friendship to the soul address'd:
None of thy race to lend that last relief
Which virtue claims, when in the world depress'd.
No Brother near to seal thy stiff'ning eyes,
No arm to raise thee in the pangs of death,
No kindred train to grace thine obsequies.
Thy worth from envy; ruthless and unjust
They grudg'd thy nobleness a decent grave,
And spurn'd the Orphan from his Mother's dust.
With scutcheon'd state, nor sculptur'd marble weep;
Thy humble cell each mournful muse shall grace,
And tune their lyres unto thy sorrows deep.
Of all its honours robb'd thine injur'd shrine;
The just shall honour thee thro' all the land,
Thy spotless fame unfading garlands twine.
Where ruthless villany entombed lies;
Good genii here their nightly round shall walk,
Fair Innocence, and truth, with radiant eyes.
Shall guard the shrine where Julia's relicts dwell;
Pity a pilgrim sad shall beat her breast,
And fond remembrance ring thy solemn knell.
Responsive as the nine sad vigils keep,
Soft airy harps shall nightly plaint thy woe,
While Scotia's Dames their task in sorrow steep.
The wood-nymphs fair shall deck thy grave around
With snow-drop, primrose, and sweet smelling flow'rs,
And bless with annual rites thy sacred ground.
The smiles of grandeur, or the pangs of woe,
Soars where the just array'd in heav'nly state,
See life a troubl'd sea where tempests blow;
Or joins the quire where heav'n's hosannas rise;
Or by the streams of joy reclin'st to hear
Mysterious fate unravel'd in the skies;
The radiant mansions of the bless'd above,
Yet see thine offspring with a mother's joy,
Such as in heav'n the sp'rits celestial prove.
The path of glory which his sires have run:
Climb the bold steep where their plum'd honours grow,
By civil fame, and martial prowess won.
By Britain's Peers; the hand of Providence
Unroll the golden years reserv'd in fate,
With prosp'rous change, thy wrongs to recompense.
The great restorer's of thy godlike race,
Whose praise shall reach to ages yet unborn,
Whose acts the annals of these times shall grace;
As sway'd by law and right they firmly pled
The orphan's cause, oppos'd fierce faction's flame,
Nor stood consenting when their country bled.
For thee a brother's cordial love regain;
Cancel what had thy wealthy birth-right sold,
And raise thine offspring to his just domain.
Hear Britain's Senate for thy son decree:
Hear a glad nation shout their joint applause,
And heav'n and earth combine to comfort thee.
And strike thine angel-lyre to heav'nly sounds;
And all ye saints with meet respondence raise
Your golden harps, while heav'n's wide arch rebounds;
Thy works and ways unerring source of love!
Thy judgments sure, let Providence declare,
And conscious earth proclaim to list'ning heav'n above.
Address to the ingenious Mr Gray, author of these most elegant compositions in lyric poetry, and now professor of modern history in the University of Oxford.
The misfortunes of this most injur'd Lady were peculiarly severe. She was abandoned by her Brother who lov'd her tenderly, but was at last unhappily imposed upon by her most interested enemies. When, by the generous assistance of the Earl of M---t---n, she had got home with her children to Britain, her Husband was confined by his creditors three years in the prison of King's Bench:—She was, with her family, reduced to the condition of starving;—and at length resolved to cast herself on the mercy of the D---ke. When she came to D---g---s Castle, her enemies, ever watchful to frustrate any reconciliation, procured her express and determined exclusion. She passed that night, as the elegant writer of the memorial says, in the town of D---g---s, overwhelm'd with the deepest affliction: She wrote to the D---ke in the most pathetic terms, but was on all sides repulsed; and there is all the reason in the world to believe, that her moving remonstrances never found their way thro' the obsequious train of these emissaries who so meanly engaged in proceedings, the most illiberal, inhumane, and oppressive, as ever could be traced in any period.
Every one has heard of the repulse which L---dy J---ne sustain'd from her brother the D---ke: This pierc'd her very heart with anguish, and the death of her son Sholto, which happened soon after, threw her into the deepest melancholy. —Two physicians, eminent in their profession, declared, as it is in proof, she was dying of a broken heart. She came to Edinburgh in a very languishing state of health, and, on being visited by some friends, expressed the exceeding concern she was under on account of her only child Archibald. Under the awful apprehensions of dissolution, she never forgot her son; even when on the most solemn preparation for another world, the anxiety and affliction of a mother was manifest to every person. Amongst many depositions, this one is remarkable, “That L---dy J---ne took the sacrament in the New Gray-friars church eleven days before her death; and that every night after taking the sacrament, she took leave of her son in a very affectionate manner as a dying woman. She dy'd 22d November 1753, in the forenoon, in a most wretched apartment in the suburbs of Edinburgh, where she had lived for some time, destitute of the common necessaries of life.”
When she found her end was approaching, she made her son be brought to her, and laying her hand upon his head, admonish'd him, and recommended him to the protection of God in the most moving manner.
That L---y J---n D---g---s, when a woman of such virtue and accomplishments, as an hundred evidences have sworn to, and is manifest from a noble series of letters, the very transcripts of her heart, (Memorial, page 302, &c.) that such an excellent person should be abandoned to her fate in a wretched apartment and without the necessaries of life, may appear not a little surprising to many; but, it must be considered, she was of that turn of mind, that when her misfortunes increased, she grew more recluse, and courted retirement to give vent to her sorrow. These noblemen who had formerly supplied her necessities, were strangers to her present distress; others were at too great a distance to interpose. Her ever watchful enemies were only attentive to advance their concerns. She shut up herself in the suburbs, now brooding over the severity of her fate, now preparing to meet the stroke of death with fortitude and resignation. This, a few days after she had in the most devout manner received the communion, put a happy period to all her sufferings. The D---ke still imposed on by designing persons, directed she should be buried at his charge in the poorest manner in the Abbey of Holyrood-house. A few of his servants and others attended. Young D---g---s, who would not quit the corpse, and was privately dressed to attend the funeral, was with the utmost barbarity dragged out of the coach and carried back into the house. The people beheld such proceedings with the most sensible abhorrence, and imprecated vengeance on the authors of her misery.
Sir J---n was then confined by his creditors in the rules of King's Bench; it was impossible he could then have been absent from one he so deservedly loved. A Reverend and worthy Clergyman, who had been long intimate with L---y J---n, writes thus to Sir J---n on the melancholy occasion: “You were,” says he, “amongst the happiest of men, to be matched with such a one, not only for her quality, but qualifications: She excelled the most of her sex; but as she's gone and shines no more in this world, good reason we have to hope, she has made a happy change, where all sorrow and sighing fly away. She bore her affliction with great patience and resignation to the holy disposing will of God. She had her noble spirit till near her very last.” See D--- Memorial, page 15.
To testify their gratitude to their noble and public spirited benefactors in a public manner, seems, in this enlightened age, to be peculiar to the British nation. Such a concurrence of great events to advance the glory and happiness of a free people under the best of Kings, to secure the public peace and prosperity, our invaluable birth-rights and property, was never known in any age. What warms our hearts with the noblest sentiments; what smiles on every face with conscious joy and a becoming pride; what now transports, it may be said, a whole nation with the most uncommon and universal satisfaction; This great event, as glorious for D---g---s, as fortunate for his Country, shall be engraven indelible on the memory of the British nation, and when these great men the patrons of justice and freedom shall sleep with their fathers, fame shall transmit their deeds in the annals of this age to posterity. Distant ages shall perpetuate the memorial of their wisdom and justice, of their attachment to truth and righteousness, of that sacred bond which no influence on earth, nor fraud, nor faction, nor power, nor violence, could ever unhinge,
The very signal and early interposition of L---d C---c---t, now Ambassador at the Court of Rus---a, the league formed in behalf of D---g---s and the rights of mankind by the D---ch---s of D---g---s, the D---ke and D---ch---s of Q---b---y, the D---ke and D---ch---s of North---l---d, the M---q---s of L---th---n, the late E---l of M---rt---n, S---r J---n W---te---f---d, and many persons of rank, render their names famous to succeeding ages. The great stand which was made in behalf of a good cause in the H---se of P---rs, every body knows, and reflects upon it with gladness. The grand appearances made there by the L---d High Ch---l---r, by the L---d Chief J---s---ce, the D---ke of New---c---le, the twelve J---s, and the British Peers in support of the rights of a great and loyal subject, have made that day ever memorable to latest times.
The praise of that noble and most generous L---dy, who first patronized the defence of the D---g---s is great, as it is most just, through all the nation. Under the Divine Providence, which conducts all things, she seems to have presided through all the steps of this memorable cause, to have planned and acted, and persevered as the grand moving spring of the whole. Superior to every obstacle, to the uncommon fatigue and anxiety which must have attended the investigation of truth in a cause so long depending, and carried on in different kingdoms, she has lived to see the cause of truth and nature triumphant, and reaps the harvest of all her labours; her joy is equal to them, as Providence has crown'd all with success. But the D---ch---s of D---g---s needs none to sound her praise, her conduct speaks for itself, her actions are immortal, and reflect a lustre on the high rank and fortune she enjoys.
That ever memorable defence made by those learned S--- of the C--- of J---, the laborious pleadings both of the English and Scots Council, particularly of the L---d Adv---te, and Sir Fl---ch---r N---r---n; these elegant and manly writers, so much distinguished by their learned Appeals, the Memorial and Proof, the Case, the Essence, &c. the impartial decision of that ever celebrated jury, and their learned Chancellor Archibald M---r---y, Esq; who so nobly, in the beginning, laid a just foundation, which no attempts of fraud, of prejudice, and power could ever shake; all these shall be upheld examples through succeeding ages, so long as freedom and property have existence, or the annals of justice are read and consulted, in Britain the sacred arbiter of right, the stable seat of inflexible law and liberty.
ON THE WINTER-SOLSTICE.
A Descriptive Poem.
How loud thy tempests vex the troubled air,
How vanquish'd Nature groans in deep despair,
As roll'd in sable gloom, thy ruffian bands come forth!
Fierce down the vale thy bellowing storm descends;
Amain big torrents burst; with thunder's roar
The howling winds fatigue the sea-beat shore;
While Night with triple shades and direful fate attends.
Where now gay Flora's op'ning bloom,
And Zephyr breathing rich perfume;
Of Summer bright the jocund train,
And purple Ceres' golden wain?
All these attend the Lord of Day,
Trav'ling his steep ethereal way;
With Heaven's effulgence pierc'd, usurping Uproar flies.
Ye winter-glooms! and from his airy hall
Let Boreas' trump his noisy squadrons call;
With whirlwind, hail, and frost, in his wild empire bred.
Though freezing horrours reign on Zembla's coast;
Though Nature pine beneath the driving snow,
From sad Pezora, to the blissful Po;
Proud storms! ye shall not long your transient conquest boast.
Again the swift revolving year
Hastes, to reverse her long career:
Again returns with genial ray,
From southern climes, the golden day:
Who musing now, with raptur'd eye,
Watches the tumult of the sky,
More joyous, sweeps the trembling lyre;
For Fancy hails young Spring, and bids the storm retire.
Their force ethereal sweeps the driving clouds:
Loud howls the echoing hill; the groaning woods
Stoop their bare tops, remurm'ring as the tempest raves.
Drive mountain-billows, o'er the foaming shore
Of Norway, or Betubium, till the roar
Bounds o'er th' infuriate waves, to Calpes' bellowing steep.
What dreadful fears, what mournful fate
Must then on anxious mortals wait!
The lonely dame, with weeping eyes,
Bewails the stormy seas and skies;
Her Lord is on his wat'ry way,
She hopes, but dreads the long delay;
All day she views the angry deep;
All night she mourns, beset with ghastly forms of sleep.
O'er heav'n and earth; and in the high-rock'd tow'r
The roaring winds affright the midnight hour;
Or peal a summons dire, along the mountain height.
Ill fare the sailors 'midst the boiling waves;
Aghast to heaven, on horrours brink they ride:
Then swift descending the devouring tide,
They plunge from earth and sky, to Ocean's dreadful caves.
Emerg'd, a desp'rate course they steer,
Beset with death, and chill'd with fear:
With liquid mountains compass'd high:
Again they view, with fond surprise,
The wish'd for land, and cheering skies:
For He who bids fierce Ocean roar,
Calms the conflicting brine, and smooths the billowy shore.
On toiling wings, a gath'ring deluge pours:
Complains the burthen'd air; the streaming show'rs
Dash o'er the mountain height, and drench the smoking plain.
Swoln rivers rush in their tumultuous pride,
With thund'ring ruin and resistless force;
O'er rocks and mounds, sweep their devouring course,
While Ocean stain'd recoils, from the triumphant tide.
O daring man! why wilt thou haste,
When night invests the pathless waste;
O why wilt thou begone to roam,
Nor ever reach thy pleasing home!
In vain thy smiling race prepare,
And loving wife, thy cheering fare:
In vain they hope thy glad return,
Dire fates prepare thy grave, and bid the widow mourn.
With vary'd plagues deform the conquer'd year;
Arresting tempests in their mad career,
From polar hills descend the pow'rs of fixing frost.
Then icy chains th' indignant streams restrain,
And Ocean mourns his ever-toiling waves,
Transfix'd with frost, through all their northern caves;
Far as wild Finland's gulf, or the proud Baltic main.
Then drives, with an incessant flow,
Through the dun air the flaky snow;
Hides the dire cliff, the faithless floods,
And buries half the sinking woods.
And oft descends the prowling train
Of howling wolves, to vex the plain:
On bloodshed bent, the barb'rous cry
Sounds horrour through the vale, while Alpine hills reply.
In whirling sleds urg'd on by fleet rain-deer,
To northern fairs, a daring course they steer;
While round the glaring pole the starry fires shine bright.
Fam'd Scandia's lords with barb'rous pomp arrive;
Swift round and round, in circling race, they drive
With their rebounding cars, in fierce contention tost.
Nor less bold Russians cease to go,
O'er hills and dales smooth'd up with snow;
Where chain'd in frost, vast Oby raves
In vain, to free his struggling waves:
There annual marts strange merchants throng,
The Turk and Tartar pour along,
Till, flying from the freezing wind,
In winter-caverns sleep the last of human kind.
While half our world complains of driving storm,
To sing what plagues the polar South deform;
What horrours dire, unknown, may vex th' antartic sky.
When northern climes returning summers hail,
There heavy darkness holds her dreary reign:
There, on the troubled deep and ravag'd plain,
Fell Whirlwind, Fire, and Snow, with Thunder's voice prevail.
Ill fated he who tempts the shore,
That Britain's daring navy tore;
Bold Anson's art was all in vain:
Where dreadful storms defend the coast,
Of burning flame, and starving frost;
Infernal plagues and horrours dire,
To guard forbidden climes, and damp Ambition's fire.
Where burning suns afflict the torrid zone,
The Muse attends the panting Indian's groan;
Or marks what fierce extremes the weary realms molest.
Now, while the polar regions starve in frost,
His fervid limbs, the swarthy Æthiop laves
In Niger; and with all his swelling waves,
Loud Orellana toils, to cool his sun-burnt coast.
O lands unbless'd! where fev'rish strife
Embroils the purple tide of life:
Where banish'd from the breezy North,
Devouring Pest'lence oft walks forth:
Where Freedom's joys are sought in vain,
While savage tyrants sternly reign;
And never heard, their subjects cry,
As vex'd beneath the scourge, of their inclement sky.
Surpassing Fez, and the Barbaric strand;
To where high bounding fam'd Iberia's land,
Pyrenean rocks detain foil'd Winter's weary stores.
Descending swell'd with half Helvetia's snow,
Through noble realms rolls wide the rushing Rhine:.
And branching round along the Belgian brine,
For many a league congeal'd, his urn forgets to flow.
Then jovial crouds the river hide,
Of young and old, that swiftly glide
On sounding skates, in wand'ring maze,
Mix'd and convolv'd a thousand ways.
The merchant skims the gelid plain,
In quest of tidings from the main;
To market swifter than the wind,
Scours on the buxom maid, nor leaves one trace behind.
With native charms, to claim thy poet's rhyme:
No polar rage deforms thy milder clime;
No freezing horrours pierce, beneath thy clement skies.
While cruel seasons damp the noble train
Of social virtues, and the patriot's flame;
Thee Heav'n hath warm'd to deeds of civil fame,
Fost'ring her precious gem, set in the silver main.
Where ever-smiling Freedom reigns:
Thy groves, that ever verdant wave,
Where Thames his blissful shores does lave:
Thy hills, and promontories high,
That gently steal into the sky:
Thy native oak, hung o'er the steep,
To rear thy naval pride, the terrour of the deep.
Old Winter reign through utmost Thule's land,
Yet visiting fair Albion's winding strand,
Each frowning aspect stern, the hoary Anarch shrouds.
His billowing storms and wild misrule confin'd
With chains of rock, along the howling main;
Here loos'ning Influence mild, with golden rein
He curbs dread Caurus' rage, and Boreas' blust'ring wind.
Bless'd isle! where kindly seasons cheer,
With light and warmth, the falling year:
Where frost does life and virtue yield,
To store the air, and clothe the field:
Whose vig'rous clime, with strong embrace,
For battle moulds a hardy race;
Like Heav'n's, thy thund'ring storm, to shake a guilty world.
To rest his flagging wings on Britain's isle:
Then o'er the whit'ning vale and swelling hill,
Winnows the feather'd snow, and burthen'd Nature droops.
Succeeds the short-liv'd frost, the transient gleam
Of feeble Winter: o'er the marshy flood
Ice-bound the village swarms; while bawling loud
Through the long freezing night, complains the bick'ring stream.
All hush'd the warblers of the spring,
With screaming voice, and flapping wing,
The sea-fowl urge their soaring flight;
To pass in shades the cheerless night.
In thickets warm the woodcocks hide,
And all the lonely foreign tribe,
That shelt'ring here with wild surprise,
And sadly-wailing notes, see native storms arise.
Your flocks, and pile with bounteous hand the fold:
For as with whirlwinds wing the tempests hold
Their deathful course, deep whelm'd the panting bleaters die.
And O ye Great! bless'd with the Godlike pow'r
Of blessing thousands, cast upon your care;
O haste to cheer the gloom of sad Despair,
To close Affliction's wound, and gild her darkest hour.
Nor shun the poor's unbless'd retreat,
Where Death and Famine sternly wait:
The sighs of Worth neglected hear:
Wipe female Virtue's falling tear:
On shiv'ring age, and infant wo
Your deeds of charity bestow:
So when to Heav'n the friendless cry,
Like Heav'n your bounties flow, and all their wants supply.
Of new-fallen snow, the wand'ring fowlers stalk;
Or through the shaggy hill, and forest-walk,
With fiery deaths pursue the ring-doves flying haste.
With painted wings, he feels the fatal wound:
Oft as the corm'rant wheels with screaming sound,
He stains his plumes in blood, and welt'ring woful dies.
Dire sport, with murder to invade
The gentlest tenants of the shade!
The blackbird, lark, and linnet throng,
Repay thee with their annual song,
Thee, ruthless man: what furies move
Thy soul, to rob the tuneful grove:
Inhuman thou! with cruel snare
Destroying what fierce storms and savage tempests spare.
Shines faint: and soon fast-closing shades of night
Darkling prevail; till crown'd with silver light,
Through spangled skies, the moon smiles sweet with orient ray.
Thus passes human life, a transient gleam;
Bright with fond rising Hope, and Folly's pride;
But soon eclips'd like winter-suns, the tide
Of glory vain is fled, like a deceitful dream.
That wont our youthful days inspire;
That thirst for gain, that lust for praise,
The springs that move man's bustling days?
Where now, ye croud of hopes, and fears,
All bright with joy, or sad with tears?
Faith sums the whole, with conscious eye,
Lost, as a scanty drop, in heav'n's immensity.
Of radiant Truth, sprung from thy sov'reign Mind,
Rise on the dark abodes of human-kind,
To chase the shades of Hell, as morn dispels the night:
O teach me rais'd, the noblest use of life,
To follow where thy Wisdom points the way,
To public virtues; where, with piercing ray,
Thy word constrains the soul, and quells wild passions' strife.
Teach me, superiour, to despise
Low Vice, though rob'd in Virtue's guise;
Of Sloth to burst th' ignoble chain,
And shun gay Pleasure's tempting train;
To feed the mind with Wisdom's store,
With conscious peace, and virtue pure:
And Life awak'ning hail the trumpet of the skies.
Of Patriots, bent to raise with great design,
Their country's good; from Albion's utmost line,
To her vast empire thron'd beside th' Atlantic main.
To hail their royal Sire, in festive hour,
They haste as princes on some solemn day,
Around their mighty sov'reign homage pay;
And prop the public cause, by their confed'rate pow'r.
Great soul! that animates the realm;
That guides in darkest nights the helm
Of Britain's weal; 'tis thine to raise
A kingdom's int'rest; thine the praise
The joys of freedom to impart;
The gifts of trade, and peaceful art:
Till wide the voice of gladness sound,
From fruitful Thames, as far as Caledonia's bound.
While, ever restless all the live-long day,
The busy Merchant plods his thoughtful way,
Where Momus' gainful tribe with eager faces throng.
Join Friendship's train, and bid dull cares retire:
While love of game and pleasure fans the fire,
Which first allures, distracts, then sinks th' ignoble soul.
Then happy they, who raptur'd hear
Such strains as charm the British ear:
When moral Shakespear's moving tale
Does o'er the willing soul prevail:
Rous'd by the scene, dread terrours round
Invade the throng; with magic sound
Fair Pity wakes the human sigh,
And Virtue brighter shows, in ev'ry tearful eye.
Up springs the sprightly dance, in wand'ring maze;
While beam'd from sparkling eyes, his torches blaze,
Love waves his purple wing, and kills with pleasing pain.
Or will the Muse attend the lofty sounds,
While waking warblings sweet, the tuneful Nine
According lyres, and heav'nly voices join;
Till, like th' harmonious sphere, Cecilia's dome rebounds.
Awaken Handel's soaring strain:
Resounds the lyre, the sprightly note
Bursts from the rousing trumpets throat:
The vocal choir, and trebles high
Waft kindling Fancy to the sky:
For to th' immortal bard is giv'n,
To plunge the soul in woes, or mount in joys to heav'n.
While loud carousing in his antique hall,
The happy 'squire bids feast, and rural ball,
Full cups, and blazing fires, dispel the wintergloom.
Loud rings the genial roof, as bless'd they raise
The voice of conscious freedom; never known
Where tyrants frown; here ev'ry grace full blown,
She reigns in native pride, and sounds fair England's praise.
Or where the village-matron plies
Her task, amaze with wild surprise,
The hasty closing circle hears
Of story'd ghosts, and midnight fears;
Of grisly shapes, with passing bell
At sick man's door; a horrid tale
To awe the rustic tribe, while chilling fears prevail.
Now, heav'nly musing, the rapt soul inspires;
And swifter than those ever-waking fires
That nightly shine, ascends the steep harmonious sphere.
There soaring Fancy wings her daring flight
Amid those golden cars, that ever trace
Around the Sun; while glorying in his race,
On them the parent orb directs his radiance bright.
Rapt she adores the moving Soul
Who rules and guides the mighty Whole:
Who pours the wat'ry Pleiades urn,
Or bids the bands of Orion burn:
Who steers fam'd Argos' radiant way,
Or slow Bootes' northern ray;
Or bids Arcturus' fires appear,
Eclips'd with rainy clouds, to cool the sultry year.
Through the fix'd stars; sees round each blazing sun
Unnumber'd systems in their journey run,
To gild th' extended space of yet untravel'd skies.
Or tends the rapid comet in his flight;
Returning dread from Heav'n's most distant pole,
He wheels the centre like a fiery goal;
Then flies again to vex the realms of ancient Night.
Great Nature! workmanship divine,
What human thought can trace thy line!
Fair Idea of th' eternal Mind,
How glorious He who first design'd
Thy glorious frame! sole great and good,
When shall his ways be understood!
His works since hid through Nature's bound,
How shall Heav'n's Architect, himself unsearchable, be found?
Fierce rattling hail, or soft descending snow,
While wailing owls rehearse their songs of wo,
'Tis thine, Philosophy, to grace the happy midnight hour.
On ventrous wing, beyond the solar ray;
And following safe thy more celestial day,
My course through secret depths of heav'n and earth explore.
To mark how the Almighty reins
His pond'rous orbs, in golden chains;
And the attracted planets run,
In mystic dance, around the sun;
That whirling on his fiery pole,
Resists the hurrying spheres control;
And rules wide from his central throne,
Beyond the glare of Mars, or Saturn's radiant zone.
As seraphs reed, or angels circling wing,
Shall we attempt the realms of Heav'n's high King,
Adjusting time and space, their regions to confine.
Or humbly pleas'd, beneath our native sky,
Shall we pursue the swift revolving year;
With varying seasons in their gay career,
To warm the conscious heart, or charm the raptur'd eye.
Seem raging uproar, to deform
The heav'ns and earth; thy nobler soul
Unlocks the beauty of the whole;
Sees tempests sweep the burthen'd air,
And frosts the fruitful glebe prepare:
And Winter's awful horrours rise,
To shed on cherish'd earth, the influence of the skies.
Unfold her annals; as the studious mind
Explores the rudiments of human-kind:
Their states, and rising arts, or patriots' noble rage.
Then converse with the mighty dead, who rais'd
So high the Grecian, and the Roman name;
Who greatly struggling nurs'd the virt'ous flame,
Which bless'd the grateful state, and through the nations blaz'd.
Or raptur'd in the Muses shades,
I hear the nine harmonious maids,
Awake bold Homer's sounding lyre;
Or courtly Maro's temper'd fire;
Or, Albion, what thy bards rehearse
In buskin'd state, or daring verse:
Attune the soul, and charm the list'ning midnight hour.
And antique lyre, to charm in simpler days.
Hail Spencer! skill'd to train, 'midst flow'ry ways
Of fairy ground, our youth, led by inchantment strong.
Sweet Shakespear! child of Fancy! whom thy Nine
Inspire, and gave to drink the sacred spring;
With lofty Milton hail! whose angel-wing,
And Muse of Fire, nor Earth, nor Hell, nor Heav'n itself confine.
Dryden! who paints in living page
Timotheus' art, and Turnus' rage:
And Pope! who leads the tuneful throng;
Great judge, and master of the song,
With plaintive Young and Thomson, hail!
Instructive bard! whose silvan tale,
With Doric charm, and fancy bright,
Inspires my trembling wings, to trace thy nobler flight.
Of pining nature, while delighted high,
They court the Muses' shrine, and pleas'd descry
Fair Truth, all heav'nly bright, their darkness to illume.
Let others madly brave the raging flood;
Or climb high stories of the tow'r of state;
Or wildly bursting from a vulgar fate,
Invade their country's right, and plunge in civil blood:
Superiour to blind Folly's strife,
'Tis thine to polish human life;
To guide through the inchanting maze
Of artful pleasures; thine the praise,
Celestial quires! to calm the rage
Of youth, and warm declining age:
While rous'd by your Promethean fire,
Disdaining earth, your sons to native Heav'n aspire.
And haunt in Albion vales your blissful seat:
Lead me, ye Muses! where, in fam'd retreat,
You nurse the patriot flame, and with your transport fill.
Fair England hears the silver-sounding lyres
Warble inchanting maze; or pleas'd retires,
Where Cam, in rural shades, unlocks his learned store.
Or where bold Caledonia hears,
With ardent soul, and ravish'd ears,
Your varied song; while smoothy glide,
O native Forth! thy swelling tides.
Or where the gulfy Eden pours,
Let me employ the studious hours:
Or where swift Dee pursues his way,
And wealthy Clyde attends bright Science' soaring lay.
The secret depths of Nature's bound to trace;
How whirl'd with rapid speed, and endless race,
In their melodious sphere, the golden planets fly.
What rolls loud thunder down th' ethereal steep;
Or wraps in ling'ring shades, the winter-night:
Or what detains gay Summer's radiant light,
As loath to cool his steeds in Thetis' western deep.
Safe through the maze of Life's dark winding vale;
For Vice and Folly, heard thy moral tale,
Fly as dull shades, when Morn displays his purple pride.
Improve, O man! this winter of thy days,
To Virtue sacred; soon the transient gleam
Of life shall vanish like a troubled dream,
And Heav'n's eternal Spring dawn with unclouded rays.
The Albion Princess.
A Pindaric Ode.
I.
I. 1.
'Twas at the solemn festival, where FameWith best remede allays sad Virtue's stound,
On column high inshrines her sacred name,
With sculptur'd praise and blooming garlands crown'd;
Aloft, supreme, in godlike state,
On her imperial throne, Britannia sat;
And, with a Parent's conscious pride,
Surveyed her dauntless race, whose valour try'd,
Could frowning Death defy;
Could brave grim Tyrant's stormful eye,
Or madd'ning Faction's frantic mood,
With Furies' torch, and axes dy'd in blood.
And now their starry fronts sublime,
They lift amid their bold compeers,
Whilst on her eagle wings responsive Echo bears
Their proud renown thro' ev'ry distant clime.
I. 2.
Say, Goddess dread! whose conqu'ring armDoes wield old Ocean's thund'ring spear,
On whose fell Ægis wait Alarm,
Despair, and Death, and flying Fear;
Say thou, what theme, what high immortal verse,
The raptur'd Nine shall to the Lyre rehearse.
The Goddess thus: “Your loftiest notes employ;
“The Ocean's Daughter claims the sacred song;
“And Britain marks with pride and joy,
“Her champion Knight amid the laurel'd throng.”
Th' harmonious Sisters plac'd on high,
Crown'd with unfading chaplets meet,
With flying fingers wake each bolder string;
And whilst the heav'nly minstrels sing,
Fame lifts her clarion to the vaulted sky,
And what th' æthereal herald Dame
Peals to the pole with loud acclaim,
Well pleas'd the list'ning spheres repeat.
I. 3.
They Virtue sung with radiance mild,Of each celestial grace,
Height'ning the charm of Female Pride,
Where, young-eyed Beauty by her side,
And blushing Worth, and virgin Spring,
Shedding sweet flow'rets from her purple wing,
Nor fancy'd that her charms beguil'd,
In roving youth's bewilder'd chace,
The sovereign of the Cimbrian race.
Ah hapless Fair! the storm of Fate
Lours on thy morning-beam;
Thine evil Genius sends in hate,
To tempt thy youth across the Ocean's stream.
Thy chaste reserve, thy coy reluctance vain;
The Fatal Sisters wreathe thy crown, entwin'd with grief and pain.
II.
II. 1.
And Nors, with youthful passion fir'd,To gain the peerless Maid aspir'd:
At Hymen's shrine he bow'd, and swore
The nuptial vow, and proudly bears afar,
Like princely merchant from Cathaian shore,
His diamond spoil. Set in his Cimbrian throne,
The Albion gem so sparkling shone,
'Mid Gothic gloom superior seen:
And as bright Phospher's orient beam
Begilds the foaming Scandian wave,
Day's harbinger, with trembling gleam,
So, Albion, shone thy Northern Star,
With native charm, and pow'r to please;
To smooth the blust'ring Baltic seas,
Imperial Daughter of the Ocean's Queen.
II. 2.
Ah! Destiny, revoke thy doom;Ye busy Fates, reverse the loom
Mysterious here below:
How must the conscious bosom bleed,
When Guilt, oppressive, sinks the head
Of sov'reign Worth, laid low.
Torn from the register of Time,
Oblivion! hide th' abhorred crime—
But, ah! the hope is vain!
Nor youth, nor innocence restrain,
Nor solemn league, nor dignity,
With scepter'd rule; the merciless fiends assail,
And hurl the pleading victim from on high.
Much injur'd Dame! for thee, in Albion's dale,
The Muse shall mourn, culling each fragrant flow'r
To strew thy path: but what avail
Her sacred tears to charm thy bitter flour!
II. 3.
Hark! wildly howling for their prey,A horrid rout with summons drear
The palace storm; and flying Fear
Their eyes of fire, and jaws of death.
See where the wolves of hell draw nigh!
Mad Jealousy conducts the fray,
And Envy fierce with basilisk eye,
And Clamour with Cerberean tongue,
And baleful Harpies hated throng;
These fiends the Cimbrian Hydra bate,
Rousing the Ocean Dragon swoln with pride,
To haunt the Dame with fangs of parricide,
And pois'nous floods of unrelenting hate.
III.
III. 1.
Unequal strife; resistance vain!What shall the dogs of hell control,
What charm their barb'rous rage enchain
What can fell envy's pow'r with-stand,
That dar'd assail the starry pole,
Blasting malignant the angelic band.
Her summer friends, false traitors, fled,
And captive Nors in fetters led;
The savage rout with vengeful fangs deface
The sacred shrine of her unsullied fame;
Tread in the dust each princely grace,
Her scepter'd right, and regal diadem.
Justice deride, and Heaven defy,
While the high-arching dome and trembling shore,
Resound with howling Murder's horrid cry.
III. 2.
Hark! Ransa comes; the rebel band,With shouts of violence, demand
Their Sov'reign's sacred blood.
See! in the front, with haggard eyes,
Wild with usurped state,
Fierce Julian bursts the regal dome;
Her Furies' torch toss'd to the skies
Appals with dire annoy,
Rousing the treasons of the night,
Like Sinon, curs'd with stedfast hate,
Amid the massacre of Troy:
Hell in her train, and Murder's brood,
She hies with brand of parricide, to light
Pale slaughter'd Virtue to the tomb.
III. 3.
Lo! there, by ruffian traitors bound,The beauteous victim lies,
With festive wreaths and garlands crown'd,
Proud Julian's sacrifice,
No pitying eye devotes a tear,
Nor kind relief nor welcome hopes appear;
The axe of Faction roaring for her prey.
“I come, rough ministers of Fate;
“True virtue shrinks not from the ruthless steel:
“Now, Julian, satiate thine ambitious hate;
“Mine innocence thou canst not kill:
“But, ah! the bitter, bitter smart,
“That drinks my soul, and tears my rending heart;
“My harmless infants! must they bleed,
“Ah! horrid, murd'rous deed!
“See Julian drains their honey'd breath;
“Their quivering limbs forsaking life,
“Gash'd by the guilty Furies' knife,
“Ah! hide convuls'd in death,
“Vengeance just Heaven!” she cry'd aloud,
Then swoon'd in agony amid the barb'rous croud.
IV.
IV. 1.
Fill high the measure of your shame,In bloody pomp prepare
The sable block, the tort'ring wheel,
The axe's horrent glare;
Then mask'd in Falsehood's varnish'd guise,
In mock'ry cheat the world with lies:
Decree, with hearts which only feel
The sacred blood of royalty to flow:
Deep brand the hateful nation's fame,
Whilst all, to consecrate your crimes,
The hoary doating judges stand
Perverting Justice' scale, with corrupt hand;
Disgrace of senates! chain'd on the blast of scorn,
Meet recompence, through future times,
With public infamy your guilt be borne.
IV. 2.
Treason! what pow'r arrests thine armIn palsied stupor bound!
What magic charms thy hand disarm!
High rais'd to give the wound.
Or does the thunder of the sky
Confound the guilty head?
Or does the voice of Conscience cry,
All hell is in the deed?
Soon these shall pour vindictive storm
Of fire, and wrath, and plagues deform:
Meanwhile, in earnest of the fate
That hangs indignant o'er the rebel state,
Albion, to whom the godlike pow'r is given,
To wield tremenduous the scourge of Heav'n,
Thee, Keith! whose dauntless presence sinks the bold,
And martial menace, like her chiefs of old,
Shot through each heart dismays the hideous crew.
IV. 3.
Lo! where his lion-port he rears,Dreadful with awe-commanding frown,
And blasts the proud with freezing fears,
His looks to Gorgon terror grown:
Like inspiration on his kindling soul,
The island-genius comes, and clothes his brow
With bold demeanor to controul,
And fires with loyal zeal, and gives his eyes to glow.
See, in his mighty hand he grasps, to bear
Terrific thunders of Britannia's spear:
Vengeful, aloft, the chief displays
Her brandish'd lightnings forky blaze;
'Mid splendors fierce her sevenfold shield,
Ægis of Jove, whose flaming ray
Darts heav'n-bred horrors o'er the blood-stain'd field;
Despair, and hasty rout, and flying wild dismay.
V.
V. 1.
“Hold, Faction! hold; the impious deed“Shall seal thy direful bane;
“Would fail to wash the stain.
“Attend the charge: In Albion's dreadful name
“Cancel the bloody doom, resign thy wrath!
“The great Augustus vindicates her fame,
“And comes, anon, with massacre and death.
“Behold his raging navy, borne
“With banner'd terror, shakes the northern wave:
“Ah, Scandia! on that fatal morn
“When Albion's voice in thund'ring tempest roars,
“And fire and vengeance whelm your shores,
“What arm shall judgement brave?
“Where shall abhorred Treason flee
“For refuge from the storm?
“Where hopeful bend the suppliant knee,
“Which crimes and blood deform?
“Hear! and relent, ere late Repentance rise
“To wail her blasted shores, to lave
“Her daring guilt with ever-streaming eyes.”
V. 2.
Like trembling coward Ransa shook;Proud Julian stood aghast:
Bold Faction, shrunk in troubl'd look,
Adown her axes cast:
The storm of outrage rests like the relenting deep.
He rais'd the Princess from the ground,
From death redeem'd; dispels her fears,
And from their savage chains unbound,
Her mind with soothing comfort chears.
Anon, swift o'er the foaming tide
Britannia's tow'ring vessels hie,
The Dame receive with regal pride,
With shouts, and cannons thund'ring cry.
Beneath a Brother's shield she finds repose;
Old Ocean smooths his angry waves,
To greet his Daughter bright;
Fair Thetis, girt with her cerulean train
Of sister-nymphs, in em'rald vails bedight,
Safe in her shelt'ring arms the Dame receives,
'Scap'd from the fury of her Gothic foes,
And wafts in triumph proud across the wond'ring main.
V. 3.
Sweet Peace attend thee, Royal Fair,Secur'd from Envy's frown;
Britain the column shall prepare,
Grac'd high with bright renown.
Keen pressing on thy breast,
Time shall allay with fond relief,
Her wings soft shedding grateful rest.
Like Venus crown'd, with sov'reign mien,
And Siren voice, charming rude winds that blow,
With smiles of amity, the Albion Queen
Shall kindly sooth a Sister's wo.
A Brother's arm shall vindicate thy right,
Should mad'ning Faction muster to deface
The sacred honours of thy sov'reign race;
Augustus shall arise in dreadful might,
His thund'ring Navy shake the strand;
His warlike Peers, so just and brave,
With fire and slaughter waste the land,
And crush the traitors, whelm'd in the devouring wave.
V. 4.
Mid civil storm and outrage brav'd
The Cimbrian race, with bold controul,
Enchain'd the Hydra, and the Princess fav'd,
Accept this verse the hallowed quire bestows,
A festive wreath to bind thy warlike brows.
Thy Civic crown with splendors meet prepare;
The Queen of Ocean hastes, with busy hand,
To decorate thy sparkling diadem.
Nor shall invidious harpies tear,
Nor jealous pride, thy slow'ring fame.
Unweary'd Fame shall waft thine endless praise,
With trumpet-voice, to the remotest days;
Heroes unborn arise, and learn to glow
With thine unconquer'd flame, to quell Britannia's foe.
The Goddess sees her pillar'd trophies rise,
Charg'd with her Daughter's fame, while to the skies
The winged herald peals the loud triumphant sound.
THE FIELD OF FLOWDON,
A DESCRIPTIVE POEM.
They have fallen like the oak of the desart, when it lies across a stream, and withers in the wind of the mountains.
Such were the words of the Bards in the days of the song, when the King heard the music of harps, and the tales of other times.
Ossian.Was drench'd in blood, of gallant heroes slain,
No more the dread of foes in fight, no more their countries shield;
Beset with ghastly spectres round,
A horrid shade with Gorgon terrors crown'd
The grizly monarch hover'd o'er,
And flapp'd his weary pinions dropping gore,
Like a fell vulture gorg'd among the dead.
The fiend of discord rear'd her snaky head,
Her demons howl, her vengeful torches wave,
She stalks where dead men groan, she haunts red Tillus wat'ry grave.
The slow'r of Caledon, the great, the good,
Their snowy limbs lac'd with their golden blood,
Groan furth their souls: vain was their warlike might,
In vain sat vict'ry on their plumy crest ;
In vain the mighty sunk o'erpowr'd
Beneath the brandish'd lightning of their sword;
Heav'n seals their doom: Leave, leave ye fair!
Your gaudy looms, and other weeds prepare:
Prepare your sable weeds, in honour of the brave;
And weave your true love's winding-sheet for his untimely grave.
With loud tongu'd harps, to hail your Lord's return;
How sadly change the chords of joy, to wail his hapless fate!
No more victorious from the foughten plain,
He loads you with the treasures of the slain;
No more enthron'd amid his warlike peers
Enjoys the martial song of former years;
The strength of war, the people's shield
Lies stretch'd in Flowdon's fatal field:
Like Mars he led the host with rising morn ,
At eve a fall'n star, of all his radiant glories shorn.
And gash'd with many a streaming wound,
The valiant sunk their Prince around,
And stretch'd their gory limbs in honour's bed.
Hush'd was the horrid din of arms,
The neighing steed the victor's proud alarms;
Deep silence reign'd, save o'er the purpl'd heath
Ascend with awful pause, the heavy groans of death:
Save that with dolorous horns afar,
Surry drew off his broken ranks of war;
He mourn'd his bowmen fall'n in fight,
And veil'd his trembling fears, in the dun shades of night.
With martial trumps and clanging arms,
Such as might rouse the dead to war's alarms,
Shook all the hills and valleys steep,
And startl'd the quick ear of coward sleep,
The dying heroes bless'd the warlike sound.
Thrice Douglas, where he press'd the bloody ground
Amidst his foes, his dreadful crest display'd,
And thrice he wav'd his flaming blade,
“O Heav'n! might Douglas rise to see
The pride of England laid in dust, his king and country free.”
With St. Clair, Maxwell, Gordon bold,
Like bloody lions panting o'er their prey,
Attend with joy their shouting phalanx boast.
And thou fall'n captain of a mighty host!
Heroic James! thy gen'rous swelling soaul
Deep groaning o'er thy people's bitter dole,
Their strength, their glory fall'n by doom of war,
Hover'd a while and sooth'd thy sad despair;
He heard his trumpet blow, he saw his banners fly,
And, smiling in the pangs of death, sprung to the starry sky.
The tomb of parricide, thy children's grave;
Nor Tillus thine! still seek Tweed's wat'ry shore,
Thy guilty head still strive to hide,
And plunge thee in a purer tide;
In vain! the story of thy crimes
Shall chill the bold to future times:
The sheeted ghost shall haunt thy stream,
Night ravens wail with doleful scream,
And birds of prey: this treach'rous flood
Beheld thy sons, O Scotland! slain, and drunk her children's blood.
Beating their tender breasts fond mothers wail;
And bathe each mangl'd corse with briny tears in vain.
Tho' a whole land in sackloth mourn'd,
And foes their rage to pity turn'd,
Still shall the muse deplore their doom;
Still mark with her rude verse the hero's tomb.
The sick'ning sun withdrew his clouded light,
The fiends relenting groan'd to the sad night;
The night her pearly dews soft sorrows shed,
And dunnest shades, her mantle kind, flung o'er the silent dead.
Where low the clay-cold hero lies:
Tho' here no pomp of fun'ral obsequies,
No martial trophies led, no steeds of state,
And Freedom haunt the hallow'd grave;
Their deeds high in historic page
Shall rise their monument to every age:
Their Sword could turn the battle's tide,
Their Country's Love all death defy'd;
Their Soul of Glory then most loyal found
When with their Lord his Chieftains fell, transfix'd with many an wound.
And noisy clamour hell's foul harpies tear
Your eagle-pinion'd fame to heav'n doth fly,
Your fame thro' the wide world is heard;
This race victorious Cesar fear'd,
And Edward humbled in a bloody field;
And captive Piercy with his English bow,
Extoll'd the arm, which laid his blushing honours low
The chance of war is heav'ns dread doom,
The hand of fate, now Scotland, brings thy heroes to the tomb.
Whose prowess now shall save a sinking land,
Or who fell fire and sword withstand?
I see the horrid fiends come on afar,
Amazement leads, as o'er the plain
Rude desolation pours amain:
Oppression rears her scourge of snakes,
Her iron chain grim bondage shakes,
Famine with faded form is there,
And pallid grief, and sullen care,
And direful pestilence with death combin'd
Sweeping with wasteful scythe, the remnant of mankind.
Bright smiling peace with winged doves, descends:
And back to hell's abode Bellona's furies fly.
The land renews her wonted pride,
Her past'ral reed on green hill side
Resounds; the purple light of morn
Smiles o'er the vales of waving corn;
Peace soothes with healing hand a nation's stound,
And pours her lenitive in ev'ry wound,
Unlocks the current of Britannia's fame,
Her growing strength, her rising arts, her patriots kindling flame.
Two jealous realms, she calms their ancient hate,
Bids Freedom's banner wave, extends firm Union's golden chain.
No more two sister-nations wage
Detested war, with barb'rous civil rage:
The sword of parricide is stain'd no more,
And their descending faulchions blush with only foreign gore.
Till great Bavar and vanquish'd Gallia yield.
Till fame resound, and lasting laurels grow
To wreathe Britannia's crown, to shade her Malbro's warlike brow.
When George thy sceptre sway'd with ample reign
And mighty tyrants sunk beneath the light'ning of thy spear.
I hear thy naval thunders roar,
See Gallia tremble to her utmost shore,
See Ferdinand! thy triumphant banners sly
In Minden's fatal field; beneath another sky
I see thy tow'rs imperial Quebec bow!
Manilla's walls, Havannah's strength laid low,
While Scotland great in ev'ry field
Thy bloody faulchion thins the war, resounds thy dreadful shield.
In whom renew'd thine ancient glories burn,
Rise like the Phoenix from his parent's urn:
Like Mars another Douglas shakes the plain.
Campbell, Cathcart, and Murray bear afar,
Thy banners through the prostrate ranks of war.
Lothian, Montgomery see, the gallant Graham,
And mighty Stewarts build thy growing fame:
Another patriot, Scot, his country's prop,
Great Gordon, Hamilton, Lyon, gen'rous Hope,
Hay, Irvine, Primrose, Marchmont toil to raise
Fam'd Caledon thy tow'ring head, now blest with golden days.
By foreign fields and barb'rous civil rage;
George shuts war's adamantine gates, on golden hinges turn'd .
He calls his princely States around,
His Senate bold, yet faithful found,
To hear a kingdom's good display'd,
And prop the public cause by their confed'rate aid.
They come, they come, a Pattriot Band,
The envy and the dread of every land:
When HE the world's delight thus spoke from his imperial throne.
“On whom their oracle the listning world does wait,
“And scepter'd monarchs to enquire their fate,
“Attend like gracious Heav'n and seal their doom!
“By virtue's arts refine mankind,
“And train to what is great and good the fierce barbarians mind.
“Oppression curb, her lifted rod restrain,
“Nor hear the Gods blasphem'd, and justice plead in vain:
“But chiefly toil to build Rome's mighty fame
“On public virtues; quench the guilty flame
“That poison of our empire's weal, which taints her springs of life.”
“Not sordid gold, nor robes of Tyrian dye,
“Not revels loose of wasteful luxury,
“But temp'rance, like a virgin pure, unstain'd with modern crimes.
“Thus Curius bore your fame afar,
“And Scipio hail'd the thunder-bolt of war;
“And great Emilius rear'd his laurel'd head:
“A sober firm united soul,
“In these could all the subject world controle:
“Their wealth was glory, their contention great,
“To build with one consenting mind high Rome's imperial state.”
The scale of empire, while the nations come
From eastern Ganges, to enquire their doom,
And scepter'd Kings from India's western plain;
While millions thro' the peopl'd land,
Look to be bless'd, inspire the ardent band
Of chosen Patriots; rouse the extinguish'd flame
Of ancient worth, which the rude world did tame;
Blaze in the Senate till renew'd by thee
The Public Virtues rise in glorious harmony;
Till vice and faction from their throne be hurl'd,
And Britain's Empire rise the dread and envy of the world.
All historians allow, that, in the beginning of this fatal conflict, the King of Scots carried all before him, and, with the forces from the north, intirely routed that part of the English army, where the Earl of Surry had placed his son Sir Edward Howard, one, who, in respect of valour, and personal courage, was inferior to none.
James performed wonders, as the historian observes. He dismounted from his horse, and commanding all his nobles and gentlemen, who fought next his person, to do the like, he spread fear and death wherever he turned his force: but in the end, this brave battalion was overpowered by numbers. The noblest and bravest of the army then formed themselves into a ring, and refusing quarter, fought to the last, choosing rather to fall with that Prince by an honourable death, than to save their lives by an ignominious flight.
John Douglas Earl of Morton, with George Master of Angus, and many brave men of their vassals, were among the slain.
Archibald Campbell Earl of Argyle, Malcolm Stuart Earl of Lennox, William Sinclair Earl of Caithness, John Lord Maxwell, and his three brothers, Alexander Gordon Marquis of Huntly, were among many who made that day lamentable to their country by their death.
The river Till which rises out of Cheviot hills, runs by Wooler, and falls, after a winding course, into the Tweed. This the English passed at Melford, and hard by on a declivity, since famous by the name Flowdon, was this battle fought.
The invectives of modern scurrility and national abuse, cannot fail to rouse in every honest mind a just indignation. What venom of this kind has been of late vented to the shame of human nature! vented most undeservedly against a generous, free, and warlike people! The authors and abettors of such impotent malignity are equally contemptible, and the mischief they design'd, like the wicked counsel of Achitophel, recoils upon themselves. The glory of an intrepid, virtuous, loyal, and great nation will be acknowledged by future ages with admiration, while the very memorial of the man who reviles his country, defies his sovereign, and blasphemes his God, shall perish, lest even the recollection of such monstrous wickedness, should contaminate the principles of posterity.
Historians agree that the Roman legions never could reduce the Caledonians or North Britons, but contented themselves with building the famous rampart known by the name of Graham's Dyke, to restrain the inroads of the brave race, who, notwithstanding, carried fire and sword into the Roman Province, wearied out the patient valour of the legionaries, and obliged the emperors at last to relinquish all their conquests, and give up their claim to Britain.
King of Norway, now part of Denmark. He arrived nigh the island of Bute with 160 sail, 20,000 soldiers, was intirely routed especially by Alexander Stuart the great grandfather of James I.
The famous defeat at Bannockburn, when Edward II, engaging with a handful of brave veterans under Robert the Bruce, lost his whole army, and relinquished his conquests.
William Douglas son to Lord Archibald, laid waste England to the gates of York; gained the famous battle of Otterburn against Lord Henry Piercy. The young hero Douglas lost his life; and Piercy, with his brother, and many others, were carried prisoners to Scotland.
The uniting of two great nations, whose fierce contentions had often proved fatal to themselves, and spread terror and ruin among their neighbouring kingdoms. The forming these by the solemn consent of the states, into one firm, free, and happy constitution, is one of the most memorable events which we meet with in the British annals. Every man's particular advantage under the happy union of the two nations, obliges him to acknowledge so fortunate an event, and he must be very insensible who can look back upon these great patriots who brought about so excellent a state of union and government, and not feel his breast warm with gratitude; and worse than insensible, who can go about with malevolent designs to interrupt this harmony of government, and divide a nation against itself.
Under the present auspicious reign, the success attending the British arms has been as great and extensive, as was ever known in any period whatever.
This successful monarch has carried his victorious arms through every quarter of the world; places of strength the most remote, and deemed impregnable, have been reduced; the interests of Britain, and the glory of her arms have been supported through the Mogul's empire by an officer of character from North Britain, with lasting honour to his brave battalions, and with glory and advantage to his king and country. A great general, seconded by an experienced and successful admiral, have accomplished the conquest of the French empire in North America. The many laurels reaped in Germany by a great personage, whose courage, ability, and good fortune, will astonish after-ages, intirely humbled the pride of the enemies of Great Britain; and the great part which the Scots nation bore in all these conquests, has justly procured them the thanks of the country, and of the sovereign.
Our present sovereign brought the war, by his signal and repeated victories to a glorious conclusion. He gave laws to the two mighty monarchies of France and Spain; he gave peace like the father of his people to his kingdoms, and to the whole world. Ever ready to promote the good of his subjects, to defend their rights, to advance commerce, and the liberal arts, to temper judgment with mercy, it can be no flattery to compare him to that great emperor Titus Vespasian, whose beneficence and shining virtues intitled him to the appellation of deliciae humani generis, the delight of mankind.
A noble Roman, whose frugality and honesty was equal to his most undaunted courage: Having conquered Pyrrhus, he divided the lands of Rome, to every man four acres, saying, “None should be a captain, who could not live hardy like a soldier.” When offered a bribe by the enemies of his country, he rejected it with disdain, saying, “He would rather be ruler over the rich, than rich himself.”
A Roman senator, who, having long struggled to reduce the power of Carthage, sailed over to Africa, sack'd Carthage, and advanced the glory of the republic to its greatest splendor.
The elder Cato, a noted soldier, and moralist. He subdued great part of Spain. His grandson Cato Uticensis is famous for his opposition to Caesar, when he invaded the liberties of Rome.
Paulus Emilius. The disinterestedness of this Roman was remarkable. Having conquered Macedon, he brought all the spoil of that ancient and opulent kingdom into the public treasury, reserving nothing to himself, but the glory he so justly acquired by his uncommon love to his country, and his attention to support her interest.
THE CALEDONIAN HEROINE,
OR, THE INVASION AND FALL OF SUENO,
CANTO I.
The wild waves growl'd with deaf'ning sound,
As Eurus trump was heard to roar,
Must'ring his airy squadrons round.
Demons of death were heard to call,
In summons, where proud bulwarks stood,
In warlike strength round William's hall.
With hearts to conquer, or to die,
Eliza sat; her beauteous mein
Eclips'd by Sorrow's tearful eye.
Was veil'd; the charm of youthful bloom,
In clouds of grief; for she had wept,
An orphan, o'er her parents tomb.
No mother's wakeful care to tend,
No brother bold 'gainst hostile pow'r,
To rise the noble orphan's friend.
Her guide, her guard, sweet Innocence,
'Gainst worldly rapine, fraud, or scorn,
Her bulwark high, stood Providence.
How winged-fleets in dread array
Approach'd: the Scandian vulture bold,
With keen eye hov'ring o'er his prey.
Vengeful they fear nor wind nor wave;
They vow'd lost trophies to regain,
Or find their warlike kinsmens grave.
His banners streaming to the gale,
First Sueno rush'd with fierce alarms,
With him three thousand warriors sail.
With equal ships and equal host,
Like eaglet bent on spoil and blood,
The furious prince, his father's boast.
To launch keen shafts from Dofrine bows,
With ten ships o'er the billows flew;
Two thousand skill'd the train compose.
Hengist the Great, the Danish pride;
Two thousand axes arm his trains,
Eight tow'ring vessels stem the tide.
His northern bowmen Orca drew;
Their winged shafts of mountain wood
From sounding horn of Rein-deer flew.
Came Norvain, with three thousand spears,
Full richly deck'd in English spoils;
Now swift for Scotia's strand he steers.
Their Gothic swords in gore to steep,
All vengeful, for his kinsmen slain,
Fell Hubba plough'd the foaming deep.
Erst sent to scour the winding coast,
“Th' invaders march along the strand,
“From tempests 'scap'd a dreadful host.
“And fifty hundred spearmen bright,
“With warlike steeds and banner'd gold,
“To lord it o'er these walls to-night.”
“Good heaven's great help be here she cries;
“We fall the spoil of bloody foes,
“Whose outrage heaven and earth defies.
“Of Denmark! to behold, sad fate!
“These tow'rs laid waste, her rich domains,
“Eliza slave on Sueno wait!”
Of pow'rful passions seal'd her tongue;
Each bosom bled; while echoing loud
With female cries, the castle rung.
For heav'n the princely maid inspir'd,
She thus bespoke her vassals true,
In guise which drooping courage fir'd.
“Eager and mighty for the fray;
“But heav'n shall blast their vaunting pow'rs,
“Fell havock pierce their deep array.
“How my forefathers, just and brave,
“In bloody fields their standard rear'd,
“Their country's faith, or rights to save.
“Of glorious deeds perform'd by few;
“Then why shou'd chilling fears prevail,
“When heav'n these wonders may renew?
“Where our good King with noble host
“Of warriors meets, to ward the thralls
“Of bloody Suen from Scotland's coast.
“Heroic ardor fires my breast,
“And heav'n may send ere morning ray,
“An arm up-raising the depress'd.”
To drooping fields, new life convey'd,
To arm the brave, who from the tow'rs,
Now helms and blazon'd shields display'd.
Her banners of defiance flew;
Such was the sign, her bands repair
From neighbouring seats a dauntless crew.
Of Freskyn fam'd in Lochlin's wars,
Sinclair, whose bands in helmets shine,
Won from fell Nors with honour'd scars.
Reynald from Cleyn; great Alpin pours,
With archers skill'd, where o'er the wave
Fam'd Helmsdale lifts embattl'd tow'rs.
By ocean's stream, or Tain's so fair,
A host of brothers sworn to die,
Or rescue princely William's heir.
Rush'd iron portcullis harsh and strong;
Peal'd from the spire war's dreadful knell;
The warriors o'er the bulwarks throng.
Fierce ensigns streaming to the wind:
Flight and amazement mark their way;
Stalk Death and Solitude behind.
Rode gallant Suen', his Captains round,
Stern vet'rans train'd to war's alarms,
And now the herald-trumpets sound.
“Rebels! receive your rightful Lord,
“Nor madly dare in bloody strife,
“The rage of Sueno's conqu'ring sword.
“And Scandia's legions dare defy,
“Come forth and combat face to face,
“In bulwarks skulking cowards ly.
“These rich domains, this castle fair,
“With titles proud to crown his toils,
“The vanquish'd death, and black despair.”
With furious brigade, forc'd his way,
Nor mark'd where Alpin's bowmen stood
With winged deaths to meet their prey.
And thrice the feather'd jav'lins flew;
At ev'ry flight stretch'd on the plain
Full forty gallant Danes they slew.
Sign of retreat, he winds his horn,
Swore by his gods, the Danish lance
Should shake their proudest walls ere morn.
Purpling the plain and William's tow'rs,
Ush'ring the havock of the day,
And fiercely march'd the Danish pow'rs.
And soldier's pride his camp he plac'd;
The rivers urg'd his trenches fill,
And rising tow'rs his rampart grac'd.
His slings and archers ply'd the foe,
Till, pity it was, in random fights,
Full many a youth was laid full low.
Of arrowy sleet and missils came;
Back rush'd sierce sire-brands to devour
Their bulwarks whelm'd in stench and flame,
The little host their turrets grac'd,
A braver host on Scottish grounds
The rage of Denmark never fac'd:
And burnish'd arms, Eliza flew,
“Fight on, brave hearts, Hope in my breast,
“Still whispers what great heav'n may do.”
Her soldiers stern, till great design,
Which oft in female breast had veer'd,
Disclos'd 'gan every chief incline.
With num'rous host at Nessa lay;
And she must guide the monarch's sword,
Where branching friths perplex his way.
Begirt with select vassal pow'r,
To force her pass thro' num'rous foes,
What time the shades of ev'ning lour.
Eliza pass'd with silent tread:
Her champions to repel the Dane,
Hugo the bold, and Sinclair led.
His bowmen fell, like bulwark strong;
While valiant Cleyn with heart so true,
Maintains the tow'rs with daring throng.
Th' astonish'd watch awake and die,
By Hugo there they bite the ground,
Here Sinclair's waving sabre fly.
Where Orcas northern squadrons lay;
The Danish toils like lions tear,
Their hunters rend, a helpless prey.
In breach of war, with desp'rate band,
Young Orca falls by wasteful rage
Of valiant Sinclair's flaming brand.
The sire came on; his shafts resound;
Struck to the heart by deadly blow,
Young Reynold press'd the bloody ground.
Begirt with heroes, kindred train,
Till Finland's haughty chieftain lay
In fight by noble Hugo slain.
With savage rout, and shafts of death;
His bow the shield of Duffus wards,
Thy sabre, Hugo! clos'd his breath.
Th' exulting host prepar'd to hold,
When bloody Suen' with all his pow'r
By circ'ling march with-stood the bold.
With raging bands the Scots beset,
Like foaming wolves, by hunter's train,
Fierce baited in the tangling net.
With faulchions keen to hew their way;
And thrice in circling orb recoil'd,
Hugo repair'd his grim array.
And Langval brave and Torbol slew,
Fierce Duffus for his vassals life,
Cleft Ivar stern, and Dargo thro'.
Brave Sinclair from the front retreats:
By Hengist valiant Duffus stun'd
Is borne apart by faithful mates.
Where fates oppose; to Alpin calls,
“With active bows the Danes embroil,
“We fall or must regain our walls.”
The bulwark of his buckler strong;
Swift to the walls like lightning prest;
Like Parthian Alpin fought along.
Thro' foes they urge their bloody course;
And now the castle high displays
Her friendly tow'rs a near resource.
With speechless grief of Reynold slain;
To war he rush'd with faulchion rear'd
In dreadful sally, o'er the Dane.
Before him Acho, Helric, falls;
Dread in the pass, and stain'd with blood,
He guards Eliza to the walls.
With em'lous haste secure the gate;
Hung from the walls their trophied boast
Of Orca's arms, and flag of state.
And rampart high, the Fort inclose;
Again Eliza's toils renew,
Assail'd with hosts of barb'rous foes.
When night obscures, their savage pow'r
Invade the gates with barb'rous cry,
And raging storm, till morning hour.
Resolv'd on death before they'd yield,
Till savage numbers 'gan prevail
With perseverance o'er the field.
Despair unmans great Hugo's soul;
Their spears no more with success sped,
Their bows no more the Dane controul.
Fierce tribes with raging fury stung,
To burst the gates like thunder press'd;
Within lament and uproar rung.
The furious chief drew ev'ry eye,
As dread he strove with blazing brands
To scale, and fire the turrets high.
Redoubled axes rend the gates,
The murd'rer marks his trembling prey,
The sword of bloody slaughter waits.
Eliza! sack'd by fire and sword;
And thou with all thy loyal pow'rs
Hadst bled, or own'd a foreign lord.
The clanging trumpet's silver sound,
With trampling steeds, spoke succour near,
With shouts the hills and dales rebound.
He comes!—the King with all his host;
He comes like lightning from the skies,
Thou bloody Dane! to mar thy boast.
“Health to the brave in William's Hall;
“O'er Suen' the brand of death is rear'd,
“Come forth and see the invader's fall
The bands like long lost brethren meet,
Fond o'er her charge the guardian hung,
Their loud acclaims their sovereign greet.
“For other fates reverse thy loom:
“The ghastly train bestride the air
“To weave thy soldier's baleful doom.
“The web is wove, the thread is spun,
“Intwin'd with black despair and death,
“For Lochlin ere the setting sun.”
Yet mask'd his fear: with leaders haste.
His troops for battle to renew,
He sees them share the copious feast.
He fires his bands with records old
Of mighty hosts, and Kings laid low,
And vows the spoil to rouse the bold.
The King refresh'd with valiant peers;
Hears the fair dame her toils relate,
And with his praise and presence chears.
He charg'd Eliza's war-worn host
From toils of battle to refrain,
And guard their walls important post.
Gave ample space for war's array,
He bid the horns, with lordly frown,
Defy the Dane in bloody fray.
His red plumes dancing in the gale,
He shone and swore bold Suen' should bleed,
Nor one return to tell the tale.
With thronging helms and lances bright,
Like Sparta o'er the Malian bay,
Bold barons march the bands of fight.
With host, and horrent ensigns rear'd;
His trumpets pealing fierce acclaim
Of chiefs in mortal combat fear'd.
The English and Batavian arms;
Leslie and Weems with blazon'd shields,
Who trophies won in sea alarms.
Dread guardians of the Scottish shore,
Stewart, Lyon, led their martial trains,
And rous'd them with the tales of yore.
Sworn guardian to bold William's heir,
Great Athole march'd with daz'ling gleam
Of spears and bucklers sounding far.
Came princely Scot, his country's boast,
On milk-white steed in shining mail,
The chieftain rang'd his num'rous host.
Lothian explores his foreign prey,
With Nisbet fam'd in martial broils,
And Whitefoord march this deep array.
The flow'r and bulwark of the host,
Earl Douglas rode with glitt'ring spears,
And banner chief his rightful boast.
O'er Nubian mountains bends his way,
So he fair England's champions slain,
Came rous'd to rend the Danish prey.
His 'squire when Piercy he defy'd,
Rode trusty Colville of the Dale,
In ev'ry field and fortune try'd.
May to this faithful 'squire belong,
Yet shall the Muse record his fame,
Resounding in her future song.
Left all his store, a loyal heart,
Which envy's tooth cou'd ne'er efface,
Nor galling scorn's envenom'd dart.
Illib'ral fraud and malice raise!
What the mean effort to deform
Th' unfading plume of virtue's praise!
Can quench Hyperion's golden light;
And loyal Fame repairs her beam,
Like the fair star on brow of night.
The ancient name of Dornoch, the chief town in Sutherland, pleasantly situated upon the coast, and watered by the Firth of that name; it lies about ten miles to the southward of the stately castle of Dunrobin, the seat of the most noble and ancient Earls of Sutherland.
Bertha was a very ancient town and fortress, it stood on the south side of the Frith of Tay, at the mouth of the river Almond. Having been entirely demolished by an inundation of the Tay about the thirteenth century, it was soon after rebuilt by the Scots King, in a most agreeable situation, as a garrison city, and ever since, it bears the Chieftain's name of Perth, who was proprietor of these lands.
The noble family of Sutherland (now represented by the young Countess, the Lady Elizabeth, a minor) is inferior to none, and in the right of ancient nobility, has the precedence before all the Earls, being raised to the dignity of Earls of Sutherland, many centuries ago. The hero from whom they trace their descent was, according to the simplicity of these times, stiled Hugo Freskyn: his son, William, as appears by record, was Earl of Sutherland long before 1214. Sprung from the most ancient race of Scottish herpes, the records of their prowess and chivalry goes back to the wars of Fingal and Lochlin.
In the troublesome æra of Bruce and Baliol, they were distinguished for their supporting and defending the cause of their country against the insolent tyranny and oppression of Edward. And in the heroic age which followed, of Douglas and Piercy, their valour and attention to the public interest, was singular among the first.
Kenneth, the third Earl, march'd his clan along with Douglas, the regent, in that unfortunate expedition, undertaken to relieve Berwick, then hard pressed with continual siege by the English. The battle of Halidon-hill proved fatal, in which he was slain, after uncommon proofs of his undaunted courage against the vastly superior forces of the enemy. With him fell also Douglas, the Earls of Ross and Caric, with James, John, and Allan Stewart, uncles to Robert the Second: this battle was lost in 1333.
William, the fourth Earl, married Margaret, daughter of Robert the First, and younger sister to David, his successor. This prince, upon his return to the throne, after a tedious captivity, forfeited severals of the most powerful, for their cowardice and misconduct in the battle near Durham, where he lost his crown and liberty for so many years. It seems some of the nobility had most shamefully retreated, without striking a blow, while David was taken prisoner in the very center of the English army, fighting desperately to the last, and striking down his assailants with his gauntlet, after he had broken his sword.
Amongst others, he passed by Robert Stewart, his nephew by his eldest sister, and settled the crown, with the form of these old times, upon Alexander, son of Margaret; he even conveened the nobles, and prevailed with them, in public assembly, to swear allegiance to his nephew, as his heir apparent; but upon the untimely death of this most promising young nobleman, the design as to the settlement of the crown was frustrated, and Robert came again into favour. After the death of Alexander, William, his father, had other children by the King's sister; his eldest was William, fifth Earl of Sutherland.
See Buchanan's history of Scotland, lib. 9, c. 37.The applause, with which the Earls of Sutherland have done honour to nobility in later times, whether as heroes or statesmen, is well known, and needs not to be here repeated.
Now Inverness, the ancient town, or fortress; which stood on the south side of the river of that name, where it falls into Murray frith: it was built by Evenus Second, in such a manner as to serve either for war or merchandize, for Enner in the ancient Scots language, denotes a place where ships arrive.
Odin, or Woden, as we see from the Gothic Mythology, was the power who presided over war; his rites were most religiously observed by these barbarous nations, whose history contains little else than one continued sacrifice of war and inroad in honour of their chief Divinity.
Besides Woden, there were likewise the Vhalkyrhiuk, a troop of female Divinities, of inferior order, who seem to have been servants to the god of war; their name signifies the Chusers of the Slain. Mounted on flying steeds, they attended the warriors in battle, as so many genii, who presided over, and directed the issue of their bloody encounters.
With flaming swords they passed amongst the combatants, and in the throng of battle, selecting such as were destined for slaughter, conducted their victims to the awful Valhalla, that is, the Hall of Odin, or Paradise of the brave. There the slain were supposed to attend as servants upon the ghosts of their conquerors, whom they served in station of Cup-bearers.
See the Orcades of Thormodus Torfoeus, Bartholinus de causis contemnendæ mortis, or the beautiful Ode of the Fatal Sisters by the ingenious Mr. Gray.
The martial atchievements of this warlike branch sprung from the noble house of Douglas, and the memorable exploits of the other heroes here celebrated, may be seen at large in the historical tracts of Buchanan, Abercrombie, and other Scots writers.
CANTO II.
Quis Gracchi genus, aut geminos duo fulmina belli
Scipiadas, cladem Libyæ!
Virg. Æn. 6.
Peal'd on the harp the martial strain
Of Fingal's field, deign to inspire
Me, rudest of the tuneful train.
Of peers and courtly dames, my verse
May suit, while I, devoid of fear,
Their triumphs and their toils rehearse.
In front the chiefs in shining mail
For onset fierce the field divide;
And spread proud banners to the gale.
Defiance low'rs; and now resounds
The gen'ral charge: From many a bow
The darts o'er head, bear distant wounds.
Who long had sought with rival rage
Each other, thus in dusty plain,
With thund'ring sound the hosts engage.
The brigades rushing to the war,
The groans of death, the proud alarms,
Up the long dales re-echo far.
Thro' broken squadrons rends his way,
Siward and Horsa, 'mid their peers,
Pierc'd by his lance, expiring lay.
In mail, the vaunting Raymond stood:
By Douglas' spear the chief expir'd
His furious soul in streaming blood.
The victor spurr'd with foaming steed;
His silver trumpets pealing far,
The knell of many a warrior dead.
'Mid raging files, with arrowy flight:
Dread Hengist's pole-ax dyed in gore,
Heaps carnage round and wild affright.
Fresh wreaths, or perish with his host:
Already tears the trembling prey,
When Græme withstood the victor's boast.
His troops like lightning rush'd along;
In front his deadly lances shine,
Brandish'd to gore the Dofrine throng.
The slaughter'd heaps around him grew:
Great Hengist. wasteful on the plain,
He met, his thirsty jav'lin slew:
It quiv'ring stood; with clanging sound
The foe, array'd in maily vest,
Indignant, vaulted to the ground.
Dread Hengist on his rival sprung,
Whose thirsty spear arrests his course,
He falls; his brazen armour rung.
For vengeance bent his Dofrine bows;
Fierce archers ply with bloody speed,
Before them sink their vanquish'd foes.
With sounding shafts he urg'd his way,
'Till Leslie, Weems, repell'd the Dane,
Like raging wolf rob'd of his prey.
The Dofrine standard blaz'd afar;
“Yonder the prize! to grace the bold,
“Who trophies seek in tide of war.”
His conqu'ring sabre Leslie rears;
From Canute slain, his guards among,
The banner'd trophy Wemys tears.
With furious bows the archer came,
Swore to regain the martial spoil,
Or sink in dust his warlike fame.
The jav'lins flew with erring speed;
As fierce he drew a surer dart,
The victor's faulchion lopt his head.
Renown'd in many a dreadful field,
Victorious Bruce! with trophies hung
Of Danbrog slain his bow and shield.
The annals of her champion brave,
Still view succeeding patriots rise,
Like Phoenix from his parents grave.
Victorious March! 'mid closing fight;
That sabre often richly smear'd
In Anglia's blood, for Scotland's right.
Resistless; prone, amid' the slain
Orsin and Cadwall, valiant foes,
Who ensigns bore, he fell'd amain.
The chieftains quell'd the hostile crew:
The noble thirst of glory draws
The other wing with courage true.
Of quiver'd archers gall'd them sore,
Thro' helm and brazen hauberk cleft,
By Gala's ax they sink in gore.
Transsix'd by fierce Orellan thro',
He gash'd the Dane with bloody speed,
Then o'er his captive courser flew.
Breathing revenge, his cohorts round
Alric hung o'er his brother slain,
And heard Balclucho's trumpets sound.
Arrang'd his archers deep array,
Defying Scot, whose phalanx stood
With bristling spears to meet their prey.
I vow the sacrifice of death,
The vaunting foe who saw thy fall
Shall drench with blood the purple heath.
With warlike force their arrows drew;
Twangs the tough horn; thro' erring speed
They rarely gore the hostile crew.
His gloomy phalanx rends their way,
Now thro' the guards of Alric pierce,
While many a youth expiring lay.
His Dofrine bow now cast aside,
He cut his way with flaming sword,
In Foster's gore and Rogart's dy'd.
Before his steps with warlike cry,
Mid' thousand spears to Scot he prest,
With great revenge, resolv'd to die.
Invades the spoiler with his prey,
So he with grief and fury stung,
'Mid closing squadrons rends his way.
The chieftains close: In shivers flew
The spears; in fiery circles round
Their faulchions dire the charge renew.
Thro' riven shield like tempest broke;
There stay'd; as with decisive might
Great Scot impell'd his deadly stroke.
Fell woful gash'd: the gen'rous foe
Exclaims, O Alric, brave in vain!
Proud Denmark's plume in thee lies low!
Of Alric; deep with anguish stung,
His son came rushing to the van
With furious bow for slaughter strung.
Now Lochlin's glory lies full low,
While Scotland vaunts in Alric's blood,
Our shafts unstain'd inglorious show.
At Odin's feast, in bright abodes,
Where Scotland's King a slave shall wait
On thee, I swear by all our gods.
With tears thrice bath'd his gaping wound,
Then sought the King on bounding steed,
Where thronging banners wav'd around.
Great Athole rode, with gallant pride
His champion fam'd; his conqu'ring sword
In many a raging field was dy'd.
The Dane with archers forc'd along;
The arrows spring with bounding clang
Thro' Gray, and Malcom stretch'd along.
The glancing darts in shivers flew;
Runic and Thor with crested wreath,
The fiercest twain his pole-ax slew.
And cull'd a dart from quiver'd store;
“In royal eagle's plumage dress'd,
“Go drench thy wings in Monarch's gore!”
Athole assails with ardor meet;
And prone the Dane in streaming blood
Fell brain'd beneath his sov'reign's feet.
From Fortha's winding floods he came,
His sire, renown'd for loyalty,
In bloody fields had purchas'd fame.
In peace reposing vaunts his scars;
His steady clan, with lances bright,
Follow'd young Charters to the wars.
Full many a wasteful inroad made,
How Hay beneath his mighty hands,
And active Keith in dust were laid.
And stung beneath his Sov'reign's eye,
Follow, ye brave! your course I lead
To glorious death, or trophies high.
Th' inchanted standard seem'd to glow,
As shaking death and slaughter pale,
With ruin wild, on vanquish'd foe.
He pass'd the wings with courage true,
Their raven sign with daring arm
To seize like fire the hero flew.
What magic sooth'd thy fears! to yield
That son in battle to expire,
Whose arm thy tott'ring age might shield.
A thousand deaths are on the wing,
A thousand lances round him burn,
In air a thousand jav'lins sing.
Valour thro' these can burst its way;
Shouting he claims with matchless force,
In throat of death his destin'd prey.
Stern guardians of their magic sign;
They sink before his wasteful brand,
And with their lives their charge resign.
With trophy of immortal fame;
The King receives the glorious prize,
The host resounds his titl'd name.
And gath'ring firm his deep array,
By mad despair and fury torn,
He puts his fate on one essay.
The King of Scots, with barb'rous cry,
Th' invader rush'd 'mid thousand spears
Bent to regain, or bravely die.
Their idle bows were cast aside,
When Lothian's jav'lin mark'd its course
In noble Hubba's warm blood dy'd.
The Gothic chief gigantic towr'd,
With mace Herculean, to assail
The foe; his brow with vengeance lowr'd.
His blade, and forward fiercely sprung,
In vengeance for his country's cause;
With thundring storm their bucklers rung.
With brass emboss'd; as dread he drew,
With tempest aim to crush his foe,
Great Lothian pierc'd his body thro'.
To lave the Fort's embattl'd tow'rs,
Dalhousie led with martial show,
His timely reinforcing pow'rs.
Dismay and carnage: fleetly bound
His chesnut steeds while over head,
His axes crash with hideous sound.
Their leaders fall'n, the Danes retire;
For Orland, Rufus, pale as clay,
With Albert, by the chief expire.
And Regan fierce, and Rombald slew,
As Gaul his pond'rous mace uprears,
The shafts of Nisbet pierc'd him thro'.
The wasting ax descends amain;
Cleft from their warlike steeds to ground,
Full many a soldier press'd the plain.
Where war unconquer'd vengeance lowrs,
As Norvain fell with clanging shield,
And rally'd bands to battle tow'rs.
Led on the charge with daring frown;
The one fell prone by Oswald brain'd,
Balfour's keen ax hew'd Talgol down.
And flaming blade, Suen' urg'd his way,
Now thro' the royal band they pierce,
Now, shouting, claim the doubtful day.
She mark'd the peril of the King,
With succours brave, who ready stood,
She left the walls like hawk on wing.
'Mid beaming helms and lances throng;
In snowy plume and corslet vest,
Like Amazon she rush'd along.
Brave Hugo couch'd his quiv'ring spear;
And Alpin rode with bowmen dread,
Whose shafts the bleeding battle tear.
The Dane had push'd him from the field,
Till Douglas turn'd the Danish sword,
And rush'd with interposing shield.
The mountain torrents after rain,
And thunder thro', so rush'd the brave
With noise and ardour on the Dane.
The charge resounds, the conflict burns,
Till daring Norvain's warlike show
Fell in the van, while Scandia mourns.
And shook his horrent plumage high;
The battle shrinks: where Norvain rears
His ruby crest, they fall or fly.
And thrice great March repell'd the Dane,
As on with lances, dreaded far,
He rush'd, the captive maid to gain.
And fought to seize the blooming prize;
Vain were his vows, all vain his toil,
By March's steel the boaster dies.
The furious prince; Death shrouds his beam
Of hope; the trophies of his sword
Are vanish'd like delusive dream.
As rude he seiz'd Eliza's crest;
The sire who saw him ghastly groan
To great revenge his soul addrest.
With huge blades arm'd, and helms of brass,
Then at the King like lightning flew,
Cutting his way with dreadful pass.
“Thy life to sooth my Sueno's shade,
“Nor thine alone, thy servile bands,
“With blood shall drench my thirsty blade.”
Young Græme did couch his quiv'ring lance,
Too bold with loyal rage he stood,
And dar'd the Scandian to advance.
For thee the feast in Woden's Hall,
And I have sworn my Sovereign's prey
Thine arms and helm with plumage tall.
Which dash'd his crest resounding far;
Groaning and stunn'd before his lord,
His mates him bore from ranks of war.
With interposing Laing, he threw;
His steel high rais'd with vengeful force,
Transfix'd the King's proud courser thro'.
The King on foot defy'd the Dane,
Fierce to his aid, with loud alarm,
The nobles rush, a loyal train.
Like Volscian princess fam'd in song,
Eliza swift was seen to ride,
And send keen shafts amid' the throng.
When urg'd by fate, her arrow keen
Deep in Suen's shoulder drank the gore,
Like wounded bull more raging seen.
Assail'd the fair; with ardour meet,
Earl Douglas turn'd the brand of death,
Then charg'd the Dane like eagle fleet.
Encounter, foaming o'er their spoil,
Some heifer fair, the leaders twain,
Thus dread commence their warlike toil.
With clanging roar their bucklers close;
Aloft their circling falchions burn,
Thro' riven mail the crimson flows.
“Douglas admires thy prowess great;
“Heav'n blasts the laurels of thy host,
“Yield! and avert thy soldiers fate.”
The Dane replies; his thundring stroke
Cut sheer his rivals horrent plume,
Then on his shield like tempest broke.
Crossing in air: with matchless force,
As furious Suen' collects his blow,
His rival's steel arrests its course.
The Douglas' sword with gaping wound,
Like lightning brandish'd from the sky,
Fell'd bloody Sueno to the ground.
They rush'd amain on pointed death,
These fall by Græme's vindictive brand,
These crush'd by Athole dye the heath.
By Sueno's corse to end their toil;
They fall where Douglas dreadful stood
Like brindl'd Lion o'er his spoil.
His gallant 'squire in conflict slew,
Then seiz'd the arms of Scandia's lord,
And o'er his starting courser threw.
Now lies full low in Dourno's bay;
Thy schemes of lawless conquest crost,
Serve but to deck the Muses lay.
Shall Lochlin mourn thy warriors brave;
Long Norway's dames their loss deplore,
As sad they view the shipless wave.
Shall o'er the doleful story mourn;
His sire with Sueno plough'd the sea,
In ships that never shall return.
Hauberk was a sort of corslet, or armour, for the body, peculiar to the ancient warriors; it was composed of a net-work of steel ringlets, or of brass, frequently, as we read of them used in old times; this armour was light and easy in battle, and most proper in standing fight, being so pliable, and adapting itself to all the motions of the body.
The device portrayed on the Danish standard, was a raven, the proper emblem to denote the savage genius of that ancient and warlike people. Their leaders, that they might inspire the host with more invincible courage and assurance in battle, gave out how this banner carried with it a supernatural charm: how it was woven by the sisters of King Ivar, a most savage prince, how they raised a tempest while at work, and all the demons of destruction, who hung over the woof with their baleful influence; so that whenever it was advanced in fight, it should shake terror and destruction on the enemy. These very picturesque lines in the mask of Alfred, by Thomson and Mallet, contain the best account we meet with of this magic banner:
‘Wrought by the sisters of the Danish king,
‘Of furious Ivar, in a midnight hour:
‘While the fick moon, at their enchanted song,
‘Wrapt in pale tempest, labour'd thro' the clouds.
‘The Demons of destruction then, they say,
‘Were all abroad, and mixing with the woof
‘Their baleful power: The sisters ever sung;
“Shake, standard, shake this ruin on our foes!”
Alfred, Act. II. Scene 4.
Camilla, a princess of the Volscian line. See the beautiful description of this warlike maid. Virg. End of 7th Æn.,
CANTO III.
The vulgar rout like driven deer,
Rush to the shore, their ships to gain,
But Douglas follow'd on the rear.
To crown the glory of the day,
He towrs to fire with flaming brand,
The proud ships mooring in the bay.
His troops fierce waving torches bear,
Now tides of smoke involve the skies,
Now pointed flames their horrors rear.
The fleet in fiery tempest tost,
Founders with all the treasur'd store
Of arms and spoil from Anglia's coast.
The crimes of mortals to confound,
In flaming ire the tempest reigns,
And horror shakes the black profound.
Some mighty angel rides serene,
His hands the vollied lightnings fling,
His spirit rules the dreadful scene.
And shrunk before the scourge of fate,
The trembling bands now Douglas hear,
Thus stern denounce their servile state.
“Soldiers no more; by rightful doom,
“The sword devouring should consign
“Your pale trunks to a wat'ry tomb.
“Go him on suppliant knees implore,
“His bondmen captive by the sword,
“You hail high Scandia's hills no more.”
Slowly he cours'd the bloody field,
His 'Squire supports in ready hand
Sueno's huge sword, his helm and shield.
Tending the wounded and the dead,
They cry'd, but few of note are slain,
Though numbers of the vulgar bleed.
A chieftain's tomb his notice drew,
New grac'd with pillar'd mass around,
New hung with wreaths of fun'ral hue.
“Stern Sueno's breathless corse is laid;
“Here fall'n with all his gallant host,
“These rites shall sooth the soldier's shade.”
Cours'd silent down:—“And this the grave
“Of royal Suen' the fiercest chief
“That e'er did Douglas' falchion brave!
“Thy stain of lawless war shall rest,
“Thy bloody rage, thy ravage fell,
“Which oft dismay'd the firmest breast.”
With blazing lamps the tow'rs appear;
Eliza feasts, in courtly guise,
The King, with many a valiant peer.
Tell feats of arms, then boastful join
At feast or song; they rouse amain
Their joys with flowing cups of wine.
Glad Douglas hears, and now he pass'd
The sounding bridge; in war's attire,
With speed into the hall he press'd.
“To bright Eliza peace secure;
“Their navy burns; like fetter'd slave
“The crest-fall'n Danes submit their pow'r.”
At whose right hand Eliza sat;
And now the livry'd servants bring
In order rang'd the regal treat.
In streaming goblets circles round,
As happiest they at feast combine,
The toils of war with glory crown'd.
To solemn harp and trebles high,
Of champions bold, renown'd in verse,
The martial strains ascend the sky.
His silver'd age with laurel crown'd,
Fam'd Oscar sung with prophets fire,
While mute attention listned round.
How warlike Græme repell'd the Dane,
And bold Dumbar; while stain'd with gore,
The stream ran purple to the main.
O'er heaps of Danes; with sons so bold,
Themselves a host, their country's shield;
Like Samson o'er his foes of old.
Pour'd from his ships: o'er Clyde's fair strand,
They rush'd along with wasteful boast,
Like northern tempest o'er the land.
Like eagle from his rocky tow'r,
To combat rush'd with fierce alarms,
And faulchion dy'd in Danish gore.
His bands like lions to the fray;
Young Norway by his jav'lin bled,
His mournful navy plough the sea.
He sung of William's princely line,
The Chiefs that grac'd his hall of old,
Whose prowess 'mid the first does shine.
Who sought renown in Fingal's wars;
And valiant Eric by his side,
A champion fierce with honour'd scars.
Vindictive in his country's right:
On Scandia's shore defy'd the Dane,
And slew his chiefs in mortal fight.
The treasur'd gold; with lordly frown,
As Nors denied, his captive spoil,
He drag'd the tyrant from his throne.
The deeds of Orkney's valiant chief,
Whose navy plough'd the northern wave
For Eirin's king, a brave relief.
By mutual wounds, the chief return'd
With spoil and wreaths from Eirin's plain,
And long his valiant kinsman mourn'd.
His harp loud peals unusual sound,
“See other chiefs and heroes rise,
“With Patriots true and statesmen round.
“Circling their King, a loyal band,
“And now the trump of Fame I hear,
“Resounding o'er fam'd Albion's strand.
“Hangs o'er great William's early grave;
“Again new beams repel the shroud,
“As Cynthia gilds the dusky wave.
“In William's hall, a virgin fair!
“What princely peers around her wait,
“To guard the rights of William's heir!
“Belov'd of all, by heav'n caress'd,
“From whom descends a noble race,
“With growing fame and pow'r increass'd.
“Proclaim'd by fate with solemn sound;
“The happy æra pleas'd I see
“Arise with golden radiance crown'd.
“The clouds which guilt and malice raise,
“Shall Scotland chear with new born-light,
“As glad the world Hyperion's rays.
“As Venus gilds the western wave,
“Fair Græme be led with sacred beam
“Of nuptial torch to Douglas brave.
“And they shall join in Hymen's band;
“From heroes sprung the noblest pair,
“To gild with hope their native land.
“With glory new, his course to run,
“As Hesper gilds in western skies,
“His circlet from the setting sun.”
The silver harp: while charm'd around,
The peers attend as when he sung,
Then shout assent with joyful sound.
Much to the fair and guardian grave,
Profer'd his boon by right bestow'd
On her so loyal, wise and brave.
Begirt with peers and barons bold,
He thus began, with lordly state,
His sov'reign mandate to unfold:
“Distinguish'd praise, to fan the fire
“In this bad world, lest virtue fair
“O'erlook'd in noble minds expire.
“Skirted with hills and waving wood,
“Circl'd by Taine's fair swelling tide,
“And grac'd with walls and turrets proud,
“Shall blazon'd arms, and titles bright
“Bear with the first, as face to face
“You won them from the Dane in fight.
“Myself your champion here I boast,
“To come with all my valiant peers
“When e'er thy peace or right is crost.
“When pride and outrage play the Dane,
“I swear in thy defence to come,
“Your life, your honours, to regain.
“This regal signet I bestow,
“Which when you send in time of need,
“This arm shall lay invaders low.”
The golden verge; the blushing dame
Smil'd silent thanks on knee profound,
The chiefs their kindred joys proclaim.
The heralds peal her titles high,
Loudly the walls and tow'rs rebound,
As if they did the world defy.
Conveen'd in hall, or forest wide,
Protract the feast with jocund cheer,
Till morn array'd the green hill side.
Thus lawless rapine be laid low;
Still, like this host of brothers, may
Our peers repel the common foe.
Colville of the Dale: The first of this family was a French knight, who came over with Douglas, Duke of Turraine: that they were favourite vassals, appears both from the Scotch and English history. Their lands are now swallowed up into the vast estate of Douglas, but their loyalty has continued the same, never to be alienated.
Their most steady and most singular attachment to the cause and fortunes of young Douglas for these many years past, is sufficiently known to all the world, and therefore need not be any further taken notice of.
The objection made to this note does not hold, as it cannot possibly have any reference to the noble peers of this name, whose prowess in war in former and later times, has done honour to nobility.
That they have been eminent for power and opulence, as well as for courage and conduct, in old times, is manifest from the stately fabricks of their castles and Gothick seats in sundry places, as well as from history.
The tomb of the Danish king is still pointed out at a little distance from the castle of Dunrobin. See Bowen's geogr.
The Danes landed in Scotland about the middle of the eleventh century: attempting in vain to get footing in the southern counties, they sailed northward, ravaging the coast in their way.
They were at last entirely routed by Græme and Dumbar, who commanded the forces from Lothian, and came up with them at Coilen, a river in the north of Banff.
This alludes to the famous victory at the village of Loncarty, near to Perth. The Danes had ravaged all the adjacent country, and had well nigh taken the place, when Kenneth fought them to relieve his strong garrison there.
One of the name of Hay coming up with his three sons, after the Scots army was broken, recovered the day, and entirely cut off the invaders: He was nobilitate at the first assembly of the Scots peers, and the descendants of the hero bear his arms to this day, three red shields portrayed on a shield of silver. This battle was fought, anno 985.
In the 1263, Acho King of Norway invaded Scotland with a fleet of 160 ships and 20,000 soldiers; he was entirely defeated by Alexander Stewart of Rothsay.
This baron was great grandfather to Robert the Second, and one of the illustrious ancestors of the noble and ancient family of Bute.
The isle and sortress being thus recovered, give a title to the eldest sons of British sovereign. Acho died at Orkney through grief for the death of the Prince of Norway, killed in this invasion.
See Buch. history.The Earl of Orkney, with the northern chieftains, sailed round with a fleet and army to the assistance of Syctrig, king of Ireland. The Earl of Orkney, and Brian, the monarch, against whom they had come, were both slain. This battle was fought about the 1230. See Orcades, &c.
THE CYRNEAN HERO.
Whose loud acclaim from pole to pole is borne;
Whose godlike strife to save a sinking land,
To wrench the scourge from stern opression's hand,
To shield the last remains, the children brave
Of freedom of struggling 'mid the Tyrrhene wave;
The British youth shall mark with fond surprise,
And patriots feel their kindred passions rise;
More bold to plead for their invaded laws,
And grapple danger for the public cause;
The quell the storm when madd'ning factions roar,
Of tyrant Bourbon, from the hostile shore,
Like great Paoli, 'tend their country's call,
Resolved on conquest, or a glorious fall.
Now proudly lord it o'er thy native land!
And slavish yoke, to bend thy country down.
What tho' fell bondage shake her iron rod
O'er Cortes walls, glad freedom's late abode!
Yet brighter days shall gild the fav'rite isle,
And fate, relenting, on her warriors smile.
The race of Herc'les ev'ry danger braves,
Nor tamely bends to hosts of Latian slaves.
The public love each kindred bosom fills,
And pours her champions from a hundred hills:
Fiercely they rally o'er the Cyrnean shore,
And drench the island with invader's gore.
Still rends the yoke of galling slavery;
Renews the mortal charge with deep'ning roar,
Like the wild waves which dash her rocky shore.
Again high Cyrna lift her laurel'd head;
Again triumph in thy victorious sword,
The public father to his sons restor'd.
Who feels the pangs which rend thy patriot heart,
To sooth thy grief, her humble tribute bring
Of lenient hope, shed from her trembling wing;
Hope, our good Angel, with bright radiance crown'd,
With healing hand, allays misfortune's stound;
Dispels the gloom which adverse tempests raise,
And gilds dark providence with orient rays;
Points to the shipwreck'd mariner afar
His port, and guides him like the polar star.
Who shook the Syrian tyrant with alarms?
What steel'd the heart of Brutus, sternly good,
To save fall'n Rome, redeem'd by Cæsar's blood?
What led the Great, whose pinion'd fame does soar,
Thee Tamerlane! distain'd with eastern gore?
To face each danger, when in arms grown old?
'Twas the big hope still bounding in their breast
To save mankind, by tyrant pow'r opprest.
The harvest reap'd in iron fields, to see
Bless'd peace establish'd, and their country free.
To combat myriads in their country's right;
Victorious Alfred stain'd with Danish gore,
Her Edwards, Henrys, on the Gallic shore;
Their swords the scourge of heav'n, with vengeful glare
Shook o'er the foe dread pestilence and war;
While kingdoms, tyrants, shrunk before their frown,
Whose scanty legion shook the Gallic throne.
The land which trembling fear'd a foreign sword,
With grateful welcome hail'd her laurel'd lord;
Wing'd conquest led; grim bondage stalk'd behind,
In rattling chains, she for the brave design'd;
High-thron'd, her guardian spread the gifts of peace,
And freedom charter'd to a dauntless race;
They shar'd the golden sweets of liberty.
Bright soul of virtue! sacred source of pleasure?
Daughter of heaven! with every blooming grace
To charm the bold, and polish human race.
Without thee nature droops, and all we boast
Of country, friends, and kindred, all is lost:
The plume of grandeur fades, life knows no blessing;
No rich endearment worth caressing.
The world, a dreary, darksome prison lies,
Where all the soul of man within him dies;
Dies to each great design, the minion tame
Of guilty power, the slave of sin and shame.
How brave the vengeance of oppressive pow'r!
How, following fierce thro' toil, war, bonds, and death,
Resound the onset with their latest breath!
Unconquer'd struggle, or, should freedom bleed,
Sink, crown'd with glory, 'mid the honour'd dead.
Come from eternal splendors, from on high!
To shield the nations from despotic pride,
From rage and violence, usurping wide:
And teach them, rais'd to guard, with manly grace,
The native rights and honours of their race.
Dread Goddess, rise! Extend thine equal reign
From farthest Ind' to Zembla's freezing main:
But chiefly hover with benignant smiles,
Where 'mid old ocean tow'r the British isles;
Where thy true race, of mind and courage high,
Repel the yoke of wasteful slavery.
While dreadful o'er the subject waves is hurl'd,
Like Heav'n's, their thund'ring storm to shake a guilty world.
In senates bold no tyrant arts could tame:
Rouze them to feel for the atrocious deed;
Brandish thy terrors at the guilty head:
From mean submission vindicate the land,
And give the vengeance to thy dauntless band:
And foreign tyrants own Britannia's pow'r;
Whose Prince and people prop the general cause,
Supporting and supported by the laws;
While savage bondage driv'n abroad to reign,
Feels her own scourge, and bites her iron chain.
To rouse your rage at suff'ring Virtue's tale;
Then might the wretched, struggling with their fate,
Revere thine arm, which props each falling state;
Assert their rights beneath thy guardian care,
And taste the sweets which you profusely share.
Inrich'd with wisdom and with virtue's love,
Paoli rests in hope; nor aught abates
Of this prime anchor 'mid the frowning fates.
Ye mean usurpers, insolent through pow'r!
Hang forth your trophies from Aleria's tow'r!
Raze Freedom's seat! and when her sons complain,
Load them to groan beneath a heavier chain!
And sound the charge with thunder's dreadful voice!
The island trembles; but, estranged from fear,
Her pilot looks beyond where brightning skies appear;
Where radiant hope breaks o'er the ocean stream,
To gild her shores, like Phosphor's orient beam.
From friends, from kindred, from your native coast:
Honour'd and safe, by Thames' fam'd stream repose,
Nor dread the guile of Cyrna's vengeful foes.
Fair Albion joys thy kindred soul to trace,
And speaks her welcome with a fond embrace:
To shelter worth, and freedom fled with thee.
Her circ'ling seas a shining bulwark stand
To shield the patriot 'scap'd from Pharaoh's hand.
Here, while the tempests lour, and Bourbon waits,
The hir'd assassin of weak Latian states:
The mem'ry of thy country's wrongs efface
In great designs, to save a sinking race;
To pour the lenitive, with healing hand,
In aching wounds that rankle thro' the land;
And form with Roman skill the Cyrnean race,
'Mid war's alarum taught the arts of peace.
Here whet thy rage, that when the hour shall come,
When righteous heav'n shall seal the tyrant's doom,
Paoli may in awful vengeance rise,
To crush the proud, like thunder from the skies.
Secures thee Britain's wonder and applause:
Her peers, the pride and bulwark of the land,
The sons of freedom give thee friendship's hand.
To tame the dragon, foil'd with many an wound:
The scourge of tyrants grace thy modest gate,
To mourn with thee sad Cyrna's ruin'd state.
Behold! they come! Pembroke, of gallant soul!
Thy pangs to soothe, thy Cyrna's foes controul:
Rochford, to ev'ry courtly grace ally'd;
Rochford, the brave man's friend, and early try'd.
When pow'r and slav'ry forc'd the brave to bow,
Exalts her tow'ring front, and hastes to greet
The cause of liberty, with rev'rence meet;
Admires in thee the fire which blaz'd of old
In Græme, in Bruce, in Douglas firm and bold,
Who toil'd for Scotland in the throat of death,
And peal'd her triumph with his latest breath.
Her cities hail thee, and her senates wait
T'inroll thy name with chiefs and patriots great.
And early wreaths, from stern oppression torn;
First heard the clarion peal Paoli's name:
Left learned ease and Albion's blissful shore,
In distant climes thy fortunes to explore:
There brav'd infested seas, nor fear'd to go
Thro' hostile camps throng'd dire with freedom's foe,
Till every peril past, 'mid fire and sword,
Glad Boswell hail'd high Cyrna's warlike Lord.
And sullen bondage mourn her sinking scale:
Rehears'd the annals of thy rising state,
And leagu'd with Princes to avert her fate.
With ev'ry pang which rends thy patriot breast;
True cordial friendship glowing in his face,
In grief and joy he claims thy warm embrace:
Invokes high heav'n to vindicate thy right,
And rouses Europe to the glorious fight.
Expelling freedom from her fam'd abode:
The Mauritanian, smit with virtue's charms,
Ador'd the Goddess in her Cato's arms;
Arrang'd his myriads, kindling at the call,
To humble Cæsar, or with Cato fall.
By winding Forth rehearse my sonnets rude;
Nor rich to aid, nor powerful to redress,
The Muse may mourn with greatness in distress:
Aw'd by the frown of insolence and pride.
The sacred strains, to worth and freedom due,
Paoli! borrow dignity from you.
The tears we shed when injur'd nations groan,
Mount with their cry to the celestial throne.
The lot of man is stamped with grief and pain.
And she has mourn'd fell malice' poison'd dart,
And galling scorn, which gnaws the conscious heart;
And foul ingratitude, the worst of crimes,
To blast fair honour tried in bitter times.
Of these she well could plain her baleful song,
But patience checks, and other cares belong:
To tend the charge the Sov'reign Shepherd gave,
To feed my flock along the briny wave;
To watch their safety from the prouling croud,
But most from Man, oppressive, false, and proud.
There, whilst they haply brouze the wholesome flow'r,
On sunny cliff, or sport the harmless hour,
To charm wild eccho with my rustic lyre.
Or wand'ring, pensive, hear the brave complain,
And consecrate to Cyrna's Chief the strain.
Nor selfish shall the Muse's numbers flow
In partial plaint, but for the public woe.
The wrongs of outrage we have learn'd to bear;
Have learn'd to feel for worth, and give the tear,
The sacred tear o'er suff'ring greatness shed,
When anxious Britain veil'd her mournful head;
And pierc'd with horror at Matilda's fate,
Look'd on her Lord the Guardian of the state.
And follow still with heart estranged from sear,
With loyal heart, his noble soul will rise
In indignation at the Muse's voice;
To aid the cause by Britain's sons belov'd,
And right his friend in ev'ry fortune prov'd.
The Author in this Poem uses the antient name of Corsica, which was called Cyrnum or Cyrna by the Greeks, from Cyrnus, the son of Hercules, who was supposed to have been the first who planted a colony in that Island. See Stephanus de urbibus, or that curious and interesting History of Corsica, lately published by the ingenious James Boswell, Esq; of Auchinleck.
It will ever be remembered, with regret, how, after a bloody campaign, the French army intirely reduced the brave Corsicans. Paoli (now beset with traitors and assassins, the mercenary pack set on by lawless power to hunt down the brave and unfortunate) left the Island, where he could continue no longer with advantage to his Countrymen.
Landing in Italy, he passed through several states, where he was entertained with respect, and at length took refuge in England.
There all ranks seemed to contend in paying homage to Fortitude and Freedom in the Person of the great Paoli. He was carried to St James's, and there courteously received; suitable apartments were assigned him; the chief of the nobility attended his levee; and, whereever he passed, the people followed the Hero with public honours and applause.
This young Gentleman, who is Heir to an ample fortune in the west of Scotland, distinguished himself very early by his warm attachment to every good cause, and more particularly by his Writings in defence of Douglas, and of the Brave Corsicans. Animated by a very singular enthusiasm he left London in the spring 1765, and undertook a long and hazardous journey, that he might visit and connect a friendship with the great Paoli, who was then struggling to support his Country against the united troops of France and Genoa.
This enterprising Expedition of the Sieur Boswell drew after him the notice not only of the Literati, but likewise of all the neighbouring states who now considered him as on embassy from the Court of Britain about to interpose in favours of the brave islanders The narrative of his travels to Corsica, and particularly of the consternation and jealousy of the Genoese Senators, is both interesting and full of humour.
From the nearest shore of Italy he crossed over to Corsica, where the sea was beset with the enemy's ships. He was several times in the French camp, and, as he takes notice in his letter to the learned and philosophic Rousseau, in imminent danger of being punished as a spy.
After induring many hardships in a country which was all mountainous, and then the seat of war, he pushed his way across the Island, over almost inaccessible hills, and, having passed through much danger and fatigue, was at length introduced into the tent of the great Paoli.
See the late History of Corsica, by J. Boswell, Esq;. Occasional Poems | ||