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The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir

Edited by Thomas Aird: With A Memoir of the Author

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I. VOL. I.


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DOMESTIC VERSES.


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[_]

In the Churchyard at Inveresk there is a simple Tombstone, to which all the following little Poems, save the first and the Sonnets, bear reference. It is inscribed as follows:—

CHARLES BELL M. Died 17th February 1838, aged four and a half years.

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD M. Died 28th February 1838, aged fifteen months.

DAVID MACBETH M. Died 23d August 1839, aged four years and four months.

Of such is the kingdom of heaven.

Mat. xix. 14.


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SONNETS ON THE SCENERY OF THE TWEED;

INSCRIBED TO C. E. M.

[As we had been in heart, now link'd in hand]

As we had been in heart, now link'd in hand,
Green Learmonth and the Cheviots left behind,
Homeward 'twas ours by pastoral Tweed to wind,
Through the Arcadia of the Border-land:
Vainly would words portray my feelings, when
(A dreary chasm of separation past)
Fate gave thee to my vacant arms at last,
And made me the most happy man of men.
Accept these trifles, lovely and beloved,
And haply, in the days of future years,
While the far past to memory reappears,
Thou may'st retrace these tablets, not unmoved,
Catherine! whose holy constancy was proved
By all that deepest tries, and most endears.
June 1829.

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I. WARK CASTLE.

Emblem of strength, which time hath quite subdued,
Scarcely on thy green mount the eye may trace
Those girding walls which made thee once a place
Of succour, in old days of deadly feud.
Yes! thou wert once the Scotch marauder's dread;
And vainly did the Roxburgh shafts assail
Thy moated towers, from which they fell like hail;
While waved Northumbria's pennon o'er thy head.

Even so far back as the time of Stephen, Wark or Carrum was considered one of the strongest castles on the English border, and is the second of the five noted places enumerated by Ridpath, (Border History, p. 76,) as having been taken by David the First of Scotland, in 1135.

“Carrum,” says Richard of Hexham, “is by the English called Wark.” After two other close and protracted sieges, in 1138, it was at last taken and demolished, but not until the garrison had been reduced to the necessity of killing and salting their horses for food. They were allowed to depart, retaining their arms; and such was the Scottish King's admiration of their heroic resistance, that he presented them with twenty-four horses in lieu of those that had been thus destroyed.

Being afterwards rebuilt, Wark Castle was again besieged in the reign of Henry the Eighth; and Buchanan, the historian and poet, himself an eyewitness, gives a description of it as it then stood. In the inmost area was a tower of great strength and height, encircled by two walls, the outer of which included a large space, wherein, in times of danger, the inhabitants of the neighbourhood found shelter for themselves and cattle. The inner was strongly fortified by ditches and towers. It was provided with a garrison, stores of artillery and ammunition, and all things necessary for protracted defence.

The castle of Wark is now so entirely gone, that it is with some difficulty that even the lines of its ancient fortifications can be traced.


Thou wert the work of man, and so hast pass'd
Like those who piled thee; but the features still
Of steadfast Nature all unchanged remain;
Still Cheviot listens to the northern blast,
And the blue Tweed winds murmuring round thy hill;
While Carham whispers of the slaughter'd Dane.

Carham was the scene of a great and decisive defeat of the Danes by the Northumbrian Saxons. It was formerly the seat of an Abbey of Black Canons, subordinate to Kirkham in Yorkshire. Wallace, whose encampment gave name to an adjoining field, burned it down in 1295.

The present church, overshadowed by fine old trees, stands directly on the banks of the Tweed. At its altar the Author took upon himself the matrimonial vows.



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II. DRYBURGH ABBEY.

Beneath, Tweed murmur'd 'mid the forests green:
And through thy beech-tree and laburnum boughs,
A solemn ruin, lovely in repose,
Dryburgh! thine ivy'd walls were greyly seen:
Thy court is now a garden, where the flowers
Expand in silent beauty, and the bird,
Flitting from arch to arch, alone is heard
To cheer with song the melancholy bowers.
Yet did a solemn pleasure fill the soul,
As through thy shadowy cloistral cells we trode,
To think, hoar pile! that once thou wert the abode
Of men, who could to solitude control
Their hopes—yea! from Ambition's pathways stole,
To give their whole lives blamelessly to God!

The monks of the beautifully situated Abbey of Dryburgh belonged to the order of Premonstratenses, or White Canons. According to Ridpath, (p. 87,) the Monastery of Dryburgh was built by the Constable Hugh de Moreville; but this appears doubtful, as, from a charter of King David, published by Dugdale, (Monasticon, vol. ii.,) and said to have been copied from the original by Sir John Balfour, the foundation of the Church of St Mary at Dryburgh is distinctly attributed to that monarch. Be this as it may, it was founded in 1141.

At the Reformation, Dryburgh Abbey became the property of the Halliburtons of Newmains, ultimately represented by “the Mighty Minstrel” whose ashes rest there, in the cemetery of that ancient family. It is now the seat of the Earl of Buchan.



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III. MELROSE ABBEY.

Summer was on thee—the meridian light,
And, as we wander'd through thy column'd aisles,
Deck'd all thy hoar magnificence with smiles,
Making the rugged soft, the gloomy bright.
Nor was reflection from us far apart,
As clomb our steps thy lone and lofty stair,
Till, gain'd the summit, tick'd in silent air
Thine ancient clock, as 'twere thy throbbing heart.
Monastic grandeur and baronial pride
Subdued—the former half, the latter quite,
Pile of king David! to thine altar's site,
Full many a footstep guides, and long shall guide;
Where they repose, who met not, save in fight—
And Douglas sleeps with Evers, side by side!

For a detailed account of the battle of Ancrum Moor, where Lord Evers and his son were slain, see Tytler's Scotland, vol. v. p. 380-384; or Appendix to that noble ballad “The Eve of St John.”—(Border Minstrelsy, vol. iv.)

The chivalrous Douglas, killed at Otterburn in the fight with Percy, was interred beneath the high altar of Melrose, “hys baner hangyng over hym.”—(Froissart, vol. ii.) William Douglas, called the Black Knight of Liddesdale, was also buried here with great pomp and pageantry.—(Godscroft's History of the House of Douglas, vol. ii. p. 123.) His tomb is still shown.

In the battle of Anerum Moor, according to Ridpath, eight hundred of the English were killed, with both their leaders, Evers and Latoun; and a thousand taken prisoners. The Scots are said to have lost only two of their number, and to have treated their enemies with great barbarity.—(Border History, p. 553.)

It is strongly suspected, however, that the Scottish historians have not given a fair account of their loss. “Parta autem victoria,” says Lesly, (p. 478,) “ita in fugientes sævitum est, ut nihil illustre postea gesserimus, quin potius luculenta ad Musselburghum plaga accepta maximas summæ immanitatis pœnas dederimus.”



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IV. ABBOTSFORD.

The calm of evening o'er the dark pine-wood
Lay with an aureate glow, as we explored
Thy classic precincts, hallow'd Abbotsford!
And at thy porch in admiration stood:
We felt thou wert the work, th' abode of Him
Whose fame hath shed a lustre on our age,
The mightiest of the mighty!—o'er whose page
Thousands shall hang, until Time's eye grow dim;
And then we thought, when shall have pass'd away
The millions now pursuing life's career,
And Scott himself is dust, how, lingering here,
Pilgrims from all the lands of earth shall stray
Amid thy cherish'd ruins, and survey
The scenes around, with reverential fear!

This sonnet has been honoured by a translation into Italian— by an accomplished scholar of that country—which appeared in Blackwood's Magazine, November 1829.



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V. NIDPATH CASTLE.

Stern, rugged pile! thy scowl recalls the days
Of foray and of feud, when, long ago,
Homes were thought worthy of reproach or praise
Only as yielding safeguards from the foe:
Over thy gateways the armorial arms
Proclaim of doughty Douglases, who held
Thy towers against the foe, and thence repell'd
Oft, after efforts vain, invasion's harms.
Eve dimm'd the hills, as, by the Tweed below,
We sat where once thy blossomy orchards smiled,
And yet where many an apple-tree grows wild,
Listening the blackbird, and the river's flow;
While, high between us and the sunset glow,
Thy giant walls seem'd picturesquely piled.

Associated with this ancient Castle, the reader of poetry cannot fail to remember the delicately beautiful legend, regarding a daughter of one of the Earls of March and the young Laird of Tushielaw, as it has afforded a theme for the muse of two of our most celebrated contemporaries—to Sir Walter Scott, in his ballad “The Maid of Neidpath;” and to Mr Campbell, in his song of “Earl March looked on his dying child.”

The Castle itself is more distinguished for strength than architectural beauty; and was built by the powerful family of Frazer, from which it passed, by intermarriage, into that of the Hays of Yester, ancestors of the Marquis of Tweeddale. In 1686, the second Earl sold his estates in Peebles-shire to the first Duke of Queensberry, who settled them on his second son, the Earl of March. At the death of the last Duke, the Castle and adjoining estate fell, by succession, to the present Earl of Wemyss, who also assumed the title of Earl of March.



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VI. “THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR.”

As speaks the sea-shell from the window-sill
Of cottage-home, far inland, to the soul
Of the bronzed veteran, till he hears the roll
Of ocean 'mid its islands chafing still;
As speaks the love-gift to the lonely heart
Of her, whose hopes are buried in the grave
Of him, whom tears, prayer, passion could not save,
And Fate but link'd, that Death might tear apart,—
So speaks the ancient melody of thee,
Green “Bush aboon Traquair,” that from the steep
O'erhang'st the Tweed—until, mayhap afar,
In realms beyond the separating sea,
The plaided Exile, 'neath the Evening Star,
Thinking of Scotland, scarce forbears to weep!

The charming pastoral air, called “The Bonny Bush aboon Traquair,” is of great antiquity—indeed, is considered one of the very oldest which has come down to us; but the original words have been long since lost. The verses to which the melody was afterwards adapted, and to which it is now sung, were the composition of Crauford, the author of “Tweedside,” and other popular songs, and first appeared in the Orpheus Caledonius, 1725. Along with “The Flowers of the Forest,” “The Broom of the Cowden-knowes,” “Polwarth on the Green,” “Fair Helen of Kirkconnel Lee,” and others indigenous to the south of Scotland, it may be adduced as a specimen of what Wordsworth so beautifully designates, the

—“Old songs,
The precious music of the heart.”

A few solitary scraggy trees, on a slope overlooking the lawn of Traquair House, mark out the site of the ancient “Bush.” Not far distant from these a clump has been planted, which is called “The New Bush.” But the spell is untranslateable.



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TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, E. C. M.

I

There is no sound upon the night,
As by the shaded lamp I trace,
My babe, in smiling beauty bright,
The changes of thy sleeping face.

II

Hallow'd to us shall be the hour,
Yea, sacred through all time to come,
Which gave us thee, a living flower,
To bless and beautify our home.

III

Thy presence is a charm, which wakes
A new creation to my sight;
Gives life another hue, and makes
The wither'd green, the faded bright.

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IV

Pure as a lily of the brook,
Heaven's signet on thy forehead lies,
And Heaven is read in every look,
My Daughter, of thy soft blue eyes!

V

In sleep thy gentle spirit seems
To some bright realm to wander back;
And seraphs, mingling with thy dreams,
Allure thee to their shining track.

VI

Already, like a vernal flower,
I see thee opening to the light,
And day by day, and hour by hour,
Becoming more divinely bright.

VII

Yet in my gladness stirs a sigh,
Even for the blessing of thy birth,
Knowing how sins and sorrows try
Mankind, and darken o'er the earth.

VIII

Ah! little dost thou ween, my child,
The dangers of the way before;
How rocks in every path are piled,
Which few, unharm'd, can clamber o'er.

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IX

Sweet bud of beauty! how wilt thou
Endure the bitter tempest's strife?
Shall thy blue eyes be dimm'd, thy brow
Indented by the cares of life?

X

If years are destined thine, alas!
It may be—ah! it must be so:
For all that live and breathe, the glass
Which must be quaff'd, is drugg'd with woe.

XI

Yet, could a Father's prayers avail,
So calm thy skies of life should be,
That thou should'st glide beneath the sail
Of virtue, on a stormless sea:

XII

And ever on thy thoughts, my child,
This sacred truth should be impress'd—
Grief clouds the soul to sin beguil'd;
Who liveth best, God loveth best:

XIII

Across thy path Religion's star
Should ever shed its healing ray,
To lead thee from this world's vain jar,
To scenes of peace and purer day.

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XIV

Shun Vice—the breath of her abode
Is poison'd, though with roses strewn—
And cling to Virtue; though the road
Be thorny, boldly travel on.

XV

Yes; travel on—nor turn thee round,
Though dark the way and deep the shade;
Till on that shore thy feet be found,
Where bloom the palms that never fade.

XVI

For thee I ask not riches—thou
Wert wealthy with a spotless name;
I ask not beauty—for thy brow
Is fair as Fancy's wish could claim.

XVII

Be thine a spirit loathing guilt,
To duty wed, from malice free;
Be like thy Mother—and thou wilt
Be all my soul desires to see!
May 1830.

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CASA WAPPY.

I

And hast thou sought thy heavenly home,
Our fond, dear boy—
The realms where sorrow dare not come,
Where life is joy?
Pure at thy death, as at thy birth,
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth,
Even by its bliss we mete our dearth,
Casa Wappy!

II

Despair was in our last farewell,
As closed thine eye;
Tears of our anguish may not tell,
When thou didst die;
Words may not paint our grief for thee,
Sighs are but bubbles on the sea
Of our unfathom'd agony,
Casa Wappy!

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III

Thou wert a vision of delight
To bless us given;
Beauty embodied to our sight—
A type of Heaven:
So dear to us thou wert, thou art
Even less thine own self, than a part
Of mine, and of thy Mother's heart,
Casa Wappy!

IV

Thy bright, brief day knew no decline—
'Twas cloudless joy;
Sunrise and night alone were thine,
Beloved boy!
This morn beheld thee blithe and gay;
That found thee prostrate in decay;
And, ere a third shone, clay was clay,
Casa Wappy!

V

Gem of our hearth, our household pride,
Earth's undefiled,
Could love have saved, thou hadst not died,
Our dear, sweet child!
Humbly we bow to Fate's decree;
Yet had we hoped that Time should see
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee,
Casa Wappy!

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VI

Do what I may, go where I will,
Thou meet'st my sight;
There dost thou glide before me still—
A form of light!
I feel thy breath upon my cheek,
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak,
Till oh! my heart is like to break,
Casa Wappy!

VII

Methinks, thou smil'st before me now,
With glance of stealth;
The hair thrown back from thy full brow
In buoyant health:
I see thine eyes' deep violet light,
Thy dimpled cheek carnation'd bright,
Thy clasping arms so round and white,
Casa Wappy!

VIII

The nursery shows thy pictured wall,
Thy bat, thy bow,
Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball;
But where art thou?
A corner holds thine empty chair;
Thy playthings idly scatter'd there,
But speak to us of our despair,
Casa Wappy!

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IX

Even to the last, thy every word—
To glad—to grieve—
Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird
On summer's eve;
In outward beauty undecay'd,
Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade,
And, like the rainbow, thou didst fade,
Casa Wappy!

X

We mourn for thee, when blind blank night
The chamber fills;
We pine for thee, when morn's first light
Reddens the hills;
The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea,
All—to the wall-flower and wild-pea—
Are changed: we saw the world thro' thee,
Casa Wappy!

XI

And though, perchance, a smile may gleam
Of casual mirth,
It doth not own, whate'er may seem,
An inward birth:
We miss thy small step on the stair;
We miss thee at thine evening prayer;
All day we miss thee—every where—
Casa Wappy!

20

XII

Snows muffled earth when thou didst go,
In life's spring-bloom,
Down to the appointed house below—
The silent tomb.
But now the green leaves of the tree,
The cuckoo, and “the busy bee,”
Return; but with them bring not thee,
Casa Wappy!

XIII

'Tis so; but can it be—(while flowers
Revive again)—
Man's doom, in death that we and ours
For aye remain?
Oh! can it be, that, o'er the grave,
The grass renew'd should yearly wave,
Yet God forget our child to save?—
Casa Wappy!

XIV

It cannot be; for were it so
Thus man could die,
Life were a mockery—Thought were woe—
And Truth a lie—
Heaven were a coinage of the brain—
Religion frenzy—Virtue vain—
And all our hopes to meet again,
Casa Wappy!

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XV

Then be to us, O dear, lost child!
With beam of love,
A star, death's uncongenial wild
Smiling above!
Soon, soon, thy little feet have trode
The skyward path, the seraph's road,
That led thee back from man to God,
Casa Wappy!

XVI

Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair,
Fond, fairest boy,
That Heaven is God's, and thou art there,
With Him in joy!
There past are death and all its woes,
There beauty's stream for ever flows,
And pleasure's day no sunset knows,
Casa Wappy!

XVII

Farewell, then—for a while, farewell—
Pride of my heart!
It cannot be that long we dwell,
Thus torn apart:
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee;
And, dark howe'er life's night may be,
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee,
Casa Wappy!
March 1838.
 

The self-appellative of a beloved child.


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WEE WILLIE.

I

Fare-thee-well, our last and fairest,
Dear wee Willie, fare-thee-well!
God, who lent thee, hath recall'd thee
Back, with Him and His to dwell:
Fifteen moons their silver lustre
Only o'er thy brow had shed,
When thy spirit join'd the seraphs,
And thy dust the dead.

II

Like a sunbeam, thro' our dwelling
Shone thy presence, bright and calm;
Thou didst add a zest to pleasure,
To our sorrows thou wert balm;—
Brighter beam'd thine eyes than summer;
And thy first attempt at speech
Thrill'd our heartstrings with a rapture
Music ne'er could reach.

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III

As we gazed upon thee sleeping,
With thy fine fair locks outspread,
Thou didst seem a little angel,
Who to earth from Heaven had stray'd;
And, entranced, we watch'd the vision,
Half in hope, and half affright,
Lest what we deem'd ours, and earthly,
Should dissolve in light.

IV

Snows o'ermantled hill and valley,
Sullen clouds begrimed the sky,
When the first drear doubt oppress'd us,
That our child was doom'd to die.
Through each long night-watch, the taper
Show'd the hectic of his cheek;
And each anxious dawn beheld him
More worn out and weak.

V

Oh, the doubts, the fears, the anguish
Of a parent's brooding heart,
When despair is hovering round it,
And yet hope will scarce depart—
When each transient flush of fever
Omens health's returning light,
Only to involve the watchers
'Mid intenser night!

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VI

'Twas even then Destruction's angel
Shook his pinions o'er our path,
Seized the rosiest of our household,
And struck Charlie down in death!
Fearful, awful! Desolation
On our lintel set his sign;
And we turn'd from his quick death-scene,
Willie, round to thine!

VII

Like the shot-star in blue midnight,
Like the rainbow, ray by ray,
Thou wert waning as we watch'd thee,
Loveliest, in thy last decay!
As a zephyr, so serenely
Came and went thy last, low breath,
That we paused, and ask'd our spirits—
Is it so? Can this be death?

VIII

As the beams of Spring's first morning
Through the silent chamber play'd,
Lifeless, in my arms I raised thee,
And in thy small coffin laid;
Ere the day-star with the darkness
Nine times had triumphant striven,
In one grave had met your ashes,
And your souls in Heaven!

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IX

Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms
Of our hopes, our hearts, our hearth;
Two asleep lie buried under—
Three for us yet gladden earth.
Thee, our hyacinth, gay Charlie—
Willie, thee our snow-drop pure—
Back to us shall second spring-time
Never more allure!

X

Yet while thinking, oh! our lost ones,
Of how dear ye were to us,
Why should dreams of doubt and darkness
Haunt our troubled spirits thus?
Why across the cold dim churchyard
Flit our visions of despair?
Seated on the tomb, Faith's angel
Says, “Ye are not there!”

XI

Where, then, are ye? With the Saviour
Blest, for ever blest, are ye,
'Mid the sinless, little children,
Who have heard his “Come to me!”
'Yond the shades of death's dark valley
Now ye lean upon his breast,
Where the wicked dare not enter,
And the weary rest.

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XII

We are wicked—we are weary—
For us pray and for us plead;
God, who ever hears the sinless,
May through you the sinful heed:
Pray that, through the Mediator,
All our faults may be forgiven;
Plead that ye be sent to greet us
At the gates of Heaven!
March 1838.

CASA'S DIRGE.

I

Vainly for us the sunbeams shine,
Dimm'd is our joyous hearth;
O Casa, dearer dust than thine
Ne'er mixed with mother earth!
Thou wert the corner-stone of love,
The keystone of our fate;
Thou art not! Heaven scowls dark above,
And earth is desolate!

27

II

Ocean may rave with billows curl'd,
And moons may wax and wane,
And fresh flowers blossom; but this world
Shall claim not thee again.
Closed are the eyes which bade rejoice
Our hearts till love ran o'er;
Thy smile is vanish'd, and thy voice
Silent for evermore!

III

Yes; thou art gone—our hearth's delight,
Our boy so fond and dear;
No more thy smiles to glad our sight,
No more thy songs to cheer;
No more thy presence, like the sun,
To fill our home with joy:
Like lightning hath thy race been run,
As bright as swift, fair boy.

IV

Now winter, with its snow departs,
The green leaves clothe the tree;
But summer smiles not on the hearts
That bleed and break for thee:
The young May weaves her flowery crown,
Her boughs in beauty wave;
They only shake their blossoms down
Upon thy silent grave.

28

V

Dear to our souls is every spot
Where thy small feet have trod;
There odours, breathed from Eden, float,
And sainted is the sod;
The wild-bee with its buglet fine,
The blackbird singing free,
Melt both thy Mother's heart and mine—
They speak to us of thee!

VI

Only in dreams thou comest now
From Heaven's immortal shore,
A glory round that infant brow,
Which Death's pale signet bore:
'Twas thy fond looks, 'twas thy fond lips,
That lent our joys their tone;
And life is shaded with eclipse,
Since thou from earth art gone.

VII

Thine were the fond, endearing ways,
That tenderest feeling prove;
A thousand wiles to win our praise,
To claim and keep our love;
Fondness for us thrill'd all thy veins;
And, Casa, can it be
That nought of all the past remains
Except vain tears for thee?

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VIII

Idly we watch thy form to trace
In children on the street;
Vainly, in each familiar place,
We list thy pattering feet;
Then, sudden, o'er these fancies crush'd,
Despair's black pinions wave;
We know that sound for ever hush'd—
We look upon thy grave.

IX

O heavenly child of mortal birth!
Our thoughts of thee arise,
Not as a denizen of earth,
But inmate of the skies:
To feel that life renew'd is thine,
A soothing balm imparts;
We quaff from out Faith's cup divine,
And Sabbath fills our hearts.

X

Thou leanest where the fadeless wands
Of amaranth bend o'er;
Thy white wings brush the golden sands
Of Heaven's refulgent shore.
Thy home is where the psalm and song
Of angels choir abroad;
And blessed spirits, all day long,
Bask round the throne of God.

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XI

There chance and change are not; the soul
Quaffs bliss as from a sea,
And years, through endless ages, roll,
From sin and sorrow free:
There gush for aye fresh founts of joy,
New raptures to impart;
Oh! dare we call thee still our boy,
Who now a seraph art?

XII

A little while—a little while—
Ah! long it cannot be!
And thou again on us wilt smile,
Where angels smile on thee.
How selfish is the worldly heart—
How sinful to deplore!
Oh! that we were where now thou art,
Not lost, but gone before.

The almost Christian sentiment of the great heathen moralist, Seneca.


April 1838.

31

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

TO THE MEMORY OF D. M. M.

I

Brightly the sun illumes the skies,
But Nature's charms no bliss impart;
A cloud seems spread before the eyes,
Whose wintry shadow chills the heart:
Oh! eyes that, for my children's sake,
Have poured forth tears like summer rain!
Oh! breaking heart, that will not break,
Yet never can be whole again!

II

Two years agone, and where shone hearth
So fraught with buoyant mirth as ours?
Five fairies knit our thoughts to earth
With bands like steel, tho' wreath'd of flowers:
How wildly warm, how softly sweet,
The spells that bade our hearts rejoice;
While echo'd round us pattering feet,
And voices—that seem'd Joy's own voice!

32

III

Then light and life illumed each eye,
And rapture beam'd from each young brow,
And eager forms were flitting by,
That would not—could not rest; but now—
The light is quench'd, the life is fled;
Where are the feet that bounded free?
Thrice have we wept the early dead,
And one small grave-turf covers three!

IV

The spell is broken! never more
Can mortal life again seem gay;
No future ever can restore
The perish'd and the past away!
Though many a blessing gilds our lot,
Though bright eyes still our hearth illume;
Yet, O dear lost ones! ye are not,
And half the heart is in your tomb!

V

Sudden it fell, the fatal shaft,
That struck blithe Charlie down in death;
And, while Grief's bitterest cup we quaff'd,
We turned to watch wee Willie's breath,
That faintly ebb'd, and ebb'd away,
Till all was still; and, ere the sun
A tenth time shed his parting ray,
Their bed of dreamless rest was one!

33

VI

And next, dear David, thou art gone!
Beloved boy, and can it be,
That now to us remains alone
Our unavailing grief for thee?
Yet, when we trace thine upward track
To where immortal spirits reign,
We do not, dare not, wish thee back—
Back to this world of care again!

VII

Summer was on the hills; the trees
Were bending down with golden fruit;
The bushes seem'd alive with bees,
And birds whose songs were never mute;
But 'twas even then, dear boy, when flowers,
O'ermantling earth, made all things gay,
That winter of the heart was ours,
And thine the hues of pale decay!

VIII

Yes! David, but two moons agone,
And who so full of life as thou?
An infant Samson, vigour shone
In thy knit frame and fearless brow.
Oh! how our inmost souls it stirr'd,
To listen to thine alter'd tongue,
And see thee moping like a bird,
Whose strength was like the lion's young.

34

IX

Yet so it was;—and, day by day,
Unquench'd thy thirst for sun and air,
Down the smooth walks, with blossoms gay,
We wheel'd thee in thy garden-chair;
And as we mark'd thy languid eye,
Wistful, the beds of bloom survey,
We dared not think thou wert to die,
Even in a briefer space than they.

X

Now gleams the west, a silver sea
Besprent with clouds of wavy gold;
Earth looks like Eden; can it be
That all thy days and nights are told?
Is there no voice, whose potent sway,
Can pierce through Death's Cimmerian gloom,
Can bid the dead awake, and say—
“Arise! 'tis morning in the tomb?”

XI

Yes! such there is; and thou that voice
Hast heard—hast heard it, and obey'd;
And we should mourn not, but rejoice
That Heaven is now thy dwelling made—
That thou hast join'd thy brothers lost—
That thou hast reach'd a happy shore,
Where peace awaits the tempest-tost,
And stormy billows rage no more.

35

XII

Three blessed beings! ye are now
Where pangs and partings are unknown,
Where glory girds each sainted brow,
And golden harps surround the throne:
Oh! to have hail'd that blissful sight,
Unto the angels only given,
When thy two brothers, robed in light,
Embraced thee at the gates of Heaven!

XIII

David, farewell! our mourning thus
We know 'tis vain; it may not be
That thou can'st come again to us,
But we, dear child, will go to thee:

“When David saw that his servants whispered, David perceived that the child was dead: therefore David said unto his servants, Is the child dead? And they said, He is dead.

“Then David arose from the earth, and washed, and anointed himself, and changed his apparel, and came into the house of the Lord, and worshipped: then he came to his own house; and when he required, they set bread before him, and he did eat.

“Then said his servants unto him, What thing is this that thou hast done? thou didst fast and weep for the child while it was alive; but when the child was dead, thou didst rise and eat bread.

“And he said, While the child was yet alive, I fasted and wept: for I said, Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me, that the child may live?

“But now he is dead, wherefore should I fast? can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me.”

—2 Samuel, xii. 19-23.


Then let our thoughts ascend on high,
To Him whose arm is strong to save;
Hope gives to Faith the victory,
And glory dawns beyond the grave!
September 1839.

36

THE LOST LAMB.

A shepherd laid upon his bed,
With many a sigh, his aching head,
For him—his favourite boy—to whom
Death had been dealt—a sudden doom.
“But yesterday,” with sobs he cried,
“Thou wert, with sweet looks, at my side
Life's loveliest blossom, and to-day,
Woe's me! thou liest a thing of clay!
It cannot be that thou art gone;
It cannot be that now, alone,
A greyhaired man on earth am I,
Whilst thou within its bosom lie?
Methinks I see thee smiling there,
With beaming eyes, and sunny hair,
As thou wert wont, when fondling me,
To clasp my neck from off my knee!
Was it thy voice? Again, oh speak,
My son, or else my heart will break!”
Each adding to that father's woes,
A thousand bygone scenes arose;

37

At home—a-field—each with its joy,
Each with its smile—and all his boy!
Now swelled his proud rebellious breast,
With darkness and with doubt opprest,
Now sank despondent, while amain
Unnerving tears fell down like rain:
Air—air—he breathed, yet wanted breath—
It was not life—it was not death—
But the drear agony between,
Where all is heard, and felt, and seen—
The wheels of action set ajar;
The body with the soul at war.
'Twas vain—'twas vain; he could not find
A haven for his shipwreck'd mind;
Sleep shunn'd his pillow. Forth he went—
The moon from midnight's azure tent
Shone down, and, with serenest light,
Flooded the windless plains of night;
The lake in its clear mirror showed
Each little star that twinkling glowed;
Aspens, that quiver with a breath,
Were stirless in that hush of death;
The birds were nestled in their bowers;
The dewdrops glittered on the flowers:
Almost it seemed as pitying Heaven
A while its sinless calm had given
To lower regions, lest despair
Should make abode for ever there;
So softly pure, so calmly bright,
Brooded o'er earth the wings of night.

38

O'ershadowed by its ancient yew,
His sheep-cote met the shepherd's view;
And, placid, in that calm profound,
His silent flocks lay slumbering round:
With flowing mantle by his side,
Sudden, a stranger he espied;
Bland was his visage, and his voice
Soften'd the heart, yet bade rejoice.—
“Why is thy mourning thus?” he said,
“Why thus doth sorrow bow thy head?
Why faltereth thus thy faith, that so
Abroad despairing thou dost go?
As if the God, who gave thee breath,
Held not the keys of life and death!—
When from the flocks that feed about,
A single lamb thou choosest out,
Is it not that which seemeth best
That thou dost take, yet leave the rest?—
Yes! such thy wont; and, even so,
With his choice little ones below
Doth the Good Shepherd deal; he breaks
Their earthly bands, and homeward takes,
Early, ere sin hath render'd dim
The image of the seraphim!”
Heart-struck, the shepherd home return'd;
Again within his bosom burn'd
The light of faith; and, from that day,
He trode serene life's onward way.

Something like the sentiment inculcated in this little poem is that contained in the following epitaph on a child, written by one of the early Christians;—it has been kindly pointed out to me by my erudite friend, Mr William Hay:—

“Pareite vos lachrymis, dulces cum conjuge natæ,
Viventemque Deo credite flere nefas.”


39

TO THE BUST OF MY SON CHARLES.

Tender was the time,
When we two parted, ne'er to meet again!
Home.

I

Fair image of our sainted boy,
Whose beauty calmly shows,
Blent with life's sunny smiles of joy,
Death's most serene repose—
I gaze upon thee, overcast
With sweet, sad memories of the past;
Visions which owed to thee their birth,
And, for a while, made Heaven of earth,
Return again in hues of light,
To melt my heart, yet mock my sight,
And sink amid the rayless gloom,
Which shadows thy untimely tomb.
Our fair, fond boy! and can it be,
That this pale mould of clay
Is all that now remains of thee,
So loving, loved, and gay?

40

II

The past awakens—thou art there
Before me, even now—
The silken locks of sunny hair,
Thrown backward from thy brow—
Thy full white brow of sinless thought;
Thy cheeks by smiles to dimples wrought;
Thy radiant eyes, to which were given
The blue of autumn's midnight heaven;
Thy rose-bud mouth, whose voice's tone
Made every household heart thine own,
Our fondling child, our winning boy,
Whose thoughts, words, looks, were all of joy—
Yes! there thou art, from death come back;
And vainly we deplore,
That earth had once a flowery track,
Which ne'er shall blossom more!

III

A fresh life renovates dull earth,
Now spring renews the world;
The little birds in joy sing forth,
'Mid leaflets half uncurl'd;—
But, Charlie, where art thou? We see
The snowdrops fade, uncull'd by thee;
We hear no more thy feet—thy voice—
Sweet sounds that made our hearts rejoice;
And every dear, familiar spot
Says—here thou wert, who now art not;

41

Thy beauty is a blossom crush'd;
Thy being is a fountain hush'd;
We look—we long for thee in vain—
The dearest soonest die!
And bankrupt Age but finds the brain
In all its sluices dry.

IV

Methinks the afternoons come back,
When, perch'd upon my knee,
Renew'd in heart, I roam'd the track
Of fairy-land with thee;
Or told of Joseph, when, within
The sack of little Benjamin,
The cup was found, and how he strove
In vain to smother filial love;
Or Joshua and his mail-clad men;
Or Daniel in the lions' den;
Or Jonah whelm'd beneath the sea;
Or Absalom, when to the tree
Fix'd by his tresses floating wild,
Until by Joab slain!
While David mourn'd his rebel child
The more—because in vain!

V

And sweet it was, on summer days,
To saunter through the park,
Amid the frisking lambs at graze,
And listen to the lark;

42

While thou wouldst run before, behind,
Blue-bell and butter-cup to find;
A gaysome elf, whose heart had ne'er
Been tamed by grief, or scathed by fear:
I see thy flush'd and open brow;
I hear thy soft voice, even now;
And scent the wild-flowers bright and bland,
Compress'd within thy warm white hand.
Still bloom the daisies there; the bee
Booms round each fragrant spot;
The small birds sing from bush and tree;
And only thou art not!

VI

Thy voice was like a summer brook,
For ever singing on;
And every thing around thee took
From happiness its tone:
We think of thee, and of the blue
Bright heaven, with sunshine streaming thro';
Of blossom'd groves; of oceans calm;
Of zephyrs breathing nought but balm;
Thy life was bliss—and can it be,
That only now remains for thee
The grave's blank horror, the despair
Of silence, that endureth there?
And is this love which shall decay
Only with being's breath,
But wasted on a thing of clay,
That sleeps in endless death?

43

VII

No, Charlie, thus it cannot be:—
And, gazing on thy bust,
I would not stop to dream of thee,
As perishable dust;
Open'd for thee the golden doors
Of Heaven, thy feet are on its floors,
With jasper, beryl, and gems inlaid,
To which our sunshine is like shade;
And all we dream of bright and fair
For evermore are with thee there;
A halo glows around thy brow;
The seraphs are thy playmates now.—
It must be so—and dear, fond boy,
If glad and glorious thus,
'Twere sin to wish thee back from joy,
To pain and care with us!

VIII

A year hath circled since that day—
That day of doleful gloom,
When thou wert rapt from earth away,
In beauty's opening bloom;
That day of woe, when, horror-smote,
To know, to feel, that thou wert not,
We hung above thy bed of death,
And listen'd to thy last low breath,
And linger'd, nor would turn away,
To own thee but a thing of clay!

44

That day when thou did'st ope thine eyes
In bliss—an angel in the skies!
Oh blind, blank hour for us! Oh dawn
Of endless life for thee!
Noon saw thy soul from earth withdrawn,
Night, at the Saviour's knee.

IX

Farewell, sweet loan divine, which Heaven,
Beholding that man's heart
Less loved the Giver than the given,
Took to itself apart!
The waves of Time roll on—its sea
Still bears us more remote from thee,
As hour on hour, and day on day,
Melt in the spectral past away.
Yet art thou like a star on high,
To lure from earth the mental eye;
And I would hate my heart, if e'er
Its love of thee it could outwear:
No! in its core, aye to remain,
Thy sainted form shall dwell,
Until on high we meet again:—
Farewell!—dear boy, Farewell!
February 1839.

45

SONNET.

How change our days! not oftener doth its hue
The lank chameleon change, than we our joys;
The bliss that feeds upon the heart destroys;
Little is done, while much remains to do:
We fix our eyes on phantoms and pursue;
We chase the airy bubbles of the brain;
We leave, for Fancy's lures, the fix'd and true;
Destroy what time hath spared, yet build again:
Years o'er us pass, and age, that comes to few,
Comes but to tell them they have lived in vain;
Sin blights — Death scatters — Hope misleads — Thought errs—
Joy's icicles melt down before Time's sun—
And, ere the ebbing sands of life be run,
Another generation earth prefers!

46

VICISSITUDE.

All things around us preach of Death; yet Mirth
Swells the vain heart, darts from the careless eye,
As if we were created ne'er to die,
And had our everlasting home on earth!
All things around us preach of death:—the leaves
Drop from the forests—perish the bright flowers—
Shortens the day's shorn sunlight, hours on hours—
And o'er bleak sterile fields the wild wind grieves.
Yes! all things preach of death—we are born to die:
We are but waves along Time's ocean driven;
Life is to us a brief probation given,
To fit us for a dread Eternity.
Hear ye that watch with Faith's unslumbering eye?—
Earth is our pilgrimage, our home is Heaven!

53

ELEGIAC EFFUSIONS.


55

THE BOWER OF PEACE.

I

When Hope's illusions all have waned,
And silence broods above the dead,
When Sorrow's gloomy clouds have rain'd
Full oft on man's devoted head,—
The time-taught spirit loves to wend
Back through the past its mazy way,
And see the early larks ascend
Up to the gates of day:
While earth, outspread to childhood's glance,
Glow'd like a dream of bright romance.

II

'Twas in the depth of dazzling May,
When bland the air and blue the skies,
When groves in blossom'd pride were gay,
And flow'rets of innumerous dyes
Gemm'd Earth's green carpet, that I stray'd,
On a salubrious morning bright,
Out to the champaign, and survey'd,
With thrillings of delight,
Landscapes around my path unfurl'd,
That made an Eden of this world.

56

III

I listen'd to the blackbird's song,
That from the covert of green trees
Came like a hymn of Heaven along,
Borne on the bloom-enamour'd breeze:
I listen'd to the birds that trill'd,
Each in its turn, some witching note;
With insect swarms the air was fill'd,
Their wintry sleep forgot;
Such was the summer feeling there,
God's love seem'd breathing every where.

IV

The water-lilies in the waves
Rear'd up their crowns all freshly green,
And, bursting forth as from their graves,
King-cups and daffodils were seen;
The lambs were frisking in the mead;
Beneath the white-flower'd chestnut tree
The ox reclin'd his stately head,
And bent his placid knee;
From brakes the linnets carol'd loud,
While larks responded from the cloud.

V

I stood upon a high green hill,
On an oak stump mine elbow laid,
And, pondering, leant to gaze my fill
Of glade and glen, in pomp array'd.

57

Beneath me, on a daisied mound,
A peaceful dwelling I espied,
Girt with its orchard branches round,
And bearing on its side
Rich cherry-trees, whose blossoms white
Half robb'd the windows of their light:—

VI

There dozed the mastiff on the green—
His night-watch finished; and, elate,
The strutting turkey-cock was seen,
Arching his fan-like tail in state.
There was an air of placid rest
Around the spot so blandly spread,
That sure the inmates must be blest,
Unto my soul I said;
Sin, strife, or sorrow cannot come,
To desolate so sweet a home!

VII

Far from the hum of crowds remote,
From life's parade and idle show,
'Twould be an enviable lot
Life's silent tenor here to know;
To banish every thought of sin,
To gaze with pure and blameless eyes;
To nurse those holy thoughts within
Which fit us for the skies,
And to regenerate hearts dispense
A bliss akin to innocence.

58

VIII

We make our sorrows; Nature knows
Alone of happiness and peace;
'Tis guilt that girds us with the throes
And hydra-pangs that never cease:
Is it not so? And yet we blame
Our fate for frailties all our own,
Giving, with sighs, Misfortune's name
To what is fault alone:
Plunge we in sin's black flood, yet dream
To rise unsullied from such stream?

IX

Vain thought! far better, then, to shun
The turmoils of the rash and vain,
And pray the Everlasting One
To keep the heart from earthly stain;
Within some sylvan home like this,
To hear the world's far billows roll;
And feel, with deep contented bliss,
They cannot shake the soul,
Or dim the impress bright and grand,
Stamp'd on it by the Maker's hand.

X

When round this bustling world we look,
What treasures observation there?
Doth it not seem as man mistook
This passing scene of toil and care

59

For an eternity? As if
This cloud-land were his final home;
And that he mock'd the great belief
Of something yet to come?
Rears he not sumptuous palaces,
As if his faith were built in these?

Many years ago, in sauntering through the Abbey burialground of Melrose, the Author was much struck with the following inscription on a small but venerable tombstone—

“The Earth walks upon the earth, glistering like gold;
The Earth goeth to the earth sooner than it wold;
The Earth builds upon the earth temples and tow'rs;
But the earth sayeth to the Earth all shall be ours!”

He has since learned that the original appertains to a churchyard in Gloucestershire, from which the above is only a transcription.


XI

To Power he says—“I trust in thee!”
As if terrestrial strength could turn
The avenging shafts of Destiny,
And disappoint the funeral urn:
To Pride—“Behold, I must, and can!”
To Fame—“Thou art mine idol-god!”
To Gold—“Thou art my talisman
And necromantic rod!”
Down Time's far stream he darts his eye,
Nor dreams that he shall ever die.

XII

Oh, fool, fool, fool!—and is it thus
Thou feed'st of vanity the flame?
The great, the good, are swept from us,
And only live in deed or name.
From out the myriads of the past,
Two only have been spared by Death;
“Christians looking on death not only as the sting, but the period and end of sin, the horizon and isthmus between this life and a better, and the death of this world but as the nativity of another, do contentedly submit unto the common necessity, and envy not Enoch nor Elias.”

—Sir Thomas Browne's Letter to a Friend.


And deem'st thou that a spell thou hast
To deprecate his wrath?
Or dost thou hope, in frenzied pride,
By threats to turn his scythe aside?

60

XIII

Where are the warrior-chiefs of old?
Where are the realms on which they trod?
While conquest's blood-red flag unroll'd,
And man proclaim'd himself a god!
Where are the sages and their saws,
Whence wisdom shone with dazzling beams?
The legislators, and their laws,
What are they now but dreams?
The prophets, do they still forebode?
Our fathers, where are they?—with God!

XIV

Our fathers! We ourselves have seen
The days when vigour arch'd each brow—
Our fathers!!—are they aught, I ween,
But household recollections now?
Our fathers!!!—nay, the very boys,
Who, with ourselves, were such at school,
When, nectar-sweet, life's cup of joys
Felt almost over-full,
Although one parish gave them birth,
Their graves are scatter'd o'er the earth!

XV

Where are the blazon'd dreams of Youth,
And where the friends on whom we leant,
Whose feelings—ay! whose hearts of truth,
Fraternal, with our own were blent?

61

Where now Romance's rich attire,
In which the universe was drest,
As Evening, like a city on fire,
Burn'd down along the West,
Leaving the enchanted eastern sky
To the round moon's calm argentry?

XVI

Alas! with care we sow the wind,
To reap the whirlwind for our pains;
On the dark day of need to find
Each proffer'd ransom Time disdains:
All that was once our idle boast,
Weigh'd in the balance dust shall be;
Death knocks—frail man gives up the ghost—
He dies—and where is he?
Vanish'd for ever and forgot,
The place that knew him knows him not!

XVII

Ho! wanderer, ho!—eschew the wrong,
To reason turn, from error cease;
And list the words of wisdom's tongue,
The still small tongue that whispers peace:
Withhold the heart from worldly strife—
Do good—love mercy—evil fly;
And know that, from this dream call'd life,
We wake but when we die;—
Unto the eager to be pure
The path is straight—the palm is sure!

62

XVIII

For ne'er hath prodigal come round,
Subdued in heart and craving grace,
Whate'er his faults, who hath not found
Forgiveness in the Saviour's face;
At contrite hearts he will not scoff—
Whoever knocks, an entrance wins:
Then let us at the Cross throw off
The burden of our sins;
And though their dye be black as night,
His blood can make—has made them white!

WEEP NOT FOR HER.

A DIRGE.

I

Weep not for her!—Oh! she was far too fair,
Too pure to dwell on this guilt-tainted earth!
The sinless glory, and the golden air
Of Zion, seem'd to claim her from her birth:
A spirit wander'd from its native zone,
Which, soon discovering, took her for its own:
Weep not for her!

63

II

Weep not for her!—Her span was like the sky,
Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright;
Like flowers that know not what it is to die;
Like long-link'd shadeless months of Polar light;
Like music floating o'er a waveless lake,
While Echo answers from the flowery brake:
Weep not for her!

III

Weep not for her!—She died in early youth,
Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues;
When human bosoms seem'd the homes of truth,
And earth still gleam'd with beauty's radiant dews;
Her summer-prime waned not to days that freeze;
Her wine of life was run not to the lees:
Weep not for her!

IV

Weep not for her!—By fleet or slow decay,
It never grieved her bosom's core to mark
The playmates of her childhood wane away,
Her prospects wither, or her hopes grow dark;
Translated by her God, with spirit shriven,
She pass'd as 'twere in smiles from earth to Heaven:
Weep not for her!

64

V

Weep not for her!—It was not hers to feel
The miseries that corrode amassing years,
'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel,
To wander sad down Age's vale of tears;
As whirl the wither'd leaves from Friendship's tree,
And on earth's wintry world alone to be:
Weep not for her!

VI

Weep not for her!—She is an angel now,
And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise;
All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow,
Sin, sorrow, suffering, banish'd from her eyes;
Victorious over death, to her appear
The vista'd joys of Heaven's eternal year:
Weep not for her!

VII

Weep not for her!—Her memory is the shrine
Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers;
Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline;
Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers;
Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light;
Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night:
Weep not for her!

65

VIII

Weep not for her!—There is no cause for woe;
But rather nerve the spirit, that it walk
Unshrinking o'er the thorny paths below,
And from earth's low defilements keep thee back:
So, when a few fleet severing years have flown,
She'll meet thee at Heaven's gate—and lead thee on!
Weep not for her!

THE FOWLER.

And is there care in Heaven? and is there love
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base,
That may compassion of their evils move?
There is—else much more wretched were the case
Of men than beasts. But O! the exceeding grace
Of highest God, that loves his creatures so,
And all his works with mercy doth embrace,
That blessed angels he sends to and fro,
To serve on wicked man—to serve his wicked foe!
Spenser.

I.

I have an old remembrance—'tis as old
As childhood's visions, and 'tis mingled with
Dim thoughts and scenes grotesque, by fantasy
From out oblivion's twilight conjured up,
Ere truth had shorn imagination's beams,
Or to forlorn reality tamed down

66

The buoyant spirit. Yes! the shapes and hues
Of winter twilight, often as the year
Revolves, and hoar-frost grimes the window-sill,
Bring back the lone waste scene that gave it birth,
And make me, for a moment, what I was
Then, on that Polar morn—a little boy,
And Earth again the realm of fairyland.

II

A Fowler was our visitant; his talk
At eve beside the flickering hearth, while howl'd
The outward winds, and hail-drops on the pane
Tinkled, or down the chimney in the flame
Whizz'd as they melted, was of forest and field,
Wherein lay bright wild birds and timorous beasts,
That shunn'd the face of man; and O! the joy,
The passion which lit up his brow, to con
The feats of sleight and cunning skill by which
Their haunts were near'd, or on the heathy hills,
Or 'mid the undergrove; on snowy moor,
Or by the rushy lake—what time the dawn
Reddens the east, or from on high the moon
In the smooth waters sees her pictured orb,
The white cloud slumbering in the windless sky,
And midnight mantling all the silent hills.

III.

I do remember me the very time—
(Though thirty shadowy years have lapsed between)—

67

'Tis graven as by the hand of yesterday.
For weeks had raved the winds, the angry seas
Howl'd to the darkness, and down fallen the snows;
The redbreast to the window came for crumbs;
Hunger had to the coleworts driven the hare;
The crow at noontide peck'd the travell'd road;
And the wood-pigeon, timorously bold,
Starved from the forest, near'd the homes of man.
It was the dreariest depth of winter-tide,
And on the ocean and its isles was felt
The iron sway of the North; yea, even the fowl—
That through the polar summer months could see
A beauty in Spitzbergen's naked isles,
Or on the drifting icebergs seek a home—
Even they had fled, on southern wing, in search
Of less inclement shores.
Perturb'd by dreams
Pass'd o'er the slow night-watches; many a thought
And many a hope was forward bent on morn;
But weary was the tedious chime on chime,
And hour on hour 'twas dark, and still 'twas dark.
At length we arose—for now we counted five—
And by the flickering hearth array'd ourselves
In coats and 'kerchiefs, for the early drift
And biting season fit; the fowling-piece
Was shoulder'd, and the blood-stain'd game-pouch slung
On this side, and the gleaming flask on that;
In sooth we were a most accordant pair;
And thus accoutred, to the lone sea-shore
In fond and fierce precipitance we flew.

68

IV.

There was no breath abroad; each in its cave,
As if enchanted, slept the winds, and left
Earth in a voiceless trance: around the porch
All stirlessly the darksome ivy clung;
All silently the leafless trees held up
Their bare boughs to the sky; the atmosphere,
Untroubled in its cold serenity,
Wept icy dews; and now the later stars,
As by some hidden necromantic charm,
Dilate, amid the death-like calm profound,
On the white slumber-mantled earth gazed down.—
Words may not tell, how to the temperament,
And to the hue of that enchanted hour,
The spirit was subdued—a wizard scene!
In the far west, the Pentland's gloomy ridge
Belted the pale blue sky, whereon a cloud,
Fantastic, grey, and tinged with solemn light,
Lay, like a dreaming monster, and the moon,
Waning, above its silvery rim upheld
Her horns—as 'twere the Spectre of the Past.
Silently, silently, on we trode and trode,
As if a spell had frozen up our words:—
White lay the wolds around us, ankle-deep
In new-fallen snows, which champ'd beneath our tread;
And, by the marge of winding Esk, which show'd
The mirror'd stars upon its map of ice,
Downwards in haste we journey'd to the shore
Of Ocean, whose drear, multitudinous voice
Unto the listening spirit of Silence sang.

69

V.

O leaf! from out the volume of far years
Dissever'd, oft, how oft have the young buds
Of spring unfolded, have the summer skies
In their deep blue o'ercanopied the earth,
And autumn, in September's ripening breeze,
Rustled her harvests, since the theme was one
Present, and darkly all that Future lay,
Which now is of the perish'd and the past!
Since then a generation's span hath fled,
With all its varied whirls of chance and change—
With all its casualties of birth and death;
And, looking round, sadly I feel this world
Another, though the same;—another in
The eyes that gleam, the hearts that throb, the hopes,
The fears, the friendships of the soul; the same
In outward aspect—in the hills which cleave,
As landmarks of historical renown,
With azure peaks the sky; in the green plain,
That spreads its annual wild-flowers to the sun;
And in the river, whose blue course is mark'd
By many a well-known bend and shadowy tree:
Yet o'er the oblivious gulf, whose mazy gloom
Ensepulchres so many things, I see
As 'twere of yesterday—yet robed in tints
Which yesterday has lost, or never had—
The desolate features of that Polar morn,—
Its twilight shadows, and its twinkling stars—
The snows far spreading—the expanse of sand,
Ribb'd by the roaring and receded sea,

70

And, shedding over all a wizard light,
The waning moon above the dim-seen hills.

VI.

At length, upon the solitary shore
We walk'd of Ocean, which, with sullen voice,
Hollow and never-ceasing, to the north
Sang its primeval song. A weary waste!—
We pass'd through pools, where mussel, clam, and wilk,
Clove to their gravelly beds; o'er slimy rocks,
Ridgy and dark, with dank fresh fuci green,
Where the prawn wriggled, and the tiny crab
Slid sideway from our path, until we gain'd
The land's extremest point, a sandy jut,
Narrow, and by the weltering waves begirt
Around; and there we laid us down and watch'd,
While from the west the pale moon disappear'd,
Pronely, the sea-fowl and the coming dawn.

VII.

Now day with darkness for the mastery strove:
The stars had waned away—all, save the last
And fairest, Lucifer, whose silver lamp,
In solitary beauty, twinkling, shone
'Mid the far west, where, through the clouds of rack
Floating around, peep'd out at intervals
A patch of sky;—straightway the reign of night
Was finish'd, and, as if instinctively,
The ocean flocks, or slumbering on the wave
Or on the isles, seem'd the approach of dawn

71

To feel; and, rising from afar, were heard
Shrill shrieks and pipings desolate—a pause
Ensued, and then the same lone sounds return'd,
And suddenly the whirring rush of wings
Went circling round us o'er the level sands,
Then died away; and, as we look'd aloft,
Between us and the sky we saw a speck
Of black upon the blue—some huge, wild bird,
Osprey or eagle, high amid the clouds
Sailing majestic, on its plumes to catch
The earliest crimson of the approaching day.

VIII.

'Twere sad to tell our murderous deeds that morn.
Silent upon the chilly beach we lay
Prone, while the drifting snow-flakes o'er us fell,
Like Nature's frozen tears for our misdeeds
Of wanton cruelty. The eider ducks,
With their wild eyes, and necks of changeful blue,
We watch'd, now diving down, now on the surge
Flapping their pinions, of our ambuscade
Unconscious—till a sudden death was found;
While floating o'er us, in the graceful curves
Of silent beauty, down the sea-mew fell;
The gilinot upon the shell-bank lay
Bleeding, and oft, in wonderment, its mate
Flew round, with mournful cry, to bid it rise,
Then shrieking, fled afar; the sand-pipers,
A tiny flock, innumerable, as round
And round they flew, bewail'd their broken ranks;

72

And the scared heron sought his inland marsh.
With blood-bedabbled plumes around us rose
A slaughter'd hecatomb; and to my heart
(My heart then open to all sympathies)
It spoke of tyrannous cruelty—of man
The desolator; and of some far day,
When the accountable shall make account,
And but the merciful shall mercy find.

IX.

Soul-sicken'd, satiate, and dissatisfied,
An alter'd being homewards I return'd,
My thoughts revolting at the thirst for blood,
So brutalising, so destructive of
The finer sensibilities, which man
In boyhood owns, and which the world destroys.
Nature had preach'd a sermon to my heart:
And from that moment, on that snowy morn—
(Seeing that earth enough of suffering has
And death)—all cruelty my soul abhorr'd,
Yea, loathed the purpose and the power to kill.

73

THE DESERTED CHURCHYARD.

I

There lay an ancient churchyard
Upon a heathy hill,
And oft of yore I loiter'd there,
Amid the twilight still;
For 'twas a place deserted,
And all things spake a tone,
Whose wild long music vibrated
To things for ever gone.

II

Yes! Nature's face look'd lonelier
To fancy's brooding eye,
The dusky moors, the mountains,
And solitary sky;
And there was like a mournfulness
Upon the fitful breeze,
As it wail'd among the hoary weeds,
Or mounted through the trees.

74

III

Around were gnarly sycamores,
And, by the wizard stream,
I lay in youth's enchanted ring,
When life was like a dream;
And spectral generations pass'd
Before my mind like waves,
Men that for creeping centuries
Had moulder'd in their graves.

IV

There, as the west was paling,
And the evening-star shone out,
I leant to watch the impish bat,
That flitting shriek'd about;
Or the crow that to the forest,
With travel-wearied wing,
Sail'd through the twilight duskily,
Like some unearthly thing.

V

The scowl of Desolation
Hung o'er it like a shade;
And Ruin there, amid the moss,
Her silent dwelling made:
Only unto the elements
'Twas free, and human breath
Felt like unhallow'd mockery,
In that calm field of death.

75

VI

Within that solitary place
No monuments were seen
Of woman's love, or man's regret,
To tell that such had been;
And to the soul's wild question,
“Oh dead! where are ye flown?”
Waved to and fro, in mournful guise,
The thistle's beard of down.

VII

There as I linger'd, pondering,
Amid the mantling night,
Upon the old grey wall the hawk
Would silently alight;
And, rushing from the blasted hills,
With rain-drops on its wing,
The wind amid the hemlock-stalks
Would desolately sing.

VIII

Life, and the living things of earth,
Seem'd vanish'd quite away;
As there, in vague abstraction,
Amid the graves I lay:
The world seem'd an enchanted world,
A region dim and drear,
A shadowy land of reverie,
Where Silence dwelt with Fear.

76

IX

'Twas hard to think that Passion
Had stirr'd, how many a breast,
Which now beneath the nettles rank
Decay'd in lonely rest;
That once they loved like kindred,
These unacknowledged dead,
From whose bare, mouldering relics long
The famish'd worm had fled.

X

For ages there no mourner
To wail his loss had come;
The dead, and their descendants,
Like yesterday, were dumb;
And sang the hoary cannach,
Upon the casual wind,
A dirge for generations
That left no trace behind.

XI

So dreary and so desolate
That churchyard was, and rude,
That Fantasy upon the verge
Of Night and Chaos stood;
And, like a Sybil's chronicle,
Mysteriously it told,
In hieroglyph and symbol,
The shadowy days of old.

77

TO A WOOD-PIGEON.

I

Have I scared thee from thy bough,
Tenant of the lonely wild,
Where, from human face exiled,
'Tis thine the sky to plough;
Hearing but the wailing breeze,
Or the cataract's sullen roaring,
Where, 'mid clumps of ancient trees,
O'er its rocks the stream is pouring?—
Up on ready wing thou rushest
To the gloom of woods profound,
And through silent ether brushest
With a whirring sound.

II

Ring-dove beauteous! is the face
Of man so hateful, that his sight
Startles thee in wild affright,
From beechen resting-place?—
Time was once, when sacrifice,
Served by blue-eyed Druids hoary,

78

Smoked beneath the woodland skies
O'er their human victims gory;
And time hath been when veil'd Religion
Bade the calm-brow'd Hermit roam,
Seeking, with the lark and pigeon,
Guilt-untroubled home.

III

Truly 'twas an erring choice—
If (as Reason says) be given
Earth, preparative for Heaven,
And calm, unclouded joys.
Nobler far 'tis sure to brave
Every barrier which retards us,
Than, to craven fear a slave,
Flee the path that Fate awards us:
He, from duty never altering,
Who, with Faith's heroic ken,
Forward treads with step unfaltering,
Is the man of men!

IV

Surely pleasant life is thine,
Underneath the shining day;
Thus from sorrow far away,
'Mid bowering groves to pine—
To pine in wild, luxurious love,
With thy cooing partner near thee;

79

Flowers below, and boughs above,
And nought around to fear thee;
While thy bill so gently carries
To thy young, from field or wood,
Seeds, or fruits, or purple berries,
For their slender food.

V

In sequester'd haunts like thine,
Where, in solitude, the trees
Blossom to the sun and breeze,
Worth has loved to shine;
And ardent Genius structured high
Her magic piles of bright invention,
Achieving immortality,
And sharing not in Time's declension:
Glorious task, that nobly smothers
Earthward cravings, power and pelf,
Scorning, in proud zeal for others,
Every thought of self.

VI

Time was once, when Man, like thee,
In the forest made his home,
Near the river's yellow foam,
Beneath the spreading tree.
Cities then were not: he dwelt
In the cavern's twilight chamber;

80

And in adoration knelt,
When the morn with clouds of amber,
Or the wild birds singing round him,
Bade him to the chase arise;
Then with quiver'd shafts he bound him
'Neath the opal skies.

VII

Rapidly thou wing'st away—
I saw thee now, a tiny spot—
Again—and now I see thee not—
Nought save the skies of day.
The Psalmist once his prayer address'd—
“Dove, could I thy pinions borrow,
My soul would flee, and be at rest,
Far from Earth's oppressing sorrow!”

“O that I had wings like a dove! for then would I flee away, and be at rest. Lo, then would I wander far off, and remain in the wilderness. I would hasten my escape from the windy storm and tempest.”—Psalm lv. 6-8.

The same sentiment has afforded a groundwork for a beautiful lyric by Mrs Hemans—“The Wings of the Dove”—of which part of the above quotation is the motto. It was also evidently thrilling through the heart of Keats in these lines from his deep-thoughted “Ode to the Nightingale:”—

“That—I might leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit, and hear each other groan,”

Alas! we turn to brave the billows
Of the world's tempestuous sway,
Where Life's stream, beneath Care's willows,
Murmurs night and day!

81

THE YELLOW LEAF.

I.

The year is on the wane—the blue
Of heaven assumes a paler hue;
And when the sun comes forth at morn,
Through melancholy mists forlorn,
A while he struggles ere his beam
Falls on the forest and the stream;
And then 'tis with a feebler power
He gilds the day and marks the hour!
Scathed are the mountains and the plains
By sweeping winds and plashing rains,
And both that wintry look assume,
Which speaks to us of wither'd bloom
And vanish'd beauty: roaring floods
Are grown from tiny streams; the woods,
Instead of emerald green, are known
By yellow sere and sullen brown;
And all things which the eyes survey
Are tinged with death, and preach decay!

82

II.

But yet no hour more sweet than this,
More perfect in its tranquil bliss,
Could man of Heaven desire; the light
Of eve is melting into night,
And from her eastern shrine, where lie,
Pillow'd upon the soft blue sky,
A wreath of snowy clouds, the rim
Of the white moon about to swim
Her course of glory; all around
The scene becomes enchanted ground:
The stream that late in darkness stray'd,
The forest late so black with shade,
Are lighted up; and lo! the hills
A flood of argent glory fills;
While even—far off—the murmuring sea
Is seen in its immensity,
A line of demarcation given
As 'twere between the earth and heaven!

III.

In gazing o'er a scene so fair,
Well may the wondering mind compare
Majestic nature with the strife
And littleness of human life!
Within the rank and narrow span,
Where man contends with brother man,
And where, a few brief seasons past,
Death is the common doom at last,

83

What find we? In our hour of need,
The generous thought, the liberal deed?—
Or in prosperity, the kind
O'erflowing of congenial mind?
Ah no! instead of these, to Woe
Is ever given another blow;
A drop to Misery's cup of gall;
To Error's feet a further fall;
And, where 'tis least expected, still
Grows up Resentment or Ill-will—
Envy has poison, and has power
To wither Friendship's brightest flower;
And Love, too oft a gilded dream,
Melts like the rain-drop in the stream.

IV.

But Nature grows not old; 'tis we
Who change, and not the flower or tree—
For years, as they revolve, renew
The faded with reviving dew
And genial heat, until as bright
Earth rises on the startled sight,
As when enchanted Adam's eyes
The leafing groves of Paradise—
And shower'd the new-made sun his beams
On spangled plains and crystal streams!

V.

O! could we let the heart retain
Its glow, and dash away the stain

84

Which sins of others, or our own,
Have made its tablet white upon,
Then might we feel that Earth is not
Entirely an accursed spot;
That gleams of beauty, sparks of bliss,
Flash oft athwart Life's drear abyss;
That from the poison-cup of Woe
A balm of healing oft may flow;
That round the heart are twisted ties
To keep us good, or make us wise;
That duty is the Polar Star
Which leads to peace, though from afar;
And to the pure in heart are given
Visions, whose resting-place is Heaven!

THE DYING SPANIEL.

I

Old Oscar, how feebly thou crawl'st to the door,
Thou who wert all beauty and vigour of yore;
How slow is thy stagger the sunshine to find,
And thy straw-sprinkled pallet—how crippled and blind!
But thy heart is still living—thou hearest my voice—
And thy faint-wagging tail says thou yet canst rejoice;
Ah! how different art thou from the Oscar of old,
The sleek and the gamesome, the swift and the bold!

85

II

At sunrise I waken'd to hear thy proud bark,
With the coo of the house-dove, the lay of the lark;
And out to the green fields 'twas ours to repair,
When sunrise with glory empurpled the air;
And the streamlet flow'd down in its gold to the sea;
And the night-dew like diamond sparks gleam'd from the tree;
And the sky o'er the earth in such purity glow'd,
As if angels, not men, on its surface abode!

III

How then thou would'st gambol, and start from my feet,
To scare the wild birds from their sylvan retreat;
Or plunge in the smooth stream, and bring to my hand
The twig or the wild-flower I threw from the land:
On the moss-sprinkled stone if I sat for a space,
Thou would'st crouch on the greensward, and gaze in my face,
Then in wantonness pluck up the blooms in thy teeth,
And toss them above thee, or tread them beneath.

IV

Then I was a schoolboy all thoughtless and free,
And thou wert a whelp full of gambol and glee;
Now dim is thine eyeball, and grizzled thy hair,
And I am a man, and of grief have my share!
Thou bring'st to my mind all the pleasures of youth,
When Hope was the mistress, not handmaid of Truth;
When Earth look'd an Eden, when Joy's sunny hours
Were cloudless, and every path glowing with flowers.

86

V

Now Summer is waning; soon tempest and rain
Shall harbinger desolate Winter again,
And Thou, all unable its gripe to withstand,
Shalt die, when the snow-mantle garments the land:
Then thy grave shall be dug 'neath the old cherry-tree,
Which in spring-time will shed down its blossoms on thee;
And, when a few fast-fleeting seasons are o'er,
Thy faith and thy form shall be thought of no more!

VI

Then all who caress'd thee and loved, shall be laid,
Life's pilgrimage o'er, in the tomb's dreary shade;
Other steps shall be heard on these floors, and the past
Be like yesterday's clouds from the memory cast:
Improvements will follow; old walls be thrown down,
Old landmarks removed, when old masters are gone;
And the gard'ner, when delving, will marvel to see
White bones, where once blossom'd the old cherry-tree!

VII

Frail things! could we read but the objects around,
In the meanest some deep-lurking truth might be found,
Some type of our frailty, some warning to show
How shifting the sands are we build on below:
Our fathers have pass'd, and have mix'd with the mould;
Year presses on year, till the young become old;
Time, though a stern teacher, is partial to none;
And the friend and the foe pass away, one by one!

87

EVENING TRANQUILLITY.

I

How still this hour! the mellow sun
Withdraws his western ray,
And, evening's haven almost won,
He leaves the seas of day:
Soft is the twilight reign, and calm,
As o'er autumnal fields of balm
The languid zephyrs stray;
Across the lawn the heifers roam,
The wearied reaper seeks his home.

II

The laden earth is rich with flowers,
All bathed in crimson light;
While hums the bee, mid garden bowers
With clustering roses bright:
The woods outshoot their shadows dim;
O'er the smooth lake the swallows skim
In wild erratic flight;
Moor'd by the marge, the shallop sleeps,
Above its deck the willow weeps.

88

III

'Tis sweet, in such an hour as this,
To bend the pensive way,
Scan Nature, and partake the bliss
Which charms like hers convey:
No city's bustling noise is near;
And but the little birds you hear,
That chant so blithe and gay;
And ask ye whence their mirth began?
Perchance since free, and far from man.

IV

Their little lives are void of care;
From bush to brake they fly,
Filling the rich ambrosial air
Of August's vermeil sky:
They flit about the fragrant wood;
Elisha's God provides them food,
And hears them when they cry:
For ever blithe and blest are they,
Their sinless span a summer's day.

V

Yon bending clouds all purpling streak
The mantle of the west;
And trem'lously the sunbeams break
On Pentland's mountain crest:

89

Hill, valley, ocean, sky, and stream,
All wear one placid look, and seem
In silent beauty blest;
As if created Natures raised
To Heaven their choral songs, and praised.

VI

Above yon cottage on the plain
The wreathy smoke ascends;
A silent emblem, with the main
Of sailing clouds it blends;
Like a departed spirit gone
Up from low earth to Glory's throne
To mix with sainted friends,
Where, life's probation voyage o'er,
Grief's sail is furl'd for evermore!

90

HYMN TO HESPERUS.

Εσπερε παντα φερεις.
Sapph. Frag.

I

Bright lonely beam, fair heavenly speck,
That, calling all the stars to duty,
Through stormless ether gleam'st to deck
The fulgent west's unclouded beauty;
All silent are the fields, and still
The umbrageous wood's recesses dreary,
As if calm came at thy sweet will,
And Nature of Day's strife were weary.

II

Blent with the season and the scene,
From out her treasured stores, Reflection
Looks to the days when life was green,
With fond and thrilling retrospection;
The earth again seems haunted ground;
Youth smiles, by Hope and Joy attended;
And bloom afresh young flowers around,
With scent as rich and hues as splendid.

91

III

How oft, 'mid eves as clear and calm,
These wild-wood pastures have I stray'd in,
When all these scenes of bliss and balm
Blue Twilight's mantle were array'd in!
How oft I've stole from bustling man,
From Art's parade and city riot,
The sweets of Nature's reign to scan,
And muse on Life in rural quiet!

IV

Fair Star! with calm repose and peace
I hail thy vesper beam returning;
Thou seem'st to say that troubles cease
In the calm sphere where thou art burning:
Sweet 'tis on thee to gaze and muse;—
Sure angel wings around thee hover,
And from Life's fountain scatter dews
To freshen Earth, Day's fever over.

V

Star of the Bee! with laden thigh
Thy twinkle warns its homeward winging;
Star of the Bird! thou bidd'st her lie
Down o'er her young, and hush her singing;
Star of the Pilgrim! travel-sore,
How sweet, reflected in the fountains,
He hails thy circlet, gleaming o'er
The shadow of his native mountains!

92

VI

Thou art the Star of Freedom, thou
Undo'st the bonds which gall the sorest;
Thou bring'st the ploughman from his plough;
Thou bring'st the woodman from his forest;
Thou bring'st the wave-worn fisher home,
With all his scaly wealth around him;
And bidd'st the hearth-sick schoolboy roam,
Freed from the letter'd tasks that bound him.

VII

Star of the Mariner! thy car,
O'er the blue waters twinkling clearly,
Reminds him of his home afar,
And scenes he still loves, ah, how dearly!
He sees his native fields, he sees
Grey twilight gathering o'er his mountains,
And hears the rustle of green trees,
The bleat of flocks, and gush of fountains.

VIII

How beautiful, when, through the shrouds,
The fierce presaging storm-winds rattle,
Thou glitterest far above the clouds,
O'er waves that lash, and gales that battle;
And as, athwart the billows driven,
He turns to thee in fond devotion,
Star of the Sea! thou tell'st that Heaven
O'erlooks alike both land and ocean.

93

IX

Star of the Mourner! 'mid the gloom,
When droops the West o'er Day departed,
The widow bends above the tomb
Of him who left her broken-hearted:
Darkness within, and Night around,
The joys of life no more can move her,
When lo! thou lightest the profound,
To tell that Heaven's eye glows above her.

X

Star of the Lover! O, how bright
Above the copsewood dark thou shinest,
As longs he for those eyes of light,
For him whose lustre burns divinest!
Earth and the things of earth depart,
Transform'd to scenes and sounds Elysian;
Warm rapture gushes o'er his heart,
And Life seems like a faëry vision.

XI

Yes, thine the hour when, daylight done,
Fond Youth to Beauty's bower thou lightest;
Soft shines the moon, bright shines the sun,
But thou, of all things, softest, brightest.
Still is thy beam as fair and young,
The torch illuming Evening's portal,
As when of thee lorn Sappho sung,
With burning soul, in lays immortal.

94

XII

Star of the Poet! thy pale fire,
A wakening, kindling inspiration,
Burns in blue ether, to inspire
The loftiest themes of meditation;
He deems some holier, happier race
Dwells in the orbit of thy beauty,—
Souls of the Just, redeem'd by grace,
Whose path on earth was that of duty.

XIII

Beneath thee Earth turns Paradise
To him, all radiant, rich, and tender;
And dreams arrayed by thee arise
'Mid Twilight's dim and dusky splendour:
Blest or accurst each spot appears;
A frenzy fine his fancy seizes;
He sees unreal shapes, and hears
The wail of spirits on the breezes.

XIV

Bright leader of the hosts of Heaven!
When day from darkness God divided,
In silence through the empyrean driven,
Forth from the East thy chariot glided:
Star after star, o'er night and earth,
Shone out in brilliant revelation;
And all the angels sang for mirth,
To hail the finished, fair Creation.

95

XV

Star of declining Day, farewell!—
Ere lived the Patriarchs, thou wert yonder;
Ere Isaac, 'mid the piny dell,
Went forth at eventide to ponder:
And when to Death's stern mandate bow
All whom we love, and all who love us,
Thou shalt uprise, as thou dost now,
To shine, and shed thy tears above us.

XVI

Star that proclaims Eternity,
When o'er the lost Sun Twilight weepeth,
Thou light'st thy beacon-tower on high,
To say, “He is not dead, but sleepeth;”
And forth with Dawn thou comest too,
As all the hosts of Night surrender,
To prove thy sign of promise true,
And usher in Day's orient splendour.

96

FADED FLOWERS.

I

Farewell, ye perish'd flowers
That on the cold ground lie;
How gay ye smiled
'Mid the brown wild,
'Neath summer's painted sky;—
Pass'd hath your bloom away;
Your stalks are sere and bent:
On the howling blast
The rain sweeps past,
From the dim firmament.

II

I think me of your pride,
When Zephyr came with Spring;
Then sigh to know
What wreck and woe
A few brief months may bring!
Emblems of human fate,
Ye say—“Though bright and fair
Life's morning be,
Its eve may see
The clouds of grief and care!”

97

III

In you I scan the fate
Life's sunniest hopes have met,
When Youth's bright noon,
(Alas! how soon!)
In manhood's twilight set—
Yes! joy by joy decay'd
As ye did fade, sweet blooms,
Leaving behind,
Upon the wind,
A while your soft perfumes.

IV

As waned each blossom bright,
So doom'd were to depart
Friend after friend—
And each to rend
A fibre from the heart:
Green Spring again shall bid
Your boughs with bloom be crown'd;
But alas! to Man,
In earth's brief span,
No second spring comes round!

V

Yes! friends who clomb Life's hill
Together, long ago,
Are parted, and
Their fatherland
No more their places know!

98

We see them not, nor hear them,
Among the garden bowers;
They have pass'd away
In bright decay,
Like you, ye perish'd flowers!

VI

Mourn not—we meet again,
Although we meet not here;
Turn ye above,
Where Faith and Love
Taste Heaven's eternal year:—
For though Time's winter bows
The grey head to the clod,
Dust goes to dust,
But (as we trust)
The Spirit back to God!

99

THE NIGHT HAWK.

Vox, et præterea nihil.

I

The winds are pillow'd on the waveless deep,
And from the curtain'd sky the midnight moon
Looks sombred o'er the forest depths, that sleep
Unstirring, while a soft melodious tune,
Nature's own voice, the lapsing stream, is heard,
And ever and anon th' unseen, night-wandering bird.

II

An Arab of the air, it floats along,
Enamour'd of the silence and the night,
The tall pine-tops, the mountains dim among,
Aye wheeling on in solitary flight;
Like an ungentle spirit earthwards sent,
To haunt the pale-faced moon, a cheerless banishment.

100

III

A lone, low sound—a melancholy cry,
Now near, remoter now, and more remote;
In the blue dusk, unseen, it journeys by,
Loving amid the starlight-calm to float;
Now sharp and shrill, now faint; and by degrees
Fainter, like summer winds that die 'mid leafy trees.

IV

Listening, in the blue solitude I stand—
The breathless hush of midnight—all is still;
Unmoved the valleys spread, the woods expand;
There is a slumbering mist upon the hill;
Nature through all her regions seems asleep,
Save, ever and anon, that sound so wild and deep.

V

Moonlight and midnight! all so vast and void,
Life seems a vision of the shadowy past,
By mighty silence swallow'd and destroy'd,
And Thou of living things the dirge and last:
Such quietude enwraps the moveless scene,
As if, all discord o'er, Mankind had never been.

101

VI

Doubtless in elder times, unhallow'd sound,
When Fancy ruled the subject realms, and Fear,
Some demon elf, or goblin shrieking round,
Darkly thou smot'st on Superstition's ear:
The wild wood had its spirits, and the glen
Swarm'd with dim shapes and shades inimical to Men.

VII

Then Fairies tripp'd it in the hazel glade;
And Fahm stalk'd muttering thro' the cavern's gloom;

Fahm—a deformed and malignant spirit, peculiar to the Highlands of Scotland, and more particularly to the mountains surrounding Glen-Avin. His accustomed visitations to earth are said to be immediately preceding daybreak; and he is accused by the natives of inflicting diseases upon their cattle. If any person happens to cross his track before the sun has shone on it, death is believed to be the inevitable consequence.

Popular report also denies vegetation to the spots where witches have held their orgies, or been burned.


And corpse-fires, glancing thro' the yew-trees' shade,
Lighted each sheeted spectre from its tomb;
While Morning show'd, in nature's grassy death,
Where the Foul Fiend had danced with Witches on the heath.

VIII

On Summer's scented eve, when fulgent skies
The last bright traces of the day partook,
And heaven look'd down on earth with starry eyes,
Reflected softly in the wimpling brook,
Far, far above, wild solitary bird,
Thy melancholy scream 'mid woodlands I have heard;

102

IX

And I have heard thee, when December's snow
Mantled with chilling white the moonless vales,
Thro' the drear darkness, wandering to and fro,
And mingling with the sharp and sighing gales
Thy wizard note—when Nature's prostrate form,
In desolation sad, lay buried in the storm.

X

It is a sound most solemn, strange, and lone,
That wildly talks of something far remote
Amid the past—of something dimly known—
Of Time's primeval voice, a parted note—
The echo of Antiquity—the cry
Of Ruin, fluttering o'er some Greatness doom'd to die.

XI

So parted from communion with mankind,
So sever'd from all life, and living sound,
Calmly the solemnised and soften'd mind
Sinks down, and dwells, in solemn thought profound,
On dreams of yore, on visions swept away—
The loves and friendships warm of being's early day.

103

XII

Lov'st Thou, when storms are dark, and rains come down,
When wild winds round lone dwellings moan and sigh,
And Night is hooded in its gloomiest frown,
To mingle with the tempest thy shrill cry,
To pierce the rolling thunder-clouds, and brook
The scythe-wing'd lightning's glare with fierce unshrinking look?

XIII

Most lonely voice! most wild unbodied scream!
Aye haunting thus the sylvan wilderness,
Thou tellest man that life is but a dream,
Romantic as the tones of thy distress,
Leaving on earth no lingering trace behind,
And melting as thou meltest on the trackless wind.

XIV

Faint come the notes: Thou meltest distant far,
Scarce heard at intervals upon the night,
Leaving to loneliness each listening star,
The trees, the river, and the moonshine bright;
And, 'mid this stirless hush, this still of death,
Heard is my bosom's throb, and audible my breath.

104

XV

Thus wane the noonday dreams of Youth away,
And twilight hues the path of Life pervade;
Thus, like the western sunlight, ray by ray,
Into the darkness of old age we fade;
While of our early friends the memories seem
Half lost in bygone years, like fragments of a dream.

XVI

Lo! 'mid the future dim, remote or near,
Lurks in the womb of Time a final day,
When shuddering Earth a trumpet voice shall hear,
And ruin seize the Universe for prey;
And Silence, as the pulse of Nature stills,
In viewless robe, shall sit enthroned on smoking hills.

105

STARLIGHT REFLECTIONS.

I

On this grey column—overthrown
By giant Time's unsparing hand,
Where lichens spring and moss is strown
Along the desert land—
Resting alone, I fix mine eye,
With feelings of sublime delight,
On June's resplendent galaxy,
The studded arch of night.
How awful is the might of Him
Who stretch'd the skies from pole to pole!
And breathed, through chaos waste and dim,
Creation's living soul!
A thousand worlds are glowing round,
And thousands more than sight can trace
Revolve throughout the vast profound,
And fill the realms of space:
Then what is man? It ill befits
That such should hear or heed the prayer—
Lip-mockery of the worm that sits
Within the scorner's chair!

106

II

There are no clouds to checker night;
The winds are hush'd, the skies serene;
The landscape, outlined darkly bright,
Is still distinctly seen:
Remotest Ocean's tongue is heard
Declaiming to his island shores;
And wails the lonely water-bird
From yonder marshy moors.
This is the realm of solitude;
A season and a scene for thought,
When Melancholy well may brood
On years, that now are not—
On syren years, whose witchery smiled,
Ere time had leagued the heart with strife—
The Eden of this earthly wild—
The paradise of life.
They feign, who tell us wealth can strike
In to the thornless paths of bliss;
Alas! its best is, Judas-like,
To sell us with a kiss.

III

Ambition is a gilded toy,
A baited hook, a trap of guile;
Alluring only to destroy,
And mocking with a smile.
Alas! for what hath youth exchanged
The garden of its vernal prime?

107

Is Care—Sin—Sorrow—more estranged,
More gently lenient Time?
Doth Friendship quaff from bowl more deep?
Bathes Hope in more delightful streams?
Comes Love to charm the pillow'd sleep
With brighter, holier dreams?
Ah, no! the ship of life is steer'd
More boldly to the central main,
Only to cope with tempests fear'd,
Lightning, and wind, and rain!
Around lurks shipwreck; hidden rocks
Beneath the billows darkling lie;
Death threatens in the breaker's shocks
And thunder-cloven sky!

IV

Hearken to Truth! Though joys remain,
And friends unchanged and faithful prove,
The heart can never love again
As when it learn'd to love:
Oh! ne'er shall manhood's bosom feel
The raptures boyhood felt of yore;
Nor fancy lend, nor life reveal
Such faëry landscapes more!
Above the head when tempests break,
When cares flit round on ebon wing,
When Hope o'er being's troubled lake
No sunny gleam can fling;
When Love's clear flame no longer burns,

108

And Griefs distract, and Fears annoy,
Then Retrospection fondly turns
To long-departed joy—
The visions brought by sleep, the dreams
By scarce-awaken'd daylight brought,
And reveries by sylvan streams,
And mountains far remote.

V

Elysium's hues have fled: the joy
Of youth departs on seraph wing;
Soon breezes from the Pole destroy
The opening blooms of Spring!
We gaze around us; earth seems bright
With flowers and fruit, the skies are blue;
The bosom flutters with delight,
And deems the pageant true:—
Then lo! a tempest darkles o'er
The summer plain and waveless sea;
Lash the hoarse billows on the shore;
Fall blossoms from the tree;
Star after star is quench'd; the night
Of blackness gathers round in strife;
And storms howl o'er a scene of blight;—
Can such be human life?
Expanding beauties charm the heart,
The garden of our life is fair;
But in a few short years we start,
To find a desert there!

109

VI

Stars! far above that twinkling roll—
Stars! so resplendent, yet serene—
Ye look (ah! how unlike the soul)
As ye have ever been:
In you 'tis sweet to read at eve
The themes of youth's departed day,
Call up the past, and fondly grieve
O'er what hath waned away—
The faces that we see no more;
The friends whom Fate hath doom'd to roam;
Or silence, through Death's iron door,
Call'd to his cheerless home!
O! that the heart again were young;
O! that the feelings were as kind,
Artless and innocent; the tongue
The oracle of mind:
O! that the sleep of Night were sweet,
Gentle as childhood's sleep hath been,
When angels, as from Jacob's feet,
Soar'd earth and Heaven between.

VII

What once hath been no more can be—
'Tis void, 'tis visionary all;
The past hath joined eternity—
It comes not at the call.
No! worldly thoughts and selfish ways
Have banish'd Truth, to rule instead;

110

We, dazzled by a meteor-blaze,
Have run where Folly led;
Yet happiness was found not there—
The spring-bloom of the heart was shed;
We turn'd from Nature's face, though fair,
To muse upon the dead!
As dewdrops from the sparry cave
Trickling, new properties impart,
A tendency Life's dealings have
To petrify the heart.
There is an ecstasy in thought,
A soothing warmth, a pleasing pain;
Away! such dreams were best forgot—
They shall not rise again!

111

TO A WOUNDED PTARMIGAN.

I

Haunter of the herbless peak,
Habitant 'twixt earth and sky,
Snow-white bird of bloodless beak,
Rushing wing, and rapid eye,
Hath the Fowler's fatal aim
Of thy freeborn rights bereft thee,
And, 'mid natures curb'd or tame,
Thus encaged, a captive left thee?—
Thee, who Earth's low valleys scorning,
From thy cloud-embattled nest
Wont to catch the earliest morning
Sunbeam on thy breast!

II

Where did first the light of day
See thee bursting from thy shell?
Was it where Ben-Nevis grey
Towers aloft o'er flood and fell?
Or where down upon the storm
Plaided shepherds gaze in wonder,

112

Round thy rocky sides, Cairngorm,
Rolling with its clouds and thunder?
Or with summit, heaven-directed,
Where Benvoirlich views, in pride,
All his skyey groves reflected
In Loch Ketturin's tide?

III

Boots it not—but this we know
That a wild free life was thine,
Whether on the peak of snow
Or amid the clumps of pine;
Now on high begirt with heath,
Now, decoy'd by cloudless weather,
To the golden broom beneath,
Happy with thy mates together;
Yours were every cliff and cranny
Of your birth's majestic hill;—
Tameless flock! and ye were many,
Ere the spoiler came to kill!

IV

Gazing, wintry bird, at thee,
Thou dost bring the wandering mind
Visions of the Polar Sea—
Where, impell'd by wave and wind,
Drift the icebergs to and fro,
Crashing oft in fierce commotion,

113

While the snorting whale below,
In its anger tumults ocean;—
Naked, treeless shores, where howling
Tempests vex the brumal air,
And the famish'd wolf-cub prowling
Shuns the fiercer bear:—

V

And far north the daylight dies—
And the twinkling stars alone
Glitter through the icy skies,
Down from mid-day's ghastly throne;
And the moon is in her cave;
And no living sound intruding,
Save the howling wind and wave,
'Mid that darkness ever brooding;
Morn as 'twere in anger blotted
From Creation's wistful sight,
And Time's progress only noted
By the Northern Light.

VI

Sure 'twas sweet for thee, in spring,
Nature's earliest green to hail,
As the cuckoo's slumberous wing
Dreamt along the sunny vale;
As the blackbird from the brake
Hymn'd the Morning Star serenely;

114

And the wild swan o'er the lake,
Ice-unfetter'd, oar'd it queenly;
Brightest which?—the concave o'er thee
Deepening to its summer hue,
Or the boundless moors before thee,
With their bells of blue?

VII

Then from larchen grove to grove,
And from wild-flower glen to glen,
Thine it was in bliss to rove,
High o'er hills, and far from men;
Wilds Elysian! not a sound
Heard except the torrents booming;
Nought beheld for leagues around
Save the heath in purple blooming:
Why that startle? From their shieling
On the hazel-girded mount,
'Tis the doe and fawn down stealing
To the silvery fount.

VIII

Sweet to all the summer time—
But how sweeter far to thee,
Sitting in thy home sublime,
High o'er cloud-land's soundless sea;
Or if morn, by July drest,
Steep'd the hill-tops in vermilion,

115

Or the sunset made the west
Even like Glory's own pavilion;
While were fix'd thine ardent eyes on
Realms, outspread in blooming mirth,
Bounded but by the horizon
Belting Heaven to Earth.

IX

Did the Genius of the place,
Which of living things but you
Had for long beheld no trace,
That unhallow'd visit rue?
Did the gather'd snow of years
Which begirt that mountain's forehead,
Thawing, melt as 'twere in tears,
O'er that natural outrage horrid?
Did the lady-fern hang drooping,
And the quivering pine-trees sigh,
As, to cheer his game-dogs whooping,
Pass'd the spoiler by?

X

None may know—the dream is o'er—
Bliss and beauty cannot last;
To that haunt, for evermore,
Ye are creatures of the past!
And for you it mourns in vain;
While the dirgeful night-breeze only

116

Sings, and falls the fitful rain,
'Mid your homes forlorn and lonely.
Ye have pass'd—the bonds enthral you
Of supine and wakeless death;
Never more shall spring recall you
To the scented heath!

XI

Such their fate—but unto thee,
Bleeding bird! protracted breath,
Hopeless, drear captivity,
Life which in itself is death:—
Yet alike the fate of him
Who, when all his views are thwarted,
Finds earth but a desert dim,
Relatives and race departed;
Soon are Fancy's realms Elysian
Peopled by the brood of Care;
And Truth finds Hope's gilded vision
Painted but—in air.

117

THE CHILD'S BURIAL IN SPRING.

I

Where Ocean's waves to the hollow caves murmur a low wild hymn,
In pleasant musing I pursued my solitary way;
Then upwards wending from the shore, amid the woodlands dim,
From the gentle height, like a map in sight, the downward country lay.

II

'Twas in the smile of “green Aprile,”

“Grene Aprile,” the favourite appellation of the month by Chaucer, Spenser, Browne, and the older poets.

A prose character, equally impregnated with emerald, is given to its personification, in a curious duodecimo of 1681, entitled “The Queen-like Closet or Rich Cabinet,” quoted in Hone's “Every-Day Book,” (vol. ii. 517,) by Charles Lamb, in which the fair author, Anne Wooley, thus describes him:—

“Aprile—A young man in green, with a garland of myrtle, and hawthorn buds; Winged; in one hand Primroses and Violets, in the other the sign Taurus.”

a cloudless noontide clear;

In ecstasy the birds sang forth from many a leafing tree;
Both bud and bloom, with fresh perfume, proclaim'd the awaken'd year;
And Earth, array'd in beauty's robes, seem'd Heaven itself to be.

118

III

So cheerfully the sun shone out, so smilingly the sky
O'erarch'd green earth, so pleasantly the stream meander'd on,
So joyous was the murmur of the honey-bee and fly,
That of our fall, which ruin'd all, seem'd traces few or none.

IV

Then hopes, whose gilded pageantry wore all the hues of truth—
Elysian thoughts—Arcadian dreams—the poet's fabling strain—
Again seem'd shedding o'er our world an amaranthine youth,
And left no vestiges behind of death, decay, or pain.

V

At length I reach'd a churchyard gate—a churchyard? Yes! but there
Breathed out such calm serenity o'er every thing around,
That “the joy of grief” (as Ossian sings) o'erbalm'd the very air,
And the place was less a mournful place than consecrated ground.

119

VI

Beneath the joyous noontide sun, beneath the cloudless sky,
'Mid bees that humm'd, and birds that sang, and flowers that gemm'd the wild,
The sound of measured steps was heard—a grave stood yawning by—
And lo! in sad procession slow, the Funeral of a Child!

VII

I saw the little coffin borne unto its final rest;
The dark mould shovell'd o'er it, and replaced the daisied sod;
I mark'd the deep convulsive throes that heaved the Father's breast,
As he return'd (too briefly given!) that loan of love to God!

VIII

Then rose in my rebellious heart unhallow'd thoughts and wild,
Daring the inscrutable decrees of Providence to scan—
How death should be allotted to a pure, a sinless child,
And length of days the destiny of sinful, guilty man!

120

IX

The laws of the material world seem'd beautiful and clear;
The day and night, the bloom and blight, and seasons as they roll
In regular vicissitude to form a circling year,
Made up of parts dissimilar, and yet a perfect whole.

X

But darkness lay o'er the moral way which man is told to tread;
A shadow veil'd the beam divine by Revelation lent:
“How awfully mysterious are thy ways, O Heaven!” I said;
“We see not whence, nor know for what fate's arrows oft are sent!

XI

Under the shroud of the sullen cloud, when the hills are capp'd with snow,
When the moaning breeze, through leafless trees, bears tempest on its wing—
In the Winter's wrath, we think of death; but not when lilies blow,
And, Lazarus-like, from March's tomb walks forth triumphant Spring.

121

XII

As in distress o'er this wilderness I mused of stir and strife,
Where, 'mid the dark, seem'd scarce a mark our tangled path to scan,
A shadow o'er the season fell; a cloud o'er human life—
A veil to be by Eternity but ne'er by time withdrawn!

SPRING HYMN.

I

How pleasant is the opening year!
The clouds of Winter melt away;
The flowers in beauty reappear;
The songster carols from the spray;
Lengthens the more refulgent day;
And bluer glows the arching sky;
All things around us seem to say—
“Christian! direct thy thoughts on high.”

122

II

In darkness, through the dreary length
Of Winter slept both bud and bloom;
But Nature now puts forth her strength,
And starts renew'd, as from the tomb;
Behold an emblem of thy doom,
O man!—a star hath shone to save—
And morning yet shall re-illume
The midnight darkness of the grave!

III

Yet ponder well, how then shall break
The dawn of second life on thee—
Shalt thou to hope—to bliss awake?
Or vainly strive God's wrath to flee?
Then shall pass forth the dread decree,
That makes or weal or woe thine own:
Up, and to work! Eternity
Must reap the harvest Time hath sown.

123

OCTOBER—A SKETCH.

In spring, in summer, in autumnal wane,
How beautiful are Nature's thousand hues!
And which the fairest who can say? For each
In turn is passing fair, possesses charms
Peculiar, and upon the heart and mind
Leaves an imperial impress. Blandly crown'd
With crocus and with snowdrop coronal,
First comes the vestal Spring, with emerald scarf
And cheeks of glowing childhood. Summer next,
With all her gay and gorgeous trappings on,
Rejoicing in the glory of her youth,
And braiding roses in her auburn hair,
Under the light of the meridian sun,
In the green covert of a spreading beech:
While all around the fields are musical
With song of bird, and hum of bee. And lo!
Matronly Autumn passes, bright at first
In eye, and firm of step, her cincture rich,
Of wheat-ear and of vine-wreath intertwined;
But sadness dwells in her departing look,

124

And darklier glooms the atmosphere around,
Till Winter meets her on the desert heath,
And breathes consumption on her sallow cheek.
The year is now declining, and the air,
When morning blushes on the orient hills,
Embued with icy chillness. Ocean's wave
Has lost its tepid glow, and slumbering fogs
Brood o'er its level calm on windless days;
Yet when enshrined at his meridian height,
The sun athwart the fading landscape smiles
With most paternal kindness, softly warm,
And delicately beautiful—a Prince
Blessing the realms whose glory flows from him.
From bough to bough of the thick holly-tree
The spider weaves his net; the gossamer—
A tenuous line, glistening at intervals—
Now floats and now subsides upon the air;
The foliage of the forest, brown and sere,
Drops on the margin of the stubble-field,
In which the partridge lingers insecure,
And raises oft at sombre eventide,
With plaintive throat, a wild and tremulous cry.
The sickle of the husbandman hath ceased,
Leaving the lap of nature shorn and bare,
And even the latest gleaner disappear'd.
The dandelion, from the wayside path,
Its golden sun eclipsed, hath pass'd away;
And the sere nettle seeds along the bank.
The odorous clover flowers—these purely white,

125

Those richly purple—now are seen no more;
The perfume of the bean-field has decay'd;
And roams the wandering bee o'er many a strath,
For blossoms which have perish'd. Grassy blades,
Transparent, taper, and of sickly growth,
Shoot, soon to wither, in the sterile fields,
Doom'd in their spring to premature old age.
The garden fruits have mellow'd with the year,
Have mellow'd, and been gathered—all are gone;
And save the lingering nectarine—but half,
Not wholly reconcil'd to us—remains
Nor trace nor token of the varied wealth
Which Summer boasted in her cloudless prime.
Yet on the wild-brier grows the yellow hip;
The dew-sprent bramble shows its clusters ripe;
Reddens, 'mong fading branches, the harsh sloe;
And from the mountain-ash, in scarlet pride,
The fairy bunches drop their countless beads
In richness; on the lithe laburnum's bough,
Mix pods of lighter green among the leaves;
And, on the jointed honeysuckle's stalk,
The succulent berries hang. The robin sits
Upon the mossy gateway, singing clear
A requiem to the glory of the woods—
The bright umbrageousness, which, like a dream,
Hath perish'd and for ever passed away;
And, when the breeze awakes, a frequent shower
Of wither'd leaves bestrew the weeded paths,
Or from the branches of the willow whirl,
With rustling sound, into the turbid stream.

126

Yet there is still a brightness in the sky—
A most refulgent and translucent blue:
Still, from the ruin'd tower, the wallflower tells
Mournfully of what midsummer's pride hath been;
And still the mountains heave their ridgy sides
In pastoral greenness. Melancholy time!
Yet full of sweet sad thought; for everything
Is placid, if not joyful, as in Spring,
When Hope was keen, and, with an eagle eye,
Pry'd forward to the glories yet to come.
There cannot be a sweeter hour than this,
Even now, altho' encompass'd with decay,
To him who knows the world wherein he lives,
And all its mournful mutabilities!
There is not on the heavens a single cloud;
There is not in the air a breathing wind;
There is not on the earth a sound of grief;
Nor in the bosom a repining thought:—
Faith having sought and gained the mastery,
Quiet and contemplation mantle all!

129

POEMS ON FLOWERS.


131

THE BIRTH OF THE FLOWERS.

A VISION.

I.

Once on a time, when all was still,
When midnight mantled vale and hill,
And over earth the stars were keeping
Their lustrous watch, it has been said,
A Poet on his couch lay sleeping,
As pass'd a vision through his head:
It may be rash—it can't be wrong
To pencil what he saw in song;
And if we go not far amiss,
'Twas this—or something like to this.

II.

Firstly, through parting mists, his eye
The snowy mountain-peaks explored,
Where, in the dizzying gulfs of sky,
The daring eagle wheel'd and soar'd;

132

And, as subsiding lower, they
Own'd the bright empire of the day,
Softly array'd in living green,
The summits of the hills were seen,
On which the orient radiance play'd,
Girt with their garlands of broad trees,
Whose foliage twinkled in the breeze,
And form'd a lattice-work of shade:
And darker still, and deeper still,
As widen'd out each shelving hill,
Dispersing placidly they show'd
The destined plains for Man's abode—
Meadow, and mount, and champaign wide;
And sempiternal forests, where
Wild beasts and birds find food and lair;
And verdant copse by river side,
Which threading these—a silver line—
Was seen afar to wind and shine
Down to the mighty Sea that wound
Islands and continents around,
And, like a snake of monstrous birth,
In its grim folds encircled earth!

III.

Then wider as awoke the day,
Was seen a speck—a tiny wing
That, from the sward, drifting away,
Rose up at heaven's gate, to sing
A matin hymn melodious: Hark!
That orison!—it was the lark,

133

Hailing the advent of the sun,
Forth like a racer come to run
His fiery course; in brilliant day
The vapours vanishing away,
Had left to his long march a clear,
Cloud-unencumber'd atmosphere;
And glow'd, as on a map unfurl'd,
The panorama of the world.

IV.

Fair was the landscape—very fair—
Yet something still was wanting there;
Something, as 'twere, to lend the whole
Material world a type of soul.
The Dreamer wist not what might be
The thing a-lacking; but while he
Ponder'd in heart the matter over,
Floating between him and the ray
Of the now warm refulgent day,
What is it that his eyes discover?
As through the fields of air it flew,
Larger it loom'd, and fairer grew
That form of beauty and of grace,
Which bore of grosser worlds no trace,
Until, as Earth's green plains it near'd,
Confest, an Angel's self appeared.

V.

Eye could not gaze on shape so bright,
Which from its atmosphere of light,

134

And love, and beauty, shed around,
From every winnow of her wings,
Upon the fainting air, perfumes
Sweeter than Thought's imaginings;
And at each silent bend of grace,
The Dreamer's raptured eye could trace,
(Far richer than the peacock's plumes,)
A rainbow shadow on the ground,
As if from out Elysium's bowers,
From brightest gold to deepest blue,
Blossoms of every form and hue
Had fallen to earth in radiant showers.

VI.

Vainly would human words convey
Spiritual music, or portray
Seraphic loveliness—the grace
Flowing like glory from that face,—
Which, as 'twas said of Una's, made
Where'er the sinless virgin stray'd,
A sunshine in the shady place:
The snow-drop was her brow; the rose
Her cheek; her clear full gentle eye
The violet in its deepest dye;
The lily of the Nile her nose;
Before the crimson of her lips
Carnations waned in dim eclipse;
And downwards o'er her shoulders white,
As the white rose in fullest blow,

135

Her floating tresses took delight
To curl in hyacinthine flow:
Her vesture seem'd as from the blooms
Of all the circling seasons wove,
With magic warp in fairy looms,
And tissued with the woof of Love.

VII.

Transcendent joy!—a swoon of bliss!
Was ever rapture like to this?
Spell-bound as if in ecstasy,
The visionary's half-shut eye
Drank in those rich, celestial gleams,
Which dart from dreams involved in dreams;
When, as 'twere from a harp of Heaven,
Whose tones are to the breezes given,
While from the ocean zephyr sighs,
And twilight veils Creation's eyes,
In music thus a voice awoke,
And to his wilder'd senses spoke:—

VIII.

“'Tis true man's earth is very fair,
A dwelling meet for Eden's heir”—
Flowing like honey from her tongue,
'Twas thus the syllables were sung—
“And true, that there is wanting there
A something yet: What can it be?
Is it not this?—look up, and see!”

136

IX.

First, heavenward, with refulgent smile,
She glanced, then earthward turn'd the while;
From out her lap, she scatter'd round
Its riches of all scents and hues—
Scarlets and saffrons, pinks and blues;
And sow'd with living gems the ground.
The rose to eastern plains she gave;
The lily to the western wave;
The violet to the south; and forth
The thistle to the hardy north:
Then, in triumphant ecstasy,
Glancing across wide earth her eye,
She flung abroad her arms in air,
And daisies sprang up everywhere.

X.

“And let these be”—than song of birds
Harmonious more, 'twas thus her words
Prolong'd their sweetness—“let these be
For symbols and for signs to Thee,
Forthcoming Man, for whom was made
This varied world of sun and shade:
Fair in its hills and valleys, fair
In groves, and glades, and forest bowers,
The Genii of the earth and air
Have lavish'd their best offerings there;
And mine I now have brought him—Flowers!

137

These, these are mine especial care;
And I have given them form and hue,
For ornament and emblem too:
Let them be symbols to the sense,
(For they are passionless and pure,
And sinless quite,) that innocence
Alone can happiness secure.
Nursed by the sunshine and the shower,
Buds grow to blossoms on the eye,
And having pass'd their destined hour,
Vanish away all painlessly—
For sorrowing days and sleepless nights
Are only Sin's dread perquisites—
As each returning spring fresh races,
Alike in beauty and in bloom,
Shall rise to occupy their places,
And shed on every breeze perfume.

XI.

“Then let them teach him—Faith. They grow,
But how and wherefore never know:—
The morning bathes them with its dew,
When fades in heaven its latest star;
The sunshine gives them lustre new,
And shows to noon each varied hue,
Than Fancy's dreams more beauteous far;
And night maternal muffles up
In her embrace each tender cup.
They toil not, neither do they spin,

138

And yet so exquisite their bloom,
Nor mimic Art, nor Tyrian loom
Shall e'er to their perfection win.
For million millions though they be,
And like to each, the searcher not
From out the whole one pair shall see
Identical in stripe and spot.

XII.

“To Spring these gifts,” the Angel said,
“I give;”—and from her cestus she,
Forth to the Zephyrs liberally,
A sparkling handful scattered
Of seeds, like golden dust that fell
On mountain-side, and plain, and dell.
Hence sprang that earliest drop, whose hue
Is taintless as the new-fall'n snows;
The crocus, yellow-striped and blue;
The daffodil, and rathe primrose;
The colts-foot, with its leaflets white;
The cyclamen and aconite;
The violet's purpureal gem;
The golden star of Bethlehem;
Auriculus; narcissi bent,
As 'twere in worship o'er the stream;
Anemones, in languishment,
As just awakening from a dream;
And myriads not less sweet or bright,
Dusky as jet, or red as flames,

139

That glorify the day and night,
Unending, with a thousand names.

XIII.

“My vows are thus to Summer paid,”
She added, as she shower'd abroad,
O'er mount and mead, o'er glen and glade,
A sleet-like dust, which, o'er the ground
In countless atoms falling round,
Like rubies, pearls, and sapphires glow'd:
The pansy, and the fleur-de-lis,
Straightway arose in bloom; sweet pea,
The marigold of aureate hue,
The periwinkles white and blue,
The heliotrope afar to shine,
The cistus and the columbine,
The lily of the vale: and queen
Of all the bright red rose was seen
Matchless in majesty and mien.
Around were over-arching bowers,
Of lilac and laburnum, wove
With jasmine; and the undergrove
Glow'd bright with rhododendron flowers.

XIV.

“Nor shalt thou, Autumn”—thus her words
Found ending—“Nor shalt thou be left,
With thy blue skies and singing birds,
Of favours, all thine own, bereft;

140

The foxglove, with its stately bells
Of purple, shall adorn thy dells;
The wallflower, on each rifted rock,
From liberal blossoms shall breathe down,
(Gold blossoms frecked with iron-brown,)
Its fragrance; while the holly-hock,
The pink, and the carnation vie
With lupin, and with lavender,
To decorate the fading year;
And larkspurs, many-hued, shall drive
Gloom from the groves, where red leaves lie,
And Nature seems but half alive.

XV.

“No! never quite shall disappear
The glory of the circling year;—
Fade shall it never quite, if flowers
An emblem of existence be;
The golden rod shall flourish free,
And laurestini shall weave bowers
For Winter; while the Christmas rose
Shall blossom, though it be 'mid snows.

XVI.

“Meanings profounder, loftier lie
In all we see, in all we hear,
Than merely strike the common eye,
Than merely meet the careless ear;

141

And meekly Man must bend his knee
On Nature's temple-floor, if he
Would master her philosophy.—
It is not given alone to flowers
To brighten with their hue the hours;
But with a silence all sublime,
They chronicle the march of Time,
As month on month, in transience fast,
Commingles with the spectral past.
Some shall endure for seasons; they
Shall blossom on the breath of Spring;
Shall bourgeon gloriously the blue,
Refulgent, sunny Summer through;
And only shall the feebler ray
Of Autumn find them withering:
Others shall with the crescent Moon
Grow up in pride, to fade as soon:
Yea! not a few shall with the day
That saw them burst to bloom—decay;
Even like the babe, that opes its eye
To light, and seems but born to die.

XVII.

“By hieroglyphic hue and sign,
Flowers shall the heart and soul divine,
And all the feelings that engage
Man's restless thoughts from youth to age:
This blossom shall note infancy,
Lifting in earliest spring its eye

142

To dewy dawn, and drinking thence
The purity of innocence;
That—vigorous youth, which from the hue
Of summer skies, imbibes its blue,
And bursts abroad, as if to say
‘Can lusty strength like mine decay?’
This—Life's autumnal date, which takes
A colouring from the breeze which shakes
The yellowing woods; and that—old age,
Which comes when Winter drifts the fields
With snow, and, prostrate to his rage
Tyrannical, bows down and yields.

XVIII.

“Yea! all the passions that impart
Their varied workings to the heart,
That stir to hate or calm to love,
That glory or debasement prove,
In flowers are imaged:—O! discern
In them recondite homilies; learn
The silent lessons which they teach;
For clearer vision shall explain,
Hereafter, what pertains to each,
And that nought made was made in vain!”

XIX.

As melts in music, far aloof,
Amid the chancel's galleried roof,
The organ's latest tone; as dies
The glorious rainbow, ray by ray,

143

Leaving no trace on the blue skies,
So sank that voice, that form away.

XX.

And what of the bewilder'd Poet,
On whom had fallen this flowery vision?
Cruel it seems, yet Truth must show it,—
He started from his dream Elysian;
But if 'twas at an Angel's calling,
Sure 'twas a fallen one; his eyes
And ears were shut from Paradise,
To listen—to the watchman bawling!

RHODOCLEA'S GARLAND.

I.

This garland of fair flowers, by me
Fondly wreathed, I send to thee,
Rhodoclea!
Lily, and love-cup are there,
Anemone with dewy hair,
Freshest violets dark-blue,
And the moist narcissus too,
Rhodoclea!

144

II.

Being crown'd with these, aside
Cast all vain, unmeaning pride,
Rhodoclea!
Cast vainglorious pride away;
Alike the pageants of a day,
Thou dost cease, and so do they,
Rhodoclea!

THE EGLANTINE.

The sun was setting in the summer west
With golden glory, 'mid pavilions vast
Of purple and gold; scarcely a zephyr breathed;
The woods in their umbrageous beauty slept;
The river with a soft sound murmured on;
Sweetly the wild birds sang; and far away
The azure-shouldered mountains, softly lined,
Seemed like the boundaries of Paradise.
Soft fell the eve: my wanderings led me on
To a lone river bank of yellow sand,—
The loved haunt of the ousel, whose blithe wing
Wanton'd from stone to stone,—and, on a mound

145

Of verdurous turf with wild-flowers diamonded,
(Harebell and lychnis, thyme and camomile,)
Sprang in the majesty of natural pride
An Eglantine—the red rose of the wood—
Its cany boughs with threatening prickles arm'd,
Rich in its blossoms and sweet-scented leaves.
The wild-rose has a nameless spell for me;
And never on the road-side do mine eyes
Behold it, but at once my thoughts revert
To schoolboy days: why so, I scarcely know;
Except that once, while wandering with my mates,
One gorgeous afternoon, when holiday
To Nature lent new charms, a thunder-storm
O'ertook us, cloud on cloud—a mass of black,
Dashing at once the blue sky from our view,
And spreading o'er the dim and dreary hills
A lurid mantle.
To a leafy screen
We fled, of elms; and from the rushing rain
And hail found shelter, though at every flash
Of the red lightning, brightly heralding
The thunder-peal, within each bosom died
The young heart, and the day of doom seemed come.
At length the rent battalia cleared away—
The tempest-cloven clouds; and sudden fell
A streak of joyful sunshine. On a bush
Of wild-rose fell its beauty. All was dark
Around it still, and dismal; but the beam

146

(Like Hope sent down to re-illume Despair)
Burned on the bush, displaying every leaf,
And bud, and blossom, with such perfect light
And exquisite splendour, that since then my heart
Hath deemed it Nature's favourite, and mine eyes
Fall on it never, but that thought recurs,
And memories of the by-past, sad and sweet.

THE WHITE ROSE.

I

Rose of the desert! thou art to me
An emblem of stainless purity,—
Of those who, keeping their garments white,
Walk on through life with steps aright.

II

Thy fragrance breathes of the fields above,
Whose soil and air are faith and love;
And where, by the murmur of silver springs,
The Cherubim fold their snow-white wings;—

147

III

Where those who were severed re-meet in joy,
Which death can never more destroy;
Where scenes without, and where souls within,
Are blanched from taint and touch of sin;—

IV

Where speech is music, and breath is balm;
And broods an everlasting calm;
And flowers wither not, as in worlds like this;
And hope is swallowed in perfect bliss;—

V

Where all is peaceful, for all is pure;
And all is lovely, and all endure;
And day is endless and ever bright;
And no more sea is, and no more night;—

VI

Where round the Throne, in hues like thine,
The raiments of the ransom'd shine;
And o'er each brow a halo glows
Of glory, like the pure White Rose!

148

LILIES.

WRITTEN UNDER A DRAWING OF A BUNCH OF THESE FLOWERS IN THE ALBUM OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY C--- C---.

I

Look to the lilies how they grow!”
'Twas thus the Saviour said, that we,
Even in the simplest flowers that blow,
God's ever-watchful care might see.

II

Yes! nought escapes the guardian eye
Of Him, who marks the sparrow's fall,
Of Him, who lists the raven's cry—
However vast, however small.

III

Then mourn not we for those we love,
As if all hope were reft away,
Nor let our sorrowing hearts refuse
Submission to His will to pay.

149

IV

Shall He, who paints the lily's leaf,
Who gives the rose its scented breath,
Love all His works except the chief,
And leave His image, Man, to death?

V

No! other hearts and hopes be ours,
And to our souls let faith be given
To think our lost friends only flowers
Transplanted from this world to Heaven.

THE HAREBELL.

Simplest of blossoms! to mine eye
Thou bring'st the summer's painted sky;
The maythorn greening in the nook;
The minnows sporting in the brook;
The bleat of flocks; the breath of flowers;
The song of birds amid the bowers;
The crystal of the azure seas;
The music of the southern breeze;
And, over all, the blessed sun,
Telling of halcyon days begun.

150

Blue-bell of Scotland, to my gaze,
As wanders Memory through the maze
Of silent, half-forgotten things,
A thousand sweet imaginings
Thou conjurest up—again return
Emotions in my heart to burn,
Which have been long estranged; the sky
Brightens upon my languid eye;
And, for a while, the world I see,
As when my heart first turned to thee,
Lifting thy cup, a lucid gem,
Upon its slender emerald stem.
Again I feel a careless boy,
Roaming the daisied wold in joy;
At noontide, tracking in delight
The butterfly's erratic flight;
Or watching, 'neath the evening star,
The moonrise brightening from afar,
As boomed the beetle o'er the ground,
And shrieked the bat lone flitting round.
Yet though it be, that now thou art
But as a memory to my heart,
Though years have flown, and, in their flight,
Turned hope to sadness, bloom to blight,
And I am changed, yet thou art still
The same bright blossom of the hill,
Catching within thy cup of blue
The summer light and evening dew.

151

Yes! though the wizard Time hath wrought
Strange alteration in my lot,
Though what unto my youthful sight
Appeared most beautiful and bright—
(The morning star, the silver dew,
Heaven's circling arch of cloudless blue,
And setting suns, above the head
Of ragged mountains blazing red)—
Have of their glory lost a part,
As worldly thoughts o'erran the heart;
Still, what of yore thou wert to me,
Blithe Boyhood seeks and finds in thee.
As on the sward reclined he lies,
Shading the sunshine from his eyes,
He sees the lark, with twinkling wings,
For ever soaring as she sings,
And listens to the tiny rill,
Amid its hazels murmuring still,
The while thou bloomest by his knee—
Ah! who more blest on earth than he!
Ah! when in hours by thought o'ercast,
We mete the present with the past,
Seems not this life so full of change,
That we have to ourselves grown strange?
For, differs less the noon from night,
Than what we be from what we might.
The feelings all have known decay;
Our youthful friendships, where are they?

152

The glories of the earth and sky
Less touch the heart, less charm the eye;
Yet, as if Nature would not part,
In silent beauty to my heart,
Sweet floweret of the pastoral glen,
Amid the stir, the strife of men,
Thou speakest of all gentle things,
Of bees, and birds, and gushing springs,
The azure lake, the mossy fount,
The plaided shepherd on the mount,
The silence of the vale profound,
And flocks in quiet feeding round!

THE WALL-FLOWER.

I

The Wall-flower—the Wall-flower,
How beautiful it blooms!
It gleams above the ruined tower,
Like sunlight over tombs;
It sheds a halo of repose
Around the wrecks of time.
To beauty give the flaunting rose,
The Wall-flower is sublime.

153

II

Flower of the solitary place!
Grey ruin's golden crown,
That lendest melancholy grace
To haunts of old renown;
Thou mantlest o'er the battlement,
By strife or storm decayed;
And fillest up each envious rent
Time's canker-tooth hath made.

III

Thy roots outspread the ramparts o'er,
Where, in war's stormy day,
Percy or Douglas ranged of yore
Their ranks in grim array;
The clangour of the field is fled,
The beacon on the hill
No more through midnight blazes red,
But thou art blooming still!

IV

Whither hath fled the choral band
That fill'd the Abbey's nave?
Yon dark sepulchral yew-trees stand
O'er many a level grave.
In the belfry's crevices, the dove
Her young brood nurseth well,
While thou, lone flower! dost shed above
A sweet decaying smell.

154

V

In the season of the tulip-cup,
When blossoms clothe the trees,
How sweet to throw the lattice up,
And scent thee on the breeze;
The butterfly is then abroad,
The bee is on the wing,
And on the hawthorn by the road
The linnets sit and sing.

VI

Sweet Wall-flower—sweet Wall-flower!
Thou conjurest up to me
Full many a soft and sunny hour
Of boyhood's thoughtless glee;
When joy from out the daisies grew,
In woodland pastures green,
And summer skies were far more blue,
Than since they e'er have been.

VII

Now autumn's pensive voice is heard
Amid the yellow bowers,
The robin is the regal bird,
And thou the queen of flowers;
He sings on the laburnum trees,
Amid the twilight dim,
And Araby ne'er gave the breeze
Such scents, as thou to him.

155

VIII

Rich is the pink, the lily gay,
The rose is summer's guest;
Bland are thy charms when these decay,
Of flowers—first, last, and best!
There may be gaudier in the bower,
And statelier on the tree;
But Wall-flower—loved Wall-flower,
Thou art the flower for me!

THE DAISY.

I

The Daisy blossoms on the rocks,
Amid the purple heath;
It blossoms on the river's banks,
That thrids the glens beneath:
The eagle, at his pride of place,
Beholds it by his nest;
And, in the mead, it cushions soft
The lark's descending breast.

156

II

Before the cuckoo, earliest spring
Its silver circlet knows,
When greening buds begin to swell,
And zephyr melts the snows;
And when December's breezes howl
Along the moorlands bare,
And only blooms the Christmas rose,
The Daisy still is there!

III

Samaritan of flowers! to it
All races are alike,—
The Switzer on his glacier height,
The Dutchman by his Dyke,
The seal-skin vested Esquimaux,
Begirt with icy seas,
And, underneath his burning noon,
The parasol'd Chinese.

IV

The emigrant on distant shore,
'Mid scenes and faces strange,
Beholds it flowering in the sward,
Where'er his footsteps range;
And when his yearning, home-sick heart
Would bow to its despair,
It reads his eye a lesson sage,
That God is everywhere!

157

V

Stars are the Daisies that begem
The blue fields of the sky,
Beheld by all, and everywhere,
Bright prototypes on high:—
Bloom on, then, unpretending flower!
And to the waverer be
An emblem of St Paul's content,
St Stephen's constancy.

THE SWEET-BRIAR.

I

The Sweet-briar flowering,
With boughs embowering,
Beside the willow-tufted stream,
In its soft red bloom,
And its wild perfume,
Brings back the past like a sunny dream!

II

Methinks, in childhood,
Beside the wildwood
I lie, and listen the blackbird's song,

158

'Mid the evening calm,
As the Sweet-briar's balm
On the gentle west wind breathes along—

III

To speak of meadows,
And palm-tree shadows,
And bee-hive cones, and a thymy hill,
And greenwood mazes,
And greensward daisies,
And a foamy stream, and a clacking mill.

IV

Still the heart rejoices
At the happy voices
Of children, singing amid their play;
While swallows twittering,
And waters glittering,
Make earth an Eden at close of day.

V

In sequestered places,
Departed faces,
Return and smile as of yore they smiled;
When, with trifles blest,
Each buoyant breast
Held the trusting heart of a little child.

159

POEMS SUGGESTED BY CELEBRATED SCOTTISH LOCALITIES.


161

THE TOWER OF ERCILDOUNE.

Quilum spak Thomas
O' Ersyldoune, that sayd in Derne,
Thare suld meit stalwartly, starke and sterne,
He sayd it in his prophecy;
But how he wyst it was ferly.
Wynton"s Cronykil.

I.

There is a stillness on the night;
Glimmers the ghastly moonshine white
On Learmonth's woods, and Leader's streams,
Till Earth looks like a land of dreams:
Up in the arch of heaven afar,
Receded looks each little star,
And meteor flashes faintly play
By fits along the Milky Way.
Upon me in this eerie hush,
A thousand wild emotions rush,
As, gazing spell-bound o'er the scene,
Beside thy haunted walls I lean,
Grey Ercildoune, and feel the Past
His charmëd mantle o'er me cast;

162

Visions, and thoughts unknown to Day,
Bear o'er the fancy wizard sway,
And call up the traditions told
Of him who sojourned here of old.

II.

What stirs within thee? 'Tis the owl
Nursing amid thy chambers foul
Her impish brood; the nettles rank
Are seeding on thy wild-flower bank;
The hemlock and the dock declare
In rankness dark their mastery there;
And all around thee speaks the sway
Of desolation and decay.
In outlines dark the shadows fall
Of each grotesque and crumbling wall.
Extinguished long hath been the strife
Within thy courts of human life.
The rustic, with averted eye,
At fall of evening hurries by,
And lists to hear, and thinks he hears,
Strange sounds—the offspring of his fears;
And wave of bough, and waters' gleam,
Not what they are, but what they seem
To be, are by the mind believed,
Which seeks not to be undeceived.
Thou scowlest like a spectre vast
Of silent generations past,
And all about thee wears a gloom
Of something sterner than the tomb.

The ruins of the Tower of Ercildoune, once the abode and property of the famous True Thomas, the poet and soothsayer, are still to be seen at a little distance from the village of the same name in Lauderdale, pleasantly situated on the eastern bank of the Leader, which, in pronunciation, has been corrupted into Earlstoun. About the ruins themselves there is nothing peculiar or remarkable, save their authenticated antiquity, and the renown shed upon them as the relics of “Learmonth's high and ancient hall.” Part of the walls, and nearly the whole of the subterranean vaults, yet remain. A stone in the wall of the church of Earlstoun still bears the inscription—

“Auld Rhymer's race
Lies in this place.”

He must have died previous to 1299; for in that year his son resigned the property of his deceased father to the Trinity House of Soltra, as a document testifying this circumstance is preserved in the Advocates' Library. On a beautiful morning in September, “long, long ago,” when I was yet ignorant that any part of the ruins were in existence, they were pointed out to me, and, I need not add, awakened a thousand stirring associations connected with the legends, the superstitions, and the history of the mediæval ages—when nature brought forth “Gorgons, and hydras, and chimeras dire,” and social life seemed entirely devoted to “Ladye love, and war, renown, and knightly worth.”



163

For thee, 'tis said, dire forms molest,
That cannot die, or will not rest.

The ruins of the magician's tower are still regarded with a superstitious dread by the neighbouring peasantry; and to hint a doubt to such of their being haunted by “forms that come not from earth or Heaven,” would imply the hardihood and daring scepticism of the Sadducee. No doubt, this awe has greatly added to the desolation and solitude of the place; for the imputed prophecy of Thomas regarding the destruction of his house and home has been literally verified—

“The hare sall kittle on my hearth-stane,
And there will never be a Laird Learmonth again.”

In reference to this topic, Sir Walter Scott, in his notes to the Border Minstrelsy, tells a good story. “The veneration,” he says, “paid to his dwelling-place, even attached itself in some degree to a person who, within the memory of man, chose to set up his residence in the ruins of Learmonth's Tower. The name of this man was Murray, a kind of herbalist, who, by dint of some knowledge of simples, the possession of a musical clock, an electrical machine, and a stuffed alligator, added to a supposed communication with Thomas the Rhymer, lived for many years in very good credit as a wizard.”


III.

Backward my spirit to the sway
Of shadowy Eld is led away,
When, underneath thine ample dome,
Thomas the Rhymer made his home,
The wondrous poet-seer, whose name,
Still floating on the breath of fame,
Hath overpast five hundred years,
Yet fresh as yesterday appears,
With spells to arm the winter's tale,
And make the listener's cheek grow pale.
Secluded here in chamber lone,
Often the light of genius shone
Upon his pictured page, which told
Of Tristrem brave, and fair Isolde,

Although the matter has been made one of dispute, there seems little reason to doubt that Thomas the Rhymer was really and truly the author of Sir Tristrem—a romance which obtained almost universal popularity in its own day, and which was paraphrased, or rather imitated, by the minstrels of Normandy and Bretagne. The principal opponent of this conclusion is the able antiquary, Mr Price, who, in his edition of Warton's History of English Poetry, has appended some elaborate remarks to the first volume, with the purpose of proving that the story of Sir Tristrem was known over the continent of Europe before the age of Thomas of Ercildoune. That, however, by no means disproves that Thomas was the author of the Auchinleck MS., edited by Sir Walter Scott. That its language may have suffered from passing orally from one person to another before being committed to writing at all, is not improbable.

Be this as it may, such was the instability of literary popularity before the invention of printing, that at last only one copy of True Thomas' romance was known to exist. From this, which belongs to the Advocates' Library in Edinburgh, and is the earliest specimen of Scottish poetry extant, the author of Marmion gave the world his edition in 1804, filling up the blanks in the narrative, and following out the story in a style of editorial emendation, and competency for his task, not often to be met with. Taken all in all, the rifacimento is not one of the least extraordinary achievements of a most extraordinary literary career.

The more hurried reader will find a succinct, and very luminous account of Sir Tristrem, with illustrative extracts, in Mr Ellis' Specimens of Ancient Poetry, vol. i., where that distinguished scholar evinces his usual taste, research, and critical discrimination.


And how their faith was sorely tried,
And how they would not change, but died
Together, and the fatal stroke
Which stilled one heart, the other broke;
And here, on midnight couch reclined,
Hearkened his gifted ear the wind
Of dark Futurity, as on
Through shadowy ages swept the tone,
A mystic voice, whose murmurs told
The acts of eras yet unrolled;
While Leader sang a low wild tune,
And redly set the waning moon,

164

Amid the West's pavilion grim,
O'er Soltra's mountains vast and dim.

IV.

His mantle dark, his bosom bare,
His floating eyes and flowing hair,
Methinks the visioned bard I see
Beneath the mystic Eildon Tree,

Tradition reports that, from under this tree, the Rhymer was wont to utter his prophecies, and also, that it was from this spot he was enticed away by the Queen of Fairyland:—

“True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank,
A ferlie he spied wi' his ee;
And there he saw a lady bright
Come riding down by the Eeldon Tree.
Her shirt was of the grass-green silk,
Her mantle of the velvet fine;
At ilka tett of her horse's mane,
Hung fifty silver bells and nine.”

Piercing the mazy depths of Time,
And weaving thence prophetic rhyme;
Beings around him that had birth
Neither in Heaven, nor yet on earth;
And at his feet the broken law
Of Nature, through whose chinks he saw.

V.

The Eildon Tree hath passed away
By natural process of decay;
We search around, and see it not,
Though yet a grey stone marks the spot
Where erst its boughs, with quivering fear,
O'erarched the sprite-attended seer,
Holding unhallowed colloquy
On things to come and things gone by.
And still the Goblin Burn steals round
The purple heath with lonely sound,

A small stream in the neighbourhood of the Eildon Tree (or rather Stone, as its quondam site is now pointed out by a piece of rock) has received the name of the Bogle Burn, from the spirits which were thought to haunt the spot in attendance on the prophet.


As when its waters stilled their noise
To listen to the silver voice,

165

Which sang in wild prophetic strains,
Of Scotland's perils and her pains—
Of dire defeat on Flodden Hill—
Of Pinkyncleuch's blood-crimsoned rill—
Of coming woes, of lowering wars,
Of endless battles, broils, and jars—
Till France's Queen should bear a son
To make two rival kingdoms one,
And many a wound of many a field
Of blood, in Bruce's blood be healed.

Among the prophecies ascribed to the Rhymer is the following, evidently relating to the junction of the crowns under James VI.:—

“Then to the bairn I could say,
Where dwellest thou, in what countrye?
Or who shall rule the isle Britain
From the north to the south sea?
The French queen shall bear the son
Shall rule all Britain to the sea:
Which from the Bruce's blood shall come
As near as the ninth degree.”

That severe, yet acute and candid, expurgator of historical truth, the late Lord Hailes, in a dissertation devoted to the prophecies of Bede, Merlin, Gildas, and our bard, makes it pretty distinctly appear that the lines just quoted are an interpolation, and do not appertain to True Thomas at all, but to Berlington, another approved soothsayer of a later age.


VI.

Where gained the man this wondrous dower
Of song and superhuman power?
Tradition answers,—Elfland's Queen
Beheld the boy-bard on the green,

The description of the journey to Fairyland in the old ballad is exquisitely poetical—few things more so:—

“‘Oh see ye not yon narrow road,
So thick beset with thorns and briers?
That is the path of righteousness,
Though after it but few inquires.
‘And see not ye that braid, braid road,
That lies across that lily leven?
That is the path of wickedness,
Though some call it the path to Heaven.
‘And see not ye that bonny road
That winds across the ferny brae?
That is the road to fair Elfland,
Where thou and I this night maun gae.’
Oh they rode on, and farther on,
And they waded through rivers aboon the knee;
And they saw neither sun nor moon,
But they heard the roaring of the sea.
It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae stern light,
And they waded through red blude to the knee;
For a' the blude that's shed on earth
Runs through the springs o' that countrie.”
BORDER MINSTRELSY, vol. iv.

Nursing pure thoughts and feelings high
With Poesy's abstracted eye;
Bewitched him with her sibyl charms,
Her tempting lips, and wreathing arms,
And lured him from the earth away
Into the light of milder day.
They passed through deserts wide and wild,
Whence living things were far exiled,
Shadows and clouds, and silence drear,
And shapes and images of fear;
Until they reached the land, where run
Rivers of blood, and shines no sun
By day—no moon, no star by night—

166

But glows a fair, a fadeless light—
The realm of Faëry.
There he dwelt,
Till seven sweet years had o'er him stealt—
A long, deep, rapturous trance, 'mid bowers
O'er-blossomed with perennial flowers—
One deep dream of ecstatic joy,
Unmeasured, and without alloy;
And when by Learmonth's turrets grey,
Which long had mourned their lord's delay,
Again 'mid summer's twilight seen,
His velvet shoon were Elfin green,
The livery of the tiny train
Who held him, and would have again.

VII.

Smil'st thou at this, prosaic age,
Whom seldom other thoughts engage
Than those of pitiable self,
The talismans of power and pelf—
Whose only dream is Bentham's dream,
And Poetry is choked by steam?
It must be so; but yet to him
Who loves to roam 'mid relics dim
Of ages, whose existence seems
Less like reality than dreams—
A raptured, an ecstatic trance,
A gorgeous vision of romance—
It yields a wildly pleasing joy,
To feel in soul once more a boy,

167

And breathe, even while we know us here,
Love's soft Elysian atmosphere;
To leave the rugged paths of Truth
For fancies that illumined youth,
And throw Enchantment's colours o'er
The forest dim, the ruin hoar,
The walks where musing Genius strayed,
The spot where Faith life's forfeit paid,
The dungeon where the patriot lay,
The cairn that marks the warrior's clay,
The rosiers twain that shed their bloom
In autumn o'er the lover's tomb;
For sure such scenes, if truth be found
In what we feel, are hallowed ground.

VIII.

Airy delusion this may be,
But ever such remain for me:
Still may the earth with beauty glow
Beneath the storm's illumined bow—
God's promised sign—and be my mind
To science, when it deadens, blind;

As the boundaries of science are enlarged, those of poetry are proportionately curtailed. The contrary is arbitrarily maintained by many, for whose judgment in other matters I have respect; but in this I cannot believe them: for in what does poetry consist? It may be defined to be objects or subjects viewed through the mirror of imagination, and descanted on in harmonious language. If such a definition be adopted—and it will be found not an incomprehensive one—then it must be admitted, that the very exactness of knowledge is a barrier to the laying on of that colouring, through which alone facts can be converted into poetry. The best proof of this would be a reference to what has been generally regarded as the best poetry of the best authors, in ancient and modern times, more especially with reference to the external world—for of the world of mind all seems to remain, from Plato downwards, in the same state of glorious uncertainty, and probably will ever do so. The precision of science would at once annul the grandest portions of the Psalms—of Isaiah—of Ezekiel—of Job—of the Revelation. It would convert the Medea of Euripides—the Metamorphoses of Ovid—and the Atys of Catullus, into rhapsodies; and render the Fairy Queen of Spenser—the Tempest and Mid-Summer Night's Dream of Shakspeare—the Ancient Mariner of Coleridge—the Kilmeny of Hogg—the Edith and Nora of Wilson—the Thalaba of Southey—the Cloud and Sensitive Plant of Shelley, little better than rant, bombast, and fustian. In the contest between Bowles, Byron, and Campbell on this subject, the lesser poet had infinitely the better of the two greater; but he did not make sufficient use of his advantage, either in argument or illustration—for no one could be hardy enough to maintain that a newly-built castle is equally poetical with a similar one in ruins, or a man-of-war, fresh from the stocks, to one that had long braved the battle and the breeze. Stone and lime, as well as wood and sail-cloth, require associations. Of themselves they are prose: it is only what they acquire that renders them subjects for poetry. Were it otherwise, Pope's Essay on Criticism would be, as a poem, equal to his Eloisa, for it exhibits the same power, and the same judgment; and Darwin's Botanic Garden and Temple of Nature might displace from the shelf Milton's Comus and Paradise Lost. Wherever light penetrates the obscure, and dispels the uncertain, a demesne has been lost to the realm of imagination.

That poetry can never be robbed of its chief elements I firmly believe, for these elements are indestructible principles in human nature, and while men breathe there is room for a new Sappho, or a new Simonides; nor in reference to the present state of poetical literature, although we verily believe that neither even Marmion nor Childe Harold would be now received as we delight to know they were some thirty or forty years ago, still we do not despair that poetry will ultimately recover from the staggering blows which science has inflicted, in the shape of steam—of railway—of electro-magnetism—of geology—of political economy and statistics—in fact, by a series of disenchantments. Original genius may form new elements, extract new combinations, and, at least, be what the kaleidoscope is to the rainbow. But this alters not the position with which we set out. In the foamy seas we can never more expect to behold Proteus leading out his flocks; nor, in the stream, another Narcissus admiring his fair face; nor Diana again descending to Endymion. We cannot hope another Macbeth to meet with other witches on the blasted heath, or another Faust to wander amid the mysteries of another Walpurgis Night. Rocks are stratified by time as exactly as cloth is measured by tailors, and Echo, no longer a vagrant, is compelled quietly to submit to the laws of acoustics.


For mental light could ne'er be given
Except to lead us nearer Heaven.

168

THE GLEN OF ROSLIN.

I

Hark! 'twas the trumpet rung!
Commingling armies shout;
And echoing far yon woods among,
The ravage and the rout!
The voice of triumph and of wail,
Of victor and of vanquish'd blent,

The celebrated battle of Roslin was fought on the 24th of February 1302, during the guardianship of Scotland by Comyn, after the dethroned king had been conveyed by the messengers of the Pope from his captivity in England to his castle of Bailleul in France, where, in obscurity and retirement, he passed the remainder of his life.

Aware we are that our Scottish historians, Fordun and Wyntoun—both of whom give accounts of this battle—are entitled patriotically to be a little partial; but it is curious, as Mr Tytler remarks, (Hist., vol. i. p. 440. Note N., p. 196,) how far Lord Hailes, “from an affectation of superiority to national prejudice,” passes over or disallows many corroborating circumstances admitted even by the English chroniclers themselves, Hemingford, Trivet, and Longtoft.


Is wafted on the vernal gale:
A thousand bows are bent,
And, 'mid the hosts that throng the vale,
A shower of arrows sent.

II

For Saxon foes invade
The Baliol's kingless realm:
Their myriads swarm in yonder shade,
The weak to overwhelm:—
'Tis Seagrave, on destruction bent,
From Freedom's roll to blot the land,

169

By England's haughty Edward sent;

Sir John de Seagrave was appointed Governor of Scotland by Edward I., and marched from Berwick towards Edinburgh, about the beginning of Lent, with an army of twenty thousand men, consisting chiefly of cavalry, and officered by some of the best and bravest leaders of England. Among these were two brothers of the governor, whom Hemingford designates as “milites strenuissimi,” and Robert de Neville, a nobleman who had greatly distinguished himself in the Welsh wars. This powerful force was divided into three sections, one of which was commanded by Seagrave himself, the second by Ralph de Manton, and the third by Neville; and, on approaching Roslin, as no enemy was met with, each encamped on its own ground, without any established communication with the others. Sir John Comyn and Sir Simon Frazer, who were at Biggar with a small force of eight thousand cavalry, marched from that place during the night, to take the enemy by surprise, and attacked Seagrave with his division on the Moor of Roslin. The commander, with his brother and son, as well as sixteen knights and thirty esquires, were made prisoners, and the Scots had begun to plunder, when the second division appeared. This also was routed with great slaughter, and Ralph de Manton taken captive. No sooner, however, was this second triumph achieved, than the last division, under Neville, appeared in the distance. Worn out with their march and two successive attacks, the first impulse of the Scots was to retreat; but the proximity of the enemy rendered this impossible, and a third conflict commenced, which, after being obstinately disputed, terminated in the death of Neville, and the total rout of his followers. The carnage is said to have been dreadful, as the whole of the prisoners taken in the first and second engagements were necessarily put to death.


But never on her mountain strand
Shall Caledonia sit content—
Content with fetter'd hand.

III

Not while one patriot breathes—
Not while each broomy vale
And cavern'd cliff bequeaths
Some old heroic tale!
The Wallace and the Græme have thrown
The lustre of their deeds behind,

After the disastrous battle of Falkirk, in which Sir John the Grahame and Sir John Stewart of Bonkill were slain, Wallace, disgusted with the jealousy and treacherous conduct of the Barons, retired into privacy. It was during this sequestration from public affairs that the battle of Roslin was fought.

The tombs of Grahame and Stewart are still extant in the churchyard of Falkirk, having been severally more than once renewed.


The children to their fathers' own
Unconquer'd straths to bind;
By every hearth their tale is known,
In every heart enshrined.

IV

The Comyn lets not home
To tell a bloodless tale,
And forth in arms with Frazer come
The chiefs of Teviotdale.
In Roslin's wild and wooded glen
The clash of swords the shepherd hears,
And from the groves of Hawthornden
Gleam forth ten thousand spears:
For Scottish mothers bring forth men
“Bring forth men-children only!
For thy undaunted mettle should compose
Nothing but males.”

Macbeth.


Of might, that mock at fears!

170

V

Three camps divided raise
Their snowy tops on high;
The breeze-unfurling flag displays
Its lions to the sky:
While chants the mountain lark in air
Its matin carols of delight,
The tongue of mirth is jocund there;
Nor is it dreamt, ere night,
The sun shall shed its golden glare
On thousands slain in fight!

VI

Baffled, and backward borne,
Is England's foremost war;
The Saxon battle-god, forlorn,
Remounts his raven car.
'Tis vain—a third time Victory's cheer
Bursts forth from that resistless foe,
Who, headlong, on their fierce career,
Like mountain torrents go:
The invaders are dispersed like deer,
And whither none may know!

VII

Three triumphs in a day!
Three hosts subdued by one!
Three armies scattered, like the spray,
Beneath one vernal sun!

171

Who, pausing 'mid this solitude
Of rocky streams, o'erhung with trees,
Where rears the cushat-dove its brood,
And foxglove lures the bees,
Could think that men had shed the blood
Of man in haunts like these!

VIII

A dream—a nightmare dream
Of shadowy ages gone,
When daylight wore a demon gleam,
And fact like fiction shone:
A dream!—and it hath left no power
To blast these beauteous scenes around,
“It is telling a tale which has been repeated a thousand times, to say that a morning of leisure can scarcely be anywhere more delightfully spent than in the woods of Roslin and on the banks of the Esk. In natural beauty, indeed, the scenery may be equalled, and in grandeur exceeded, by the Cartland Crags, near Lanark, the dell of Craighall, in Angusshire, and probably by other landscapes of the same character which have been less celebrated; but Roslin and its adjacent scenery have other associations, dear to the antiquarian and the historian, which may fairly entitle it to precedence over every other Scottish scene of the same kind.”—

Provincial Antiquities.


Which look as if a halcyon bower
All gentlest things had found
Here, in this paradise, where flower,
And tree, and bird abound.

IX

Yes! the great Mother still
Claims Roslin for her own,
And Summer, girt with rock and rill,
Here mounts a chosen throne:
Blue Esk to Gorton's listening woods

Gorton lies between Roslin and Hawthornden, and on the same side of the river as the latter. It is celebrated for its caves, which are in the cliff facing the river, and so covered up with bushes and brambles that it is difficult to discover the entrance to them. They are cut in the form of a cross, and are supposed to have been the abode of hermits. During the unhappy reign of David II., when Scotland was overrun by the English, they yielded refuge to Sir Alexander Ramsey of Dalwolsey and a band of chosen followers, noted for patriotism and gallantry.


Is meekly murmuring all day long,
And birds for sheltering solitudes
Pay tributary song:
Check'd be each step that here intrudes
To offer Nature wrong.

172

X

St Clair! thy princely halls
In ruin sink decay'd,

The Castle and Chapel of Roslin are too well known to the lovers of the picturesque to be more than merely alluded to here. The origin of the castle is so remote that, says Chalmers, (Caledonia, vol. ii. p. 571,) it is laid in fable: in fact, it is beyond the date of authentic record. The ruins, with their tremendous triple range of vaults, are still, from their extent and situation, extremely imposing. The chapel, which is still in tolerable preservation, and has been lately carefully repaired, is one of the finest specimens of florid Gothic architecture north of the Tweed. It was founded in 1446 by William St Clair, Prince of Orkney, Duke of Oldenburgh, Earl of Caithness and Stratherne, &c., High Chancellor, Chamberlain, and Lieutenant of Scotland. Indeed, as Godscroft says of him, his titles were such as might “weary even a Spaniard.” The barons of Roslin, each in his armour, lie buried in a vault beneath the floor.


And moss now greens the chapel walls
Where thy proud line is laid!—
What sees the stranger musing here,
Where mail-clad men no longer dwell?
A bleach-field spreads its whiteness near,
And smoke-wreaths round the dell
Show whence the Christian worshipper
Obeys the Sabbath bell.

XI

Thus let it ever be!
Let human discord cease,
And earth the blest millennium see
Of purity and peace!
Die sin away—as dies the mist
Before the cleansing sunrise borne—
And Pity, vainly watchful, list
For Misery's moan forlorn!
Bright be each eve as amethyst,
As opal pure each morn!

173

THE TOMB OF DE BRUCE.

A Freedome is a noble thing;
Freedome makes man to have liking;
Freedome all solace to men gives:
He lives at ease that freely lives.
Barbour.

I

And liest thou, great Monarch, this pavement below?
Thou who wert in war like a rock to the ocean,
Like a star in the battle-field's stormy commotion,
Like a barrier of steel to the bursts of the foe!
All lofty thy boast, grey Dunfermline, may be,
That the bones of King Robert, the hero whose story,
'Mid our history's night, is a day-track of glory,
Find an honour'd and holy asylum in thee:
[16]

“Immediately after the king's death, his heart was taken out, as he had himself directed. He was then buried with great state and solemnity under the pavement of the choir, in the Abbey Church of Dunfermline, and over his grave was raised a rich marble monument, which was made at Paris. Centuries passed on; the ancient church, with the marble monument, fell into ruins, and a more modern building was erected on the same site. This in our own days gave way to time, and, in clearing the foundations for a third church, the workmen laid open a tomb which proved to be that of Robert the Bruce. The lead coating in which the body was found enclosed was twisted round the head in the shape of a rude crown. A rich cloth of gold, but much decayed, was thrown over it, and, on examining the skeleton, it was found that the breast-bone had been sawn asunder to get at the heart.

“There remained, therefore, no doubt that, after the lapse of almost five hundred years, his countrymen were permitted, with a mixture of delight and awe, to behold the very bones of their great deliverer.”

Tytler's Hist., vol. i. p. 421-2.

It is worthy of remark, that the greatest man which Scotland has produced since the hero of Bannockburn was present at the re-interment of these relics, and that Sir Walter Scott bent over the coffin of Robert the Bruce.

See an interesting Report of the discovery of the tomb and reinterment of the body of King Robert, by Sir Henry Jardine, in Transactions of the Antiquarian Society of Scotland, vol. ii. part ii. p. 435.


And here, till the world is eclips'd in decline,
Thy chosen ones, Scotland, shall kneel at this shrine.

II

On Luxury's hot-bed thou sprang'st not to man—
From childhood Adversity's storms howl'd around thee;
And fain with his shackles had Tyranny bound thee,
When, lo! he beheld thee in Liberty's van!

174

To the dust down the Thistle of Scotland was trod;
'Twas wreck and 'twas ruin, 'twas discord and danger;
O'er her strongholds waved proudly the flag of the stranger;
Till thy sword, like the lightning, flashed courage abroad;
And the craven, that slept with his head on his hand,
Started up at thy war-shout, and belted his brand!

III

How long Treason's pitfalls 'twas thine to avoid,—
Was the wild-fowl thy food, and thy beverage the fountain,
Was thy pillow the heath, and thy home on the mountain,
When that hope was cast down, which could not be destroy'd!
As the wayfarer longs for the dawning of morn,
So wearied thy soul for thy Country's awaking,
Unsheathing her terrible broadsword, and shaking
The fetters away, which in drowse she had worn:
At thy call she arous'd her to fight; and, in fear,
Invasion's fang'd bloodhounds were scatter'd like deer.

IV

The broadsword and battle-axe gleam'd at thy call;
From the strath and the corrie, the cottage and palace,
Pour'd forth like a tide the avengers of Wallace,
To rescue their Scotland from rapine and thrall:

175

How glow'd the gaunt cheeks, long all careworn and pale,
As the recreant brave, to their duty returning,
In the eye of King Robert saw liberty burning,
And raised his wild gathering-cry forth on the gale!
O, then was the hour for a patriot to feel,
As he buckled his cuirass, the edge of his steel!

V

When thou cam'st to the field all was ruin and woe;
'Twas dastardly terror or jealous distrusting;
In the hall hung the target and burgonet rusting;
The brave were dispersed, and triumphant the foe:—
But from chaos thy sceptre call'd order and awe—
'Twas Security's homestead; all flourish'd that near'd thee;
The worthy upheld, and the turbulent fear'd thee,
For thy pillars of strength were Religion and Law:
The meanest in thee a Protector could find—
Thou wert feet to the cripple, and eyes to the blind.

VI

O, ne'er shall the fame of the patriot decay—
De Bruce! in thy name still our country rejoices;
It thrills Scottish heart-strings, it swells Scottish voices,
As it did when the Bannock ran red from the fray.
Thine ashes in darkness and silence may lie;
But ne'er, mighty hero, while earth hath its motion,
While rises the day-star, or rolls forth the ocean,
Can thy deeds be eclipsed or their memory die:
They stand thy proud monument, sculptur'd sublime
By the chisel of Fame on the Tablet of Time.

176

FLODDEN FIELD.

We'll hear nae mair lilting, at the owe-milking;
Women and bairns are heartless and wae:
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning—
The flowers of the forest are a' wede away.
Scottish Ballad.

I

'Twas on a sultry summer noon,
The sky was blue, the breeze was still,
And Nature with the robes of June
Had clothed the slopes of Flodden hill;
As rode we slowly o'er the plain,
'Mid way-side flowers and sprouting grain,
The leaves on every bough seemed sleeping,
And wild bees murmured in their mirth
So pleasantly, it seemed as Earth
A jubilee were keeping.

II

And canst thou be, unto my soul
I said, that dread Northumbrian field,
Where War's terrific thunder-roll
Above two banded kingdoms pealed?

177

From out the forest of his spears
Ardent imagination hears
The crash of Surrey's onward charging;

The cotemporary accounts of the battle of Flodden, English and Scottish, are now admitted to be full of error and exaggeration; and, indeed, no circumstantial account, freed from these, was given of it till the days of Pinkerton. Some corrections, even of it, with some additional particulars, will be found in Tytler's Scotland, vol. v. Dr Lingard makes the number of the Scottish army forty thousand; and cotemporary English statements admit the English to have been twenty-six thousand; Mr Tytler remarking, that it is by no means improbable that this was rather a low estimate. It is that assumed in the rare tract entitled The Batayle of Floddon-felde, called Brainston Moor, some years ago reprinted by that eminent antiquary, Mr Pitcairn, whose Celebrated Criminal Trials have thrown such a mass of light on the curious mediæval history of Scotland.


While curtal-axe and broadsword gleam
Opposed a bright, wide, coming stream,
Like Solway's tide enlarging.

The Solway is remarkable for the rapidity with which its tides make and recede. Few things more graphic have ever been penned than the detailed account of the phenomena characterising the spring-tides in the Solway Firth, as given in the novel of Redgauntlet. The line in the ballad of “Lochinvar,”

“Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,”

is familiar to the memory of all lovers of poetry.


III

Hark to the turmoil and the shout,
The war-cry and the cannon's boom!
Behold the struggle and the rout,
The broken lance and draggled plume!
Borne to the earth with deadly force,
Down come the horseman and his horse;
Round boils the battle like an ocean,
While stripling blithe, and veteran stern,
Pour forth their life-blood on the fern,
Amid its fierce commotion!

IV

Mown down, like swathes of summer flowers,
Yes! on the cold earth there they lie,
The lords of Scotland's banner'd towers,

“Among the slain were thirteen Earls—Crawford, Montrose, Huntly, Lennox, Argyle, Errol, Athole, Morton, Cassillis, Bothwell, Rothes, Caithness, and Glencairn; the King's natural son, the Archbishop of St Andrews, who had been educated abroad by Erasmus; the Bishops of Caithness and the Isles; the Abbots of Inchaffray and Kilwinning; and the Dean of Glasgow. To these we must add fifteen Lords and Chiefs of Clans—amongst whom were Sir Duncan Campbell of Glenurchy; Lauchlan Maclean of Dowart; Campbell of Lawers; and five Peers' eldest sons; besides La Motte, the French Ambassador; and the Secretary of the King. The names of the gentry who fell are too numerous for recapitulation, since there were few families of any note in Scotland which did not lose one relative or another, whilst some houses had to weep the death of all. It is from this cause that the sensations of sorrow and national lamentation, occasioned by the defeat, were peculiarly poignant and lasting; so that, to this day, few Scotsmen can hear the name of Flodden without a shudder of gloomy regret.”—

Tytler's History of Scotland, vol. v. p. 82.


The chosen of her chivalry!
Commingled with the vulgar dead,
Profane lies many a sacred head;
And thou, the vanguard onward leading,
Who left the sceptre for the sword,
For battle-field the festal board,
Liest low amid the bleeding!

178

V

Yes! here thy life-star knew decline,
Though hope, that strove to be deceived,
Shaped thy fair course to Palestine,
And what it wished, full long believed:—

From the circumstance of several of the Scottish nobles having worn at the battle of Flodden a dress similar to the King's, and from the reports that he had been seen alive subsequent to the defeat, many were led long and fondly to believe that, in accordance with a vow, he had gone to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage, to merit absolution for the death of his father; and that, on his return, he would assert his right to the crown.—See Weever's Funeral Monuments, p. 181.

By others the Earl of Home was accused, not only of having failed to support the King in the battle, but of having carried him out of the field, and murdered him. Sir Walter Scott, in a note on the sixth canto of Marmion, says that “this tale was revived in my remembrance, by an unauthenticated story of a skeleton, wrapped in a bull's hide, and surrounded with an iron chain, said to have been found in the well of Home Castle; for which, on inquiry, I could never find any better authority than the sexton of the parish having said, that if the well were cleaned out, he would not be surprised at such a discovery.”

No doubt can be entertained that James fell on the field, where he had fought less with the discretion of a leader than the chivalrous feelings of a knight. He was found on the following day among the slain, and recognised by Lord Dacre, although much disfigured from the number and magnitude of his wounds. It is mentioned by Hereford, in his Annals, (p. 22,) “that when James's body was found his neck was opened in the middle with a wide wound; his left hand, almost cut off in two places, did scarce hang to his arm, and the archers had shot him in many places of his body.”

The remains of James were carried from the field, first to Berwick, and then to Richmond, where they were interred. His sword and dagger are preserved in the Herald's College, London, where they may still be seen.


An unhewn pillar on the plain
Marks out the spot where thou wast slain:
There pondering as I stood, and gazing,
From its grey top the linnet sang,
And, o'er the slopes where conflict rang,
The quiet sheep were grazing.

VI

And were the nameless dead unsung,
The patriot and the peasant train,
Who like a phalanx round thee clung,
[21]

From a contemporary chronicle we learn that the battle commenced between four and five in the afternoon of the 5th September, and lasted till “within the night;” distinctly disproving the assertion of Dr Lingard, that the conflict was decided in little more than an hour. In the curious Original Gazette of the Battle of Flodden, printed by Pinkerton, from the French MS. in the Herald's Office, (Appendix to vol. ii. No. X.,) the Scottish King is stated to have been killed within a lance's length of the Earl of Surrey; and from the same source we learn that, though a large part of his division were killed, none were made prisoners—“a circumstance,” as Sir Walter Scott remarks, “that testifies the desperation of their resistance.”


To find but death on Flodden plain?
No! many a mother's melting lay
Mourned o'er the bright flowers wede away;

It is ascertained that the well-known and beautiful verses now sung as “The Flowers of the Forest” are the production of a lady of family in Roxburghshire, evidence of this fact having been produced by the late Dr Somerville of Jedburgh, to Sir Walter Scott; but it is equally true that the stanzas were only engrafted on the floating remnants of an ancient, and probably nearly contemporary ballad—the lines of the first stanza,

“I've heard them lilting, at the ewes' milking,”

and the concluding one,

“The flowers of the forest are a' wede away,”

being all that remain to tell of its existence, save another imperfect line, which, however, conveys an affecting image—

“I ride single on my saddle,
For the flowers of the forest are a' wede away.”

To the great delight of all the lovers of Scottish music, the original melody of the song, along with those of “Bonny Dundee,” “Waes my heart that we should sunder,” “The last time I came o'er the Muir,” “Johnny Faa,” and several other established favourites, was recently discovered in the Skene MS.—a collection of ancient music, written between the years 1615 and 1620; and bequeathed, about twenty years ago, by Miss Elizabeth Skene of Curriehill and Hallyards, to the Faculty of Advocates. It was published in 1838, under the able editorship of Mr Dauney. By competent judges the old air is declared to differ from the modern one only in being at once more simple and more beautiful; and knowing it to have been sung by the bereaved of Flodden Field, does not destroy a single association, or disturb a single sentiment. By how many smoking hearths, through how many generations, has it caused tears to flow!


And many a maid, with tears of sorrow,
Whose locks no more were seen to wave,
Pined for the beauteous and the brave,
Who came not on the morrow!

VII

From northern Thule to the Tweed
Was heard the wail, and felt the shock;
And o'er the mount, and through the mead,
Untended, wandered many a flock;

179

In many a creek, on many a shore,
Lay tattered sail and rotting oar;
And, from the castle to the dwelling
Of the rude hind, a common grief,
In one low wail that sought relief,
From Scotland's heart came swelling!

THE FIELD OF PINKIE.

WRITTEN ON THE TRI-CENTENARY OF THE BATTLE,

SEPT. 10, 1847.

I

A lovely eve! as loath to quit a scene
So beautiful, the parting sun smiles back
From western Pentland's summits, all between
Bearing the impress of his glorious track;
His last, long, level ray fond Earth retains;
The Forth a sheet of gold from shore to shore;
Gold on the Esk, and on the ripened plains,
And on the boughs of yon broad sycamore.

180

II

Long shadows fall from turret and from tree;
Homeward the labourer thro' the radiance goes;
Calmly the mew floats downward to the sea;
And inland flock the rooks to their repose:
Over the ancient farmstead wreathes the smoke,
Melting in silence 'mid the pure blue sky;
And sings the blackbird, cloistered in the oak,
His anthem to the eve, how solemnly!

III

On this green hill—yon grove—the placid flow
Of Esk—and on the Links that skirt the town—
How differently, three hundred years ago,
The same sun o'er this self-same spot went down!
Instead of harvest wealth, the gory dead
In many a mangled heap lay scattered round;
Where all is tranquil, anguish reigned and dread,
And for the blackbird wailed the bugle's sound.

IV

Mirror'd by fancy's power, my sight before
The past revives with panoramic glow;
Scotland resumes the cold rough front of yore,
And England, now her sister, scowls her foe:
Two mighty armaments, for conflict met,
Darken the hollows and the heights afar—
Horse, cannon, standard, spear, and burgonet,
The leaders, and the legions, mad for war.

In 1544, great part of the town of Musselburgh, including the Town-House and the celebrated “Chapelle of Lauret,” was destroyed by the English army under the Earl of Hertford; and, three years after that event, it became the mustering-place for the Scottish forces — news having arrived of the approach of the Duke of Somerset to Newcastle, at the head of an army of sixteen thousand men, including two thousand horse. To oppose this well-appointed force, “the fiery cross” was sent through the country; and, in an incredibly short time, not less than thirty-six thousand men were congregated at Edmonstone Edge, between the capital and Dalkeith. The English were ultimately drawn up on Falside Brae, in the parish of Tranent, their right extending over the grounds of Walliford and Drummore towards the sea; but, on reconnoitring the position of the Scotch, the Protector found it so very strong — the steep banks of the Esk defending them in front, the morass of the Shirehaugh on the left, and the village of Inveresk, the mounds of the churchyard of St Michael's, and the bridge over the river protected with cannon on the right— that he declined to attack them.

This caution was fatal to his enemies; for, leaving their intrenched position on the morning of the 9th September, Lord Hume, with fifteen hundred light horse, appeared on Edgebricklin Brae, immediately beneath the English, and rushed forward with such impetuosity that Somerset, in the belief that they must be supported by some much more considerable force, gave strict orders to his men to keep their ranks. Impatient of such provocation, Lord Grey extorted leave to oppose them; and, when within a stone's cast, charged them down the hill at full speed with a thousand men-at-arms. The onset was terrible; but the demi-lances and barbed steeds of their opponents were more than a match for the slight hackneys of the Borderers, added to a fearful disadvantage of ground; and, after an unremitting conflict of three hours, the greater part of them were cut to pieces, thirteen hundred men being slain in sight of the Scottish camp, Lord Hume himself severely wounded, and his son taken prisoner.

For very interesting and circumstantial details of this illomened preface to the great battle of Pinkie, vide Patten's Account, p. 46-7; Hayward in Kennet, vol. ii. p. 282; Tytler's History, vol. vi. p. 26-7, edit. first.



181

V

Shrilly uprises Warwick's battle-cry,
As from Falsyde his glittering columns wheel;
Hark to the rasp of Grey's fierce cavalry
Against the bristling hedge of Scotland's steel!
As bursts the billow foaming on the rock,
That onset is repelled, that charge is met;
Flaunting, the banner'd thistle braves the shock,
And backward bears the might of Somerset.

VI

Horseman and horse, dash'd backwards without hope,
Vainly that wall of serried steel oppose.

Subsequent to this preliminary action, the English made overtures to be allowed to retire unmolested back to England, which, being unfortunately mistaken by the Scotch for a proof of weakness, were rejected by them; and, voluntarily abandoning their strong position, they crossed the Esk to meet the English, whose fleet, consisting of thirty-five ships of war, was anchored in the bay, and continued pouring cannon-shot among them as they crossed the bridge—by which the Master of Graham, son of the Earl of Montrose, with many others, was slain. It were superfluous to give an account of the well-known battle which followed. It is sufficient to remind the reader that, after five hours' tremendous fighting, during which the English cavalry had repeatedly, but in vain, attempted to break through the foot battalions commanded by the Earl of Angus, the Highlanders, mistaking a partial success on their own part for complete victory, prematurely gave way to their plundering propensities. At this time a retrograde movement was regarded by them as flight; the same panic seized the borough troops, who also threw down their arms. The Scots fled by three different ways—some towards Edinburgh, some towards the coast, and some towards Dalkeith; and on each route the carnage was dreadful, as a subsequent note from Patten—an eye-witness—testifies.


But now the musketeers rush down the slope,
And thrice five hundred archers twang their bows.
The iron shower descends—they reel—they turn—
Doth Arran flinch! can Douglas but deplore?
Hushed are the cheers that rang thro' Otterburn,
Blunted the blades that crimson'd Ancrum-Moor!

The fame of the Douglas of Otterburn was well supported by his descendant, the Earl of Angus—the hero of the battle of Ancrum-Moor, which was fought only two years preceding that of Pinkie, on which field also he exhibited his wonted gallantry. On the former occasion, he is said to have uttered an exclamation which is exceedingly characteristic. When the Scots began to charge, seeing a heron arise out of the marsh, Angus cried out—“O that I had my white hawk here, that we might all join battle at once!”


VII

They bend—they break—they flee—a panic rout
Ensues; with dying and with dead the plain
Is cumber'd; England whoops her victor shout,
And Scotland's bravest fight, to fall in vain.
And Esk from Roslin famed, and Hawthornden,
Gliding in peace by rock and spreading tree,
Checked by the mass of horses and of men,
Dashed o'er them red and reeking to the sea.

182

VIII

A fearful day was that! since Flodden's day,
Like storm of blood hath darkened not the north;
By thousands sword and shield were thrown away,
Up on the hills, and down beside the Forth:
Through Musselburg, and past St Michael's fane,
Westward the ravage and the rout was sped;
And, thick as cattle pasture on a plain,
Lay round Loretto's hermitage the dead.

“With blode and slaughter of ye enemie,” says old Patten, “this chase was continued v miles in length westward fro the place of their standinge, which was in ye fallow feldes of Undreske, untille Edinborowe parke, and well nigh to the gates of the toune itself, and into Lyeth; and in breadth nie iiii myle, from the fryth sandes up unto Daketh southwarde. In all whiche space the dead bodies lay as thik as a man may notte cattel grasing in a full-plenished pasture. The ryvere ran al rede with blode, soo that in the same chase wear counted as well by some of our men that sumwhat diligently did maike it, as by sum of them take prisoners, that very much did lament it, to have been slayne above xiii thousande. In all thys cumpos of grounde, what with weapons, armes, handes, legges, heddes, blood, and dead bodyes, their flight mought have easily been tracted to every of their iii refuges.”

The Expedicion into Scotlāde of the Most Woortheley Fortunate Prince, Edward Duke of Soomerset, &c. By W. Patten, Londoner, ap. Dalzell's Fragments of Scottish History. 4to, Edinburgh, 1798.

The celebrated chapel dedicated to Our Lady of Loretto stood beyond the eastern gate of Musselburgh, and on the margin of the Links; and pilgrimages from all parts of the country were performed to this shrine. According to Keith, (280,) it was connected with the nunnery of Sciennes, in the south wing of Edinburgh; and Gough the antiquarian says regarding it (Camden's Britannica, vol. iii. 316) that ladies sent handsome presents to it with their baby-linens, which latter were consecrated to promote their safe recovery. Lesley relates (442) that, in August 1530, James V. performed a pilgrimage to it on foot from Stirling, before setting sail for France to woo and win a partner for his throne. The celebrity of the place was upheld by the residence of a hermit, who inhabited a cell adjoining the chapel, and by the pretended performance of miracles. That the hermit was a notable man in his day, is evident from the circumstance of his having a satire addressed to him by Alexander, earl of Glencairn, exposing the hypocrisy of the Roman Catholic clergy. It is entitled Ane Epistill direct fra the Halie Hermeit of Alareit, to his Brethren, the Gray Friars, and thus begins—

“I, Thomas Hermeit in Lauret,
Sanct Francis' ordour do heartily greet,” &c.

(Vide as quoted in Knox's History of Reformation, fol. xxiv.-v. Edin. 1732.)

For an account of the miracles, the curious reader is referred to a very remarkable passage in Row's History of the Kirk of Scotland, 1558 to 1639, p. 448 et seq. Wodrow Society's edition, 1842.


IX

And thou, sweet burn of Pinkie, darkly clear,
Wimpling where water-flags and wild-flowers weave,
'Tween hoof-indented banks, with slaughter drear,
Curdled with blood, beneath the shades of eve—

Local tradition reports that the rivulet or burn of Pinkie— which was principally fed from the marsh of the Howmire, which lies almost in the centre of the battle-field, and around which the carnage was greatest — ran tinged with blood for three days after the fatal conflict.

Thus was literally fulfilled the prophecy attributed to Thomas the Rhymer, (vide Hart's Collection:)

“At Pinken Clugh there shall be spilt
Much gentle blood that day;
There shall the bear lose the guilt,
And the eagle bear it away.”

Whether we agree with the accurate Lord Hailes or not regarding the antiquity of the above as relating to Thomas of Ercildoune, (see dissertation annexed to Remarks on the History of Scotland,) there can be no doubt of the genuineness of another rhyme on the same subject, as it is quoted in Patten's contemporary account:

“Between Seton and the sea,
Mony a man shall die that day.”

“This battell and felde,” says Patten, “the Scottes and we are not yet agreed how it shall be named. We cal it Muskel-borough felde, because that it is the best towne (and yet bad enough) nigh the place of our meeting. Sum of them call it Seton felde, (a toune thear nie too,) by means of a blinde prophecy of theirs, which is this or sume suche saye,—“Betwene Seton and the say, many a man shall die that day.”


Oh! from this scene how many a maiden fair
Looked—languished for her warrior-love in vain,
Till Beauty's roses, blighted by despair,
Paled on the cheeks that ne'er knew bloom again!

X

And oh! the breaking hearts of widowed wife,
Of sire and sister, as with dirgeful moan,
Passing like whirlwind from that field of strife,
From shire to shire, the news went wailing on—
Went wailing on—and wrapped alike in woe
Cottage and castle—and, by every hearth,
Saddened the cheer—bade Woman's tears to flow,
And crushed the patriot's towering hopes to earth!

183

XI

Three hundred years have passed—three centuries,
Even to the reckoning of a single night—
Where stood the hosts I stand: there Pinkie lies
Beneath, and yon is Falsyde on the height.
Victors and vanquished—where are either now
Who shone that day in plume and steel arrayed?
Ask of the white bones scattered by the plough—
Read in the sculptures on grey tombs decayed!

XII

Sated with blood, and glad his prey to leave,
Five hours in hot pursuit and carnage spent,
In yon green clump, by Inveresk, at eve,
Proud Somerset, the victor, pitched his tent:
There, 'mid its circle grey of mossy stone,
A time-worn fleur-de-lis still marks the spot,

In the centre of a circle of trees, at the eastern extremity of the grounds of Eskgrove, and opposite to Pinkie Burn, a square pillar, surmounted by an antique stone representing a fleur-de-lis, marks the spot where the royal tent was pitched on the eve of the battle, and bears the following inscription—

The Protector, Duke of Somerset, Encamped here, 10th September, 1547.

The pillar was erected by the late Lord Eskgrove.


Which else had to the searcher been unknown;
For of that field one other trace is not.

XIII

Oh, Nature! when abroad we look at thee,
In beauty aye revolving, yet the same,
In sun, moon, stars, the air, the earth, the sea,
Of God's great universe the goodly frame,—
Why is it thus we set His laws at nought,
Eschew the truth, and crouch in Error's den,
Forgetting Him, that died and lives, who brought
The message—“Peace on earth, goodwill to men!”

184

XIV

Speed Heaven the time, tho' distant still it be,
When each his pleasure shall in duty find,
When knowledge shall from prejudice set free,
Hearts throb to hearts, and mind respond to mind!
O! for the dawning of that purer day,
Only as yet to Aspiration given,
When clouds no more shall darken o'er our way,
And all shall walk in light—the light from Heaven!

HAWTHORNDEN.

Cum possit Latiis Buchananum vincere Musis
Drummondus, patrio maluit ore loqui.
Major uter? Primas huic defert Scotia, vates
Vix inter Latios ille secundus crat.
Arthur Johnston.

I.

Stranger! gaze round thee on a woodland scene
Of fairy loveliness, all unsurpassed.
In gulfy amphitheatre, the boughs
Of many-foliaged stems engird thy path
With emerald gloom; the shelving, steepy banks,
With eglantine and hawthorn blossomed o'er,

185

And a flush undergrowth of primroses,
Lychnes, and daffodils, and harebells blue,
Of Summer's liberal bounty mutely tell.
From frowning rocks piled up precipitous,
With scanty footing topples the huge oak,
Tossing his arms abroad; and, fixed in clefts,
Where gleams at intervals a patch of sward,
The hazel throws his silvery branches down,
Fringing with grace the dark-brown battlements.
Look up, and lo! o'er all, yon castled cliff—
Its roof is lichened o'er, purple and green,
And blends its grey walls with coeval trees:
There “Jonson sate in Drummond's classic shade:”
The mazy stream beneath is Roslin's Esk—
And what thou lookest on is Hawthornden!

The present house of Hawthornden is a mansion apparently of the seventeenth century, engrafted on the ancient baronial castle, in which Ben Jonson visited the Scottish poet, and from whose remains it is apparent that it had been constructed in times when comfort was less studied than security. It is still in the possession of the Drummonds through the maternal line; but, although yet partly furnished, Sir Francis Walker Drummond, the father of the present proprietor, removed the family residence to a more commodious mansion in the vicinity. Among its relics are a number of Jacobite portraits, and a dress worn by the Chevalier in 1745.

The Scottish founder of the Drummonds is said to have come from Hungary with Margaret, queen of Malcolm Canmore, seven hundred years ago. In the days of Robert the Bruce, Walter de Drummond was, according to Stowe's Annals, clerk-register to that illustrious monarch, and one of his commissioners in concluding a treaty of peace between England and Scotland at Newcastle in 1323. In David the First's reign, the Drummonds rendered themselves prominent by implacable and sanguinary feuds with the Monteiths — the betrayers of Wallace — which were only terminated by royal command, by a charter of agreement, dated on the banks of the Forth, over against Stirling, 17th May 1360, in the presence of Sir Hugh Eglinton and Sir Robert Erskine of Alloa, the King's two justiciaries, and which is still preserved in the family charter-chest.

Through Queen Annabella, the family became connected with the royal line of Scotland; and that lady's brother, Sir Malcolm Drummond, having married Douglas, heiress of Mar, succeeded to that ancient earldom. For his distinguished service at the battle of Otterburn, in having taken prisoner Sir Ralph Percy, the brother of Hotspur, he was rewarded with a pension of five hundred pounds per annum from the customs of Inverness, and was in great reputation with David Bruce, and with the second and third Roberts. The principal line of the Drummonds afterwards became Earls and Dukes of Perth— which titles they forfeited for their adherence to the cause of the Stuarts. They are now represented.


II.

Firm is the mansion's basement on the rock:
Beneath there yawns a many-chambered cave,
With dormitory, and hollow well, and rooms
Scooped by the hands of men.

Beneath the foundations of the ancient building there is a remarkable souterrain, supposed to have been a retreat of the aboriginal Britons, and which consists of several apartments, lighted by apertures in the face of the precipice, and furnished with a draw-well. In later times it served as a place of concealment to Sir Alexander Ramsay and other patriots, who had endeavoured to rescue Scotland from the tyranny of Edward III. Hawthornden, from its exquisite scenery, its ruins, its caves, and its classical associations, is still a great source of attraction to multitudes of summer ramblers. In 1843 it was visited by Queen Victoria and her suite.

From its slant mouth,

Bramble-o'ergrown, facing the river bed,
Thro' Scotland's troublous times, in days of Eld,
When Tyranny held rule, oft have the brave,
Who dared not show themselves in open day,
Seen the red sunset on yon high tree-tops,
As twilight with blue darkness filled the glen;
Or with lone taper, in its pitchy womb,
Biding their time, around Dalwolsey sate,
And mourned the rust that dimm'd each patriot sword.

186

III.

Nor pass unmarked that bough-embosomed nook
Beside thee—in the rock a cool recess,
Christened immortally The Cypress Grove,

In this favourite haunt of his meditations, it is said that Drummond composed his curious discourse on Life, Death, and Immortality, which he has not very appositely termed The Cypress Grove. It is throughout indicative of his peculiar genius and turn of mind, and in style bears more than a remote analogy to Burton and Sir Thomas Browne. It is said to have been written after the author's recovery from a dangerous illness.


By him who pondered there. 'Twas to that spot,
So sad, yet lovely in its solitude,
That Drummond, the historian and the bard,
The noble and enlightened, from the world
Withdrew to wisdom, and the holy lore,
At night, at noon, in tempest or in calm,
Which Nature teaches—for, a wounded deer,
Early he left the herd, and strayed alone:
While dreaming lovely dreams, in buoyant youth,
Even 'mid the splendours of unclouded noon,
Had fallen the sudden shadow on his heart,
That lived but in another—whom Death took,
Blighting his fond affections in their spring.

“Notwithstanding his close retirement and serious application to his studies,” says the biography attached to the first uniform edition of the works of Drummond, (Edinburgh, folio 1711,) “love stole in upon him, and did entirely captivate his heart; for he was on a sudden highly enamoured of a fine, beautiful young lady, daughter to Cunningham of Barns, an ancient and honourable family. He met with suitable returns of chaste love from her, and fully gained her affections. But when the day for the marriage was appointed, and all things ready for the solemnisation of it, she took a fever, and was suddenly snatched away by it, to his great grief and sorrow. He expressed his grief for her in several letters and poems; and with more passion and sincerity celebrated his dead mistress than others use to praise their living ones.”

After his bereavement Drummond went abroad, and travelled through Germany, France, and Italy, his chief places of residence being Paris and Rome. While on the Continent, he visited the most famous universities, formed friendships with the most learned men, and made an excellent collection of books in the ancient and modern languages—part of which he bequeathed to his Alma Mater, the College of Edinburgh, and part of which may yet be seen at Hawthornden. While in his forty-fifth year, and after having spent many seasons in literary retirement, he accidentally saw Elizabeth Logan, grand-daughter to Sir Robert Logan of Restalrig, and was so struck with her likeness to his first love—whose memory he had ever fondly cherished—that he paid his addresses to, and married her.

Drummond was a devoted Cavalier, and his end is said to have been hastened by the fate of Charles I. He died on the 6th December of the same year, at the age of sixty-four. To me he has always seemed to hold nearly the same place in reference to Scottish, that the Earl of Surrey does to English literature. Both are remarkable for taste, elaboration, and fine touches of nature, and were possessed of the same chivalry of character. In this they differed—the one died by, and the other for, his master.


IV.

Through years of calm and bright philosophy,
Making this Earth a type of Paradise,
He sojourned 'mid these lone and lovely scenes—
Lone, listening from afar the murmurous din
Of Life's loud bustle; as an eremite,
In sylvan haunt remote, when housed the bees,
And silent all except the nightingale,
Whom fitful song awakes, at eve may hear,
Dream-like, the boom of the far-distant sea:
And in that cave he strung and struck his lyre,

187

Waking such passionate tones to love and Heaven,
That from her favourite haunt, the sunny South,
From Arno and Vaucluse, the Muse took wing,
And fixed her dwelling-place on Celtic shores.

THE RUINS OF SETON CHAPEL.

Il y a des Comptes, des Roys, des Dues; ainsi
C'est assez pour moy d'etre Seigneur De Seton.
Marie D'Ecosse.

I.

The beautiful, the powerful, and the proud,
The many, and the mighty, yield to Time—
Time that, with noiseless pace and viewless wing,
Glides on and on—the despot of the world.

II.

With what a glory the refulgent sun,
Far, from the crimson portals of the west,
Sends back his parting radiance: round and round
Stupendous walls encompass me, and throw
The ebon outlines of their traceries down
Upon the dusty floor: the eastern piles
Receive the chequered shadows of the west,
In mimic lattice-work and sable hues.
Rich in its mellowness, the sunshine bathes

188

The sculptured epitaphs of barons dead
Long ere this breathing generation moved,
Or wantoned in the garish eye of noon.
The sad and sombre trophies of decay—
The prone effigies, carved in marble mail;

Several fine monuments of the Lords of Seton and of their Ladies yet remain in tolerable preservation within the chapel of Seton, both inserted into the walls, and strewed along the dilapidated floor, and contain epitaphs in part legible. Grose in his Antiquities has given us that at length which commemorates the courage, the calamities, and the unflinching fidelity of George, the fifth baron, the friend of Queen Mary, in whose cause he suffered exile. He it was whose funeral procession, by a strange coincidence of circumstances, intercepted for a few minutes on the road the triumphant progress of her son, James the Sixth, and his court retinue, on their way south to take possession of the English throne; a touching episode, which Mr Tytler very appositely employs to conclude his History of Scotland. The stone on which the King sate, while his retinue joined in paying the last services to the dead, is still shown, and forms a projection in the circular turret, at the south-west corner of the ancient garden-wall.

The greater part of the floor of the area of the chapel is strewn with tombstones of elaborate workmanship, but cracked, broken, defaced, and nearly illegible. This arose from the building having, through a long series of years, been allowed to remain literally open in door and window. For some time past, more attention has been paid to it, the Earl of Wemyss, the proprietor, having secured the windows and doorway.


The fair Ladye with cross'd palms on her breast;
The tablet grey with mimic roses bound;
The angled bones, the sand-glass, and the scythe,—
These, and the stone-carv'd cherubs that impend
With hovering wings, and eyes of fixedness,
Gleam down the ranges of the solemn aisle,
Dull 'mid the crimson of the waning light.

III.

This is a season and a scene to hold
Discourse, and purifying monologue,
Before the silent spirit of the Past!
Power built this house to Prayer

At a remote period this chapel was endowed by the wealthy house of Seton as the parish church; and other establishments being subsequently added to it, it was rendered collegiate in the reign of James the Fourth. Many curious particulars of the additions to, and the alterations made on the ancient structure, may be found in the quaint and interesting little book, The Chronicle of the House of Seatoun, by Sir Richard Maitland of Lethington, (Glasgow Reprint, 1829.) An aisle was added by Dame Catherine Sinclair, wife of the first lord, and the choir roofed with stone by George, the third lord, whose widow, Jane, in turn demolished Dame Catherine's aisle, replacing it by one of better proportions, which gave to the whole structure the complete form of the cross. It is also recorded that she equipped the church and its officiating priests with a complete stand of purple velvet, embroidered with the same devices, and richly gifted the altar with plate and other decorations. These, however, only held out more cogent inducements to plunder to the army of the Earl of Hertford in 1544, who, after laying waste Holyrood, Loretto, and other adjacent establishments, ransacked and burned the chapel. The present edifice is not of great extent, and is surmounted by a spire, which does not seem to have ever been raised to the intended elevation.

—'twas earthly power,

And vanished—see its sad mementoes round!
The gilly-flowers upon each fractured arch,
And from the time-worn crevices, look down,
Blooming where all is desolate. With tufts
Clustering and dark, and light-green trails between,
The ivy hangs perennial; yellow-flower'd,
The dandelion shoots its juicy stalks
Over the thin transparent blades of grass,
Which bend and flicker, even amid the calm;
And, oh! sad emblems of entire neglect,
In rank luxuriance, the nettles spread
Behind the massy tablatures of death,

189

Hanging their pointed leaves and seedy stalks
Above the graves, so lonesome and so low,
Of famous men, now utterly unknown,
Yet whose heroic deeds were, in their day,
The theme of loud acclaim—when Seton's arm
In power with Stuart and with Douglas vied.

Through several centuries the family of Seton occupied a first rank in Scotland, in wealth, retinue, and high connection. After the forfeiture of the vast estates of the De Quinceys, at the termination of the succession wars of the Bruce and Baliol, these were conferred by King Robert, in large part, on the Setons, who had remained faithful to his cause; and on Sir Chrystal, who had been instrumental in saving his life at the battle of Methven, he conferred the hand of his sister. From this circumstance, a sword supporting a royal crown was added to the Seton arms, which originally consisted of three crescents with a double tressure, flowered and counter-flowered with fleurs-de-lis. In the reign of James the Sixth, the Lords of Seton became Earls of Winton. In 1715, George, the fifth and last Earl, took up arms for the Stuarts. He escaped from the Tower of London by sawing through the bars of the windows, and ended his chequered life at Rome in 1749. His magnificent estates were forfeited, and with him closed his long and illustrious line. Seton is now the property of the Earl of Wemyss and March, and Winton of Lord Ruthven. Within the last two or three years the Earl of Eglinton has also assumed the title of Earl of Winton. Diu maneat.


Clad in their robes of state, or graith of war,
A proud procession, o'er the stage of time,
As century on century wheeled away,
They passed; and, with the escutcheons mouldering o'er
The little spot, where voicelessly they sleep,
Their memories have decayed;—nay, even their bones
Are crumbled down to undistinguished dust,
Mocking the Herald, who, with pompous tones,
Would set their proud array of quarterings forth,
Down to the days of Chrystal and De Bruce.

IV.

What art Thou now, O pile of olden time?—
A visible memento that the works
Of men do like their masters pass away!
The grey and time-worn pillars, lichened o'er,
Throw from their fretted pedestals a line
Of sombre darkness far, and chequer o'er
The floor with shade and sunshine. Hoary walls!
Since first ye rose in architectural pride—
Since first ye frowned in majesty of strength—
Since first ye caught the crimson of the dawn
On oriel panes, on glittering lattices
Of many-coloured brightness—Time hath wrought

190

An awful revolution. Night and morn,
From the near road, the traveller heard arise
The hymn of gratulation and of praise,
Amid your ribbed arches: sandalled monks,
Whitened by eld, in alb and scapulaire,
With book and crosier, mass and solemn rite,
Frail, yet forgiving frailties, sojourn'd here,
When Rome was all-prevailing, and obtained—
Though Cæsars and though Ciceros were not
The rulers of her camps and cabinets—
A second empire o'er the minds of men.

The Seton family were strongly attached to the Roman Catholic faith, which they warmly fostered by their influence and by munificent ecclesiastical endowments. The Protestant Reformation was obstinately opposed by George, Lord Seton, and after its accomplishment the family, although devoted royalists, almost ceased to interfere in public matters. The ancient bias, however, again showed itself in the first Jacobite rebellion, which proved fatal to the house of Seton.


V.

What art Thou now, O pile of olden time?—
A symbol of antiquity—a shrine
By man deserted, and to silence left.
The sparrow chatters on thy buttresses
Throughout the livelong day, and sportively
The swallow twitters through thy vaulted roofs,
Fluttering the whiteness of its inner plumes
Through shade, and now emerging to the sun;
The night-owls are thy choristers, and whoop
Amid the silence of the dreary dark;
The twilight-loving bat, on leathern wing,
Finds out a crevice for her callow young
In some dilapidated nook, on high,
Beyond the unassisted reach of man;
And on the utmost pinnacles the rook
Finds airy dwelling-place and home secure.
When Winter with his tempests lowers around,

191

The whirling snow-flakes, through the open holes
Descending, gather on the tombs beneath,
And make the sad scene desolater still:
When sweeps the night-gale past on forceful wing,
And sighs through portals grey a solemn dirge,
As if in melancholy symphony,
The huge planes wail aloud, the alders creak,
The ivy rustles, and the hemlock bends
With locks of darkness to its very roots,
Springing from out the grassy mounds of those
Whose tombs are long since tenantless. But now,
With calm and quiet eye, the setting sun,
Back from the Grampians that engird the Forth,
Beams mellowness upon the wrecks around,
Tinges the broken arch with crimson rust,
Flames down the Gothic aisle, and mantles o'er
The tablatures of marble. Beautiful—
So bathed in nature's glorious smiles intense—
The ruined altar, the baptismal font,
The wallflower-crested pillars, foliage-bound,
The shafted oriel, and the ribbed roofs,
Labour, in years long past, of cunning hands!

VI.

Thy lords have passed away: their palace home,
Where princes oft at wine and wassail sate,

The house, or rather palace of Seton, as it was commonly termed, was demolished towards the close of last century, and a large unmeaning castellated mass of building reared in the immediate vicinity of the site, which for many years, along with the sea-house of Port Seton, which was in 1844 destroyed by fire, was used as barracks for the militia. It was during this occupancy that the interior of the chapel, then open and exposed, suffered such dilapidation.

The ancient palace was a strong turreted edifice, evidently built at various times, although the general style of ornament was that of the sixteenth century. On various parts of it were inscribed the words Un Dieu, un Foy, and un Roy, un Loy, as expressing the sacred and civil tenets of George, Lord Seton, the friend of Mary. Some portions of the structure were evidently, however, of much greater antiquity, and the whole was surrounded by a loopholed wall with turrets, which also included the chapel. Some fragments of this wall yet remain to the north of the ancient garden, which, with its buttressed and crumbling enclosures, yet exists—a curious memento of past times.

From the time of Bruce downwards, the palace of Seton was occasionally the abode of the Scottish kings; and after the junction of the crowns, it was visited by James the Sixth and by Charles the Second. On the former occasion, we are informed in The Muses' Welcome to the High and Mighty Prince James, printed in the following year, (1618,) that on the 15th May “the King's Majestie come to Sea-toune,” where he was enlarged in a Latin poem by “Joannes Gellius a Gellistoun, Philosoph. et Med. Doc.”

From the connection of the house of Seton with the once powerful family of Buchan, “thre Cumming schevis” were also quartered with their arms, (Chron. of House of Seytoun, p. 37); and by intermarriage its male descendants have come to represent the illustrious families of Gordon, Aboyne, and Eglinton. The great houses of the Seton Gordons are descended from Margaret Seton, who married Alan de Wyntoun about the middle of the fourteenth century, her second son, Sir Alexander, having espoused the heiress of the house of Gordon.

Of the ancient palace of Seton, as stated in the text, scarcely one stone is left upon another, and it is difficult amid the grass to trace out the lines of its foundations.


Hath not a stone now on another left;
And scarcely can the curious eye trace out
Its strong foundations—though its giant arms,
Once, in their wide protecting amplitude,

192

Even like a parent's circled thee about.
Now Twilight mantles nature: silence reigns,
Save that, beneath, amid the danky vaults,
Is heard, with fitful melancholy sound,
The clammy dew-drop plashing: silence reigns,
Save that amid the gnarly sycamores,
That spread their huge embowering shades around,
From clear, melodious throat, the blackbird trills
His song—his almost homily to man—
Dirge-like, and sinking in the moody heart,
With tones prophetic. Through the trellis green,
The purpling hills look dusky; and the clouds,
Shorn of their edge-work of refulgent gold,
Spread, whitening, o'er the bosom of the sky.
Monastic pile, farewell! to Solitude
I leave thy ruins; though, not more with thee,
Often than on the highways of the world,
Where throng the busy multitudes astir,
Dwells Solitude. On many a pensive eve,
My thoughts have brooded on the changeful scene,
Gazed at it through the microscope of Truth,
And found it, as the Royal Psalmist found,
In all its issues, and in all its hopes,
Mere vanity. With ken reverting far
Through the bright Eden of departed years,
Here Contemplation, from the stir of life
Estranged, might treasure many a lesson deep;
And view, with unsophisticated eye,
The lowly state, and lofty destiny,
The pride and insignificance of man!

193

LINES IN THE PARK OF KELBURN CASTLE.

I.

A lovely eve! though yet it is but spring
Led on by April,—a refulgent eve,
With its soft west wind, and its mild white clouds,
Silently floating through the depths of blue.
The bird, from out the thicket, sends a gush
Of song, that heralds summer, and calls forth
The squirrel from its fungus-covered cave
In the old oak. Where do the conies sport?
Lo! from the shelter of yon flowering furze,
O'ermantling, like an aureate crown, the brow
Of the grey rock, with sudden bound, and stop
And start, the mother with her little ones,
Cropping the herbage in its tenderest green;
While overhead the elm, and oak, and ash,
Weave for the hundredth time their annual boughs,
Bright with their varied leaflets.
Hark! the bleat
From yon secluded haunt, where hill from hill
Diverging leaves, in sequestration calm,

194

A holm of pastoral loveliness: the lamb,
Screened from the biting east, securely roams
There, in wild gambol with its peers, on turf
Like emerald velvet, soft and smooth; and starts
Aside from the near waterfall, whose sheet
Winds foaming down the rocks precipitous,
Now seen, and now half-hidden by the trunks
Contorted, and the wide umbrageous boughs
Of time and tempest-nurtured woods. Away
From the sea-murmur ceaseless, up between
The green secluding hills, that hem it round
As 'twere with conscious love, stands Kelburn House,
With its grey turrets, in baronial state,

In the text, reference is made more to the situation of Kelburn Castle and its capabilities than either to its real antiquity, or to historical events connected with it. Its appearance under a fine April sunset, and the associations awakened by the surrounding scenery, were such as are there faintly delineated.

In a more concentrated form, (that of a square tower,) Castle Kelburn is, however, of very considerable antiquity, most of the present additions having been made by David, Earl of Glasgow. Richard Boyle, Dominus de Kaulburn, is mentioned in a transaction with Walter Cumyn in the reign of Alexander the Third, the hero of Largs; and Robert de Boyville of Kelburn, and Richard de Boyville of Ryesholm, were subscribers of the Ragiment Roll in 1296, both of which properties are to this day possessions of the family.

Kelburn Castle is thus noticed by old Pont:—“Kelburne Castell, a goodly building, veill planted, having werey beutifull orchards and gardens, and in one of them a spatious room adorned with a christalin fontane cutte all out of the living rocke. It belongs heritably to John Boll, laird thereof.”


A proud memento of the days when men
Thought but of war and safety. Stately pile
And lovely woods! not often have mine eyes
Gazed o'er a scene more picturesque, or more
Heart-touching in its beauty. Thou wert once
The guardian of these valleys, and the foe
Approaching heard, between himself and thee,
The fierce, down-thundering, mocking waterfall;
While, on thy battlements, in glittering mail,
The warder glided; and the sentinel,—
As neared the stranger horseman to thy gates,
And gave the pass-word, which no answer found,—
Plucked from his quiver the unerring shaft,
Which, from Kilwinning's spire, had oft brought down
The mock Papingo.

The Papingo is a bird less known to Sir William Jardine or to Mr James Wilson than to heraldry; and in the days when the bow and arrow were used in war throughout the whole of Europe, by several of the acts of the old Scotch Parliament, the young men of every parish were strictly commended, in spite of the Sir Andrew Agnews of their age, to practise archery, for an hour or two every Sunday, after divine service. When this custom fell into desuetude in almost every other quarter, archery appears to have remained even to our own day as a favourite recreation and accomplishment at Kilwinning, the most distinctive kind being the shooting at the Papingo, which is cut in wood, fixed in the end of a pole, and placed about a hundred and twenty feet high, on the steeple of the monastery, the archer who shoots it down being honoured with the title of Captain for the year. The laws and usages of the Company are known only by tradition prior to 1488, but from 1688 regular records have been kept. At this latter period a piece of plate was substituted for a sash, which had been the victor's reward from the former era. This sash, or benn, was a piece of taffeta or Persian, of different colours, chiefly red, green, white, and blue, and not less in value than £20 Scotch.

The festival of the Papingo is still annually held at Maybole, in the same county; and from a curious description of it in the history of the Somerville family, Sir Walter Scott acknowledges to have drawn the hint of the inimitable serio-comic descriptive scene in Old Mortality, wherein Goose Gobbie, in his negligé armour, runs full tilt at the Noah's ark carriage of Lady Margaret Bellenden, the unfailing remembrancer of King Charles the Second, of blessed memory.


Mournfully, alas!
Yet in thy quietude not desolate,

195

Now, like a relic of the times gone by,
Down from thy verdant throne, upon the sea,
Which glitters like a sheet of molten gold,
Thou lookest thus, at eventide, while sets,
In opal and in amethystine hues,
The day o'er distant Arran, with its peaks
Sky-piercing, yet o'erclad with winter's snows
In desolate grandeur; and the cottaged fields
Of nearer Bute smile in their vernal green,
A picture of repose. High overhead
The gull, far-shrieking, through yon stern ravine
Of wild, rude rocks, where brawls the mountain stream,
Wings to the sea, and seeks, beyond its foams,
Its own precipitous cliff upon the coast
Of fair and fertile Cumbrae; while the rook,
Conscious of coming eventide, forsakes
The leafing woods, and round the chimneyed roofs
Caws as he wheels, alights, and then anon
Renews his circling flight in clamorous joy.

II.

Mountains that face bald Arran! though the sun
Now, with the ruddy lights of eventide,
Gilds every pastoral summit on which Peace,
Like a descended angel, sits enthroned,
Forth gazing on a scene as beautiful
As Nature e'er outspread for mortal eye;
And but the voice of distant waterfall
Sings lullaby to bird and beast, and wings
Of insects murmurous, multitudinous,

196

That in the low, red, level beams commix,
And weave their elfin dance,—another time
And other tones were yours, when on each peak
At hand, and through Argyle and Lanark shires,
Startling black midnight, flared the beacon lights,
And when from out the west the castled steep
Of Broadwick reddened with responsive blaze.

An allusion is here made to the signal-light in the vicinity of Turnberry Castle, the ancient seat of the Earls of Carrick, the maternal ancestors of Bruce, by which the hero of Bannockburn was induced to enter Scotland; and which, though at first a source of disappointment, was the precursor of a series of successes, which terminated in the independence of his native country.

The whole circumstances are minutely described by Barbour, (Bruce, book iv. canto 1,) and with more than his wonted spirit and vivacity. So fine are his introductory lines, that Sir Walter Scott seems to think that they served as a model for the style of Gawain Douglas.

More beautiful, however, by far is the description in the fifth canto of the Lord of the Isles, stanza xiii.

“South and by west the armada bore,
And near at length the Carrick shore;
As less and less the distance grows,
High and more high the beacon rose;
The light, that seemed a twinkling star.
Now blazed portentous, fierce, and far.
Dark-red the heaven above it glowed,
Dark-red the sea beneath it flowed,
Red rose the rocks on ocean's brim,
In blood-red light her islets swim;
Wild scream the dazzled sea-fowl gave,” &c.

A night was that of doubt and of suspense,
Of danger and of daring, in the which
The fate of Scotland in the balance hung
Trembling, and up and down wavered the scales;
But Hope grew brighter with the rising sun,
And Dawn looked out, to see upon the shore
The Bruce's standard floating on the gale,
A call to freedom!—barks from every isle
Pouring with clumps of spears!—from every dell
The throng of mail-clad men!—vassal and lord,
With ponderous curtal-axe, and broadsword keen,
Banner and bow; while, overhead, afar
And near, the bugles rang amid the rocks,
Echoing in wild reverberation shrill,
And scaring from his heathery lair the deer,
The osprey from his island cliff of rest.

III.

But not alone by that fierce trumpet-call,
Through grove and glen, on mount and pastoral hill,
The brute and bird were roused—by it again,
And by the signal blaze upon the hills,
And by the circling of the fiery cross,

197

Then once again were Scotland's children roused;—
With swelling hearts and loud acclaim they heard
The summons, saw the signal, and cast off
With indignation in the dust the weeds
Of their inglorious thraldom. Every hearth
Wiped the red rust from its ancestral sword,
And sent it forth avenging to the field
In brightness—but with Freedom to be sheathed!
Yea, while the mother and the sister mourned,
And while the maiden, half-despairingly,
Wept for her love, who might return no more,
The grey-haired father, leaning on his staff,
Infirm, felt for a moment to his heart
The youthful fire return, and inly mourned
That he could do no more—no more than send
A blessing after his young gallant boy,
Armed for the battles of his native land,
Nor wished him back, unless with Freedom won!

IV.

To olden times my reveries have roamed—
While twilight hangs above her silver star,
Which in the waveless deep reflected shines—
Have roamed to glory and war, and the fierce days
Of Scotland's renovation, when the Bruce
Beheld the sun of Bannockburn go down,
And wept for gladness that the land was free!
Fitful and fair, yet clouded with a haze,
As 'twere the mantle of uncertainty—
The veil of doubt—to memory awakes

198

The bright heart-stirring past, when human life
(For but its flashing points to us remain)
Was half romance; and were it not that yet,
In stream, and crag, and isle, and crumbling walls
Of keep and castle, still remains to us
Physical proof that history is no mere
Hallucination, oftentimes the mind
(So different is the present from the past)
Would deem its pageant an illusion all.

V.

Arran, and Bute, and Cumbrae, and ye peaks
Glowing like sapphires in the utmost west,
Sweet scenes of beauty and peace, farewell! The eyes
But of a passing visitor are mine
On you. Before this radiant eve, enshrined
For ever in my inmost soul, ye were
Known but in name; but now ye are mine own,
One of the pictures which fond memory,
In musing phantasy, will oft-times love
To conjure up, gleaning, amid the stir
And strife of multitudes, as 'twere repose,
By dwelling on the tranquil and serene!

199

THE THORN OF PRESTON.

Reviving with the genial airs,
Beneath the azure heaven of spring,
Thy stem of ancient vigour bears
Its branches green and blossoming;
The birds around thee hop and sing,
Or flit, on glossy pinions borne,
Above thy time-resisting head,
Whose umbrage overhangs the dead,
Thou venerable Thorn!

On a field between the ancient village of Preston and Cockenzie, there exists—or very recently existed—a tree of this description, which tradition points out as being near the spot where Colonel Gardiner received his mortal wound. I have more than once regarded this leafy monument of the brave with feelings of no ordinary interest. It is within sight of the house wherein the hero's family were then living.


Three ages of mankind have pass'd
To silence and to sleep, since thou,
Rearing thy branches to the blast,
As glorious, and more green than now,
Sheltered beneath thy shadowy brow
The warrior from the dews of night:
To doubtful sleep himself he laid,
Enveloped in his tartan plaid,
And dreaming of the fight.

200

Day open'd in the orient sky
With wintry aspect, dull and drear;
On every leaf, while glitteringly
The rimy hoar-frost did appear.
Blue Ocean was unseen, though near;
And hazy shadows seem'd to draw,
In silver with their mimic floods,
A line above the Seton woods,
And round North Berwick Law.
Hark! 'twas the bagpipe that awoke
Its tones of battle and alarms!
“The pipes played, and the clans rushed forward, each in its own dark column. As they advanced they mended their pace, and the muttering sounds of the men began to swell into a wild cry.”

Waverley, vol. ii.


The royal drum, with doubling stroke,
In answer, beat, “To arms—to arms!”
If tumult and if war have charms,
Here might that bliss be sought and found:
The Saxon line unsheaths the sword;
Rushes the Gael, with battle-word,
Across the stubble ground.
Alas! that British might should wield
Destruction o'er a British plain;
That hands, ordain'd to bear the shield,
Should bring the poison'd lance to drain
The life-blood from a brother's vein,
And steep ancestral fields in gore!
Yet, Preston, such thy fray began;
Thy marsh-collected waters ran
Empurpled to the shore.

201

The noble Gardiner, bold of soul,
Saw, spirit-sunk, his dastards flee,
Being deserted by his own regiment, who turned and fled after a few moments' resistance, he saw a party of foot, which he had been ordered to support, fighting bravely, without a commander. “He rode up to them,” says Dr Doddridge, “and cried out aloud, ‘Fire on, my lads, and fear nothing.’ But just as the words were out of his mouth, a Highlander advanced towards him, with a scythe fastened to a long pole, with which he gave him such a deep wound on his right arm that his sword dropped out of his hand; and at the same time several others coming about him, while he was thus dreadfully entangled with this cruel weapon, he was dragged off from his horse. The moment he fell, another Highlander, whose name was M`Naught, and who was executed about a year after, gave him a stroke, either with a broadsword or a Lochaber axe, on the hinder part of his head, which was the mortal blow.”—

Doddridge's Life of Gardiner.


Disdain'd to let a fear control,
And, striving by the side of thee,
Fell, like a champion of the free!
And Brymer, too, who scorn'd to yield,
Here took his death-blow undismay'd,
And, sinking slowly downward, laid
His back upon the field.
Descendant of a royal line—
A line unfortunate and brave!
Success a moment seemed to shine
On thee—'twas sunbeams on a grave!
Thy home a hiding-place—a cave,
With foxes destined soon to be!
To sorrow and to suffering wed,
A price on thy devoted head,
And blood-hounds tracking thee!
'Twas morn; but ere the solar ray
Shot, burning, from the west abroad,
The field was still; the soldier lay
Beneath the turf on which he trod,
Within a cold and lone abode,
Beside the spot whereon he fell;
For ever sever'd from his kind,
And from the home he left behind—
His own paternal dell!

202

Sheathed in their glittering panoply,
Or wrapt in war-cloak, blood-besprent,
Within one common cemetery,
The lofty and the low were pent:
No longer did the evening tent
Their mirth and wassail-clamour hear:
Ah! many a maid of ardent breast
Shed for his sake, whom she loved best,
The heart-consuming tear!
Thou, lonely tree, survivest still—
Thy bloom is white, thy leaf is green;
I hear the tinkling of a rill;
All else is silent: and the scene,
Where battle raged, is now serene
Beneath the purple fall of night.
Yet oft, beside the plough, appear,
Casque, human bone, and broken spear,
Sad relics of the fight!

203

THE BASS ROCK.

The scout, the scart, the cattiwake,
The solan-goose sits on the laik,
Yearly in the spring.
Ray's Itineraries, (1661.)

I.

'Twas Summer's depth; a more enlivening sun
Never drank up the gelid morning dews,
Or crimsoned with its glow the July flowers,
Than that on which our boat, with oar and sail,
Left Canta Bay, with its embosomed huts,
And through the freshening tide, with eager prow,
Bore onward to thy rocks, horrific Bass!

II.

Light blew the breeze, the billows curled around;
'Mid clouds of sea-fowl, whose unceasing screams
Uncouth filled all the empty heavens with sound,
Forward we clove: at times the solan's wing,
As if to show its majesty of strength,
Brushed near us with a roughly winnowing noise;
And now, aloft, a lessening speck, was seen
Over the cloudlets, 'mid engulfing blue.

204

Around us, and around, the plovers wheeled
In myriads, restless, multitudinous,
Wedge-like, at intervals their inner plumes
Glancing like silver in the sunny ray;
The parrot dived beside us; slowly past
Floated the graceful eider-duck; with shrieks
The snipe zig-zagg'd, then vanished in alarm;
And all in air and ocean seemed astir;
Until the sole and narrow landing-place

The Bass is only accessible at one flat shelvy point to the south-east,—the sole landing-places, and these but a few feet wide, being the south and north sides of this point. To command these there is a small fortalice, now unroofed, and in ruins. To the west the cell in which Blackadder was imprisoned and died is still pointed out, with its three small ironbarred windows; and half-way up the acclivity, a little beyond the ancient garden, where now not even a “flower grows wild,” are the remains of a Roman Catholic chapel, which, when the island was made the bastille of Scotland, state necessity converted into an ammunition magazine.

The Bass is about a mile and a half from the shore, and nearly the same in circumference. Around it the sea has been fathomed to the depth of 180 feet; and as the rock rises above it to the height of 420, the total elevation from the base is about 600 feet. Its most precipitous aspect is towards the north, where the descent to the ocean is almost a sheer perpendicular; and below there is a remarkable caverned passage leading completely through the rock to the southward, which is navigable in calm weather even at full tide.


We reached, and, grappling with the naked crags,
Wound to a smoother ledge our sheer ascent.

III.

Never was transit more electrical!
An hour ago, and by thy traceried walls
We drove, Newbyth, beneath the o'erhanging boughs
Of forests old, wherein the stock-dove plained
In sequestration; while the rabbit, scared,
Took to its hole under the hawthorn's root;
And lay our path through bright and bloomy fields,
Where, from the scented clover to the cloud,
Arose the lyric lark on twinkling wings;
And linnets from each brake responsively
Piped to each other, till the shady groves
Of Tyningham seemed melody's abode.
Everything breathed of happiness and life,
Which in itself was joy; the hill-side farms
Basked in the sunshine with their yellow cones
Of gathered grain; the ploughboy with his team
Stalked onward whistling; and, from cottage roofs,

205

Bluely ascended to the soft clear sky
The wreathing smoke, which spake domestic love,
In household duties cheerfully performed;
And, wading in the neighbouring rivulet,
With eager fingers, from the wild-flower banks
Sweet-scented, childhood gathered nameless blooms.
And now, as if communion were cut off
Utterly with mankind and their concerns,
Amid the bleak and barren solitude
Of that precipitous and sea-girt rock
We found ourselves; the waves their orison
Howled to the winds, which from the breezy North
Over the German Ocean came, as 'twere
To moan in anger through the rifted caves,
Whose echoes gave a desolate response!

IV.

Far in the twilight of primeval time,
This must have been a place (ponderingly
Methought) where aboriginal men poured forth
Their erring worship to the elements,
Long ere the Druid, in the sullen night
Of old oak forests, tinged his altar-stone
With blood of brotherhood. It must be so;
So awfully doth the spirit of their powers—
The desolating winds, the trampling waves,
With their white manes, the storm-shower, and the sun—
Here, in this solitude, impress the mind.
Yet human hearts have beat in this abode,

Tradition asserts that the Bass was the residence of Baldred, the disciple of Kentigern, in the sixth century; and he is regarded by Major, and by Spotswood, (vide Church History,) as the apostle of East Lothian, having fixed his cell at Tyningham, and preached through the neighbouring country. This account is countenanced by Smith's Bede, (p. 231-254,) where it is said that a Saxon monastery, dedicated to him, existed there. The diocese of the saint is described by Simeon as “tota terra quæ pertinet ad monasterium Sancti Balthere quod vocatur Tyningham a Lambermore usque ad Escemuthe (Inveresk.”) Consequently it comprehended the whole superficies of East Lothian.


All sullen and repulsive though it be—

206

The hearts of priests and princes; and full oft
Lone captive eyes, for many a joyless month,
Have marked the sun, that rose o'er eastward May,
Expire in glory o'er the summits dun
Of the far Grampians, in the golden west:
Yea, still some ruins, weather-stained, forlorn,
And mottled with the melancholy weeds
That love the salt breeze, tell of prisons grim,

In 1406 the unfortunate King Robert the Third placed his son, afterwards James the First, of poetic memory, in this fortalice on the Bass, as being the stronghold of greatest security against the machinations of his uncle, the cruel and perfidious Duke of Albany. It was for many generations the property of the ancient family of Lauder, who styled themselves of the Bass, and who are now, I believe, represented by Sir Thomas Dick Lauder of Fountainhall and Grange, the accomplished author of the Account of the Morayshire Floods, A Coasting Voyage round Scotland, The Wolf of Badenoch, and other well-known works. It is supposed, however, that their mansion was not on the island, but on the shore near North Berwick; and a flat stone in the cemetery of the Auld Kirk is said to mark out their resting-place.

The island was afterwards converted into a state-prison, alike for civil and ecclesiastical delinquents; and during the reigns when Presbytery was proscribed and persecuted, many of its adherents, as testified by the pages of Wodrow, were confined here. The most distinguished of these was Blackadder, whose memoirs have been ably and interestingly written by Dr Crichton.


Where, in an age as rude, though less remote,
Despotic Policy its victims held
In privacy immured; and where, apart,
The fearless champions of our faith reformed,
Shut up, and severed from the land they loved,
Breathed out their prayers—that day-spring from on high
Should visit us—to God's sole listening ear!

V.

A mighty mass majestic, from the roots
Of the old sea, thou risest to the sky,
In thy wild, bare sublimity alone.
All-glorious was the prospect from thy peak,
Thou thunder-cloven Island of the Forth!
Landward Tantallon lay, with ruined walls

Opposite to the Bass, and on three sides surrounded by the sea, rise the majestic ruins of Tantallon Castle, the great strong-hold of the ancient Douglases, from which they defied alike the threats of the foe and the commands of the sovereign. It could only be approached from the west, and by a drawbridge defended by a massive tower and a double ditch. The walls, which form an irregular hexagon, are of enormous strength and thickness. Over the entrance the memorable emblem of the “bloody heart” may still be traced. The stronghold arose with the settlement of the Douglases in East Lothian under Robert the Second; and such was its power of security and resistance, that popular conviction, as evinced by the saying,

“Ding doun Tantallon?
Build a brig to the Bass!”

regarded its destruction as among impossibilities.

Quantum mutatum ab illo!—The very mention of Tantallon carries back the mind to the days of chivalry and romance, and to Archibald Bell-the-Cat, as depicted in the glorious pages of Marmion.


Sepulchral—like a giant, in old age,
Smote by the blackening lightning-flash, and left
A prostrate corpse upon the sounding shore!
Behind arose your congregated woods,
Leuchie, Balgone, and Rockville—fairer none.
Remoter, mingling with the arch of heaven,
Blue Cheviot told where, stretching by his feet,

207

Bloomed the fair valleys of Northumberland.
Seaward, the Forth, a glowing, green expanse,
Studded with many a white and gliding sail,
Winded its serpent form—the Ochils rich
Down gazing in its mirror; while beyond,
The Grampians reared their bare untrodden scalps;
Fife showed her range of scattery coast-towns old—
Old as the days of Scotland's early kings—
Malcolm, and Alexander, and the Bruce—
From western Dysart, to the dwindling point
Of famed and far St Andrews: all beyond
Was ocean's billowy and unbounded waste,
Sole broken by the verdant islet May,

In early times such was the reputation of the fishery in the neighbourhood of the Isle of May, at the mouth of the Firth of Forth, that it was resorted to even by the fishermen of other countries. A curious authentication of this fact exists in a MS. life of St Kentigern, (Bibl. Cotton. tit. A. xix.,) written about the end of the reign of David the First:—

“Ab illo quippe tempore in hunc diem tanta piscium fertilitas ibi abundat, ut de omne littore maris Anglici, Scotici, et a Belgicæ Galliæ littoribus veniunt gratia piscandi piscatores plurimi, quos omnes Insula May in suis rite suscipit portibus.”—

See as quoted in M`Pherson's Notes on Winton, vol. ii. p. 479.

The same site remains to this day the most favourite fishing-station on the Forth — turbot and other fine fish being thence supplied to the London and Edinburgh markets.


Whose fitful lights, amid surrounding gloom,
When midnight mantles earth, and sea, and sky,
From danger warns the home-bound mariner;
And one black speck—a distant sail—which told
Where mingled with its line the horizon blue.

VI.

Who were thy visitants, lone Rock, since Man
Shrank from thy sea-flower solitudes, and left
His crumbling ruins 'mid thy barren shelves?
Up came the cormorant, with dusky wing,
From northern Orkney, an adventurous flight,
Floating far o'er us in the liquid blue,
While many a hundred fathom in the sheer
Abyss below, where foamed the surge unheard,
Dwindled by distance, flocks of mighty fowl
Floated like feathery specks upon the wave.

208

The rower with his boat-hook struck the mast,
And lo! the myriad wings, that like a sheet
Of snow o'erspread the crannies—all were up!

It is curious to remark that the existing varieties of sea-fowl frequenting the Bass are almost exactly the same as those described and enumerated by the naturalist John Ray, in his curious visit to the island in 1661, (Itineraries, p. 191-194.) The most celebrated of these then and now is the gannet or solan-goose—an immense bird, measuring six feet from tip to tip of the wings, and which is almost peculiar to this rock and Ailsa Craig, on the Ayrshire coast. Of these birds there are many thousands, which may be seen, in the months of June and July, hatching their young on the bare shelves of the rock. Hence, in Drummond of Hawthornden's famous Macaronic poem, the Polemo-middinia, the island is characterised as the Solangoosifera Bassa.


The gannet, guillemot, and kittiwake,
Marrot and plover, snipe and eider-duck,
The puffin, and the falcon, and the gull—
Thousands on thousands, an innumerous throng,
Darkening the noontide with their winnowing plumes,
A cloud of animation! the wide air
Tempesting with their mingled cries uncouth!

VII.

Words cannot tell the sense of loneliness
Which then and there, cloud-like, across my soul
Fell, as our weary steps clomb that ascent.
Amid encompassing mountains I have paused,
At twilight, when alone the little stars,
Brightening amid the wilderness of blue,
Proclaimed a world not God-forsaken quite;
I've walked, at midnight, on the hollow shore,
In darkness, when the trampling of the waves,
The demon-featured clouds, and howling gales,
Seemed like returning chaos—all the fierce
Terrific elements in league with night—
Earth crouching underneath their tyrannous sway,
And the lone sea-bird shrieking from its rock;
And I have mused in churchyards far remote,
And long forsaken even by the dead,
To blank oblivion utterly given o'er,
Beneath the waning moon, whose mournful ray

209

Showed but the dim hawk sleeping on his stone:
But never, in its moods of phantasy,
Had to itself my spirit shaped a scene
Of sequestration more profound than thine,
Grim throne of solitude, stupendous Bass!
Oft in the populous city, 'mid the stir
And strife of hurrying thousands, each intent
On his own earnest purpose, to thy cliffs
Sea-girt, precipitous—the solan's home—
Wander my reveries; and thoughts of thee
(While scarcely stirs the ivy round the porch,
And all is silent as the sepulchre)
Oft make the hush of midnight more profound.

THOMSON'S BIRTH-PLACE.

(EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE.)

I.

Is Ednam, then, so near us? I must gaze
On Thomson's cradle-spot—as sweet a bard
(Theocritus and Maro blent in one)
As ever graced the name—and on the scenes
That first to poesy awoke his soul,
In hours of holiday, when Boyhood's glance
Invested nature with an added charm.”

210

So saying to myself, with eager steps,
Down through the avenues of Sydenham—
(Green Sydenham, to me for ever dear,
As birth-house of the being with whose fate
Mine own is sweetly mingled—even with thine
My wife, my children's mother)—on I strayed
In a perplexity of pleasing thoughts,
Amid the perfume of blown eglantine,
And hedgerow wild-flowers, memory conjuring up
In many a sweet, bright, fragmentary snatch,
The truthful, soul-subduing lays of him
Whose fame is with his country's being blent,
And cannot die; until at length I gained
A vista from the road, between the stems
Of two broad sycamores, whose filial boughs
Above in green communion intertwined:
And lo! at once in view, nor far remote,
The downward country, like a map unfurled,
Before me lay—green pastures—forests dark—
And, in its simple quietude revealed,
Ednam, no more a visionary scene.

II.

A rural church; some scattered cottage roofs,
From whose secluded hearths the thin blue smoke,
Silently wreathing through the breezeless air,
Ascended, mingling with the summer sky;
A rustic bridge, mossy and weather-stained;
A fairy streamlet, singing to itself;

211

And here and there a venerable tree
In foliaged beauty—of these elements,
And only these, the simple scene was formed.

III.

In soft poetic vision, brightly dim,
Oft had I dreamed of Ednam, of the spot
Where to the light of life the infant eye
Of Thomson opened, where his infant ear
First heard the birds, and where his infant feet
Oft chased the butterfly from bloom to bloom;
Until the syllables—a talisman—
Brought to my heart a realm of deep delight,
A true Elysian picture, steeped in hues
Of pastoral loveliness—whose atmosphere
Was such as wizard wand has charmed around
The hold of Indolence, where every sight
And every sound to a luxurious calm
Smoothed down the ever-swelling waves of thought;—
And oft, while o'er the Bard's harmonious page,
Nature's reflected picture, I have hung
Enchanted, wandering thoughts have crossed my mind
Of his lone boyhood—'mid the mazy wood,
Or by the rippling brook, or on the hill,
At dewy daybreak—and the eager thirst
With which his opening spirit must have drank
The shows of earth and heaven, till I have wished,
Yea rather longed with an impassioned warmth,
That on his birth-place I might gaze, and tread,

212

If only for one short and passing hour,
The pathways which, a century agone,
He must have trod—scenes by his pencil sketched,
And by the presence hallowed evermore,
Of him who sang the Seasons as they roll,
With all a Hesiod's truth, a Homer's power,
And the pure feeling of Simonides.

IV.

Now Ednam lay before me—there it lay—
No more phantasmagorial; but the thought
Of Thomson vanished, nor would coalesce
And mingle with the landscape, as the dawn
Melts in the day, or as the cloud-fed stream
Melts in the sea, to be once more exhaled
In vapours, and become again a cloud.
For why? Let deep psychologists explain—
For me a spell was broken: this I know,
And nothing more besides, that this was not
My Poet's birth-place—earth etherealised
And spirit-hued—the creature of my dreams,
By fancy limn'd; but quite an alien scene,
Fair in itself—if separate from him—
Fair in itself, and only for itself
Seeking our praises or regard. The clue
Of old associations was destroyed—
A leaf from Pleasure's volume was torn out—
And, as the fairy frost-work leaves the grass,
While burns the absorbing red ray of the morn,

213

A tract of mental Eden was laid waste,
Never to blossom more!
Alone I stood,
By that sweet hamlet lonely and serene,
Gazing around me in the glowing light
Of noon, while overhead the rapturous lark
Soared as it sung, less and less visible,
Till but a voice 'mid heaven's engulfing blue.
No scene could philosophic life desire
More tranquil for its evening; nor could love,
Freed from ambition, for enjoyment seek
A holier haunt of sequestration calm.
Yet though the tones and smiles of Nature bade
The heart rejoice, a shadow overspread
My musings—for a fairy-land of thought
Had melted in the light of common day.
A moment's truth had disenchanted years
Of cherished vision: Ednam, which before
Spoke to my spirit as a spell, was now
The index to a code of other thoughts;
And turning on my heel—a poorer man
Than morning looked on me—I sighed to think
How oft our joys depend on ignorance!

242

END OF VOL. I.


II. VOL. II.


1

OCCASIONAL POEMS.


3

A SHADOW OF TRUTH.

WRITTEN IN OPPOSITION TO THE CATHOLIC EMANCIPATION BILL OF 1829.

I

I had a wondrous vision—a dream, but not of night—
Manifold figures wild and strange came rushing on my sight;
Far 'mid the twilight of old time I saw them flitting by;
Melted the mould-damp of the grave, and brighten'd every eye,
As down to our unsettling days their awful looks they cast,
To see Experiment's rash feet down trampling all the past.

II

The gloomy smoke-clouds spired aloft; beneath were fagots piled;
And, 'mid the lambent tongues of flame, a holy Martyr smiled;

4

Coop'd in Inquisitorial cells, pale, squalid figures lay,
Whose eyes had never bless'd God's sun for many a countless day;
While implements of torture dire were scatter'd on the ground,
And, garb'd in white Religion's robes, demoniac judges frown'd.

III

Sadly, from latticed convent grey, the hooded Nun look'd out
On luxury, life, and liberty, by young Spring strewn about;
In thought she saw her father's hall, at quiet evening close;
And a bonnet, with its snow-white plume, amid the greening boughs;
Where, with his greyhound in its leash, beside the trysting well,
Her secret lover wont to wait, his burning vows to tell.

IV

There sages stood with earthward eyes; upon each reverend face,
Sorrow and shame were sadly blent with apostolic grace;

5

They saw what they had seen of yore, yea perish'd to gainsay,
The swinish herd by ignorance to error led astray;
Men, by false doctrines dazzled, quite forsaking God and Truth,
And grey Experience hooted down by theorising youth.

V

There scowl'd the proud old barons brave, a thousand fields that won,
Indignant that their high-drawn blood should to the dregs have run;
Scornfully they pointed to the past—to think that all in vain
The life-tide of our patriot hosts had crimson'd hill and plain;
That clad in steel, from head to heel, they made their desperate stand,
Triumphant broke the Papal yoke, and freed a groaning land.

VI

Then saw I banners on the breeze—and, as their lengths unroll'd
Upon the breath of Blasphemy, mysterious threats they told:

6

In Liberality's right hand Sedition's scrolls were borne;
Fierce drunken crowds surrounding her, who laugh'd Suspense to scorn;
Over Religion's shrines I saw Destruction's ploughshare driven;
The hosts of Hell reconquering Earth, and man denying Heaven!

VII

To that poor country, woe—woe—woe! where Commoner and Peer
Lay down what valour wrung from Fraud, from ignominious fear;
Give in to Error's harlotry, to smooth her rebel frown;
Pen up the wolf-cub with the lamb, and bid them both lie down;
Betray Religion's tower and trench to sacerdotal Sin,
And turn the key in Freedom's gate, that slaves may enter in!

VIII

Through all, I heard a warning voice, and mournfully it said—
“In vain have Sages ponder'd, and in vain have Martyrs bled;

7

In vain have seas of patriot blood to Freedom's cause been given,
Since still man thinks that hellward paths can e'er lead up to Heaven;
And clouds of ignorance in vain been scatter'd from his sight,
When the base fiend Expediency o'ercomes the seraph Right!”

STANZAS FOR THE BURNS FESTIVAL.

I

Stir the beal-fire, wave the banner,
Bid the thundering cannon sound,
Rend the skies with acclamation,
Stun the woods and waters round,
Till the echoes of our gathering
Turn the world's admiring gaze
To this act of duteous homage
Scotland to her Poet pays.
Fill the banks and braes with music,
Be it loud and low by turns—
That we owe the deathless glory,
This the hapless fate of Burns.

8

II

Born within the lowly cottage
To a destiny obscure,
Doom'd through youth's exulting spring-time
But to labour and endure—
Yet Despair he elbow'd from him;
Nature breath'd with holy joy,
In the hues of morn and evening,
On the eyelids of the boy;
And his country's Genius bound him
Laurels for his sunburnt brow,
When inspired and proud she found him,
Like Elisha, at the plough.

III

On, exulting in his magic,
Swept the gifted peasant on—
Though his feet were on the greensward,
Light from Heaven around him shone;
At his conjuration, demons
Issued from their darkness drear;
Hovering round on silver pinions,
Angels stoop'd his songs to hear;
Bow'd the Passions to his bidding,
Terror gaunt, and Pity calm;
Like the organ pour'd his thunder,
Like the lute his fairy psalm.

9

IV

Lo! when clover-swathes lay round him,
Or his feet the furrow press'd,
He could mourn the sever'd daisy,
Or the mouse's ruin'd nest;
Woven of gloom and glory, visions
Haunting throng'd his twilight hour;
Birds enthrall'd him with sweet music,
Tempests with their tones of power;
Eagle-wing'd, his mounting spirit
Custom's rusty fetters spurn'd;
Tasso-like, for Jean he melted,
Wallace-like, for Scotland burn'd!

V

Scotland!—dear to him was Scotland,
In her sons and in her daughters,
In her Highlands, Lowlands, Islands,
Regal woods, and rushing waters;
In the glory of her story,
When her tartans fired the field,—
Scotland! oft betray'd—beleaguer'd—
Scotland! never known to yield!
Dear to him her Doric language,
Thrill'd his heart-strings at her name;
And he left her more than rubies,
In the riches of his fame.

10

VI

Sons of England!—sons of Erin!
Ye who journeying from afar,
Throng with us the shire of Coila,
Led by Burns's guiding-star—
Proud we greet you—ye will join us,
As, on this triumphant day,
To the champions of his genius
Grateful thanks we duly pay—
Currie—Chambers—Lockhart—Wilson—
Carlyle—who his bones to save
From the wolfish fiend, Detraction,
Couch'd like lions round his grave.

VII

Daughter of the Poet's mother!
Here we hail thee with delight;
Shower'd be every earthly blessing
On thy locks of silver white!—
Sons of Burns, a hearty welcome,
Welcome home from India's strand,
To a heart-loved land far dearer,
Since your glorious Father's land!—
Words are worthless—look around you—
Labour'd tomes far less could say
To the sons of such a father,
Than the sight of such a day!

11

VIII

Judge not ye, whose thoughts are fingers,
Of the hands that with the lyre—
Greenland has its mountain icebergs,
Ætna has its heart of fire;
Calculation has its plummet;
Self-control its iron rules;
Genius has its sparkling fountains;
Dulness has its stagnant pools;
Like a halcyon on the waters,
Burns's chart disdain'd a plan—
In his soarings he was Heavenly,
In his sinkings he was man.

IX

As the sun from out the orient
Pours a wider, warmer light,
Till he floods both earth and ocean,
Blazing from the zenith's height;
So the glory of our Poet,
In its deathless power serene,
Shines, as rolling time advances,
Warmer felt, and wider seen:
First Doon's banks and braes contain'd it,
Then his country form'd its span;
Now the wide world is its empire,
And its throne the heart of man.

12

X

Home returning, each will carry
Proud remembrance of this day,
When exulted Scotland's bosom
Homage to her Bard to pay;—
When our jubilee to brighten,
Eglinton with Wilson vied,
Wealth's regards and Rank's distinctions
For the season set aside;
And the peasant, peer, and poet,
Each put forth an equal claim,
For the twining of his laurel
In the wreath of Burns's fame!

STANZAS,

WRITTEN AFTER THE FUNERAL OF ADMIRAL SIR DAVID MILNE, G.C.B.

I

Another, yet another! year by year
As time progresses with resistless sweep,
Sever'd from life, the patriots disappear,
Who bore St George's standards o'er the deep:

13

II

Heroic men, whose decks were Britain's trust,
When banded Europe scowl'd around in gloom;
Nor least, though latest Thou, whose honour'd dust
Our steps this day have follow'd to the tomb.

III

Yet, gallant Milne, what more could'st thou desire,
Replete in fame, in years, and honour, save
To wrap thy sea-cloak round thee, and expire,
Where thou had'st lived in glory, on the wave?

IV

From boyhood to thy death-day, 'mid the scenes
Where love is garner'd, or the brave have striven,
With scarce a breathing-time that intervenes,
Thy life was to our country's service given.

V

A British sailor! 'twas thy proud delight
Up glory's rugged pathway to aspire;
Ready in council, resolute in fight,
And Spartan coolness temper'd Roman fire!

VI

Yes; sixty years have pass'd, since, in thy prime,
Plunging from off the shatter'd Blanche, o'erboard
Amid the moonlight waves, 'twas thine to climb
La Pique's torn side, and take the Frenchman's sword.

14

VII

And scarcely less remote that midnight dread,
Or venturous less that daring, when La Seine
Dismay'd, dismasted, cumber'd with her dead,
Struck to the ship she fled—and fought in vain.

VIII

And veterans now are all, who, young in heart,
Burn'd as they heard, how o'er the watery way,
Compell'd to fight, yet eager to depart,
The Vengeance battled through the livelong day—

IX

Battled with thee, who, steadfast on her track,
Not to be shaken off, untiring bent;
And how awhile the fire from each grew slack,
The shatter'd masts to splice, and riggings rent;

X

And how, at dawn, the conflict was renewed,
Muzzle to muzzle, almost hand to hand,
Till useless on the wave, and carnage-strew'd,
The foe lay wreck'd on St Domingo's strand;

XI

And how huzza'd his brave triumphant crew,
And how the hero burn'd within his eye,
When Milne beheld upon the staff, where flew
The tricolor, the flag of Britain fly!

15

XII

And yet once more thy country calls!—beneath
The towers and demi-lune of dark Algiers
The Impregnable is anchor'd, in the teeth
Of bomb-proof batteries, frowning, tiers on tiers.

XIII

Another day of triumph for the right—
Of laurels fresh for Exmouth and for thee—
When Afric's Demon, palsied at the sight
Of Europe's Angel, bade the slave go free!

XIV

But when away War's fiery storms had burn'd,
And Peace regladden'd Earth with skies of blue,
Thy sword into the pruning-hook was turn'd,
And Cæsar into Cincinnatus grew.

XV

The poor's protector, the unbiass'd judge,
'Twas thine with warm unwearied zeal to lend
Time to each duty's call, without a grudge—
The Christian, and the Patriot, and the Friend.

XVI

Farewell! 'tis dust to dust within the grave;
But while one heart beats high to Scotland's fame,
Best of the good, and bravest of the brave,
The name of Milne shall be an honour'd name.

16

SONG, FOR THE

DINNER GIVEN TO THE EARL OF DALHOUSIE AT EDINBURGH, 14th SEPTEMBER 1847, BEFORE HIS PROCEEDING TO INDIA AS GOVERNOR-GENERAL.

I

Long, long ere the thistle was twined with the rose,
And the firmest of friends now were fiercest of foes,
The flag of Dalwolsey aye foremost was seen;
Through the night of oppression it glitter'd afar,
To the patriot's eye 'twas a ne'er-setting star,
And with Bruce and with Wallace it flash'd thro' the fray,
When “Freedom or Death” was the shout of the day,
For the thistle of Scotland shall ever be green!

II

A long line of chieftains! from father to son,
They lived for their country—their purpose was one—
In heart they were fearless—in hand they were clean;
From the hero of yore, who, in Gorton's grim caves,
Kept watch with the band who disdain'd to be slaves,
Down to him with the Hopetoun and Lynedoch that vied,
Who should shine like a twin star by Wellington's side,
That the thistle of Scotland might ever be green!

17

III

Then a bumper to him in whose bosom combine
All the virtues that proudly ennoble his line,
As dear to his country, as stanch to his Queen!
Nor less that Dalhousie a patriot we find,
Whose field is the senate, whose sword is the mind,
And whose object the strife of the world to compose,
That the shamrock may bloom by the side of the rose,
And the thistle of Scotland for ever be green!

IV

It is not alone for his bearing and birth,
It is not alone for his wisdom and worth,
At this board that our good and our noble convene.
But a faith in the blessings which India may draw
From science, from commerce, religion and law;
And that all who obey Britain's sceptre may see
That knowledge is power—that the truth makes us free:
For rose, thistle, and shamrock, shall ever be green!

V

A hail and farewell! it is pledged to the brim,
And drain'd to the bottom in honour of him
Who a glory to Scotland shall be and hath been:
Untired in the cause of his country and crown,
May his path be a long one of spotless renown;
Till the course nobly rounded, the goal proudly won,
Fame, smiling on Scotland, shall point to her son—
For the thistle—Her thistle!—shall ever be green!

19

SONNETS.


21

SONNETS ON THE SCENERY OF THE ESK.

I.

[A mountain child, 'mid Pentland's solitudes]

A mountain child, 'mid Pentland's solitudes,
Thou risest, murmuring Esk, and lapsing on,
Between rude banks, o'er rock and mossy stone,
Glitterest remote, where seldom step intrudes;
Nor unrenowned, as, with an ampler tide,
Thou windest through the glens of Woodhouselee,
Where 'mid the song of bird, the hum of bee,
With soft Arcadian pictures clothed thy side
The pastoral Ramsay.

Amid these scenes the locale of Ramsay's inimitable Gentle Shepherd has been placed, though different writers dispute as to the exact whereabouts. “Habbie's How” has, however, been the most popular as a resort for summer festivity, and still continues to be the scene o many a blithesome fête-champêtre. So thoroughly has the bard struck the heart of Scotland in this pastoral drama, that, like the verses of Tasso with the Italians, its couplets have passed into adages with its people.

Lofty woods embower

Thy rocky bed 'mid Roslin's crannies deep,
While proud on high time-hallowed ruins peep
Of castle and chapelle; yea, to this hour
Grey Hawthornden smiles downward from its steep,
To tell of Drummond's poesy's spring flower.

22

II.

[Not lovelier to the bard's enamoured gaze]

Not lovelier to the bard's enamoured gaze,
Winded Italian Mincio o'er its bed,
By whispering reeds o'erhung,
Hic virides tenera prætexit arundine ripas
Mincius.

Mel. Bucolic, vii.

when calmly led

To meditate what rural life displays;
Trees statelier do not canopy with gloom
The brooks of Valombrosa;
Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks
In Valombrosa.

Paradise Lost.

nor do flowers,

Beneath Ausonia's sky that seldom lowers,
Empurple deep-dyed Brenta's
Gently flows
The deep-dyed Brenta.

Childe Harold, c. iv.

banks with bloom

Fairer than thine at sweet Lasswade: so bright
Thou gleam'st, a mirror for the cooing dove,
That sidelong eyes its purpling form with love
Well pleased; 'mid blossomy brakes, with bosom light,
All day the linnet carols; and, from grove,
The blackbird sings to thee at fall of night.

23

III.

Down from the old oak forests of Dalkeith,
Where majesty surrounds a ducal home,

In looking on the modern version of “The Castle of Dalcaeth,” it should be remembered that it has been successively the home of “the gallant Grahames”—of the Douglas of Otterburn — of the Regent Morton — of General Monk — of Anne, duchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth—and of the patriot Duke Henry, the friend of Pitt and Melville.


Between fresh pastures gleaming thou dost come,
Bush, scaur, and rock, and hazelly shaw beneath,
Till, greeting thee from slopes of orchard ground,
Towers Inveresk with its proud villas fair,

The patrician village of Inveresk is beautifully situated on a little hill, forming a gentle curve along the northern bank of the Esk—orchards, and gardens with terraces, stretching from behind the mansions down to the slip of pasture ground which borders the river. From the beauty of its site, and the amenity of its climate, Inveresk obtained of yore the appellation of the Montpelier of Scotland. At the western extremity of the village stood the venerable church of St Michael the Archangel, which was ruthlessly demolished at the beginning of the present century, to be supplanted by a modern building in the most commonplace taste. The house in which the Regent Randolph died, and which stood near the east port of Musselburgh, was also swept away at the same period of barbarous innovation.


Scotland's Montpelier, for salubrious air,
And beauteous prospect wide and far renowned.
What else could be, since thou, with winding tide
Below dost ripple pleasantly, thy green
And osiered banks outspread, where frequent seen,
The browsing heifer shows her dappled side,
And 'mid the bloom-bright furze are oft descried
Anglers, that patient o'er thy mirror lean?

24

IV.

Delightful 'tis, and soothing sweet, at eve,
When sunlight like a dream hath passed away
O'er Pentland's far-off peaks, and shades of grey
Around the landscape enviously weave,—
To saunter o'er this high walk canopied
With scented hawthorn, while the trellised bowers
Are rich with rose and honeysuckle flowers,
And gaze o'er plains and woods outstretching wide
Till bounded by the Morphoot's heights of blue,
That range along the low south-west afar;
And thee, translucent Esk, with face of blue;
While, as enamoured, evening's first fair star
Looks on thy pool its loveliness to view.

25

V.

A beech-tree o'er the mill-stream spreads its boughs,
In many an eddy whirls the wave beneath;
From Stony-bank the west wind's perfumed breath
Sighs past—'tis Summer's gentle evening close:
Smooth Esk, above thy tide the midges weave,
Mixing and meeting oft, their fairy dance;
While o'er the crown of Arthur's Seat a glance
Of crimson plays—the sunshine's glorious leave;
Except the blackbird from the dim Shire Wood,

Of the once extensive Shire Wood, in whose shade were a hundred stents or grazings for a hundred cows, only a few trees now remain. It extended from the Shire Mill on the south— with its hereditary miller—northwards to the hollow immediately below Mortonhall—the Esk having of old run almost in a line from where the mill-dam enters it to that spot. From gradually bending towards Inveresk, upwards of thirty acres have been gradually transferred to the south banks of the river. When a boy, I remember the town herd at early morn sounding his horn to collect and conduct the cows of the burgesses to these pastures. Nothing of the common now remains: all is under the plough.


All else is still. So passes human life
From us away—a dream within a dream:
Ah! where are they, who with me, by this stream,
Roamed ere this world was known as one of strife?
Comes not an answer from the solitude!

26

VI.

[Leaning upon the time-worn parapet]

Leaning upon the time-worn parapet
Of this old Roman bridge,

The venerable bridge over the Esk at Musselburgh is believed to be of Roman construction; but no traces of its date are extant. An ancient local tax for keeping it in repair is still in force, under the name of the gentes custom.

Three noted fields of battle are within view of Inveresk— Pinkie, Carberry, and Prestonpans.

that to the bay

Of Forth hath seen thee, Esk, gliding away
From age to age, and spans thee gliding yet,—
Before me I behold thy sea-most town,
Yclept in Saxon Chronicles Eske-mouthe,
Its venerable roofs—its spire uncouth—
And Pinkie's field of sorrowful renown.
Scenes of my childhood, manhood, and decline—
Scenes that my sorrows and my joys have known,
Ye saw my birth, and be my dust your own,
When, as these waters mingle with the sea,
To look upon the light no more is mine,
And time is swallowed in eternity!

27

MOONLIGHT CHURCHYARD.

To die and go we know not whither,
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot.
Shakspeare.

Round thee, pure Moon, a ring of snowy clouds
Hover, like children round their mother dear
In silence and in joy, for ever near
The footsteps of her love. Within their shrouds,
Lonely, the slumbering dead encompass me!
Thy silver beams the mouldering abbey flout;
Black rails, memorial stones, are strew'd about;
And the leaves rustle on the holly tree.
Shadows mark out the undulating graves;
Tranquilly, tranquilly the departed lie!—
Time is an ocean, and mankind the waves
That reach the dim shores of Eternity;
Death strikes; and Silence, 'mid the evening gloom,
Sits spectre-like, the guardian of the tomb!

28

TO WORDSWORTH.

Wordsworth, I envy thee, that from the strife
Far distant, and the turmoil of mankind,
Thou hold'st communion with the eternal mind
Of Nature, leading an unblemish'd life.
What have the bards of other realms and years
Fabled of innocence or golden age,
But, graven on the tablet of thy page,
And of thy life, in majesty appears?
What marvel that the men of cities, they
Whose fate or choice compels them to endure
The sight of things unholy or impure,
Feel not the moonlight softness of thy lay?
But thou hast fought—hast conquer'd, and decay
Flies far from thee, whose great reward is sure!

29

TO THE MUSE OF MILTON.

Far from this visible diurnal sphere,
Immortal Spirit, it was thine to stray,
And, bending towards the sun thy proud career,
Dip thy white plumage in the font of day;
Time, marvelling at thy course, beheld thee leave
His confines—overlook, with steadfast eye,
The ungirdled regions of Eternity—
And through the waste wide Empyrean cleave—
Darting with sheer descent the caves amid
Of Night chaotic, downwards to the abyss
Of Death and Darkness, where the Furies hiss,
And Hope from wretched souls is ever hid;—
Heaven, Hell, and Earth thy theme—a scene of bliss
The last, ere Sin the Elysian charm undid.

30

RURAL SCENERY.

(LARBERT, STIRLINGSHIRE.)

Receded hills afar of softened blue,
Tall bowering trees, thro' which the sunbeams shoot
Down to the waveless lake, birds never mute,
And wild-flowers all around of every hue—
Sure 'tis a lovely scene. There, knee-deep stand,
Safe from the fierce sun, the o'ershadowed kine,
And, to the left, where cultured fields expand,
'Mid tufts of scented thorn the sheep recline.
Lone quiet farmsteads, haunts that ever please,
O how inviting to the traveller's eye
Ye rise on yonder uplands, 'mid your trees
Of shade and shelter! Every sound from these
Is eloquent of peace, in earth and sky,
And pastoral beauty, and Arcadian ease.

31

CRICHTON CHAPEL.

How like an image of repose it looks,
That ancient, holy, and sequestered pile!
Silence abides in each tree-shaded aisle,
And on the grey spire caw the hermit rooks:
So absent is the stamp of modern days,
That in the quaint carved oak, and oriel stained
With saintly legend, to Reflection's gaze
The star of Eld seems not yet to have waned.
At pensive eventide, when streams the West
On moss-greened pediment, and tombstone grey,
And spectral Silence pointeth to Decay,
How preacheth Wisdom to the conscious breast,
Saying, “Each foot that roameth here shall rest:”
To God and Heaven, Death is the only way!

32

WINTER.

I. DAYBREAK.

Slow clear away the misty shades of morn,
As sings the Redbreast on the window-sill;
Fade the last stars; the air is stern and still;
And lo! bright frost-work on the leafless thorn.
Why, Day-god, why so late? the tardy heaven
Brightens; and, screaming downwards to the shore
Of the waste sea, the dim-seen gulls pass o'er,
A scatter'd crowd, by natural impulse driven
Home to their element. All yesternight
From spongy ragged clouds pour'd down the rain,
And, in the wind gusts, on the window pane
Rattled aloud; but now the sky grows bright.
Winter! since thou must govern us again,
O, take not in fierce tyrannies delight.

33

II. SNOW-STORM.

How gloom the clouds! quite stifled is the ray,
Which from the conquer'd sun would vainly shoot
Through the blank storm; and, though the winds be mute,
Lo! down the whitening deluge finds its way:
Look up!—a thousand thousand fairy motes
Come dancing downwards, onwards, sideways whirl'd,
Like flecks of down, or apple-blossoms curl'd
By nipping winds. See how in ether floats
The light-wing'd mass—then, mantling o'er the field,
Changes at once the landscape, chokes the rill,
Hoaries with white the lately verdant hill,
And silvers earth. All to thine influence yield,
Stern conqueror of blithe Autumn: yearly still
Of thee, the dread avatar is reveal'd.

34

III. CLEAR FROST.

'Tis noon, the heaven is clear without a cloud;
And, on the masses of untrodden snow,
The inefficient sunbeams glance and glow:
Still is the mountain swathed in its white shroud:
But look along the lake!—hark to the hum
Of mingling crowds!—in graceful curves how swings
The air-poised skater—Mercury without wings!—
Rings the wide ice, a murmur never dumb;
While over all, in fits harmonious, come
The dulcet tones which Music landward flings.
There moves the ermined fair, with timid toe,
Half-pain'd, half-pleased. Yes! all is joy and mirth,
As if, though Frost could subjugate mean earth,
He had no chains to bind the spirit's flow.

35

IV. MOONLIGHT.

Behold the mountain peaks how sharply lined
Against the cloudless orient! while, serene,
The silver Moon, majestic as a queen,
Walks 'mid thin stars, whose lustre has declined.
There is no breath of wind abroad: the trees
Sleep in their stilly leaflessness; while, lost
In the pale, sparkling labyrinths of frost,
The wide world seems to slumber, and to freeze.
'Tis like enchanted fairyland! A chill
Steals o'er the heart, as, gazing thus on night,
Life from our lower world seems pass'd away;
And, in the witchery of the faint moonlight,
Silence comes down to hold perpetual sway;—
So breathless is the scene—so hush'd—so still!

36

V. CHANGE.

O! sweetly beautiful it is to mark
The virgin vernal Snow-drop, lifting up,
Meek as a nun, the whiteness of its cup
From earth's dead bosom, desolate and dark!
Glorious is Summer, with its rich array
Of blossom'd greenery, perfume-glowing bowers,
Blue skies, and balmy airs, and fruits, and flowers,
Bright sunshine, singing birds, and endless day!
Nor glorious less brown Autumn's witchery,
As by her golden trees Pomona sits,
And Ceres, as she wanders, hears by fits
The reapers' chant, beneath the mellowing sky!
But thy blasts, Winter, hymn a moral lay,
And, mocking Earth, bid Man's thoughts point on high.

37

THE SCOTTISH SABBATH.

Sweet day! so calm, so pure, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky!
Herbert.

I.

After a week of restless care and coil,
How sweet unspeakably it is to wake,
And see, in sunshine, thro' the lattice break
The Sabbath morn's serene and saintly smile!
To hallowed quiet human stir is hushed;
'Twould almost seem that the external world
Felt God's command, and that the sea-waves curled
More blandly, making music as they rushed.
The flowers breathe fragrance; from the summer fields
Hark to the small birds singing, singing on
As 'twere an endless anthem to the throne
Of Nature for the boundless stores she yields:
Yea! to the Power that shelters and that shields,
All living things mute adoration own.

38

II.

If Earth hath aught that speaks to us of Heaven,
'Tis when, within some lone and leafy dell,
Solemn and slow we list the Sabbath bell,
On Music's wings, thro' the clear ether driven:—
Say not the sounds aloud—“O men, 'twere well
Hither to come; walk not in sins unshriven;
Haste to this temple; tidings ye shall hear,
Ye who are sorrowful and sick in soul,
Your doubts to chase, your downcastness to cheer,
To bind affliction's wounds, and make you whole:
Hither—come hither; though, with Tyrian dye,
Guilt hath polluted you, yet, white as snow,
Cleansed by the streams that from this altar flow,
Home ye shall pass to meet your Maker's eye?”

39

III.

Soother of life, physician of all ail,
Thou, more than reputation, wealth, or power,
In the soul's garden the most glorious flower,
Earth's link to Heaven, Religion thee I hail!
Than Luxury's domes, where thou art oft forgot,
Life's aim and object quite misunderstood,
With thee how far more blest the lowliest cot,
The coarsest raiment, and the simplest food!
O! may not with the Heavenly, holy calm
Of Sabbath, from our hearts thine influence glide;
But, thro' Earth's pilgrimage, whate'er betide,
May o'er our path thy sweets descend like balm;
Faith telling that the Almighty light, “I Am,”
Is ever through Sin's labyrinth our guide.

40

IV.

Fallen hath our lot on days of pleasant calm,
How different from the stormy times of yore
When prayer was broken by the cannon's roar,
And death-shrieks mingled with the choral psalm!
In sacred as in civil rights, we now
Are Freedom's children: not in doubt and fear,
But with blest confidence, in noonday clear,
As fitliest deems the heart, the knee we bow:
Soon be it so with all! may Christian light
Diffusing mental day from zone to zone,
Rescue lorn lands from Superstition's blight,
Of Earth an Eden make, and reign alone;
Then Man shall loathe the wrong, and choose the right,
Remorse and moral blindness be unknown.

41

V.

On shores far foreign, or remoter seas,
How doth poor Scotland's wanderer hail thy ray,
Blest Sabbath! and with “joy of woe” survey
In thought his native dwelling 'mid its trees—
And childhood's haunts—and faces well-beloved—
Friends of his soul by distance made more dear!
Oh! as fond Memory scans them with a tear,
By Manhood be it shed—and unreproved:
He thinks of times—times ne'er to come again—
Sweet times, when to the old kirk, hand in hand,
With those he loved in his far Fatherland
He wont on Sabbath morn to cross the plain!
Tell him, Religion, and 'twill soothe his pain,
All yet shall meet on Heaven's eternal strand.

42

VI.

Twilight's grey shades are gathering o'er the dell,
In the red west the sun hath shut his eye,
The stars are gathering in the conscious sky,
As, with a solemn sound, the curfew bell
Tolls thro' the breezeless air, as 'twere farewell
To God's appointed day of sanctity.
Scotland, I glory that throughout thy bounds
(And O! whilst holy canst thou be unblest?)
Each Sabbath is a jubilee of rest,
And prayer and praise almost the only sounds.
Richer and prouder other lands may be;
But, while the world endures, be this thy boast,
(A worthy one) that sunshine gilds no coast
Where Heaven is served more purely than in thee.

45

POEMS IN REFERENCE TO CHILDHOOD.


47

STANZAS ON AN INFANT.

Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory, do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Wordsworth.

I

The rose-bud, blushing through the morning's tears,
The primrose, rising from the wintry waste,
The snow-drop, or the violet, that appears
Like nun within the myrtle's shadow placed,
Wear not a smile like thine, nor look so chaste,
Fair innocent! that, from thy mother's knee,
As yet by Earth's despoilment undefaced,
Smil'st, and unheeding what the Fates decree,
Dream'st not of hapless days, that yet will frown on thee!

II

Say, o'er thy little frame when slumbers steal,
And watch above thy cradle seraphs keep,
Do they, in love, futurity reveal,
That thus thou sweetly smilest in thy sleep?

48

Thy pure blue eyes were sure ne'er form'd to weep,
Those little lips to breathe the sighs of woe;—
Alas! in life it may be thine to steep
Thy senses in nepenthe, glad if so
Thy memory may the dreams of wretchedness forego.

III

For passion is a tyrant fierce and wild,
Leading the thoughts from Virtue's pure career;
And spirits, in their natures calm and mild,
Are duped by Flattery, or subdued by Fear;
Love, with its promise to illume and cheer
The path of life, oft lures us to betray;
And hopes that, robed in iris hues, appear
When the heart swells in Youth's exulting day,
Dreaming sweet dreams alone, in darkness melt away!

IV

Sweet child, thy artlessness and innocence
Kindle deep thought, and cause my heart to bleed;
For even to the best the Fates dispense
Sorrow and pain, nor are the happiest freed
From ills, that make existence dark indeed.
Sadness doth of its lustre rob the eye;
And those who ever, in the hour of need,
To mitigate our griefs were kindly nigh,
Like shot stars, one by one, all disappear and die!

49

V

Earth is at best a heritage of grief,
But O! fair cherub, may its calm be thine;
May Virtue be thy solace and relief,
When Pleasure on thy lot disdains to shine!
There was a time, when being was divine,
No sin, no sorrow—paradise the scene;
But man was prone to error, and his line
In frailty like their sire have ever been:
How happy might'st thou be, were Eden's bowers still green!

VI

Ah! may I guess, when years have o'er thy head
Their passage wing'd, maturity thine own,
How may on earth thy pilgrimage be led?
Shall public cares, or privacy alone,
Thy life engage? or shall thy lot be thrown
Where timbrel, horn, and martial drum inspire?
Or shalt thou, softened to a holier tone,
Draw down aërial spirits to thy lyre,
And call upon the muse to arm thy words with fire?

VII

Thy flaxen ringlets, and thy deep blue eyes,
Bring to my mind the little God of Love;
The last outvie the azure of the skies,
The first are like the clouds that float above

50

The Spring's descending sun. The boy whom Jove
Rapt from the earth—fair Ganymede—to dwell
Above the realms where Care has wing to rove,
Thy cherub features may betoken well;
Or, if the one excell'd, perchance thou might'st excel.

VIII

Even now, begirt with utter helplessness,
'Tis hard to think, as on thy form I gaze,
(Experience makes me marvel not the less,)
That thou to busy man shalt rise, and raise
Thyself, mayhap, a nation's pride, and praise:
'Tis hard to let the truth my mind employ,
That he, who kept the world in wild amaze,
That Cæsar in the cradle lay—a boy,
Soothed by a nurse's kiss, delighted with a toy!

IX

That once the mighty Newton was like thee;
The awful Milton, who on Heaven did look,
Listening the councils of Eternity;
And matchless Shakspeare, who, undaunted, took
From Nature's shrinking hand her secret book,
And page by page the wondrous tome explored;
The fearless Sidney; the adventurous Cook;
Howard, who mercy for mankind implored;
And France's despot Chief, whose heart lay in his sword!

51

X

How doth the wretch, when life is dull and black,
Pray that he were, pure innocent, like thee!
And that again the guileless days were back,
When Childhood leant against a parent's knee!
'Tis meet that Sin should suffer—it must be:
To such as at the shrine of Virtue mock,
Remorse is what the righteous Fates decree:
On conquest bent, Sennacherib awoke;
But Heaven had o'er his camp breathed death in the Siroc.

XI

The unrelenting tyrant, who, unmoved,
Lays for a sweet and smiling land his snares,
Whose callous, unimpassion'd heart hath proved
Beyond the impulse of a mother's prayers,
Though not for Beauty's tearful eye he cares,
A tyrant among tyrants he must be—
A Herod with a Hydra soul, who dares
To spill the blood of innocent, like thee,
All smiling in his face, and from a parent's knee!

XII

Adieu! fair infant; be it thine to prove
The joy, of which an earnest thou wert sent;
And, in thy riper years, with looks of love,
Repay thy mother for the hours she spent
In fondness o'er thy cradle; thou wert meant

52

To be her solace in declining years;
Raise up the mind, with age and sorrow bent;
Assuage with filial care a parent's fears,
Awake her heart to joy, and wipe away her tears!

THE EARLY LOST.

I

Fare-thee-well, fair flower, that opening
To the genial smile of day,
By the storm-blast, in a twinkling,
From our sight wert swept away!
Never more thy voice shall cheer us,
Never more thy form be seen,
In our solitude we startle
But to think that thou hast been!

II

Now the sun illumes our dwelling,
Sings the bird, and buds the tree;
Nature starts as from her slumber,
But no wakening rouseth thee!
Never more for thee the morning
Shall its golden gates unfold;
Past alike are joy and sorrow,
Summer's heat and winter's cold.

53

III

Vainly would our tears restore thee—
Thou art now a thing of yore.
Waves, that lull the ear with music,
Melt for ever on the shore;
Yet at eve, when sings the tame bird,
By thy hand once duly fed,
Seem its notes not nature's wailing
Over thee, the early dead?

IV

Softly, softly gleam'd thy ringlets,
Braided in their auburn hue;
Keenly, keenly lustre darted
From thine eyes of floating blue;
Now the mould lies scatter'd o'er thee,
And, with deep and dirge-like tone,
Pipes at eve the haunting blackbird,
O'er thy mansion, low and lone.

V

Dark, anon, shall storms be rolling,
Through the waned autumnal sky,
Winds be raving, waves be roaring,
Sullen deep to deep reply,
Winter shall resume his sceptre
O'er the desolated earth;
But no more wilt thou, like sunlight,
Brighten up our cheerless hearth.

54

VI

When around that hearth we gather,
Jocund mirth no more beguiles;
Up we gaze upon thy picture,
Which looks down on us—and smiles;
And we sigh, when, in our chambers,
On the couch our limbs we lay,
That the churchyard grass is waving,
Lonely, o'er thy silent clay!

VII

Why our mourning? We lament not,
Even although our hearts be riven,
That in being's sunny spring-time,
Thou wert snatch'd from earth to Heaven:
Life to thee was still enchantment,
And 'twas spared thy heart to know,
That the beams of mortal pleasure
Always sink in clouds of woe.

VIII

Fare-thee-well, then! Time may bring us
Other friends; but none like thee,
Who, in thy peculiar beauty,
Wert, what we no more shall see:
From our ears seraphic music
In thy voice hath died away;
From our eyes a glorious vision
Pass'd, to mingle in the clay!

55

ADDRESS TO LITTLE CHILDREN.

I

Ah, little children! if ye knew
How angel eyes, in love,
Look down upon you from the blue
Of the calm skies above,
Ye would be careful what ye do,
And eager to improve.

II

A joyous host, a countless band,
In robes of snowy white,
Around the Throne, with harp in hand,
Take ever fresh delight,
Young tender souls to their sweet land
To beckon and invite.

56

III

They sorrow o'er you suffering,
They smooth your couch of sleep,
In danger's hour they succour bring,
O'er you a watch they keep;
In you, then, 'twere a cruel thing
To make those blest ones weep.

IV

Each, like yourself, a little child
Once walked this earth beneath,
Saw what you see, and talked and smiled,
Till suddenly came Death,
And churchyard turf was o'er them piled—
Cold clay—devoid of breath.

V

But all the good went up to God,
To dwell with him for aye;
Their road is now a thornless road,
And bliss is theirs alway;
To golden harps, by Him bestowed,
They carol night and day.

57

VI

Brothers and sisters on that coast
Have met to part no more;
Why then should parents, sorrow-tost,
With sighs and tears deplore?
The lost are not for ever lost—
They are but gone before.

VII

Then keep your hearts from error free:
Down oft they look on you,
Your thoughts they watch, your ways they see,
And joy when you are true;
To think that ye condemned should be,
Would their high bliss subdue.

VIII

To little children, who are pure,
In thought, and word, and deed,
And shun what might to ill allure,
The Bible hath decreed
A glorious portion, ever sure,
And help in time of need.

58

IX

Of themes befitting simple song,
There surely is no dearth,
If we but cast our eyes along
The Sea—the Air—the Earth;
Nor can the verse be reckoned wrong,
Which wakens harmless mirth.

X

Man has his seasons, and to each
Congenial thoughts pertain,
And pleasures lie in childhood's reach
That life ne'er knows again;
Keep then your white souls, I beseech,
From guilt's polluting stain.

XI

Creation's charms then doubly fair
Appear; for all is new,
And, in Romance's morning air,
Like diamonds shines the dew,
Balm loads that air, no cloud of care
Dims the serene of blue.

59

XII

Then mar not ye God's gracious plan,
But, furthering his intent,
Grow up from Childhood unto Man,
Through cheerful years, well spent;
So shall life's eve be like its dawn,
Serene and innocent.

61

ECHOES OF ANTIQUITY.


63

THE MESSAGE OF SETH.

AN ORIENTAL TRADITION.

I

Prostrate upon his couch of yellow leaves,
Slow-breathing lay the Father of Mankind;
And, as the rising sun through cloudland weaves
Its gold, the glowing past returned to mind,
Days of delight for ever left behind,
In purity's own garments garmented,
Under perennial branches intertwined—
Where fruits and flowers hung temptingly o'erhead,
Eden's blue streams he traced, by bliss ecstatic led.

II

Before him still, in the far distance seen,
Arose its rampart groves impassable;
Stem behind giant stem, a barrier screen,
Whence even at noonday midnight shadows fell:
Vainly his steps had sought to bid farewell
To scenes so tenderly beloved, although
Living in sight of Heaven made Earth a Hell;
For fitful lightnings, on the turf below,
Spake of the guardian sword aye flickering to and fro—

64

III

The fiery sword that, high above the trees,
Flashed awful threatenings from the angel's hand,
Who kept the gates and guarded: Nigh to these,
A hopeless exile, Adam loved to stand
Wistful, or roamed to catch a breeze that fanned
The ambrosial blooms, and wafted perfume thence,
As 'twere sweet tidings from a distant land
No more to be beheld; for Penitence,
However deep it be, brings back not Innocence.

IV

Thus had it been through weary years, wherein
The primal curse, working its deadly way,
Had reft his vigour, made his cheek grow thin,
Furrowed his brow, and bleached his locks to grey:
A stricken man, now Adam prostrate lay
With sunken eye, and palpitating breath,
Waning like sunlight from the west away;
While tearfully, beside that bed of death,
Propping his father's head, in tenderness hung Seth.

V

“Seth, dearest Seth,” 'twas thus the father said,
“Thou know'st—ah! better none, for thou hast been
A pillow to this else forsaken head,
And made, if love could make, life's desert green—

65

The dangers I have braved, the ills unseen,
Like nets around my feet; and how the wrath
Of an offended God strewed briars keen,
And thorns, instead of flowers, along my path—
Yet deem not that this Night no hope of Morning hath.

VI

“On darkness Dawn will break; and, as the gloom
Of something, all unfelt before, downweighs
My spirit, and forth-shadows coming doom,
Telling me this may be my last of days,—
I call to mind the promise sweet (let praise
Be ever His, who from Him hath not thrust
The erring utterly!) again to raise
The penitential prostrate from the dust,
And be the help of all who put in Him their trust.

VII

“Know then, that day, as sad from Eden's home
Of primal blessedness my steps were bent
Reluctant, through the weary world to roam,
And tears were with the morning's dewdrops blent,
That 'twas even then the Almighty did relent—
Saying, ‘Though labour, pain, and peril be
Thy portion, yet a balsam sweet of scent
For man hath been provided, which shall free
From death his doom—yea, gain lost Eden back to thee.

66

VIII

“‘Although thy disobedience hath brought down
The wrath of justice; and the penalty
Are pangs by sickness brought, and misery's frown,
And toil—and, finally, that thou shalt die;
Yet will I help in thine extremity.
In the mid Garden, as thou know'st, there grows
The Tree of Life, and thence shall preciously,
One day, an oil distil, of power to close
Sin's bleeding wounds, and soothe man's sorrows to repose.’

IX

“That promise hath been since a star of light,
When stumbled on the mountains dark my feet;
Hath cheered me in the visions of the night,
And made awaking even to labour sweet;
But now I feel the cycle is complete,
And horror weighs my spirit to the ground.
Haste to the guarded portals—now 'tis meet—
And learn if, even for me, may yet be found
That balsam for this else immedicable wound.

X

“Thine errand to the Angel tell, and he
(Fear not, he knows that edict from the Throne)
Will guide thy footsteps to the Sacred Tree,
Which crowns the Garden's midmost space alone:

67

Thy father's utmost need to him make known;
And, ere life's pulsing lamp be wasted quite,
Bring back this Oil of Mercy—haste, be gone;
Haste thee, oh haste! for my uncertain sight,
Fitful, now deems it day, and now is quenched in night.”

XI

Seth heard; and like a swift fond bird he flew,
By filial love impelled; yea, lessened dread
Even of the guardian Fiery Angel knew,
And through the flowery plains untiring sped,
And upwards, onwards to the river-head,
Where, high to heaven, the verdant barriers towered
Of Eden; when he sank—o'ercanopied
With sudden lightning, which around him showered,
And in its vivid womb the mid-day sun devoured.

XII

And in his ear and on his heart was poured,
While there entranced he lay, an answer meet;
And gradually, as Thought came back restored,
Uprising, forth he hied with homeward feet.
Sweet to the world's grey Father, O how sweet,
His coming on the nearest hill-top shone!
For now all feebly of his heart the beat
Returned; and of his voice the faltering tone,
Meeting the listener's ear, scarce made its purpose known.

68

XIII

“Beloved father!” thus 'twas through his grief
Impassioned spake the son, “it may not be,
Alas! that, for thy misery's relief,
Wells now the promised balsam from Life's Tree.
And must I say farewell—yea, part with thee?—
Droop not thus all despairing: breath may fail,
And days and years and ages onward flee
Ere that day dawn; but thou its beams shalt hail,
And earth give up its dead, and Life o'er Death prevail.

XIV

“Astounding are the visions I have seen:
The clouds took shapes, and turned them into trees
And men and mountains; and the lands between
Seemed cities, dun with crowds; and on the seas
Dwelt men, in arks careering with the breeze;
And shepherds drove their flocks along the plain;
And generations, smitten with disease,
Passed to the dust, on which tears fell like rain;
Yet fathers, in their sons, seem'd age grown youth again

XV

“And the wide waters rose above the tops
Of the high hills, and all looked desolate—
Sea without shore! Anon appeared the slopes,
Glowing with blossoms, and a group elate

69

Eying an arch, bright with Earth's future fate,
In heaven; and there were wanderings to and fro;
And, while beneath the multitudes await,
Tables, by God's own finger written, show
The Law by which He wills the world should walk below.

XVI

“And ever passed before me clouds of change,
Whose figures rose, and brightened, and declined;
And what was now familiar straight grew strange,
And, melting into vapours, left behind
No trace; and, as to silence sank the wind,
Appeared in heaven a beautiful bright star,
Under whose beams an Infant lay reclined;
And all the wheels of nature ceased their jar,
And choiring angels hymned that Presence from afar.

XVII

“And then, methought, upon a mountain stood
The Tree, from which, as shown to thee, should flow
That Oil of Mercy—but it looked like blood!
And to all quarters of the earth below
It streamed, until the desert ceased to know
Its curse of barrenness; the clouds away
Passed in their darkness from the noon; and lo!
Even backwards flowed that brightness to this day,
And, Father, showed me thee, encircled by its ray:—

70

XVIII

“It showed me thee, from whom mankind had birth,
And myriads—countless as the sere leaves blown
From wintry woods—whose places on the earth,
Even from the burning to the icy zone,
Were to their sons' sons utterly unknown,
Awakening to a fresh eternal morn:
Methinks I list that glad Hosannah's tone,
From shore to shore on all the breezes borne!
Then, Father, droop not thus, as utterly forlorn;

XIX

“A long, long future, freaked with sin and strife,
The generations of the world must know;
But surely from that Tree—the Tree of Life—
A healing for the nations yet will flow,
As God foretold thee.”
“Freely then I go,
For steadfast is the Lord his word to keep,”
Said Adam, as his breathing, faint and slow,
Ceased; and, like zephyr dying on the deep,
In hope matured to faith, the First Man fell asleep.

71

HIPPOCRATES TO THE AMBASSADORS OF ARTAXERXES.

[_]

It is recorded that Hippocrates refused an invitation from Artaxerxes, King of Persia, with a promise of every reward and honour he might desire, provided he would repair to his dominions during a season of pestilence. Many doubts have been thrown out regarding the authenticity of the letters said to have passed on the occasion, and which are still extant. In one of these, Hippocrates replies, that “he has food, clothing, and a habitation in his own country; and that it would be unworthy of him to aspire to the wealth and grandeur of the Persians, or to cure barbarians—the enemies of Greece.” The consequence is said to have been the threatened vengeance of the enraged king against the inhabitants of Cos, unless they delivered him up; but the islanders, instead of complying, declared their resolution to defend his life and liberty at all hazards, and the affair was dropped.

I.

Return, and tell your Sire, the Persian King,
That dazzling proffers here you vainly bring:
What is the pomp of wealth, the pride of state,
Pages around, and slaves within the gate,
With all the vain magnificent parade
Which floats in Grandeur's showy cavalcade,

72

To him who daily bends the patient knee
Before the shrine of meek Philosophy,
And strives to fill up Life's contracted span
With kindliest offices to fellow-man?
Sabæan perfumes, robes of Tyrian dye,
And fountain jets that cool the glowing sky—
While music, mirth, and dancing, from the breast
Drive every dream of sorrow and unrest—
May to submission lull luxurious Ease,
And fashion thraldom to what mould you please;
But to the soul determined, yet serene,
Which treasures wisdom from each passing scene,
And scruples never from itself to steal
Soft slumber's hours, to serve the common-weal,
Shorn of their rainbow hues, State's honours fade,
And sink to insignificance and shade!

II.

Tell Artaxerxes that, from day to day,
Even to the rudest hut I bend my way,
Where, save my own, no friendly feet intrude—
Where Poverty keeps watch with Solitude,
And, stretched on pallet low, the sick man lies,
With fever-stricken frame and hollow eyes;
That, while wild phantoms whirl his throbbing brain,
I watch his slumbers, and allay his pain,
A balm to stanch the gushing wound apply,
And wipe Affection's tear from Sorrow's eye.
Up with the sun, to meadows I repair,
And cull each virtuous herb that blossoms there;

73

For me no hour is idly seen to shine,
Long days of toil, and slumbers brief are mine.

III.

Go—bid your monarch pause, from all apart,
And ask this question of his conscious heart,
At midnight lonely, when are swept aside
The court's bedazzling pageantry and pride—
At midnight when the clouds are dark and deep,
And all the stars sealed up, the world asleep—
If e'er, when mounted on his molten throne,
Beauty, and power, and wealth beneath him shone,
Gems, gold, and garments from a thousand coasts,
All that the earth presents, or ocean boasts—
If e'er when Flattery raised her voice aloud,
And echoing murmurs circled round the crowd,
Far from his spirit fled the fiend Distress,
To leave his heart unmingled happiness—
Ask him if these, the pageants of a king,
Can ever to his thoughts such rapture bring,
As that I feel, when, as I journey on,
The pale youth rises from the wayside stone,
With health-rekindling cheek, and palms outspread,
To call down bliss on my unworthy head,—
As that I feel, when some fond mother shows
Her cradled infant, lovely in repose,
And tells me, that the scion of her heart
Preserved to bless her by my timeous art,
Taught by parental precept, will repair
To lisp my name amid his earliest prayer—

74

What time for him Jove's temple-doors are thrown
Apart, and Heaven his worship deigns to own—
Grateful, through all life's after years to be,
To one, from lurking death who set him free!

IV.

If such my joys—with praise from every tongue,
Smiles from the old, and greetings from the young,
The warrior's reverence as he courses by,
And gratitude's warm beam from woman's eye—
What else is wanting? That which I enjoy—
The mental calm, which nothing can destroy,
The self-applause, whose strength sustains the soul,
When o'er the Sun of Life the clouds of Sorrow roll.

V.

What wish I more? A cheerful home is mine,
Around whose threshold hangs the clustering vine;
There Contemplation finds a welcome cell,
And dove-eyed Peace, and meek Contentment dwell;
Raiment my country offers, food, and fire,
What more doth Nature crave—should man desire?
And could I leave my country, fair and free,
Green Cos, the glory of the Ægean sea,
Desert the realm of Wisdom and of Worth,
Land of my sires, and region of my birth,
By such unworthy baubles lured to roam,
And make 'mid barbarous hordes my gilded home?
No! tell your sovereign that a freeman I
Was born, and 'mid the free resolve to die!

75

My skill to lull the tortured into ease,
To salve the wound, and medicate disease,
Were madly used, if, from the free and brave
I turned, and stooped to heal the despot and his slave!

VI.

Thy monarch's rage I nor despise nor dread;
Fall if it must on my devoted head,
Better an honoured, though untimely fate,
Than glory sold for unavailing state:
With sneering lip, O ne'er may scoffer say—
“Hippocrates to Persia slunk away,
For princely gauds his reputation sold,
Shamed his old age, and bartered fame for gold!”
No! rather be it said—“He scorn'd to roam
The world for wealth, and died beloved at home;
His goal of rest was honourably won,
And Greece regards him as a worthy son!”

76

THE LEGEND OF ST ROSALIE.

I

Fair art thou, Sicily!—in all his round,
Shines not the sun on lovelier land than thine;
With gorgeous olive groves thy hills are crown'd,
And o'er thy vales the pomegranate and vine
Spread rich in beauty; halcyon seas around
Thy shores breathe freshness, making half divine
An earthly climate; eye hath nowhere seen
Heaven brighter in its blue, earth in its green!

II

But of these boasts I sing not now—my tale
Is of an ancient pestilence, when the power
Of death hung o'er thee, like a sable veil,
And desolation ruled each awful hour;
When man's heart sank, and woman's cheek grew pale,
And graves were dug in every garden-bower,
And proud Palermo bow'd her spiry head
In silent gloom—a city of the dead!

77

III

Hush'd was the voice of traffic on each street;
Within the market-place the grass sprang green;
Friends from each other shrank with hasty feet,
When on the porch the plague's red-cross was seen;
The clocks had long forgotten to repeat
Time's warning hours; and, where had revel been
On days of carnival, with wheels of dread
The dead-cart roll'd, and homes gave out their dead.

IV

A lurid vapour veil'd the sun from view,
And the winds were not; strangers fled the shore;
Lay in the ports the ship without a crew,
The heat-warp'd fisher-boat and rotting oar;
Wander'd the house-dog masterless, and grew
So fierce with famine, the gaunt looks he wore
Betoken'd madness; broken was each tie
That sweetens life, or links humanity.

V

Thus week on week crawl'd on, and day by day:
Down to the dreary caverns of the grave,
Pass'd in this harvest-home of death away,
Unmark'd, unmourn'd, the beauteous and the brave,
The white-hair'd sire, and infant of a day;
No funeral had a single follower, save
The hirelings who for wine or booty schemed,
And, while they trod the verge of Hell, blasphemed;

78

VI

Till one grey morn, when all was drear and dumb,
Arose, far off, the sound as of a sea,
Or wailing of the wild winds, when they come
To strip the frail leaves from October's tree:
Now nearer—'twas the multitudinous hum
Of human tongues. What could the meaning be?
The timid and the plague-struck left their beds,
And all the roofs were clad with gazing heads!

VII

And lo! a grey-hair'd abbot, in the van
Of a tumultuous, motley, rushing crowd,
Which throng'd around the venerable man,
And scarce a passage for his path allow'd.
Above his head, as if a talisman
Of peace, a long white silken banner flow'd;
Unsandal'd were his feet, his sackcloth vest
And sable cowl humility confess'd.

VIII

And in his calm blue eye a mystery shone,
And on his brow a bright intelligence,
As if his soul to happy worlds had flown,
To carry back some gracious message thence;
Straightway he mounted on a ledge of stone,
'Mid the hush'd crowd glad tidings to dispense,
And stretching forth his thin pale fingers, thus
He spake, in accents clear though tremulous:—

79

IX

“As in my solitary cell I lay,
On the dried rushes sprinkled for my bed,
A golden light, as if of sudden day,
Around my darken'd walls effulgence shed;
Upon my knees I sprang, in act to pray,
And, earthward as I shrank in solemn dread,
I heard a silver tongue, which thus began—
‘Put away fear, and look to me, O man!

X

“‘Look up to me—my home is Paradise,
Where all is fadeless, shadowless, and grand,
And groves of amaranth in glory rise,
And streams of silver lave a golden strand,
And angels with their white plumes veil their eyes,
As in the presence of the Throne they stand;
Put away fear—to lighten human woe,
Only on messages of love we go.

XI

“‘Yes! I am come the harbinger of good
From God to man; the tear, the suppliant sigh,
While happy hearths were doom'd to solitude
And silence, have ascended to the sky.
Now by His precious name who died on rood,
Health shall once more revisit Sicily—
Again Palermo take her titles old—
The wide world's granary

From time immemorial Sicily has been noted for its amazing fertility. It was hence styled Romani Imperii Horreum, at a time when the empire of the Cæsars scarcely knew limits. According to Pliny, its fields yielded a hundredfold; and Diodorus, surnamed Siculus, from the island being his birthplace, assumed patriotically that it produced wheat and other grain spontaneously. Brydone, in his spirited and classical Tour, gives it as his opinion, that any of its average harvests is sufficient to supply the whole inhabitants for seven years.

—the shell of gold.’

“From the singularity of situation, as well as from the richness of the soil, Palermo has had many flattering epithets bestowed upon it, particularly by the poets, who have denominated it Conca d' Oro, the Golden Shell, which is at once expressive both of its situation and richness. It has likewise been called Aurea Vallis, Hortus Siciliæ, &c.; and to include all these together, the lasting term of Felix has been added to its name, by which you will find it distinguished in the maps.”—Brydone's Tour through Sicily and Malta.



80

XII

“As music melts within the moonlight sea,
So ceased her voice upon the silent air;
And, looking up, from sudden fear set free,
Behold! a form, angelically fair,
In robes cerulean mantled to the knee,
Floating in light—a halo round her hair;
Within her hand she held a branch of palm,
And in her eye dwelt Heaven's eternal calm.

XIII

“Like honey dripping from the comb, so came
Once more her words—‘List to me, do not fear—
No vows of wrath I bring, no words of blame,
This world, where now we are, was once my sphere;
And all the feelings of the human frame,
And all man's hopes and joys to me were dear;
Yes! I was once a denizen of earth,
And in the home of princes had my birth.

XIV

“‘Each pleasure for my young heart was devised,
My wishes all were with fruition crown'd,
Yet, girt with earthly grandeur, I despised
The gaiety and the giddiness around,
The calm of holy meditation prized,
And seeking solace in religion, found;
Till wean'd from frality, in abstraction deep,
I held communion with the blest in sleep.

81

XV

“‘And day by day more spiritual I grew,
And night by night more ravishingly blest;
Scarcely it seem'd 'twas human breath I drew,
For angels stood before my sight confest,
And round my walks in circling glory flew,
And shadow'd with their plumes my couch of rest,
Till, by their high communion purified,
The face of man no more I could abide.

XVI

“‘'Twas now my fifteenth summer, and the sun
One morn was shining on the pearly dew,
When, blessing all, yet taking leave of none,
In silence from my palace home I flew—
Flew till my strength was spent, and day was done
Whither, and for what purpose, scarce I knew,
Nor was it ever guess'd; though, since the last
Hour of my life, five centuries have pass'd.

XVII

“‘Cherubs hung round, an angel was my guide,
And, mantled in Elysian reverie,
She bore me up the mount, and at her side,
I woke, o'ershadowed by an olive tree;

The authority for the olive is, I fear, only poetical, but it is high. Sir Walter Scott, in recounting the wanderings of his Palmer to the holy places of the earth, after mentioning Salem, and Rome, and Ararat, and Sinai, and Montserrat, makes mention of

“That grot where olives nod,
Where, darling of each heart and eye,
From all the youth of Sicily,
Saint Rosalie retired to God.”
Marmion, Canto I. st. xxiii.

John Dryden—the son of glorious John—in his voyage to Sicily, (p. 107,) and Brydone—for they each visited the spot—give a very different account of it. The former calls it “a frightful place, accessible by a very bad, steepy, and break-neck way.” Nor is the description by the latter more favourable. “The mountain is extremely high,” he says, “and so uncommonly steep, that the road up to it is very properly termed La Scala, or The Stair. Before the discovery of St Rosalia, it was looked upon as almost inaccessible; but they have now, at a vast expense, cut out a road over precipices that were almost perpendicular.”


There was I stationed thenceforth to abide,
Till time from earth should set my spirit free;
And so, amid the rocks, by foot untrod,
I learn'd to live with nature, and to God.

82

XVIII

“‘My home was Pelegrino's rocky cell;
The berries of the mountain were my food;
My drink was water from its bubbling well;
My only friends the wild birds of the wood;
Yet found I there a peace, which may not dwell
With man below, except in solitude,
When life's one purpose is to fast and pray;
And with my knees I wore the rock away.

XIX

“‘Celestial minds, believe me, for the woes
Of mortal life have sympathy, and I
To hush Palermo's wailings to repose,
Now bring thee down a message from on high;
Hearken to what I bid thee—and the rose
Of health again shall bloom, the plague shall fly:—
For it is granted me, by Heavenly grace,
To be the guardian of my native place.

XX

“‘Girt with that holy faith which falters not,
Go thou with morning, and, from out the stones,
Which strew the floors of Pelegrino's Grot,
Gather together my unburied bones—

Brydone scandalises the memory of the good old Abbot, by alluding to the proverb, that “those who hide are the readiest to find,” and that probably the bones of Rosalie were not her bones at all. We cannot countenance such shocking scepticism, more especially as the “tourist and traveller” gives us no other proof of imposition than his mere ipse dixit. He thinks that “the holy man probably could have given a very good account” of the relics found in the grot, and that likely they were as little entitled to honour as those of St Viar, which were found somewhere in Spain under a broken tombstone, when these were the only legible letters. They were discovered by some priests to have an excellent knack at working miracles, from which considerable revenues were drawn; till, unfortunately, these made application to Pope Leo the Tenth to grant some immunities. His Holiness not being entirely satisfied with the saintship, a list of the miracles was sent to him, together with the broken tombstone. The first were sustained as genuine, but the latter having been proved to be part of a monument erected over a Roman præfectus viarum, the name of poor St Viar was ordered to be struck out of the Calendar. As the best proof that this is no proof at all, St Rosalia still remains there.


For since my own, a human voice hath not
Broken its calm with penitential moans—
Bear them, with anthems to the Prince of Peace,
Thrice round the city, and the plague shall cease.

83

XXI

“‘And then shall pass away the brooding gloom,
Which hid the very face of heaven from view;
Nature once more her course shall reassume,
The fields their verdure, and the sky its blue;
And Faith shall sit upon the sealed-up tomb;
And Time o'er Sorrow shed her healing dew;
And Hope present, in better worlds restored,
The loved—the quickly lost—and long deplored.’

In the Sicilian language is an epic poem, of which St Rosalia is the heroine. The author at once sets her above all saints save the Virgin, whom he hardly excepts. From his work it appears that our heroine was niece to King William the Good—that she early displayed symptoms of sanctity, and, at fifteen, disclaimed all human society. Retiring to the mountains westward of Palermo, she was never more heard of for five hundred years. Her disappearance being in the year 1159, she was supposed to have been taken up to Heaven, till her bones were discovered in 1624, during a dreadful plague that devastated the island. These were found lying in a cave near the summit of the Monte Pelegrino, by a holy man who was led to them by a Heavenly vision, and told that, by carrying them thrice round the walls of Palermo, the pestilence would be stayed. So was it done—and St Rosalia became the greatest saint in the Calendar.


XXII

“With downcast earnestness my listening ear
Drank in the sounds celestial; as they ceased
I raised mine eyes, in reverential fear,
To gaze upon the Heavenly guest, well pleased;
But she had vanish'd, and the darkness drear
From her abstracted lustre had increased;
And on my couch, within my cell of stone,
Awe-struck I knelt, in darkness and alone!”

XXIII

Silently, breathlessly, around him stood,
Like men escaped from some tremendous doom
By miracle, the innumerous multitude;
Mid-day had broken upon midnight's gloom;
While, as Despair departed with her brood
Accursed, came Hope each pale face to illume;
And, as the abbot ceased, a long loud shout,
Like thunder, rang Palermo's bounds throughout.

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XXIV

Again, and yet again, that sea of sound
Surged up to heaven, and then the joyous crowd,
With leap, and lock'd embrace, and sudden bound,
Each other hail'd, in gratulation proud;
While some in speechless ecstasy were drown'd,
Others, o'ercome by feeling, wept aloud;
But onward to the mountain, as behoved,
All in one wild delirious tumult moved.

XXV

Up Pelegrino's rocky sides they clomb,
The old man in the midst, and there, on high,
They found the fair Saint's dwelling-place and tomb—
A yawning cleft that faced the eastern sky;
Entering, 'twas mantled all in twilight gloom;
Which clearing up, 'twas rapture to descry
Upon its floor, amid the rugged stones,
The treasure which they sought for—mouldering bones—

XXVI

The mouldering bones of sainted Rosalie,
Which there, unnoticed and unknown, had lain,
While spring, through centuries five, had green'd the tree,
And autumn burden'd earth with golden grain;
As they were borne to light, each bent the knee,
Then downwards follow'd to the dim-seen plain
In reverential silence—for the time
Was solemn, and gave birth to thoughts sublime.

85

XXVII

Thus, from her trance of darkness, into day
Palermo broke; the bells from every tower
Peal'd joyously; and bands, with streamers gay,
Assembling, waited anxiously the hour
Which was to chase the pestilence away,
And from its dreaded and destructive power
Release a suffering city, and restore
To vacant homes the household gods once more.

XXVIII

Then, as the vision bade, with chanted hymn,
Thrice round the city march'd they on that morn,
With censers in the daylight burning dim,
And the loud sound of timbrel, harp, and horn;
All eyes were on the abbot, for by him
The relics in a silver urn were borne;

This urn was deposited in the Chapel of St Rosalia, the most magnificent of the many which compose the Madre Chiesa, or Cathedral of Palermo. It is curiously wrought, and enriched with precious stones. These relics perform many miracles, and are looked upon as the greatest treasure appertaining to the city.


Behind him paced the vestals, vow'd to God,
And freres with robes of white, and feet unshod.

XXIX

Meanwhile the vapours, dense and stern, away
From the blue concave of the sky withdrew;
Burst forth in radiant loveliness the day,
And stirring all the leaves the light winds blew;
Gamboll'd the flocks; the wild birds caroll'd gay;
Almost it seem'd that nature breathed anew,
And had thrown off the spell, which made her seem
As if bewitch'd by some night-mareish dream.

86

XXX

Again the tide of life went rolling on,
And mingling tongues were heard, and hurrying feet;
The clocks again gave out a cheerful tone;
Back to the empty harbours came the fleet;
With corn the long-deserted fields were sown;
And traffic swept the grass from off the street;
Joy re-illumin'd ocean, and its shore;
And man met man in brotherhood once more.

XXXI

In season due, by grateful hands uprear'd,
On Pelegrino's rugged cliffs a fane,

“This chapel is very richly adorned; and on the spot where the Saint's body was discovered, which is just beneath the hole in the rock, which is opened on purpose, as I said, there is a very fine statue of marble, representing her in a lying posture, railed in all about with fine iron and brass work; and the altar, on which they say mass, is built just over it.”— Dryden's Voyage.


Rich in its architectural grace, appear'd,
Over the grotto, where so long had lain
The bones of Rosalie—her name revered
May find in Sicily no like again,
For ever to shine forth the brightest star
In her peculiar Calendar by far.

XXXII

And yearly on that day, when from the powers
Of pestilence Palermo's walls were freed,
The people give to revelry the hours,
And kneel before her imaged form, and feed
The path of her triumphal car with flowers.
Such of a grateful nation is the meed,
Paid for the blasting of Plague's upas-tree,
And such its reverence for St Rosalie!

87

THE BURDEN OF SION.

[_]

This Ode, composed by Judas Hallevy bar Samuel, a Spanish Rabbi of the twelfth century, is said to be still recited every year, during the Fast observed in commemoration of the Destruction of Jerusalem. The versifier has been much indebted to a very literal translation, from the original necessarily obscure Spanish of the Rabbi, into excellent French, by Joseph Mainzer, Esq., a gentleman to whom the sacred music of this country is under great and manifold obligations.

Captive and sorrow-pale, the mournful lot
Say, hast thou, Sion, of thy sons forgot?
Hast thou forgot the innocent flocks, that lay
Prone on thy sunny banks, or frisk'd in play
Amid thy lilied meadows? Wilt thou turn
A deaf ear to thy supplicants, who mourn
Downcast in earth's far corners? Unto thee
Wildly they turn in their lone misery;
For wheresoe'er they rush in their despair,
The pitiless Destroyer still is there!
Eden of earth! despisest thou the sighs
From the slave's heart that rise
To thee, amid his fetters—who can dare
Still to hope on in his forlorn despair—

88

Whose morn and evening tears for thee fall down
Like dews on Hermon's thirsty crown—
And who would blessed be in all his ills,
Wander'd his feet once more even on thy desert hills!
But Hope's fair star is not extinguish'd quite
In rayless night;
And, Sion, as thy fortunes I bewail,
Harsh sounds my voice, as of the birds that sail
The stormy dark. Let but that star be mine,
And through the tempest tremulously shine;
So, when the brooding clouds have overpast,
Joy with the dawn of day may come at last;
Even as an instrument, whose lively sound
Makes the warm blood in every bosom bound,
And whose triumphant notes are given
Freely in songs of thanksgiving to Heaven!
Bethel!—and as thy name's name leaves my tongue,
The very life-drops from my heart are wrung!—
Thy sanctuary—where, veil'd in mystic light,
For ever burning, and for ever bright,
Jehovah's awful majesty reposed,
And shone for aye Heaven's azure gates unclosed—
Thy sanctuary!—where from the Eternal flow'd
The radiance of His glory, in whose power
Noonday itself like very darkness show'd,
And stars were none at midnight's darkest hour—
Thy sanctuary! O there! O there! that I
Might breathe my troubled soul out, sigh on sigh,

89

There, where thine effluence, Mighty God, was pour'd
On thine Elect, who, kneeling round, adored!
Stand off! the place is holy. Know ye not,
Of potter's clay the children, that this spot
Is sacred to the Everlasting One—
The Ruler over Heaven and over earth?
Stand off, degraded slaves, devoid of worth!
Nor dare profane again, as ye have done,
This spot—'tis holy ground—profane it not!
O, might I cleave, with raptured wing, the waste
Of the wide air, then, where in splendour lie
Thy ruins, would my sorrowing spirit haste
Forth to outpour its flood of misery!—
There where thy grandeur owns a dire eclipse,
Down to the dust as sank each trembling knee,
Unto thy dear soil should I lay my face,
Thy very stones in rapture to embrace,
And to thy smouldering ashes glue my lips!
And how, O Sion! how should I but weep,
As on our fathers' tombs I fondly gazed,
Or, wistfully, as turn'd mine eye
To thee, in all thy desolate majesty,
Hebron, where rests the mighty one in sleep,
And high his pillar of renown was raised!
There—in thine atmosphere—'twere blessedness
To breathe a purer ether. O! to me
Thy dust than perfumes dearer far should be,

90

And down thy rocks the torrent streams should roam
With honey in their foam!
O, sweet it were—unutterably sweet—
Even though with garments rent, and bleeding feet,
To wander over the deserted places
Where once thy princely palaces arose,
And 'mid the weeds and wild-flowers mark the traces
Where the ground, yawning in its earthquake throes,
The Ark of Covenant and the Cherubim
Received, lest stranger hands, that reek'd the while
With blood of thine own children, should defile
Its Heaven-resplendent glory, and bedim:
And my dishevell'd locks, in my despair,
All madly should I tear;
And as I cursed the day that dawn'd in heaven—
The day that saw thee to destruction given,
Even from my very frenzy should I wring
A rough rude comfort in my sorrowing.
What other comfort can I know? Behold,
Wild dogs and wolves with hungry snarl contend
Over thy prostrate mighty ones; and rend
Their quivering limbs, ere life hath lost its hold.
I sicken at the dawn of morn—the noon
Brings horror with its brightness; for the day
Shows but the desolate plain,
Where, feasting on the slain,
(Thy princes,) flap and scream the birds of prey!

91

Chalice from Marah's bitterest spring distill'd!
Goblet of woe, to overflowing fill'd!
Who, quaffing thee, can live? Give me but breath—
A single breath—that I once more may see
The dreary vision. I will think of thee,
Colla, once more—of Cliba will I think—
Then fearlessly and freely drink
The cup—the fatal cup—whose dregs are death.
Awake thee, Queen of Cities, from thy slumber—
Awake thee, Sion! Let the quenchless love
Of worshippers, a number beyond number,
A fountain of rejoicing prove.
Thy sorrows they bewail, thy wounds they see,
And feel them as their own, and mourn for thee!
Oh, what were life to them, did Hope not hold
Her mirror, to unfold
That glorious future to their raptured sight,
When a new morn shall chase away this night!
Even from the dungeon gloom,
Their yearning hearts, as from a tomb,
Are crying out—are crying out to thee;
And, as they bow the knee
Before the Eternal, every one awaits
The answer of his prayer, with face toward thy gates.
Earth's most celestial region! Babylon
The mighty, the magnificent, to thee,
With all the trappings of her bravery on,
Seems but a river to the engulfing sea.

92

What are its oracles but lies? 'Tis given
Thy prophets only to converse with Heaven—
The hidden to reveal, the dark to scan,
And be the interpreters of God to man.
The idols dumb that erring men invoke,
Themselves are vanities, their power is smoke:
But, while the heathen's pomp is insecure,
Is transient, thine, O Sion! shall endure;
For in thy temples, God, the only Lord,
Hath been, and still delights to be, adored.
Blessed are they who, by their love,
Themselves thy veritable children prove!
Yea! blessed they who cleave
To thee with faithful hearts, and scorn to leave!
Come shall the day—and come it may full soon—
When thou, more splendid than the moon,
Shalt rise; and, triumphing o'er night,
Turn ebon darkness into silver light:
The glory of thy brightness shall be shed
Around each faithful head:
Rising from thy long trance, earth shall behold
Thee loftier yet, and lovelier than of old;
And portion'd with the saints in bliss shall be
All who, thro' weal and woe, were ever true to thee!

97

SONGS.


99

SONG OF THE SOUTH.

I

Of all the garden flowers,
The fairest is the rose;
Of winds that stir the bowers,
O, there is none that blows
Like the South, the gentle South;
For that balmy breeze is ours.

II

Cold is the frozen North,
In its stern and savage mood;
'Mid gales come drifting forth
Bleak snows and drenching flood;
But the South, the gentle South,
Thaws to love the willing blood.

100

III

Bethink thee of the vales,
With their birds and blossoms fair—
Of the darkling nightingales,
That charm the starry air,
In the South, the gentle South;
Ah! our own dear home is there!

IV

Where doth beauty brightest glow
With each rich and radiant charm,
Eyes of night and brow of snow,
Cherry lip, and bosom warm?
In the South, the gentle South—
There she waits and works her harm.

V

Say, shines the star of love
From the clear and cloudless sky,
The shadowy groves above,
Where the nestling ring-doves lie?
From the South, the gentle South,
Gleams its lone and lucid eye.

101

VI

Then turn ye to the home
Of your brethren and your bride;
Far astray your steps may roam,
And more joys for thee abide
In the South, our gentle South,
Than in all the world beside.

FAREWELL OUR FATHERS' LAND.

I

Farewell our Fathers' land,
Valley and fountain;
Farewell old Scotland's strand,
Forest and mountain!
Then hush the drum, and hush the flute,
And be the stirring bagpipe mute—
Such sounds may not with sorrow suit,
And fare thee well, Lochaber!

102

II

The plume and plaid no more we'll see,
Nor philabeg, nor dirk at knee,
Nor even the broad-swords, which Dundee
Bade flash at Killiecrankie!
Farewell our Fathers' land, &c.

III

Now where of yore, on bank and brae,
Our loyal clansmen marshall'd gay,
Far downward scowls Bennevis grey,
On sheep-walks spreading lonely.
Farewell our Fathers' land, &c.

IV

For now we cross the stormy sea,
Ah! never more to look on thee—
Nor on thy dun deer, bounding free,
From Etive glens to Morven!
Farewell our Fathers' land, &c.

V

Thy mountain air no more we'll breathe;
The household sword shall eat the sheath,
While rave the wild winds o'er the heath,
Where our grey sires are sleeping!
Then farewell our Fathers' land, &c.

103

MOURN FOR THE BRAVE.

I

Oh, mourn for the brave,
Who have fought for us, have bled for us;
Oh, mourn for the brave,
Who lie low among the slain!
For us they left their native land,
To meet the foe on foreign strand;
For us they struggled sword in hand;
And fought for us, and bled for us;
But now they sleep
In silence deep,
Upon the battle-plain!

II

Dear were their homes to them,
Who fought for us, who bled for us;
Dear were their homes to them,
We ne'er shall see again!
But, at their country's call, they took
And turned to sword the pruning-hook;
A foeman's bonds they could not brook,

104

Who fought for us, who bled for us;
And now they sleep
In silence deep,
Upon the battle-plain!

III

Deep is our debt to them,
Who fought for us, who bled for us;
Deep is our debt to them,
For us who crossed the main!
They gave our hills their golden fleece,
They gave our plains their rich increase,
To them we owe the ark of peace—
Who fought for us, who bled for us;
Though now they sleep
In silence deep,
Upon the battle-plain!

IV

Then shout for the brave,
Who have fought for us, have bled for us;
Then shout for the brave,
Who poured out their blood like rain!
Their deeds shall every tongue engage;
Their names are writ on History's page;
And age shall proudly tell to age,
Who fought for us, who bled for us;
Though now they sleep,
In silence deep,
Upon the battle-plain!

105

ERIC'S DIRGE.

I

Shon'st thou but to pass away,
Chieftain, in thy bright noon-day?
(All who knew thee, love thee!)
Who to Eric would not yield?
Red hand in the battle field,
Kinsman's idol, Beauty's shield,
Flowers we strew above thee!

II

Eagle-like, in Glory's sky,
Soar'd thy dauntless spirit high;
(All who knew thee, love thee!)
Scion of a matchless race,
Strong in form, and fair of face,
First in field, and first in chase,
Flowers we strew above thee!

106

III

Three to one Argyle came on,
Yet thy glance defiance shone;
(All who knew thee, love thee!)
Fear thine Islesmen never knew;
We were firm, tho' we were few;
And in front thy banner flew:—
Flowers we strew above thee!

IV

What mere men could do was done;
Two at least we slew for one;
(All who knew thee, love thee!)
But, ah fatal was our gain!
For, amid the foremost slain,
Lay'st thou, whom we mourn in vain:—
Flowers we strew above thee!

V

Mourn!—nor own one tearless eye,
Barra, Harris, Uist, and Skye!
(All who knew thee, love thee!)
Eric! low thou liest the while,
Shadowed by Iona's pile;
May no step thy stone defile:—
Flowers we strew above thee!

107

THE STORMY SEA.

I

Ere the twilight bat was flitting,
In the sunset, at her knitting,
Sang a lonely maiden, sitting
Underneath her threshold tree;
And, as daylight died before us,
And the vesper star shone o'er us,
Fitful rose her tender chorus—
“Jamie's on the stormy sea!”

II

Warmly shone that sunset glowing;
Sweetly breathed the young flowers blowing;
Earth, with beauty overflowing,
Seem'd the home of love to be,
As those angel tones ascending,
With the scene and season blending,
Ever had the same low ending—
“Jamie's on the stormy sea!”

108

III

Curfew bells remotely ringing,
Mingled with that sweet voice singing;
And the last red rays seem'd clinging
Lingeringly to tower and tree:
Nearer as I came, and nearer,
Finer rose the notes, and clearer;
O! 'twas Heaven itself to hear her—
“Jamie's on the stormy sea!”

IV

Blow, ye west winds! blandly hover
O'er the bark that bears my lover;
Gently blow, and bear him over
To his own dear home and me;
For, when night winds bend the willow,
Sleep forsakes my lonely pillow,
Thinking of the foaming billow—
“Jamie's on the stormy sea!”

V

How could I but list, but linger,
To the song, and near the singer,
Sweetly wooing Heaven to bring her
Jamie from the stormy sea:
And, while yet her lips did name me,
Forth I sprang—my heart o'ercame me—
“Grieve no more, sweet, I am Jamie,
Home returned to love and thee!”

109

THE MAID OF ULVA.

I

The hyacinth bathed in the beauty of spring,
The raven, when autumn hath darken'd his wing,
Were bluest and blackest, if either could vie
With the night of thy hair, or the morn of thine eye,—

II

Fair maid of the mountain, whose home, far away,
Looks down on the islands of Ulva's blue bay;
May nought from its Eden thy footsteps allure,
To grieve what is happy, or dim what is pure!

III

Between us a foam-sheet impassable flows—
The wrath and the hatred of clans who are foes;
But love, like the oak, while the tempest it braves,
The firmer will root it, the fiercer it raves.

110

IV

Not seldom thine eye from the watch-tower shall hail,
In the red of the sunrise, the gleam of my sail;
And lone is the valley, and thick is the grove,
And green is the bower, that is sacred to love!

V

The snows shall turn black on high Cruachan Ben,
And the heath cease to purple fair Sonachan glen,
And the breakers to foam, as they dash on Tiree,
When the heart in this bosom beats faithless to thee!

LAMENT FOR MACRIMMON.

I

Mist wreathes stern Coolin like a cloud,
The water-wraith is shrieking loud,
And blue eyes gush with tears that burn,
For thee—who shall no more return!
Macrimmon shall no more return,
Oh never, never more return!
Earth, wrapt in doomsday flames, shall burn,
Before Macrimmon home return!

111

II

The wild winds wail themselves asleep,
The rills drop tear-like down the steep,
In forest glooms the songsters mourn,
For thee—who shall no more return!
Macrimmon shall no more return, &c.

III

Even hoar old Ocean joins our wail,
Nor moves the boat, though bent with sail;
Fierce shrieking gales the breakers churn,
For thee—who shall no more return!
Macrimmon shall no more return, &c.

IV

No more, at eve, thy harp in hall
Shall from the tower faint echoes call;
There songless circles vainly mourn
For thee—who shall no more return!
Macrimmon shall no more return, &c.

V

Thou shalt return not from afar
With wreaths of peace, or spoils of war;
Each breast is but affection's urn
For thee—who shall no more return!
Macrimmon shall no more return,
Oh never, never more return,
Earth, wrapt in doomsday flames, shall burn,
Before Macrimmon home return!

112

HEIGH-HO!

I

A pretty young maiden sat on the grass,
Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!
And by a blithe young shepherd did pass,
In the summer morning so early.
Said he, “My lass, will you go with me,
My cot to keep, and my bride to be;
Sorrow and want shall never touch thee,
And I will love you rarely?”

II

“O! no, no, no!” the maiden said,
Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!
And bashfully turn'd aside her head,
On that summer morning so early!
“My mother is old, my mother is frail,
Our cottage it lies in yon green dale;
I dare not list to any such tale,
For I love my kind mother rarely.”

113

III

The shepherd took her lily-white hand,
Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!
And on her beauty did gazing stand,
On that summer morning so early.
“Thy mother I ask thee not to leave,
Alone in her frail old age to grieve;
But my home can hold us all, believe—
Will that not please thee fairly?”

IV

“O! no, no, no! I am all too young,
Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!
I dare not list to a young man's tongue,
On a summer morning so early.”
But the shepherd to gain her heart was bent;
Oft she strove to go, but she never went;
And at length she fondly blush'd consent—
Heaven blesses true lovers so fairly.

114

THE WANDERER OF CONNAUGHT.

I

Oh! Norah, when wandering afar from the shade
Of the woods, where in childhood so happy we stray'd,
From eyes that are strangers, and breasts that are cold,
My heart often turns to the pleasures of old.

II

Oh! Norah, my sister, how lovely and bright
The green vales of Connaught appear to my sight;
How starts the wild tear, when in thought I survey
The cabin so neat, with its children at play!

III

What though I am doom'd with my sorrows to roam
From Erin, my land, and the glen of my home,
From the spot where the bones of my fathers repose,
And the stream, where the briar and the wild lily grows;

115

IV

Yet often, when midnight hangs dreary around,
And the breeze flaps the tent with a desolate sound,
On the pallet I dream of our dear shieling fire,
And the faces that circle my mother and sire!

V

I see the sweet group, and I hear their lips pray
Success to the wanderer, who roams far away.
My dear sister, Norah, again shall it be
My fate the green pastures of Connaught to see?

VI

Again to stray forth with the flocks to the field,
From grief the white hairs of my parents to shield;
And be laid, my dear Norah, when being shall cease,
With my sires who have gone to the mansions of peace?

116

MARY DHU.

[_]

ADAPTED TO THE MUSIC OF AN ANCIENT GAELIC AIR.

I

Sweet, sweet is the rose-bud
Bathed in dew;
But sweeter art thou,
My Mary dhu.
O! the skies of night,
With their eyes of light,
Are not so bright
As my Mary dhu.
Whenever thy radiant face I see,
The clouds of sorrow depart from me;
As the shadows fly
From day's bright eye,
Thou lightest life's sky,
My Mary dhu.

II

Sad, sad is my heart
When I sigh, Adieu!
Or gaze on thy parting,
My Mary dhu:

117

Then for thee I mourn,
Till thy steps' return
Bids my bosom burn—
My Mary dhu.
I think but of thee on the broom-clad hills;
I muse but of thee on the moorland rills:
In the morning light,
In the moonshine bright,
Thou art still in my sight,
My Mary dhu.

III

Thy voice trembles through me,
Like the breeze,
That ruffles, in gladness,
The leafy trees;
'Tis a wafted tone
From Heaven's high throne,
Making hearts thine own,
My Mary dhu.
Be the flowers of joy ever round thy feet,
With colours glowing, and incense sweet;
And, when thou must away,
May life's rose decay
In the west wind's sway—
My Mary dhu!

118

THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE TOWN.

I

O wad that my time were owre but,
Wi' this wintry sleet and snaw,
That I might see our house again,
I' the bonnie birken shaw!
For this is no my ain life,
And I peak and pine away
Wi' the thochts o' hame and the young flowers,
In the glad green month o' May.

II

I used to wauk in the morning
Wi' the loud sang o' the lark,
And the whistling o' the ploughmen lads,
As they gaed to their wark;
I used to wear the bit young lambs
Frae the tod and the roaring stream;
But the warld is chang'd, and a' thing now
To me seems like a dream!

119

III

There are busy crowds around me,
On ilka lang dull street;
Yet, tho' sae mony surround me,
I kenna ane I meet;
And I think o' kind, kent faces,
And o' blithe an' cheery days,
When I wandered out wi' our ain folk,
Out-owre the simmer braes.

IV

Waes me, for my heart is breaking!
I think o' my brithers sma',
And on my sister greeting,
Whan I cam frae hame awa!
And oh! how my mither sobbit,
As she shook me by the hand,
When I left the door o' our auld house,
To come to this stranger land.

V

There's nae hame like our ain hame—
O I wush that I were there!
There's nae hame like our ain hame,
To be met wi' ony where;
And O that I were back again,
To our farm and fields sae green;
And heard the tongues o' my ain folk,
And were what I hae been!

121

BALLADS.


123

THE CAMPEADOR'S SPECTRE HOST.

What are these
So withered, and so wild in their attire,
That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth,
And yet are on't?
Macbeth.

I

On Leon's towers deep midnight lay;
Grim clouds had blotted the stars away;
By fits 'twas silent, by fits the gale
Swept through heaven like a funeral wail.

II

Heard ye that distant, that dismal hum,
That trumpet-blare, and that roll of drum,
That clashing of cymbals—and now again
The wail of the night wind, the rush of rain?

III

Know ye whence comes it? 'Tis like the shock
Of torrents o'erleaping some barrier rock.
Hearken again! 'Tis more near, more loud,
Like the opening burst of the thunder-cloud.

124

IV

List ye not now, on the echoing street,
The trampling of horses, the tread of feet,
The clashing of arms? 'Tis a host of might,
Marching in mask of the starless night.

V

St Isidro! at thy deep-browed gate,
Who crowding throng, who knocking wait?

This slight ballad is founded on a very striking passage in the Chronicle of the Cid, to the admirable translation of which, by Mr Southey, I would direct the attention of the English reader, as a repertory of chivalrous and romantic incident, singularly at antipodes to the prosaic utilitarianism of our own time. Its pervading idea—that of the patriotic retaining their love of country even beyond death, and a zeal for its rescue from oppression and danger—is a high and ennobling one; and is so natural as to have found a place in the traditional superstitions of almost every people, from the Calmuc Tartar to the Scots and Swiss. The three founders of the Helvetic Confederacy are thought to sleep in a cavern near the lake of Lucerne; and the herdsmen call them the Three Tells. They say that they lie there in their antique garb, in quiet slumber; and, when Switzerland is in her utmost need, that they will awaken and reconquer its liberties. Mrs Hemans' fine lyric, “The Cavern of the Three Tells,” is founded on this legend. The very spirited French ballad of “The Drunomer,” or “Napoleon's Midnight Review,” of which we have several good translations, originates in a similar sentiment; as also one of the stanzas in Campbell's matchless “Mariners of England”—

“The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!
For the deek it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave.”

Ferrando the Great was buried in the Royal Monastery of St Isidro, at Leon. The time when of this spiritual belligerence was during the reign of Queen Alphonso, on the night before the decisive battle of the Navas de Tolosa; of which it is chronicled that sixty thousand of the Mahometans were then and there slain.


The Frere, from his midnight vigil there
Upstarting, scales the turret stair.

VI

Aghast he trembles; that turmoil loud
Might waken the corse in its leaden shroud;
And thickens the blood in his veins thro' fear,
As unearthly voices smite his ear.

VII

“Ho! warriors, rouse ye! Ho! dead arise!
Haste, gird your good swords on your thighs;
Hauberk and helm from grave-rust free;
And rush to the rescue of Spain with me!

VIII

“Pelayo is with us; and who despairs,
When his Cross of Oak in our van he bears?

The badge of Pelayo was an Oaken Cross, which he is said to have always had carried in the van of his army, when he led it on to battle.


Come—muster ye must to my call once more—
'Tis I, your Cid—the Campeador!

The surname of Campeador, applied to the Cid Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, has been a stumbling-block to antiquarians. I am inclined to adopt the solution of Verstegan, who derives it from the word Cemp or Kemp, “properly one that fighteth hand to hand, whereunto the name in Teutonic of Kemp fight accordeth, and in French of Combat.” From a note at p. 5 of Southey's Introduction to The Chronicle of the Cid, that distinguished scholar would seem to infer, from some peculiar Spanish expression it contains, that it is a composition even more ancient than the General Chronicles of Spain, known to have been written before 1384. The legends of the Cid are perhaps, beyond all others in Spain—as those of the Wallace and Bruce in Scotland—the most favourite and frequent subject of the old minstrels of that country; and such is their spirit-stirring character that the English reader can never tire of him in the congenially glowing pages of Southey, Frere, and Lockhart.



125

IX

“Awaken, arise! through our land in arms
The host of the Miramamolin swarms;
Shall our Cross before their Crescent wane?
Shall Moorish dogs rule Christian Spain?

X

“Arouse ye in might—in your shirts of steel,
With spear in hand, and spur on heel;
Shake from your Red Cross flags the dust,
And wash in blood your swords from rust.

XI

“Haste! burst your cerements; here we wait
For thee, Ferrando, once the Great;
Knock on your porter, Death, until he
Withdraw the bolts, and turn the key!

XII

“Hither—haste hither, and join our hosts—
A mighty legion of stalwart ghosts;
'Tis I, Ruy Diaz, who call, and here
Gonzalez couches in rest his spear!

“The story of Fernan Gonzalez,” writes Mr Lockhart, “is detailed in the Chronica Antiqua de España with so many romantic circumstances, that certain modern critics have been inclined to consider it as entirely fabulous. Of the main parts recorded there seems, however, no good reason to doubt. . . . . He lived at the beginning of the tenth century. It was under his rule, according to the Chronicles, that Castile first became an independent Christian state; and it was by his exertions that the first foundations were laid of that system of warfare by which the Moorish power in Spain was ultimately overthrown. . . . . There is, as might be expected, a whole body of old ballads concerning the adventures of Fernan Gonzalez.”—Ancient Spanish Ballads, p. 28, 29.


XIII

“Awake! arise ye on every hand!
The love a patriot bears his land
Departs not with departing breath,
But warms his very dust in death!


126

XIV

“Quail shall the boldest, the timid yield,
When sweeps our spectre-host the field;
Vultures in clouds, to the feast of the slain,
Scream from sierras and seek the plain.

XV

“Ho! hurry with us then away, away,
Ere the warning cock-crow herald day;
Bid blast of trumpet, and roll of drum
Proclaim to the Moslem, we come, we come!”

XVI

Into the darkness the Frere gazed forth—
The sounds rolled onwards towards the North;
The murmur of tongues, the tramp and tread
Of a mighty army to battle led.

XVII

At midnight, slumbering Leon through,
Throng'd to the Navas that spectral crew;
At blush of day red Tolosa showed
That more than men had fought for God!

127

THE HIGHLANDER'S RETURN.

I

Young Donald Bane, the gallant Celt, unto the wars had gone,
And left within her Highland home his plighted love alone;
Yet though the waves between them roll'd, on eastern Egypt's shore,
As he thought of Mhairi Macintyre, his love grew more and more.

II

It was a sullen morning when he breathed his last adieu,
And down the glen, above his men, the chieftain's banner flew;
When bonnets waved aloft in air, and war-pipes scream'd aloud,
And the startled eagle left the cliff for shelter in the cloud.

128

III

Brave Donald Bane, at duty's call, hath sought a foreign strand,
And Donald Bane amid the slain hath stood with crimson brand;
And when the Alexandrian beach with Gallic blood was dyed,
Stream'd the tartan plaid of Donald Bane at Abercromby's side.

IV

And he had seen the Pyramids, Grand Cairo, and the bay
Of Aboukir, whereon the fleet of gallant Nelson lay;
And he had seen the Turkish hosts in their barbarian pride,
And listen'd as from burial fields the midnight chacal cried.

V

Yes, many a sight had Donald seen in Syrian deserts lone,
To many a shore had Donald been, but none that matched his own;
Amid the dates and pomegranates, the temples and the towers,
He thought of Albyn's cliffy huts, begirt with heather flowers.

129

VI

So joyous beat the soldier's heart again from deck to see,
Rising from out the German wave, the island of the free;
And stately was his step when crowds, with plaudits from the main,
Welcom'd once more to Britain's shore its heroes back again!

VII

Hush'd was the war din that in wrath from coast to coast had roar'd,
And stay'd were slaughter's beagle fangs, and sheath'd the patriot's sword,
When—'twas the pleasant summer time—arose in green again,
His own dear Highland mountains on the sight of Donald Bane.

VIII

Four years had lapsed in absence, wherein his steps had ranged
'Mid many a far and foreign scene, but his heart was unestranged;
And when he saw Argyle's red deer once more from thicket flee,
And again he trod Glen Etive's sod, a mountaineer was he!

130

IX

There stood the shieling of his love, beneath the sheltering trees,
Sweet sang the lark, the summer air was musical with bees;
And when he reach'd the wicket porch, old Stumah fawning fain,
First nosed him round, then licked his hand—'twas bliss to Donald Bane.

X

His heart throbb'd as he entered—no sound was stirring there,—
And in he went, and on he went, when behold his Mhairi fair!
Before her stood the household wheel unmurmurous, and the thread
Still in her fingers lay, as when its tenuous twine she led.

XI

He stood and gazed, a man half crazed: before him she reclined
In half unkerchief'd loveliness—the idol of his mind;
Bland was the sleep of innocence, as to her dreams were given
Elysian walks with him she loved, amid the bowers of Heaven!

131

XII

He gazed her beauties o'er and o'er—her shining auburn hair,
Her ivory brow, her rosebud mouth, her cheek carnation fair;
Her round white arms, her bosom's charms, that, with her breathing low,
Like swan-plumes on a ripply lake heaved softly to and fro.

XIII

He could no more—but, stooping down, he clasp'd her to his soul,
And from the honey of her lips a rapturous kiss he stole:
As hill-deer bound from bugle sound, swerved Mhairi from her rest,
It could not be—O, yes, 'tis he!—and she sank on Donald's breast.

XIV

What boots to tell what them befel?—or how, in bridal mirth,
Blithe feet did bound to music's sound, beside the mountain hearth,
Or how the festal cup was drain'd on hill-side and on plain,
To the healths of lovely Mhairi, and her faithful Donald Bane?

132

WIZZERDE WYNKIN'S DETHE.

ANE AUNCIENT BALLAD.

I

The Wizzerde's een grewe derke and dimme;
Hys troubbledde mynde wals lyke the sea,
Whenne the waaves splashhe hye to the bending skye,
And wild storme wynndes howl dismallye.

II

The Wizzerde's een grewe dulle ande dimme;
Hee shooke hys lokkis offe grizzledde whyte,
And summonsedde hys kynsmen toe come toe hym—
They stode by hys bedde twixt the daye ande nycht.

III

Hee lyfted uppe hys skynnye wrinkledde honde;
Hollowe wals hys voice, and dredde toe hear,
As the mydnight blaste cominge flychteringe past
The kirk-yarde's throughstanes drear.

133

IV

“I maye notte praye—I daure notte praye—”
'Twas thus the wytheredde oulde manne saide;
“But I must awaie, ere the glymmer offe day,
Toe the darksome landdes offe the deadde.

V

“I must now awaie—aronde the roofe
Arre Feeyndes uprysen from the yerde beneathe;
See, see their fierce eyne, and herke to their cryen,
And the gryndinge offe their yron teethe!

VI

“Myne houre is come, yette I shrynk fro the doome,
Whilke mee deedes have deservit soe welle;
Oh! whatte wolde I give, weren itte myne toe live,
Butte toe rescue me speerit fro Helle!

VII

“The Feeyndes have come fro theire dork myrk home,
Toe carrye mee doune too theire Mastere grimme;
Forre yeres thryce seven, I have mockedde atte Heavenne,
Ande payit the bloddye kaine toe hymme.

VIII

“Herke toe the stormme as itte howllis wythoutte—
Toe the roaringe blastte, ande the rushinge rainne;
There arre yemmerings dire atte the chymneye toppe;
The ravene croakes at the batteredde pane.

134

IX

“Nowe hearkene mee voice, kynde kynsfolke alle,
I pray you now herkene toe mee,
Orre youre lyfe belowe wyth feare ande wyth woe
Shall trobbledde ande darkenedde bee.

X

“Whenne mee eyne close deeppe, in Dethe's dredde sleepe,
And styffens mee corpse wyth colde,
Inne ane Hollan sheete wrappe mee hede and feete,
Ere mydnycht belle hathe tolledde.

XI

“And keipe werde bye mee bedde, butte lette bee saide
Norre requiemme, hymme, norre prayere,
Else the foulle Feeyndes theye wolde sweepe awaie
Mee corpse throe the starre-lit ayre.

XII

“Butte laye mee dounne inne ane coffinne meete,
Norre wordde be spokken, norre tere be shedde;
Ande lette ane grene wythe bee tiedde toe the feete,
Ande ane grene wythe toe the hede.

XIII

“Ande carrye mee outte, ere Daie's fyrst streeke
Illoominnes the mystte-cledde playne,
Forre iffe the redde cokke crowe, I am doomit toe woe,
Ande an ever ande aye offe painne!

135

XIV

“Toe the kirke offe Dumgree ye muste carrye mee,
Bye the wythies grene atte hede and foote;
Boke, candle, and belle, there maye notte bee,
Ande lette all bee stylle ande mute.

XV

“Soe whenne ye come toe the ashe-treen wylde,
Thatte sproutte fro the derke hille-toppe,
Putte mee coffinne doune onne the Elfinne-stone,
Ande stonde aloofe, as there ye stoppe.

XVI

“Take ane yonge raven, and caste her uppe—
Iff shee perce awaie throo the ayre,
Alle welle maye bee; butte iffe onne tree
Shee foldes her wynges—bewaare!”

XVII

Thrice moanedde the Wizzerde ere hee passedde,
Ande thrice hee wavit hys arm onne hie;
Loudde howlit wythoutte the fearfulle blaste,
Ande swepte the hauntedde cottage bye.

XVIII

Thenne rose loudde soundes offe woe and waile,
Arounde the rooffe-tree, ande throo the skies;
Ande skryekes were herde on the moaninge gaile;
And cries—whilke were notte earthlye cries!

136

XIX

Theye lokit in drede onne the Wizzerde dede,
Ane sylente horrour came o'ere themme alle;
He was chille, colde claye; alle muveless laye
The sheddowe offe hys face againste the walle.

XX

Their eyen were fixedde; their tongues were stille;
Theye hymnedde noe hymn, theye praied no prayere;
The wolfe-doug alone gave ane piteous mone,
As terroure bristledde hys shaggedde haire.

XXI

Then theye shroudded the corpse inne ane wynding sheete,
Ande screwedde itte the reddye coffinne withinne;
Theye fastenedde grene wythes to the hede ande feete,
Syne watchit till the paaling starres grew thinne.

XXII

Greye dawne glimmerit on banke ande brae;
The starres were goinge outte one bye one;
Whenne mountinge each onne the browne ande greye,
Theye have their frychtfulle taske begunne.

XXIII

Three have mountit their steedes offe greye,
Three have mountit their steedes offe browne;
Ere the fyrste strycke offe daie, theye have borne awaie
The Wizzerde's coffinne o'ere dale ande downe.

137

XXIV

They sparedde notte whippe, they sparedde notte spurre,
Throo the dawninge theye scouredde awaie—awaie!
The breathinge broke fro their steedes like smoke,
And foame fro their flankes like oceanne spraye.

XXV

Like byrde thatte whirrs fro the pouncinge hawke,
Like hare thatte scuddes fro yellinge hounde,
They turnedde notte backe fro their pantinge trakke;
Awaie and awaie did theye beare and bownde.

XXVI

Awaie and awaie, over banke ande brae,
Theye fledde wythe the corpse offe the Wizzerde onne;
Untille theye made halte atte the rowande-treen,
Ande restedde itte doune onne the Elfinne-stone.

XXVII

Straighte ane sudden sounde uprose fro the grounde,
And across the heathe wente boominge wide;
Eache helde bye the bitte hys startledde steede,
Lystenninge inne fere whatte mycht betyde!

XXVIII

Two fire-eyned bulles came bellowing onne,
Wyth shyning horne ande tramplinge hooffe;
Their mychty cries, and their flashinge eyes,
Made the startledde watcheres stonde aloofe.

138

XXIX

Blakke was eache hyde as the starlesse nycht,
Brighte as redde fyre werre their glancing eyne;
Volumes offe smokke from eache nostrille brokke,
Beneath themme scrotchedde was the grassye grene.

XXX

Huge staggeringe onne toe the corpse theye wente,
Wyth lashinge tailes, and bellowinges loudde;
Throo the wythies grene their hornnes they bente,
And awaie inne wrethe, like ane thundere-cloudde.

XXXI

Echoedde the grene hills their bellowinges hershe,
As wyth routte and roare they flounderit onne;
The horsemenne pursuedde throo strathe and woode,
In blude to the rowells their spurres have gone.

XXXII

Inne pursutte hollo! inne pursutte they goe,
The pantinge ridere, ande foaminge steede;
Over holte ande deane, with the coffinne betweene,
The blackke bulles galloppinge leade.

XXXIII

Westlin, westlin their course theye helde—
Wyth lashinge tailes toe the rysinge sunne;
The horses snortedde, the horsemenne halloedde,
Such chase onne grene sward was nevire runne!

139

XXXIV

Awaie and awaie toe ane hille toppe derke—
The rydderes hurriedde toe halte themme there;
But they flounderedde awaie, withoutte stoppe orre staye,
Toe the next hille-top throo the ayre.

XXXV

Hershe echoingse fille everye Nithsdale hille;
The blakke-cok crowinge forsoke the heathe;
Deepe murmuringe ranne the watere offe Branne
Their unearthly flychte beneathe.

XXXVI

Thenne the steedes were turnedde, the vale was triedde;
Butte the blakke bulls lefte themme farre behinde.
Grene-swairde trampleres muste evere faile,
Whenne matchedde wyth treaderes offe winde.

XXXVII

Yette awaie and awaie, throo the strathe rode theye,
O'er meadowe, and marish, ande springe, and banke;
The toil-droppes felle fro eache brenning brow,
The frothe fro eache reekinge flanke.

XXXVIII

Ande whenne the Closeburne heichtes they wonne,
Ande theye saw Loch Ettrichte gleaminge wide,
Wyth roare ande yelle, thatte mycht stertle Helle,
The bulles plungedde hedelonge inne the tide!

140

XXXIX

Sanke the blakke bulles downe, the coffine sanke
Inne the wave, wyth ane splashinge sounde;
Thenne the wateres theye clossede, ande alle reposedde
Inne unearthlye peace arounde.

XL

Itte was soe stille thatte, afarre onne the hille,
The murmure offe twinklinge leaves was hearde;
Ande the lapsinge shrille offe the mountaine rille,
Ande the hymne-nottes off earlye byrde.

XLI

Onne the moorlande dreare, forre manye an yeare,
The Wizzerde's dolefulle shielinge stoode;
'Twas shunnede bye alle; ande, atte eveninge falle,
Wyth the lurridde flames off bremstone glowed.

XLII

Butte the windes offe heavene, and the rainnes offe heavene,
Beatte itte downe; ande noughte is standinge nowe,
Save the molderinge rydge offe ane mosse-growne walle,
Sparedde bye the shudderinge farmere's ploughe.

XLIII

O, wandere notte neare, whenne Nychte frownes dreare;
Forre, whenne travelleres hurrye past,
Wille ofte aryse loud unworldlye cries,
Offe waile ande offe woe, onne the blaste.

141

XLIV

Ande the spectre bulles tosse their hornes onne hye,
Ande amidde the darknesse roare,
Ande spleshe the crestedde waves toe the skye,
Ande shaake the rockye shore.

XLV

Ande atte Wintere-tide, whenne the cold moone shines
On the glytteringe ice ande the sperklinge snowe,
Dismalle soundes awake onne the frozzenne lake,
Ande the Wizzerde's tongue ye knowe.

XLVI

Shunne these soundes unbleste—forre that Wizzerde's reste,
Norre Bedesman praied, norre belle dide tolle;
Norre gravestone prest on hys perjuredde brest:
Gramercye on his soulle!

145

TALES.


147

DE QUINCEY'S REVENGE.

A BALLAD IN THREE FITTES.

FITTE FIRST.

I

De Quincey, lord of Travernent,
Has from the Syrian wars return'd;
As near'd his train to his own domain,
His heart within him burn'd.
Yet heavy was that heart, I ween:
A cloud had o'er him pass'd;
And all of life, that once was green,
Had wither'd in the blast.
Say, had he sheath'd his trusty brand,
Intent no more to roam,
Only to find the Scottish strand
For him no fitting home?

Robert de Quincey, a Northamptonshire baron, acquired the manor of Travernent, (vulgo, Tranent,) which in the reign of David the First had been held by Swan, the son of Thor, soon after the accession of William the Lion; and he served for some time as justiciary to that monarch. At the end of the twelfth century he was succeeded in his immense estates by his son, Seyer de Quincey, the hero of the ballad, who set out for Palestine in 1218, where he died in the year following.


II

Who stands at hush of eventide
Before Newbottle's sacred walls,
While eastward far, in arch and aisle,
Its mighty shadow falls?

148

That steel-clad Knight stood at the porch,
And loud he knock'd, and long,
Till out from the chancel came a Frere,
For it was even-song.
To an alder stump his steed was tied,
And the live wind from the west
Stirr'd the blue scarf on his corslet side,
And the raven plumes of his crest.

III

“Why knock'st thou here? no hostel this,
And we have mass to say;
Know'st thou, that rises our vesper-hymn
Duly at close of day?
And in the chantry, even now,
The choristers are met;
For lo! o'er Pentlands' summits blue,
The western sun is set?
But if thou return'st at morning tide,
Whatever be thy behest”—
“Nay,” said the stranger hastily,
“Delay not my request.

IV

“For I have come from foreign lands,
And seen the sun of June
Set over the holy Jerusalem,
And its towers beneath the moon;

149

And I have stood by the sepulchre
Wherein the Lord was laid,
And drunk of Siloa's brook, that flows
In the cool of its own palm shade.
Yea! I have battled for the Cross,
'Tis the symbol on my mail—
But why, with idle words, should I
Prolong a bootless tale?

V

“The Lady Elena—woe to me
Brought the words that tale which told—
Was yesternight, by the red torchlight,
Left alone in your vaults so cold.
'Tis said, last night by the red torchlight,
That a burial here hath been;
Now show me, prithee, her tomb, who stood
My heart and Heaven between.
Alas! alas! that a cold damp vault
Her resting-place should be,
Who, singing, sate among the flowers
When I went o'er the sea.”

VI

“'Tis nay, Sir Knight,” the Frere replied,
“If thou turn'st thy steed again,
And hither return'st at matin prime,
Thou shalt not knock in vain.”

150

Then ire flash'd o'er that warrior's brow,
Like storm-clouds o'er the sky,
And, stamping, he struck his gauntlet glove
On the falchion by his thigh:—
“Now, by our Lady's holy name,
And by the good St John,
I must gaze on the features of the dead,
Though I hew my path through stone!”

VII

The Frere hath lighted his waxen torch,
And turn'd the grating key,
Down winding steps, through gloomy aisles,
The damp, dull way show'd he;
And ever he stood and cross'd himself,
As the night wind smote his ear,
For the very carven imageries
Spake nought but of death and fear—
And sable 'scutcheons flapp'd on high
'Mid that grim and ghastly shade;
And coffins were ranged on tressels round,
And banners lowly laid.

VIII

From aisle to aisle they pass'd the while,
In silence both—the one in dread—
So solemn a thing it was to be
With darkness and the dead!

151

At length the innermost vault they gain'd,
Last home of a house of fame,
And the Knight, looking up, with earnest eye,
Read the legend round the name—
“Unsullied aye our honours beam,”
'Neath fleur-de-lis and crescent shone;
And o'er the Dragon spouting fire,
The battle-word, “Set on!”

Intaminatis fulget honoribus,” was the proud motto of the Seton family.

The original Seton arms were three crescents with a double tressure, flowered and counter-flowered with fleurs-de-lis. A sword supporting a royal crown was afterwards given by Robert the Bruce, for the bravery and loyalty of the family during the succession wars. At a later period, three garbs azure were quartered with the Seton arms, by George, the second lord of that name.

“This lord George,” saith old Sir Richard Maitland, “tuk the armes of Buchan, quhilk ar thrè cumming schevis, quarterlie wyth his awin armes, allegeand himself to be air of the said erldome, be ressoun of his gudedame.”—Chronicle of the Hous of Seytoun, p. 37.

The crest was a green dragon spouting fire surmounting a ducal coronet, with the words over it, “Set on.” The supporters were two foxes collared and chained.


IX

“Yes! here, good Frere—now, haste thee, ope”—
The holy man turn'd the key;
And ere ever he had an “Ave” said,
The Knight was on his knee.
He lifted the lawn from her waxen face,
And put back the satin soft;
Fled from her cheek was the glowing grace
That had thrill'd his heart so oft!
The past came o'er him like a spell,
For earth could now no bliss afford,
And thus, within that cheerless cell,
His bitter plaint he pour'd.

X

“Oh, Elena! I little dreamt,
When I sailed o'er the sea,
That, coming back, our meeting next
In a charnel-vault should be!

152

I left thee in thy virgin pride,
A living flower of beauty rare;
And now I see thee at my side
What words may not declare!
Oh! I have met thee on the waves,
On the field have braved thee, Death;
But ne'er before so sank my heart
Thy withering scowl beneath!

XI

“How different was the time, alas!
When, in the sunny noon, my love,
I trysted with thee in the stag coppice,
In the centre of the grove!
How different was the time, alas!
When from the tower of high Falsyde,

Sir Robert Sibbald, in his History of Fife, quotes a charter by the Earl of Winchester to Adame de Seton, 1246, De Maritagio herædis Alani de Fawside, from which, as well as from some incidental passages in Maitland's History of the Hous of Seytoun, it is evident that Falsyde Castle was a heritage of the younger branches of the Seton family. It was first acquired by them from intermarriage with the De Quinceys.

The date of Falsyde Castle is uncertain. It was burned by the English under the Duke of Somerset, 1547, the day following the fatal battle of Pinkie. The strength of the mason-work, however—the tower being arched at the top of the building, as well as at the first story—prevented its entire demolition. Paton, in his Diary, gives a very cool description of the burning to death of its little garrison, and calls it “a sorry-looking castle.” In 1618, the family of Fawside of that Ilk appear to have removed to a more modern mansion in the immediate vicinity, which has the initials J. F., J. L., above one of its windows. The dovecot of the ancient fortalice still remains; and within it is a curious place of concealment, secured by an antique grated door. There is a similar hole of secrecy in the staircase of the oldest part of the castle.

It is now the property of Sir George Grant Suttie of Prestongrange and Balgone, having descended to him through his maternal ancestors, the Setons, Earls of Hyndford.


We mark'd along the bay of Forth
The streamer'd galleys glide!
How different was the time, alas!
When the gay gold ring I gave,
And thou didst say, when far away,
I will bear it to my grave!”

XII

The Knight turn'd back the satin fold
Where her hand lay by her side,
And there, on her slender finger cold,
He the token-ring espied!

153

“Now know I thou wert true to me,
Ah! false thou couldst not prove;
Vain was the hate that strove to mate
Thy heart with a stranger love.”
And then he kiss'd her clay-cold cheek,
And then he kiss'd his sword:—
“By this,” he said, “sweet, injured maid,
Thy doom shall be deplored!

XIII

“Yes! darkly some shall make remeid,
And dearly some shall pay
For griefs that broke thy faithful heart,
When I was far away!”
“Nay! dost thou talk of vengeance now,”
Quod the Frere, “on thy bended knee?”
The Knight look'd wildly up in his face,
But never a word spake he.
“Now rise, now rise, Sir Knight!” he cried,
“Mary Mother calm thy mind!
'Twas the fiat of Heaven that she should die,
To its will be thou resigned!”

XIV

Uprose De Quincey from his knee,
In that darksome aisle and drear;
No word he spake, but, with hasty glove,
Brush'd off one starting tear;

154

Then, as he donn'd his helm, he pluck'd
The silken scarf from its crest,
And upraised it first to his meeting lip,
Then hid it within his breast.
The scenes—the thoughts of other years
Pour'd o'er him like a lava tide;
Her day was done, and set her sun,
And all for him was night beside!

XV

The coffin lid was closed; the Frere
Preceded, with his taper wan;
Behind him strode the black-mail'd Knight,
A melancholy man!
And oft the Monk, as he upwards clomb
From the darksome place of dread,
Where the coffin'd clay of fair Elena lay,
Did backwards turn his head—
Say, holy Frere, can the waves of fear
O'er thy calm, pure spirit flow;
Or is it the cold, through these vaults of mould,
That makes thee tremble so?

XVI

The porch they gain'd—the Frere he closed
The gates behind the Knight;
Dim lay the clouds, like giant shrouds,
Over the red starlight;

155

And ever, with low moaning sound,
The soft warm gust wail'd through the trees;
Calm, in slumber bound, lay all around,
And the stream sang “Hush!” to the breeze.
The Frere put out his torch, and look'd
His high-barr'd lattice fro';
And he saw, 'mid the dusk, the mounted Knight
Down the winding valley go.

FITTE SECOND.

I

'Twas the flush of dawn; on the dewy lawn
Shone out the purpling day;
The lark on high sang down from the sky,
The thrush from the chestnut spray;
On the lakelet blue, the water-coot
Oar'd forth with her sable young;
While at its edge, from reed and sedge,
The fisher-hern upsprung;
In peaceful pride, by Esk's green side,
The shy deer stray'd through Roslin glen;
And the hill-fox to the Roman camp

The Parish of Newbottle rises from its extremities—Fordel House and Newbyres Tower—till it terminates in a ridge of considerable extent, termed the Roman Camp, the elevation of which is 680 feet. The neighbourhood abounding in hares, the Roman Camp is a favourite meeting-place of the Mid-Lothian Coursing Club. From antlers found in the neighbourhood, and even at Inveresk, no doubt can exist that, at the era of our ballad, the hart and hind were visitants of at least the Morthwaite hills.


Stole up from Hawthornden.

The building of Roslin Castle is anterior to the dawn of authentic record. “Its origin,” says Chalmers, (Caledonia, vol. ii. p. 571,) is laid in fable.” According to Adam de Cardonnel, (Picturesque Antiquities,) William de Sancto Claro, son of Waldernus Compte de St Clare, who came to England with William the Conqueror, obtained from King Malcolm Canmore a grant of the lands and barony of Roslin. Hawthornden and Roslin are associated with many bright names in literature—Drummond, Ben Jonson, Ramsay, Macneil, Scott, Wilson, and Wordsworth.


II

Where hurries so fast the henchman?
His steed seems froth'd with spray—
To Newbottle's shrine, 'mid the dawning lone,
He speeds his onward way.

156

From grey Caerbarrin's walls he came,

Chalmers traces back the name “Caerbairin” to the time of the ancient Britons, and instances the modern one “Carberry,” to show how English adjuncts have been engrafted on British roots.

Every reader of Scottish history will remember that it was on the rising ground above the fortalice of Carberry that Mary and Bothwell awaited the approach of the confederate lords, and that there they parted, never to meet again.


By Smeaton Shaw, through Colden Wood,
And up thy royal way, Derstrette,

During the Scoto-Saxon period, the king's highways are often mentioned in chartularies as local boundaries. In that of Newbottle we find reference made to a regia via, leading from the village of Ford to the Abbey, in a charter of Hugh Riddel, in the time of Alexander III., (chart. 22.) The king's highway from the same Abbey to Edinburgh in 1252 is also here mentioned, (16;) and Gervaise, the abbot, in his charter, (Ib. 163,) alludes to a certain road called Derstrette, near Colden, in the district of Inveresk. Near the same locality there is now a place called D' Arcy, which I have little doubt is a corruption of the ancient appellation.


His path he hath pursued;
Until, upon its flowery lawn,
By murmuring Esk's enamour'd side,
The Abbey's grand and massive walls
Were 'mid its groves espied.

Newbottle Abbey was beautifully situated on the banks of the South Esk, nearly on the same site as the modern mansion of the Marquis of Lothian, who is a descendant of the last abbot. It was founded by that “sore saint for the crown,” King David I., in the year 1140. “The monks,” says Bishop Keith, “were brought from Melrose, together with their abbot, Radulphus. Patrick Madort, a learned divine, who is mentioned from the year 1462 until 1470, recovered a great number of original writs and charters belonging to this place, which were transcribed into a chartulary, which is now in the Advocates' Library.”—Religious Houses, p. 417. Ed. 1824.

The only relics of antiquity now about the place, are the remains of the stone enclosure which surrounded the Abbey, still called Monkland Wall—a striking and venerable gateway, surmounted by its time-worn lions; a solemn line of yew-trees; and a doorway, amid the lawn to the east, said to be the entrance of a subterranean passage to the old Abbey.

Many of the trees in the park are beautiful and majestic, especially some of the planes and elms; and a beech, in the neighbourhood of the house, measures twenty-two feet in circumference, at a yard from the ground. It contains nine hundred cubic feet of wood, and its branches cover a circle of thirty-three feet diameter.

The remains of monastic architecture now seen at Newbottle are said to have been brought by the late Marquis from the ruins at Mount Teviot. They are beautiful and interesting.

We should also state, in referring to the antiquities of the place, that a little below the Abbey there is a venerable bridge over the Esk, rudely built, and overspread with ivy, which has long survived all accounts of its age and founder.

The present parish of Newbottle consists of the ancient parish of Maisterton, and the Abbey parish. During the Scoto-Saxon period, the patronage of Maisterton was possessed by the lord of the manor. Near the end of the thirteenth century this belonged to Robert de Rossine, knight, whose daughters, Mariot and Ada, resigned it to the monks of Newbottle, with two-thirds of their estates.


III

“Awake,” he cries, as loudly he knocks,
“Ho! arise, and haste with me;
For soon, alas, Caerbarrin's lord
Among the dead must be!”
Then forth out spake the abbot grey,
From his couch, as he arose,
“Alack! thou bring'st us evil news,
For thy lord he was of those
Who dower'd our church with goodly lands,
And his sword hath ever been,
For Scotland's glory and for ours,
At the call, unsheath'd and keen.

IV

“But the best are aye the first to die;
This sinful earth is not their place;
Sure is the passage of the good—
Mary Mother yield them grace!

157

Then rest thee in our porter's keep,
While our brother Francis will repair
To the house of woe, and soothe the soul
Of the dying man with prayer!”
The henchman sate him down to rest,
And wiped the toil-drops from his brow;
While in hurry and haste, on shrieving quest,
The Frere was boune to ride and go.

V

Thro' the green woodlands spurr'd the monk—
The morning sun was shining bright,
Upon his bosom lay the Book,
“Much he marvell'd a knight of pride
Like a book-bosom'd priest should ride.”

So says Sir Walter Scott, (Lay, canto iii. stanza 8,) and, in annotation, quotes from a MS. Account of Parish of Ewes, apud Macfarlane's MSS.:—“At Unthank, two miles north-east from the church, (of Ewes,) there are the ruins of a chapel for divine service in time of Popery. There is a tradition that friars were wont to come from Melrose or Jedburgh, to baptise and marry in this parish; and, from being in use to carry the mass-book in their bosoms, they were called by the inhabitants ‘Book-a-bosomes.’”


Under his cloak of white;
Before him, in the pleasant prime,
The willow'd stream meandering flow'd;
From wildflowers by the pathway side,
The gallant heathcock crow'd;
Glisten'd the dew on the harebells blue;
And, as the west wind murmur'd by,
From yellow broom stole forth perfume,
As from gardens of Araby.

VI

Now lay his road by beechen groves,
Now by daisied pastures green;
And now from the vista'd mountain-road,
The shores of Fife were seen;

158

And now Dalcaeth behind him lay—

Dalcaeth, in the Celtic, means the narrow dale.—Vide Richard and Owen's Dictionary, in voce Caeth. Dalkeith, as a parish, does not appear in the ancient Taxatio. Indeed, as such, it did not then exist; but as the manor of Dalkeith, as well as that of Abercorn, was granted by David I. to William de Grahame, it is easily to be supposed that, being an opulent family, they had a chapel to their court. “No memorial remains of the Grahames, unless the fading tradition of the place, and two curious but wasted tombstones, which lie within the circuit of the old church. They represent knights in chain armour, lying cross-legged upon their monuments, like those ancient and curious figures on the tombs in the Temple Church, London.”—Provincial Antiquities of Scotland. From Robertion's Index, 40-44, and from the Douglas Peerage, 489, we find, that in the reign of David II., John de Grahame of Dalkeith resigned the manor, with its pertinents, to William Douglas, the heir of Sir James Douglas of Lothian, in marriage with his daughter Margaret. Dalcaeth is first written Dalkeith in a charter of Robert the Bruce. It is proper to mention, however, that Froissart, who himself visited the Earl of Douglas at his castle of Dalkeith, has the following passage, in mentioning the single combat between the Earl and Sir Henry Percy, at the barriers of Newcastle. The former having, by force of arms, won the banner of the latter, is thus made to say:—“I shall bear this token of your prowess into Scotland, and shall set it high on my castle of Dalkeith, (D' Alquest,) that it may be seen afar off.”—Froissart, (Berners' Reprint, 1812,) vol. ii. p. 393.


And now its castle, whence the Græme
Sent forth his clump of Border spears,
The vaunting Gael to tame;
Now by coppice and corn he urged his steed,
Now by dingle wild and by dell,
Where down by Cousland's limestone rocks
The living waters well.

VII

Then he came to a clump of oak-trees hoar,
Half over the steep road hung,
When up at once to his bridle-rein
The arm of a warrior sprung;
With sudden jerk, the startled steed
Swerved aside with bristling mane:—
“Now halt thee, Frere, and rest thee here,
Till I hither return again.
I know thine errand—dismount, dismount—
That errand for thee I'll do;
But, if thou stirrest till I return,
Such rashness thou shalt rue!

VIII

“Then doff to me thy mantle white,
And eke thy hood of black;

The monks of Newbottle were of the Cistertian order. “They were called Monachi Albi,” says Cardonnel, “to distinguish them from the Benedictines, whose habit was entirely black; whereas the Cistertians wore a black cowl and scapular, and all their other clothes were white. They had the name of Cistertians, from their chief house and monasteries, Cistertium in Burgundy; and Bernardines, from St Bernard, who, with a number of his followers, retired to the monastery, and was afterwards called Abbot of Clairvoux.”—Picturesque Antiquities, part i. pp. 12, 13; and Keith's Scottish Bishops, p. 415.

There were thirteen monasteries of the Cistertian order in Scotland, among which were Melrose, Dundrennan, Culross, Sweetheart, and Glenluce.


And crouch thee amid these brackens green,
To the left, till I come back.”

159

“Oh! bethink thee, Knight!” the good Frere said,
“I should kneel by his couch and pray;
How awful it is for the soul of man
Unanneal'd to pass away!
How awful it is, with sins unshrived,
To pass from the bed of pain!
Caerbarrin's chief may a dead man be,
Ere thou comest hither again!”

IX

He must needs obey—he durst not say nay,
That monk to the warrior stern;
His corslet unlaced, and his helm unbraced,
Down rattled among the fern:
And he hath mounted the Frere's good steed,
Clad in mantle and cowl he rode,
Till 'neath him, on its own green knoll
Caerbarrin's turrets glow'd.

The ancient history of the lands of Carberry is lost in obscurity. The lower rooms of the square tower are strongly arched, and evidently of great age. At the time of the Duke of Somerset's expedition it was the property of Mr Hugh Rigg, the king's advocate, who is more than once mentioned in the histories of Knox and Pitscottie. We observe also, from the Inquisitiones Speciales, that the property was conveyed to several subsequent generations of the same family—from whom it passed to the Dicksons—of whom we find that, during the Rebellion of 1745, Sir Robert was chief bailie of Musselburgh.

The assumption of the Lords of this wealthy district having been donators to the Abbey of Newbottle, however unwarranted by record, is far from unlikely, the practice having been a common one with the wealthy for very weighty reasons.

In 1184, as we learn from the chartulary of Newbottle, (71,) Robert de Quincey, the father of our hero, granted to the monks of the abbey the lands of Preston, where they formed an agricultural establishment—hence called Prestongrange—with common of pasture for ten sheep, and a sufficiency of oxen to cultivate their grange. Seyer de Quincey confirmed to the monks all these privileges gifted by his father, by which confirmation we learn that their lands of Preston were bounded on the west by the rivulet of Pinkie, in his manor of Travernent.

A curious fact is also ascertained by these charters of the De Quinceys, which is the date at which coals were first worked in Scotland; and, in contradiction to the pretensions of Fifeshire, this appears to have taken place on this spot. The charter of Robert grants to the monks the right of digging peats and of cutting wood for fuel; whereas, in that of his son Seyer, we find the addition of “carbonarium et quarrarium,” with free access to and recess from the same by the sea.

“This charter,” (that of Seyer,) says Chalmers in his erudite Caledonia, vol. ii. p. 486, “must necessarily have been granted between the years 1202 and 1218, as it is witnessed by William, who became Bishop of St Andrews in 1202, and was granted by Seyer de Quincey, who set out for the Holy Land in 1218, where he died in the subsequent year.”

From Keith's Scottish Bishops, p. 15, we learn that William Malvoisine was translated from the see of Glasgow to that of St Andrews in 1202. It is also added, on the authority of the Chart. of Dunfermline, that he was “contemporary with Pope Honorius and Sayerus de Quincey.”

In connexion with the same family, we also find from the Chartulary of Newbottle, that Elena, the youngest daughter of Roger de Quincey, the Constable of Scotland, married Alan la Zouche, an English baron, and that in the division of his great estates among his three daughters, the barony of Heriot fell to her share; and that, in her great liberality, she granted to the monks of Newbottle the church of “Heryeth,” with the tithes and other rights.—(Chart. 270.)

The lands themselves of Heryeth were afterwards acquired by the monks; but whether from the liberality of Elena, or from her son La Zouche, who lost his estates in the succession wars, does not appear.

Such transfers of property to religious houses were of common occurrence. We have already alluded to the cession of Maisterton, by the daughters of Sir Robert de Rossine—Mariot, who married Neil de Carrick, and Ada, the wife of Gilbert de Ayton—in 1320; and from the chartulary of Newbottle we learn that the monks had various lands in Clydesdale, in order to have easy access to which, they obtained, from various proprietors in Mid and West Lothian, special grants of free passage to these distant granges.—(Chart. 218-227, 240.)

In conclusion, we may add, as showing the extensive possessions at this early period of the De Quincey family, that Roger de Quincey, Earl of Winton, gave also to the canons of Dryburgh a toft “in villa de Haddintune.”—(Chart. Dryb. 106.)


Caerbarrin! famed by History's pen
In Scotland's later day,
When Bothwell fled, and Mary was led
In weeping beauty away.

X

The warder hail'd him from the keep,
As through the forest of oak he hied,
Now down the path, by the winding strath,
That leads from Chalkyside:—

160

“Speed, speed thee!” cried the porter old,
As the portals wide he threw;
“Speed, speed thee!” cried the sentinel,
The court as he pass'd through;
And “Speed thee!” echoed the seneschal,
As he showed the way before;
“For much I fear, most holy Frere,
That the struggle shall soon be o'er.”

FITTE THIRD.

I

Bright on Caerbarrin shines the sun;
But all within is woe and gloom,
For there Sir Malcolm bends in death—
Before him yawns the tomb!
Unfolded were the chamber doors,
Where moan'd he, stretch'd in prone decay;
And his rattling breath spake of coming death,
As life's sands ebb'd away.
But, when the mantled Monk he saw,
On his arm he strove to rise,
And the light, that erst was waning fast,
Flash'd back to his sunken eyes.

II

“Welcome! holy Father,” he said,
In accents fond, but low and weak—
“I would pour my sins in thy pitying ear,
And absolution seek;

161

For I have been a sinful man,
And repent me of my sin;
Yet, as pass the hopes of life away,
The terrors of death begin;
But chiefly would I tell to thee
My crime of the blackest dye,
Which a sea of tears might scarce wash out,
Though I could weep it dry!

III

“A gentle ladye my kinsman loved,
And before he cross'd the sea,
To combat afar with the Saracen,
He trust reposed in me;
But a demon held my soul in thrall,
And evil thoughts within me brew'd;
So, instead of nursing her love for him,
Her hand for myself I woo'd.
I threw forth doubts, that only were
The coinage of my brain,
I praised her high fidelity,
Yet mourn'd that her love was vain!”

IV

Upstarted the Frere;—“Ah! holy man,
Yet the worst I have not told;
In me—though sprung from noblest blood—
A perjured wretch behold!—

162

For my love that ladye no love return'd,
Although, with Hellish sleight,
We forged a cartel, whose purport show'd
That De Quincey had fallen in fight.
Yes! my suit that lofty ladye scorn'd—
More distant she look'd and cold;
And for my love no love return'd,
Though I woo'd her with gifts and gold!”

V

Uprose the Frere;—“Nay, sit thee down—
Not mine was the guilt alone:
Father Francis was the clerke thereof,
And his Abbey is your own!
To fair Elena's hand that scroll he bore,
Then she folded her palms, and sigh'd;
And she said, ‘Since true he has died to me,
I will be no other's bride!’
Still woo'd I her in her mourning weeds,
Till she show'd a poniard bare,
And wildly vow'd, if again I vex'd
Her heart, to plunge it there!

VI

“Day after day, ray after ray,
She waned like an autumn sun,
When droop the flowers, 'mid yellow bowers,
And the waters wailing run:

163

Day after day, like a broken rosebud,
She wither'd and she waned,
Till, of her beauty and wonted bloom,
But feeble trace remain'd:
Then seem'd she, like some saintly form,
Too pure for the gazer's eye,
Melting away, from our earthly day,
To her element—the sky!

VII

“She died—and then I felt remorse—
But how could I atone?
And I shook, when by her breathless corse
In silence I stood alone:
Yes! when I saw my victim lie,
Untimely, in her swathing shroud,
The weight of my burden'd conscience hung
Upon me like a cloud!
There was no light—and all was night,
And storm, and darkness drear;
By day 'twas joyless, and my sleep
Was haunted by forms of fear!

VIII

“Lonely I stray'd, until, dismay'd,
I sought the feast, where mirth was none,
Only to find that man is mind,
And form and features dust alone.

164

Yes, of my kinsman oft I dreamt—
Of his woe and his vengeance dire,
Till yesternight he cross'd my sight,
Like a demon in his ire.
I had not heard of his home return—
Like a spectre there he stood—
Appall'd I sank, and his falchion drank
Deeply my forfeit blood.

IX

“Oh! grant remission of my sins,
A contrite, humbled man I die!”
Ere yet the words were out, the monk
Beheld his glazing eye;
And rising away from the couch, he said—
“May Heaven forgive my vow!”
With horror thrill'd his yielding frame,
And he smote his bursting brow:
Then pass'd he from the chamber forth,
And in silence from the gate,
And off to the south, through the steep hill pass,
On his steed he journey'd straight.

X

A weight of woe is at his heart,
Despair's grey cloud is on his brow,
For hope and fear both disappear
In that absorbing now!

165

The world is one vast wilderness,
Vain all its pomp, its honours vain;
De Quincey sigh'd, and onward pass'd
Slowly with slacken'd rein;
Thus wound he down through Cousland glen,
O'erhung with willows grey,
Until he came to the brackens green,
Wherein Father Francis lay.

XI

“Ho! Frere, arise! Thy cloak and cowl
Have done their office meet.”
Father Francis sprang from his lurking-place,
And stood at the warrior's feet.
“Now, tell me,” cried De Quincey, fierce,
“For thou art learned in lore,
What the meaning of this riddle is
That a bird unto me bore,—
A lady in her chamber mourn'd,
Her true knight he was abroad,
Fighting afar with the Saracen,
Under the Cross of God!

XII

A false Friend, and a falser Frere,
Combined to shake her faith;
They forged—ah! wherefore dost thou fear?
Base caitiff, take thy death!”

166

The Knight he struck him to the heart;
Through the branches with a crash,
Down reel'd the corse, and in the swamp
Sank with a sullen dash.

Cousland Dean, a ravine of considerable depth, which commences where the highway from Dalkeith branches off towards Pathhead on the right, and towards Inveresk on the left, although now partially drained, shows every indication of having been in the olden time a wide and extensive morass; and, at its narrowest points, is still spanned by two bridges, one of considerable antiquity. Indeed, the traces of the watercourse are still evident from behind Chalkyside, on the west, running eastwards along the hollow, midway between Elphinstone Tower and Cousland Park, where it still assumes the form of a rivulet.


“Thus perish all who would enthrall
The guileless and the true;
Yet on head of mine no more shall shine
The sun from his path of blue!

XIII

“No more on me shall pleasure smile—
A heartless, hopeless man;
The tempest's clouds of misery
Have darken'd for aye my span.
Farewell—farewell! my native land,
Hill, valley, stream, and strath;
And thou, who held my heart's command,
And ye who cross'd my path.
Blow, blow ye winds! in fury blow,
And waft us from this baleful shore;
Rise, rise, ye billows, and bear us along,
Who hither return no more!”

In the grants made by Seyer do Quincey to the Abbey of Newbottle, mention is made of “his baronies of Preston and Tranent, bounded on the west by the rivulet of Pinkie.” We find also that Falsyde and Elphingston were in his possession; and he is elsewhere styled Earl of Wyntoun, (Caledonia, vol. ii. 486, note 6,) a proof that the barony of that name formed also a part of his immense possessions. It is not a little curious, therefore, that a charter of King William, the brother of Malcolm surnamed the Maiden, should be still extant, wherein, in the thirteenth year of that monarch's reign, he makes confirmation to Phillip de Seytune of the lands of Seytoune, Wintoun, and Winchelburgh, (nunc Winchburgh,) “quhilk,” as Sir Richard Maitland observes, (Historie, p. 17,) “was auld heretage of befor, as the said charter testifies.”

“Willielmus, Dei gra. rex Scotorum, &c. Sciatis presentis et futuri, me concessisse, et hac carta mea confirmasse, Phillipo de Seytune, terram quæ fuit patris sui; scilicet, Seytune, et Wintune, et Winchilburgh, tenendam sibi et hæredibus suis de me et hæredibus meis, in fædo et hæreditate,” &c.

Philip de Seytune was succeeded, on his death, by his son Alexander; and, by another singular preservation, we have, in the forty-sixth year of the same king, another royal charter of infeftment of the same lands. It is nearly in the same words; and, strange to say, two of the witnesses to it are Robert de Quincey and Henry de Quincey. Both of these charters are printed in Dr M`Kenzie's Lives of the Scottish Writers. They have also been transcribed by the author, or rather compiler, of the Diplomata Scotiæ, which transcripts are still preserved, being now, or lately, in the possession of Mr Dillon, a member of the Maitland Club.

In the succession wars, the De Quincey family took side with Baliol, and the Setons with Bruce. Sir Christopher (or Chrystal) Seton saved the life of that great man at the disastrous battle of Methven, and afterwards married his sister. On the accession of Bruce to the throne, the estates of the De Quinceys, being declared forfeited, were conferred on the Setons; and in Sir Richard Maitland's Chronicle we find that “the said King Robert gave to the said Alexander [Seton] the barony of Tranent, with the tenendury thairof for the time, viz. Falsyde mylis and Elphinstoune, as the charteris testifiis, geven thairupoun.” The “landis of Dundas and Cragye” were also bestowed upon him, “for service done by his father and himself, with the landes and barony of Barnis, aboue Hadingtoun, with dyuers uther landis, quhilk I omit for schortnes.”—Glasgow Reprint, 1829, p. 21.

For centuries the name of De Quincey hath perished from out the rich and extensive district which owned its sway; and, in contemplating the destinies of this once great family, how apposite is the exclamation of Claudian—

—“Tolluntur in altum,
Ut lapsu graviore ruant!”


167

THE MINER OF PERU.

Love's holy flame for ever burneth;
From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth:
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest,
It here is tried and purified;
But hath in Heaven its perfect rest
It soweth here in toil and care,
But the harvest-time of Love is there.
Southey.

In that vast realm, where down the rivers wash
Gold from their channels, and the Andes vast
With serene foreheads look, while tempests brood,
And blacken with their shadows the hush'd vales,
Down on the wreathed clouds that girdle them,
Stands, in a spacious plain, Potosi famed,
With domes sublime, and obelisk, and spire,
Like a stone-guardian o'er the buried wealth,
Which Nature, at the moulding of the world,
Hid in her treasury there, deep in the dark.
Not far remote, 'mid fragrant cassia groves,
With many a fig and olive tree between,
Luxurious, spreads a lake, whose shining waters,
Half-subterranean, 'gainst the tooth of Time
Have charmed influence, so that nought therein
Withers away, or rots into oblivion.

168

In the old time, a hundred years ago,
Where now to sunlight, and the face of heaven,
Gleams the blue deep, a spacious vale outspread,
Green-carpeted, and overgrown with shrubs,
Lavish of bloom and odours; but the Miner,
Dark Mammon's slave, mole-like, through year and year,
Had wrought beneath, emptying the silver bowels,
So that in earth were large and spacious halls,
Wide-sweeping stairs, and winding passages,
And many-chamber'd domes, lengthening around,
A palace for Pluto, on his upward journeys—
When sudden, on one summer morn, the shell
Crack'd, with earth-quaking violence; tree and rock,
Blossoming flower and shrub, all disappear'd,
Like Sodom and Gomorrah, as we read;
And to noonday the cavern'd waters raised
Their azure foreheads, bright as winter's stars,
And calm as innocent childhood, when it sleeps.
Husbands and sons, many and well beloved,
Age silver-hair'd, green boyhood, men mature,
Perish'd; yea, in the twinkling of an eye,
Perish'd in that vast ruin, when the roof
Of rock sank o'er them, and the prison'd waters
Rush'd in, like roaring lions, on their prey.
Through all Los Charcos valleys went the woe,
Darkening, like clouds, Potosi's many homes;
And, farther off, on Atacama sate,

169

Chuqusaco remote, and chacras lonely,

The farm-steading of the South American agriculturist.


Perch'd on the steep sides of the neighbouring hills,
As lonely as the condor's nests above them,
And scarcely more accessible to man.
Woe then was general as the air they breathed;
But there was one among the wretched mourners,
Perhaps more wretched than the rest—a girl
Fair as the aspect of serenest summer,
When but the zephyr stirs, and bloomy fields
Look up in beauty to the cloudless sky:
Her thoughts were all the breathings of bright hope,
Sanguine and passionate; but stepdame Fortune
Had sternly link'd her to a low estate;
And, with her sisters, lovely as herself,
Amid the valleys, flocks of richest fleece
She tended, on the sloping heights, or where
Over the stream arbutus hung, and gave
Delightful shelter from meridian heat.
Yet hers was happiness, for she did love—
Now in the bloom of sunny seventeen,
With pure and deep affection did she love
A miner youth. The nuptial day was set;
All for the joyous ceremony ready;
And he had bought her presents of bright feathers,
And trinkets emblematic of his passion,
So that both long'd—long'd for the affianced day,
A week scarce distant—(ah! what narrow bounds
Divide our joys from woe!)—when tidings came,
Even as she sat and sang before the door,
Amid the orange trees—the tidings came,

170

Telling of death, and clouding o'er the sky
Of her heart's hopes and happiness for ever!
Grief, for a while, within her bosom wrought,
Like fiery lightnings in the thunder-cloud;
And, in the tribulation of her heart,
She turn'd away, nor would be comforted!
So young, and yet so wretched; beautiful,
Yet withering in the rosebud of her beauty;
Scathed, while expanding to admiring eyes.
'Twas pitiful—but she did ask not pity:
Shunning communion, and the face of man,
And woman, to the groves and solitudes;
Sequester'd banks, magnolia-overgrown;
Empurpled valleys, prodigal of odours;
Woods lofty, and magnificent, and dim
With richness of o'erarching foliage,
And fruits display'd to woo the wanderer's hand,
Where humming-birds, like bees, piped cheerily,
An elfin sound, charming the listless air,
'Twas her delight to wander: morning there,
Looking in glory o'er the Andes' summits,
Beheld her footsteps; and the evening sun,
When landward breezes from the ocean sigh'd,
Threw back his parting radiance on her brow.
In her wild sorrow had she vow'd a vow,
Fervent and deep, of pure virginity;
And well that oath was kept. Years came and went,
Many and mournful all, but more serene;

171

And as, from sunset glow, the occident
Fades by degrees into a pensive calm,
Soothing and holy, so her soul, subdued
By Nature's kindly influences, partook
Mild resignation: on the past she gazed
As on a vision, brilliant but delusive;
And, in the deep abstraction of her spirit,
She pictured, 'mid the future, stabler bliss,
With him, too early lost, in happier worlds.
Pass we the engulfing void of sixty years,
Then gaze on lorn Marilla.—Age's seal
Set on her wrinkled brow, the polish'd staff
Grasp'd in her palsied hand, the tottering step,
Proclaim'd Time's ravages, blancher of the hair,
And witherer of the strength, in silence eloquent.
How alter'd from Marilla, bright in youth,
Blithe as the lark at morning, when it springs
From the ripe maize; lovely as lotus flower,
Wooing the dimpled current as it passes!
The summer had been sultry, and the rains
Set in; the ceaseless showers fell deluge-like;
Swam, in the valleys green, the gather'd flood;
And streamlets, roaring down the mountain rifts,
Angry and swoln, and sweated into foam,
Kept ever pouring into them: at length
Sank down another portion of the hollow'd
And ore-embowell'd earth; with gurgling noise
It sank, and, with wild eddying whirl, suck'd in

172

The tortured disappearing wave, as if
Deep in the dark recesses of the centre,
In his volcano prison-house immured,
Some Titan, boring through the fiery roof,
Had found at length a draught to cool his thirst.
When once again look'd forth the joyous sun
From the blue heaven, whose flood-gates were shut up,
And Nature, tranquillising from the shock,
Her calm serenity again resumed,
To gaze upon a scene so fraught with change,
Came many—nor amazement there sat idle!
For, lo! upon the waters floated men
In their last sleep

This story is not altogether fanciful, but is founded on an incident said to have occurred within these five or six years in Sweden. The scene is transferred to another hemisphere, on account of the superior advantages afforded for poetical illustration.

—it was a horrible sight—

And sounds arose, dismal as winds that sigh,
Darkling, round castled walls deserted long—
Yea, men unknown, some race of other days,
And there were many, all by death unchanged.
So strong had been the power preservative,
Mineral or petrous, of the charmed flood,
That, to the eye of man, a silent troop,
The unsepulchred of sixty years came forth,
Unchanged, as if by talismanic spell;
But, 'mid the congregated Guassos,

Chilian peasantry.—Captain Basil Hall has lately put the public in possession of a most interesting account of their habits and peculiar modes of life.

none

For kindred mourn'd or friends—each face was strange—
Antique the raiment; such as, in past times,
Mayhap their grandsires wore,
Marilla heard,
As in the solitude of years she sate,
The tidings which to all were as a riddle.
She heard—a strange smile lighted up her face,

173

And her eyes sparkled with unnatural light,
Like stars when frost ices the cloudless sky,
As if at once some truth flash'd on her soul,
As if at once her shoulders had thrown off
The weary burden of augmented years.
By the lake she stood, where, on the summer grass,
Lay the cold bodies, and she look'd at them;
One after one, she search'd with gaze intense;
And, each as she perused, her palms were clasp'd;
And o'er her furrow'd features came the glow
Of sudden recognition, like the sunshine
Breaking through morning clouds that girdle it.
At length she found the object of her search:
Even yet, though cold and colourless the cheek,
And ghastly all the flowing yellow hair,
And stiffen'd out in death the sinewy limb,
Fancy might picture out the handsome youth,
Tall, slender, yet robust.
Down on her knees
She dropp'd—she knelt beside the senseless corpse;
She chafed its temples with her wither'd palms;
She comb'd the matted tangles of its hair
With her thin fingers; and she bent her head,
Listening, in madden'd hope, to hear its breathing.
Now clasping, as in agony of soul,
Her hands on high, she threw herself upon it,
Now calling on the name she loved in youth;
And tears sprang forth, like fountains long damm'd up,
By their hot gush to ease her feeble brain!
'Twas pitiful, to see a woman old,

174

Whose hair was white as Chimborazo's snow,
Thus, when to earth held by a single hair,
Low prostrate in terrestrial wretchedness.
Over her soul the memory of past times
Vividly came, like objects seen at midnight
Through golden lightning; and, the frost of age
Thawing within her bosom for a moment,
The sensibilities of youth return'd;
His neck she bared, and there undid a string
Of silken tissue, whence depending hung,
Broken, a perforated golden coin,
Which, pressing to the other half, long lying
At her own bosom, to her lips she raised,
And cried, slow turning up her eyes to Heaven,
Fervently, as in confidence of spirit,—
“Thou art the witness of my truth—even Thou!
Nearest this lonely heart for sixty years—
All winters—and each drearier than the other—
This token have I worn, and shall till death!
Now may Thy aged servant die in peace!”
Beneath bananas tall, by nopal hedges
Verdantly girded, sleeps a placid churchyard,
With many a cross to scare unholy shapes,
On the hill-side, and there they buried him.
Evening and morning duly went Marilla,
Leaning on her smooth staff, to visit it;
For round his turf, flowers of all pleasant bloom
Had her hands planted, and she water'd them,
So that the fierce sun had on them no power

175

To wither; hours on hours there would she sit,
Musing and watchful, as in that fair spot
Her treasure had been buried; 'neath a dark
And aged cypress did she shelter her
From day's meridian power, and when the moon
Ascended o'er the forests into heaven,
Or restless fire-flies, 'mid the purple eve,
Sparkled like dropp'd gold on a monarch's robe.
Now summer's reign was ended, and the earth,
All prodigally lavish, shed its treasures,
Half undeserved, into the idler's hands,
Enrich'd beyond his hopes: the autumn came,
And in its scythed breeze dropp'd the sere leaves,
And the clouds darken'd, and the flowers all wither'd;
And, like the fading year, Marilla faded.
Scarce seem'd she to have died, so tranquilly
Lay on her closed eyes the poppied touch
Of death—but she was dead. Some peasants found her
Under a savin bush, stretch'd on the ground,
Beside the cherish'd grave of him she loved!

176

SIR ELIDUC.

A LAY OF MARIE.

He had a daughter of young age:
The shoon were gold upon her feet;
So white she was and fair of mood,
So is the snow on red blood.
Whereto should I that maid descrive?
She was the fairest thing on-live.
Sir Bevis of Hamptoun.

FITTE FIRST.

I

Touch ye the harp with tender hand,
And gently let its music flow,
While softly, sadly the Minstrel sings
An olden tale of love and woe:—
Three hundred years have come and gone,
As dewdrops shine and disappear,
Since first 'twas sung by fair Marie
To Henry's royal ear.

177

II

The stately knight, young Eliduc,
As alone in hall he sate,
Beheld the page of Elizabeth,
At eve, beside his gate.
“Come hither—hither, thou page of court,
What would the King with me?”
The boy held the love-gifts on his arm,
As he lowly bent on knee.

III

“I bear this gay gold ring, Sir Knight,
And robe of miniver;
Greets thee by these, my ladye bright,
And bids thee think of her.”
To and fro strode Eliduc,
To and fro he paced the floor,
Then put the gift-ring on his hand,
And the robe his shoulders o'er.

IV

To and fro strode Eliduc;
Anon with folded arms he stood;
Then brush'd the hall with hurried step,
Like one in doubtful mood.
At length he bit his nether lip,
Breathed deep, with downcast head;
For a moment paused in torturing thought,
To the boy then, sighing, said,—

178

V

“Go back—haste back, my little foot-page,
To the palace straight repair,
And tell the Princess Elizabeth
That I will think of her.”
The little page knelt, the little page rose
From the rushes whereon he knelt,
And hied him thence—but who may tell
What Eliduc then felt?

VI

Brave Eliduc is woe-begone,
A cloud o'erhangs his eyes,
And though in fame he hath rivals none,
By the wild sea-shore he sighs.
He stands upon the barren rock,
He listens to the shrieking mew,
Until the evening star is out,
And earth is moist with dew.

VII

But the King hath sent, the Knight is gone
Where he sat at chess in hall;
At the chequer-board play'd a stranger lord,
Behind stood his daughter tall.
“Why, daughter, dove Elizabeth,
Greet ye not this noble knight?
'Tis the same who hath our kingdom saved,
And quell'd our foes in fight.”

179

VIII

Elizabeth stretch'd forth her white soft hand,
And with Eliduc down she stray'd
By the tapestried wall of that long-arch'd hall,
While at board her father play'd.
In a window'd niche at length they stood,
The fair one and the brave,
Both sorrowful and in pensive mood,
Both silent as the grave;

IX

Till the ladye faltering spake,—“Sir Knight,
Words are ill befitting me;
But were the world at my behest,
I would wed no mate but thee.”
“Sweet princess fair,” said Eliduc,
As he dropp'd her proffer'd hand,
“I am pledged by the oath of a leal true knight,
To return to my native land;

X

“And thou knowest, flower, that not with me
Canst thou leave this realm to roam,
For thou art the sole child of its crown,
Which thou must wear at home.”
“'Tis nay, 'tis nay, Sir Eliduc—
This heart is thine, this hand is free;
And if thou spurn'st me not away,
I will cross the waves with thee!”

180

XI

She stood before him beautiful,
Like a lily pure by a lake;
With deep-drawn sighs, and dovelike eyes;
O, his heart was like to break!
“My bird of beauty,” said Eliduc,
“I am summon'd across the sea;
But blithely sing in thy father's halls,
Till I come back for thee.

XII

“O yes—O yes! my fair Princess,
In hopeful peace and pleasure rest.”
Then the love-sick heart of Elizabeth
Leapt for joy within its nest;
And returning to her sire the king,
Sir Eliduc 'gan say,—
“To the shores of my native Brittanie
I am summon'd hence away.

XIII

“Thy realm, great king, is now at rest;
Thy foes are all o'ercome;
While the jars and the wars of my own dear land
Call all her children home.
At the throne, where sign'd was my exile,
All the knaves who cross'd my way
Have own'd the shame of their perjured words,
And for my presence pray:

181

XIV

“Well, well I knew the carpet knights
For their gentle selves should fear,
When o'er them gleam'd the Flanders axe,
“And Brabant's threatening spear.”
“Sir Eliduc,” replied the King,
“Thy worth may none gainsay;
In the gloom of war thou camest to us,
And leavest us peace to-day.”

XV

The King bade the royal galleys wait
At Totness, by the shore,
To the plains of France with sword and lance
To escort the brave knight o'er.
With golden gleam the pennants stream'd;
In foam the blue waves curl'd;
On deck stood the bearded halberdiers,
And the snow-white sails unfurl'd.

XVI

From the echoing streets of Exeter
March'd a thousand men and more,
With banners, and unbeaver'd all,
Following Eliduc to the shore.
There is never a knight in Loegria
Can match with this stranger knight,
At feat of courtly tournament,
Or on blood-red field of fight.

182

XVII

Elizabeth gazed from the turret high,
And she saw him on the plain
Departing 'mid bright clumps of spears,
While pages held each rein;
And toll the bells went, tant-a-roll;
And she heard the trampling crowd,
And the trumpets' bray, and the loud huzza,
And the neigh of a war-horse proud.

XVIII

Passion and pride now lifted up
Her heart within her breast,
But doubt and fear anon drew near,
And down her spirit press'd;
Then, turning, she sank upon her couch,
And wrung her hands, and sighed,—
“O, would that Sir Eliduc were back
To woo me for his bride!

XIX

“Like the rainbow to the clearing air,
Like the bird to the vernal tree,
Like spring's first flowers 'mid woodland bowers
To the honey-thirsting bee;
Like Salem to the pilgrim's sight,
When his feet are travel-sore,
Come the thoughts of thy return, dear love,
My longing spirit o'er!”

183

FITTE SECOND.

I

O, sad was the song of Gildeluec
As she sate within her bower,
Beguiling, with her dulcimer,
The solitary hour.
“Was it a voice?” she rose and cried,
“Or what step comes here in quest?”
The door flew wide—'twas Sir Eliduc,
And she fell upon his breast.

II

“Welcome, welcome! my husband dear!”
Aye she clasped his neck and cried;
“All heavy and drear have lagg'd the hours
Since thou didst sail the tide.
Bring wine and bread, let the board be spread,
Bid the silence of our halls rejoice!”
“Heaven bless thee, fair Gildeluec!”
Quod the knight, with a low sad voice.

III

“And comest thou hither with heart of grief,
My lord, my loved?” the lady said.
“Thou know'st that our land is o'errun with foes,”
Sigh'd the knight, with downcast head.
“Thou art weary, and here wilt rest to-night,
And at morning to the king”—
“Nay,” answer'd he, “I must leave this roof
Ere the bells of vesper ring.”

184

IV

“When life was young, Gildeluec,
To me thou gavest thy hand;
There was no flower like thee, sweet love,
In all this blooming land.
And dost thou call me cruel now?
Then surely am I changed;
Deem'st thou that broken is my vow,
Or my heart from thine estranged?”

V

“As the snow,” cried noble Gildeluec,
“On the Alps, I know thee pure;
Like the roots o' the everlasting hills,
Thy faith is firm and sure;
Then go—go—go to the battle-field,
'Tis thy country calls for thee;
When our foes have before thee fallen or fled,
Return to peace and me!”

VI

His steed at the portal neighing paw'd;
Sir Eliduc donn'd his mail,
His figured casque, with its morion black,
And steel-barr'd aventayle.
He clasp'd her form—he snatch'd one kiss—
By their threshold cypress-tree;
Bade all the saints his dame to bless,
Then off through the woods rode he.

185

VII

The nights they pass'd and the days they pass'd,
Heavy and lone they fell,
As Gildeluec pined for the bugle blast
Which her lord's return should tell.
Yet heard she how o'er vanquish'd foes
Had his banner victorious flown,
While the fame of his name, like a sweet west wind,
Through his native land was blown.

VIII

Did the trumpet of battle arouse his heart,
As it aroused in days of yore?
Did he think of his mate, lone watching late,
For his coming, at her bower door?
No more—no more the battle toils
Did Sir Eliduc's bosom cheer;
And if he thought of Gildeluec,
'Twas with grief, and shame, and fear.

IX

For o'er his soul, like an April gust,
To waken the young flowers driven,
Came the thoughts of Elizabeth, sad and pale,
Like a seraph that pined for Heaven.
He knew her lovely as May morning,
Pure, chaste, as the new-fallen snow;
And could he leave uncheer'd to break,
A heart that loved him so?

186

X

To have told her of his wedded state,
When her heart and hopes were high;
To have told her of his Bretagne mate
Were to have bidden her die.
He mused on her matchless loveliness,
On her bright, bold, artless mind;
But alas! his heart, like Noah's dove,
No haven of rest could find!

FITTE THIRD.

I

The barque is launch'd—before the prow
The hissing billows of foam divide;
And Sir Eliduc sails for Elizabeth,
Whatever fate betide.
Fresh blew the breeze—soon the waste wide seas
By that bounding barque were cross'd,
And at Totness, with the purple dawn,
He lay beside the coast.

II

Beneath the sheltering rocks they moor'd,
In a wild lone woodland cove:
“Now haste thy message, page,” he cried,
“To the ladye of my love,
And tell her that for her we wait,
'Mid this forest by the sea;
Linger till eve by the palace gate,
And hurry her thence with thee.”

187

III

Without stop or stay, the fleet page away
O'er moor and o'er meadow ran,
Till he saw young Elizabeth, 'mid the shrubs
And flowers of the palace lawn.
And he hath knelt and whisper'd there,
And she hath heard and sigh'd,—
Lo! he waits in the copse by the postern-gate
Till the grey of eventide.

IV

When but one star shone like a torch
On departing daylight's tomb,
To the wistful page she comes—she came
Like an angel through the gloom.
With light quick step like a startled fawn,
She hasten'd her through the grove,
A short, warm mantle, with ermined fringe,
Thrown her splendid dress above.

V

With harness bright for the path bedight,
The ready palfrey stood;
The page seized hold of the silken rein,
And away they hied through the wood.
'Neath the linden tree watch'd Eliduc,
Behind was moor'd his barque;
But he leapt to his feet when Elizabeth
Came riding up through the dark.

188

VI

“Welcome, welcome, my love, my life!”—
In a moment, within his arms
Lay the heaving breast of the young princess,
In the bloom of her virgin charms.
“To sea, to sea, my mariners!”
The white sails are unfurl'd;
Behind the barque the land withdrew,
Before the white waves curl'd.

VII

O, bliss of bliss—a lovely night!—
The winds breathed gently free,
The stars, a galaxy of light,
Shower'd fire upon the sea;
And on and on, they bore and bore,
The beauteous and the brave,
Till green Bretagne displayed its shore,
Like a cloud above the wave.

VIII

Sudden changed the sky—a tempest fierce
Fell brooding; and lo! the gale,
Like an evil spirit from Hell let loose,
Split the mast and rent the sail.
And the mountain waves rear'd their crested heads,
And the lightnings scorch'd the sky,
And the mariners on their patron saints
In supplication cry.

189

IX

But from the helm, with upraised arm
An old man leapt, and said,—
“On St Clement and St Nicolas, sirs,
In vain ye call for aid,—
On Mary Mother in vain ye call—
All, Sir Eliduc, for thee
Hath the wrath of Heaven o'ertaken us;
Throw thy paramour in the sea,—

X

“And return, return to thy wedded wife!”
“Wedded wife!” pale Elizabeth cried,
With a shriek gave up her startled life,
And fell dead by his side.
He held her wrist—her lips he kiss'd—
No word his fate deplored;
But Sir Eliduc scized the old man's waist,
And toss'd him overboard.

XI

'Twas silence all: the wild winds fell,
And the clouds dispersed away;
All the stars grew pale, save the morning star
That heralded the day:
With a bubbling groan the old man sank;
The mariners sat with in-drawn breath;
To Bretagne's shore the vessel bore—
'Twas like a ship of death.

190

XII

'Twas silence all: the brightening east
Proclaim'd the coming day;
With many a shriek, from crag and creek
The sea-mews skimm'd the bay;
While sad and silent they glide along
Till the beetling shore they reach,
Then, with dead Elizabeth in his arms,
Strode Eliduc from the beach.

FITTE FOURTH.

I

“Why mournest thou thus, Sir Eliduc?
What is thy cause of woe?
Why these stifled sighs and heavy eyes?
Sure of yore it was not so;
And why so often, Sir Eliduc,
Dost thou thread the woods alone?”
The knight look'd up on Gildeluec,
But answering word spake none.

II

The knight was a gallant knight, the first
In battle-field or festive hall;
The knight is an alter'd man, he hangs
His cuirass on the wall:
Within its kennel yells the hound;
The prison'd falcon pines away;
The steed neighs from his stall, as if
To chide his lord's delay.

191

III

At peep of morn, 'mid thick green woods,
Sir Eliduc to stray is gone;
There is no music in human voice—
He loves to be alone.
At fall of eve, 'neath the rising moon,
Through the tangled walks he strays;
The heart of Gildeluec almost broke
To behold his alter'd ways.

IV

“Betide me weal, betide me woe,”
To her page the ladye said,
“Thou must after thy sorrowing master go,
And track him through the glade.”
The page he went, the page he came;
By her bower the ladye stood—
“What news, what news, my faithful lad,
Bringest thou from dark green wood?”

V

“From turn to turn,” replied the page,
“I lurk'd Sir Eliduc's path to see;
And at length he enter'd the hermit's cell,
Beneath the chestnut tree;
And while he mourn'd that cell within,
I listen'd the door beside,
And heard him say,—‘O, murder'd love,
Would for thee that I had died!

192

VI

“‘To me thou gavest thy love, for me
Didst leave thy father's land;
And I have given thee but a grave
Upon this foreign strand!
And oh! and oh! had'st thou but seen,
And loved some worthier mate;
And oh! for thy hapless death, and oh!
My miserable fate!’”

VII

Sir Eliduc came home—he sate
With his elbow leant on knee;
He spoke not a word of wail, nor sigh'd,
Though bow'd to earth was he.
“Oh, tell me why, Sir Eliduc,
Thou peak'st, and pin'st, and roam'st astray?”—
“Ask the tree, by the forky lightnings scathed,
Why wither its boughs away!

VIII

“Ask the forest oak why down it falls
Beneath the woodman's stroke;
Ask life, when death the tyrant calls,
Why it yields to such a yoke.”
Through the wood, in morning's solitude,
Gildeluec roam'd alone,
And knock'd at the door of the hermitage,
But answer back came none.

193

IX

With a beating heart, and trembling hand,
The wicket latch she raised,
And in as she went, with timid eyes,
Through its twilight gloom she gazed.
Why starts she back? She sees a couch
With coverlet of snow;
She lifted it up in her wonderment,
And a lady slept below!

X

She slept—but 'twas the sleep of death.
Ah! nothing could compare
With the sparkling of her jewell'd robes,
And the pearls in her raven hair,
Save her form—and that was quite divine!
She look'd as of Heaven she dream'd,
While the lustre of her loveliness
Like a halo round her stream'd.

XI

But waned from her lip was the cherry red;
Her silk robe was her swathing shroud;
And her eyes were closed in dim eclipse,
Like stars behind a cloud.
Was nought on earth so beautiful!
Gildeluec sigh'd,—“Ah me!
No wonder, seeing what thou hast been,
My lord's heart turn'd to thee!

194

XII

“Then farewell love—and farewell ye,
The vanities of life!
O would, fair light, that thou hadst lived
To shine his peerless wife!
As it is, I'll love the sun no more,
Let to others his beams be given;
I'll seal mine ears to the sounds of earth,
And give my heart to Heaven!”

XIII

The cloister hath another nun,
The gentlest, purest, holiest there;
Before the crucifix, morn and eve,
She kneels in fervent prayer:
Her thoughts are of the things above,
Her dreams have all a blest abode,
Where, 'midst the bowers of Paradise,
White angels walk with God.

XIV

Sir Eliduc sits in a lonely home;
He hath built a marble tomb,
And within it laid the foreign maid
In the wild wood's central gloom;
With railings of gold he hath railed it round,
Beside the hermit's mossy cell;
He hath lock'd it with a silver key,
And bidden a last farewell.

195

XV

'Twas a lone, sequester'd place; thro' boughs
The sky o'erhead was seen;
And wild vines ran the stems about,
And festooning ivy green;
'Twas a favourite haunt for nightingales,
Singing the moonlight through;
And by day the living emerald shade
Echo'd the stock-dove's coo.

XVI

'Twas one of Nature's shrines: the birds
And beasts came flocking there—
The golden pheasant, and vocal lark,
And squirrel, and hart, and hare;
But scarce a footstep breaks the gloom,
The long still season lone;
Rains, winds, and sunbeams kiss the tomb—
But Sir Eliduc is gone!

XVII

The war-steed neighs—but not from stall—
Caparison'd by the gate;
The cuirass hangs not on the wall,
As it hath hung of late:
His own keen hands have wiped away
The red rust from his sword,
Which again sends out a silvery gleam,
As if it knew its lord.

196

XVIII

'Twas a glorious, glowing September eve,
As the knight rode down the dale;
The broad low sun shone along the land,
And kiss'd his burnish'd mail;
Hawk, hound, and horse roam masterless—
His serving-men grow grey—
His roofs are moss'd;—'tis twenty years
Since the warrior went away!

XIX

A thousand friends had Sir Eliduc—
The brave, the noble, and the wise;
And each asks each, but of his fate
No answering tongue replies.
Arm'd cap-a-pie went Eliduc,
From his proud ancestral towers alone;
But whither he went, or where he died,
By man was never known!

207

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.


209

THE OLD SEAPORT.

(CULROSS, PERTHSHIRE.)

I

When winds were wailing round me,
And Day, with closing eye,
Scowled from beneath the sullen clouds
Of pale November's sky,—
In downcast meditation
All silently I stood,
Gazing the wintry ocean's
Rough, bleak, and barren flood.

II

A place more wild and lonely
Was nowhere to be seen;
The caverned sea-rocks beetled o'er
The billows rushing green;
There was no sound from aught around,
Save, 'mid the echoing caves,
The plashing and the dashing
Of the melancholy waves.

210

III

High, 'mid the lowering waste of sky,
The grey gulls flew in swarms;
And far beneath the surf upheaved
The sea-weed's tangly arms;
The face of Nature in a pall
Death-shrouded seemed to be,
As by St Serf's lone tomb arose
The dirges of the sea.

St Mungo, or Kentigern, is said to have been born here, and to have been left by his mother to the tutelage of St Serf, or Servanus, who lived in a hermitage on the shore of the Forth, noar Culross; and who, there dying, was buried. From this circumstance he was adopted as the guardian saint of the neigh-bourhood; and, down to the close of the fifteenth century, the people showed their veneration for his memory by an annual festival.

A chapel on the beach, at the east end of Culross, was dedicated to St Kentigern, but has long since disappeared.


IV

In twilight's shadowy scowling,
Not far remote there lay
Thine old dim harbour, Culross,
Smoky, and worn, and grey;

Culross—or, as it is pronounced, Cooross—rose many centuries ago to be a considerable seat of population and mart of trade, from its vicinity to the handsome monastery erected by Malcolm, Thane of Fife, in 1217, and which was devoted to the Virgin and St Serf. Its monks were of the Cistercian Order; and the ruins yet extant indicate how considerable were its dimensions.

At a remote era Culross possessed a good deal of shipping, and carried on no inconsiderable maritime commerce, especially in the export trade of salt and coal. From James VI., and from Charles II., were also obtained grants which gave the town the exclusive right of manufacturing girdles—thin circular plates of iron, used in Scotland for the baking of oatmeal or other cakes. For long this continued to be a source of revenue; but the peculiar privilege has long been virtually annulled, and nothing remains of the prosperity of the burgh but a profitless memory. A place more decayed or forlorn-looking cannot well be imagined.


Through far-back generations
Thy blackened piles had stood,
And, though the abodes of living men,
All looked like solitude.

V

Of hoar decrepitude all spake,
And ruin and decay;
Of fierce, wild times departed;
Of races passed away;
Of quaint, grim vessels beating up
Against the whelming breeze;
Of tempest-stricken mariners,
Far on the foamy seas.

211

VI

It spake of swart grey-headed men,
Now dust within their graves,
Who sailed with Barton or with Spens,
To breast the trampling waves;

Naval power very early showed itself to be an important matter to the sovereigns of Scotland—probably from what the country had been occasionally doomed to suffer from the maritime superiority of the Danes and Norwegians; and William the Lion made the building of ships an object of royal attention and patronage. We learn from the Chronicon Manniæ (p. 39) that the fleet which Alexander II. led against Angus of Argyll, and in whose command he died, was a large one; and it is stated by Matthew Paris, (p. 668—odit. Wats.,) that the ship which conveyed Hugh de Chastillon, Earl of St Paul, and his vassals to the Holy Land, along with Louis IX. of France, in 1249, was built at Inverness.

By the time of Alexander III. the mereantile wealth of the country had greatly increased; and Lombard merchants made proposals for settling in the kingdom. It is curious to learn that the spots which they fixed on were the hill above Queens-ferry, and one of the islands at Cramond. At this period, says Mr Tytler, (History, vol. ii. 292,)—“Voyages had become more distant; the various countries which were visited more numerous; the risks of loss by piracy, tempest, or arrestment in foreign ports, more frequent; and it is a remarkable circumstance that the king, in consequence of this, became alarmed, and published an edict, by which he forbade the exportation of any merchandise from his dominions.” This shortsighted policy, as we learn from the ancient historian Fordun, (à Goodall, vol. ii. p. 135,) created a great sensation in foreign countries, and occasioned an immediate resort of vessels from abroad into the Scottish harbours, to take up the commerce we had abandoned.

In the text, the line, if strictly adhering to historical propriety, should rather have joined the name of Wood to that of Barton, as a distinguished early Scottish navigator—Sir Patric Spens, the “skeely skipper” of what Coleridge rightly calls “the grand old ballad” which bears his name, being probably less of the true than of the poetical and “ancient marinere” school. Although not alluded to by any of our old chroniclers, it is generally believed that the cause of his mission to Norway related to Margaret the daughter of King Eric, and grandchild of Alexander III. From the king, however, being mentioned as “sitting in Dunfermline toun,” while it was not till after his death that Sir David Wemyss, and Sir Michael Scott of Balwearie—the famous wizard of Scottish tradition, and of the Lay of the Last Minstrel—were really sent there, it has been feasibly suggested by Sir Walter Scott (Border Minstrelsy, vol. i.) that perhaps the unfortunate expedition of Sir Patric Spens was previous to that solemn embassy, and might be suggested by a natural desire of the king to see his grandchild and heir. According to Mr Buchan's edition of the story, (Ancient Ballads, 1828,) the errand of Spens was not to bring the Maiden of Norway to Scotland at all, but to convey thither her mother, the daughter of Alexander III. The remote antiquity of the ballad is undoubted, but this would carry it back even beyond the era of the generally received version.

Sir Andrew Wood, the celebrated Scottish admiral, who, in the roign of James IV., defeated the English fleet under Stephen Bull, was a native of Largo, in Fifeshire, and for his gallantry was invested by the king with the barony of his birthplace. It is rather a curious coincidence that, in 1676, Alexander Selkirk—the Robinson Crusoe of De Foe's inimitable narrative—should also have been born there. After an absence of several years, during which Selkirk endured the solitude of Juan Fernandez, he returned to Largo, bringing with him his gun, his sea-chest, and cocoa-nut cup—all of which are yet to be seen. After remaining nine months at home, he again took to sea, and, like Falconer, was never more heard of. The cottage in which he was born is still in the possession of his family, as are his chest and cup. The gun is now the property of Mr Lumsdaine of Lathallan.


And how, in shallops picturesque,
Unawed they drifted forth,
Directed by the one bright star,
That points the stormy North.

VII

And how, when windows rattled,
And strong pines bowed to earth,
Pale wives, with trembling children mute,
Would cower beside the hearth,—
All sadly musing on the ships,
That, buffeting the breeze,
Held but a fragile plank betwixt
The sailor and the seas.

VIII

How welcome their return to home!
What wondrous tales they told,
Of birds with rainbow plumage,
And trees with fruits of gold;
Of perils in the wilderness,
Beside the lion's den;
And huts beneath the giant palms,
Where dwelt the painted men!

212

IX

'Mid melancholy fancies
My spirit loved to stray,
Back thro' the mists of hooded Eld,
Lone wandering, far away;
When dim-eyed Superstition
Upraised her eldritch croon,
And witches held their orgies
Beneath the waning moon.

X

Yes! through Tradition's twilight,
To days had Fancy flown
When Canmore or when Kenneth dree'd
The Celt's uneasy crown;
When men were bearded savages,
An unenlightened horde,
'Mid which gleamed Cunning's scapulaire,
And War's unshrinking sword.

XI

And, in their rusty hauberks,
Throng'd past the plaided bands;—
And slanting lay the Norsemen's keels
On ocean's dreary sands;—
And, on the long flat moorlands,
The cairn, with lichens grey,
Mark'd where their souls shriek'd forth in blood,
On Battle's iron day.

213

XII

Between me and the sea, loomed out
The ivied Abbey old,
In whose grim vaults the Bruces kneel
In marble quaint and cold;

The church of the ancient Abbey stood on its north side, and the tower in the midst is still to be seen. The portion of the church which remains has been fitted up, and is now used as a place of parochial worship. The burial-vault of the Bruces is in the north aisle, and contains several very interesting monuments; among them is that of Sir George and his lady, around whom, on a low settle, are ranged their seven children, in a kneeling posture. The whole group is sculptured in marble, and is of great beauty—the costume of the time being distinctly and faithfully preserved. By letters patent, 8th July 1604, Edward Bruce, the Commendator of the Abbey of Kynloss, in Morayshire, at the time of the Reformation, and afterwards a Lord of Session, was created Baron Bruce of Kinloss by James VI. His son, Thomas, received the higher title of Earl of Elgin from Charles I., 19th June 1633.—Vide Keith's Scottish Bishops, (Russel's edit'.,) p. 418-19.


And where, inurned, lies hid the heart
Of young Kinloss deplored,
Whose blood, by Belgium's Oster-Scheldt,
Stain'd Sackville's ruthless sword.

From the side of the aisle, containing the tombs of the Bruces, there projects a piece of unornamented mason-work, which some years ago was found to hold the embalmed heart of Edward, second Lord Kinloss—a young and gallant noble, who was a prominent figure at the English court of James VI., and who fell near Bergen-op-Zoom in a sanguinary duel with his quondam friend, Sir Edward Sackville, afterwards Earl of Dorset. His heart was brought home in a silver case, and was there deposited amid the bones of his ancestors. The circumstances of this romantic and fatal rencontre are detailed with great precision by Mr Robert Chambers in his Life of James the Sixth; and forms one of the most striking and melancholy episodes of family history.


XIII

Waned all these trancèd visions;—
But, on my eerie sight,
Remained the old dim seaport
Beneath the scowl of night;
The sea-mews for their island cliffs
Had left the homeless sky,
And only to the dirgeful blast
The wild seas made reply.

214

THE CONTADINA.

I

Most cheerful Contadina!—thy lapsing years glide o'er,
Serenely, like the elfin waves that melt on Nemi's shore;
Thy heart is full of pleasant thoughts, thy tongue is void of guile,
The eloquence of purest truth effulges in thy smile;
No dark malignant passions break thy bosom's chaste repose,
But softest sleep and sweetest dreams thy tranquil spirit knows;
Through sunny day and starry night propitious fates decree
Whate'er of brightest, blithest, best, the world contains, for thee!

215

II

Most lovely Contadina!—in thy sparkling, speaking eye,
Gleams the purity and depth of thine own Italian sky;
In rings of glossy brightness thy raven locks hang down;
And what although the day-star's glow hath tinged thy cheek with brown?—
It takes not from thy beauty's dower, but seems to lend a charm,
When stealthily a glimpse we gain of thy snowy neck and arm;
For in thy locks, and lips, and eyes, and witching form, we see
That earth has showered, with lavish hand, her choicest gifts on thee!

III

Most generous Contadina!—thy hospitable home
Still, with its open porch, invites the passer-by to come;
The kneaded cake, the fragrant milk, the vegetable store
Of herbs and fruits thy garden yields, and vine-encircled door,
What though they deck a humble board?—he lays his welcome head,
A light and cheerful supper o'er, upon his rushy bed;

216

And when, beneath the opal morn, the wild birds carol free,
Thou speed'st him on his path, while flows his blessing back to thee!

IV

Most gentle Contadina!—thou breath'st Ausonian air,
Where Nature's face is, like thine own, serenely fresh and fair;
Thou sittest by azure lakelets, where the sportive fishes leap,
Around thee groves, above thee vine-clad ruins on the steep;
Thou sing'st and twirl'st thy distaff, while beside thee sleep or play
Thy loveliest children, pleasure-tired, in the blue light of day;
While on the turf the household fawn, beneath the threshold tree,
Turns, listening to thy syren notes, her floating eyes on thee!

V

Most simple Contadina!—although around thee lie
Pride's scattered wrecks, and o'er thee glows the Roman's classic sky,
Although thou know'st not Arria's fate, how home-sick Clelia fled,
In purity how Portia shone, and how Lucretia bled,

217

Yet is thy duty daylight task, for Nature's torch within
The beauty and the blot displays of sanctity and sin;
And what to most is weary toil, as perfume leads the bee,
Silent, spontaneous feeling tells, and kindness teaches thee.

VI

Most pious Contadina!—from earth-caught errors shriven,
The steadfast anchor of thy hope, through faith, is fixed on Heaven;
Thou know'st that He who bled for man can for thy faults atone;
Thou feel'st that He thy soul can free with ransom not its own:
In the calm of peace thou kneelest down, outpouring songs of praise;
Or if the storm of sorrow comes to overcloud thy days,
Unto thy Rock of refuge still 'tis thine for aid to flee,
And, if denied on earth, still shines Heaven's star of bliss for thee!

218

THE WINTER WILD.

I

How sudden hath the snow come down!
Last night the new moon show'd her horn,
And, o'er December's moorland brown,
Rain on the breeze's wing was borne;
But, when I ope my shutters, lo!
Old Earth hath changed her garb again,
And with its fleecy whitening Snow
O'ermantles hill and cumbers plain.

II

Bright Snow, pure Snow, I love thee well,
Thou art a friend of ancient days;
Whene'er mine eyes upon thee dwell,
Long-buried thoughts 'tis thine to raise:
Far—to remotest infancy—
My pensive mind thou hurriest back,
When first, pure blossoms of the sky,
I watch'd to earth your mazy track—

219

III

And upward look'd, with wondering eyes,
To see the heavens with motion teem,
And butterflies, a thousand ways,
Down flaking in an endless stream;
The roofs around, all clothed with white,
And leafless trees with feathery claws,
And horses black with drapery bright—
O, what a glorious sight it was!

IV

Each season had its joys in store,
From out whose treasury boyhood chose:
What though blue Summer's reign was o'er,
Had Winter not his storms and snows?
The Giant then aloft was piled,
And balls in mimic war were toss'd,
And thumps dealt round in trickery wild,
As felt the passer to his cost.

V

The wintry day was as a spell
Unto the spirit—'twas delight
To note its varying aspects well,
From dawn to noon, from noon to night,
Pale morning on the hills afar,—
The low sun's ineffectual gleam,—
The twinkling of the Evening Star
Reflected in the frozen stream:

220

VI

And when the silver moon shone forth
O'er lands and lakes, in white array'd,
And dancing in the stormy North
The red electric streamers play'd;
'Twas ecstasy, 'neath tinkling trees,
All low-born thoughts and cares exiled,
To listen to the Polar breeze,
And look upon “the winter wild.”

VII

Hollo! make way along the line:—
Hark how the peasant scuds along,
His iron heels, in concord fine,
Brattling afar their under-song:
And see that urchin, ho-ieroe!
His truant legs they sink from under,
And to the quaking sheet below
Down thwacks he, with a thud like thunder!

VIII

The skater there, with motion nice,
In semicirque and graceful wheel,
Chalks out upon the dark-blue ice
His chart of voyage with his heel;
Now skimming underneath the boughs,
Amid the crowd now gliding lone,
Where down the rink the curler throws,
With dexterous arm, his booming stone.

221

IX

Behold! upon the lapsing stream
The frost-work of the night appears—
Beleaguer'd castles, round which gleam
A thousand glittering crystal spears;
Here galleys sail of shape grotesque;
There hills o'erspread with palmy trees;
And, mix'd with temples Arabesque,
Bridges and pillar'd towers Chinese.

X

Ever doth Winter bring to me
Deep reminiscence of the past:
The opening flower and leafing tree,
The sky without a cloud o'ercast,
Themselves of beauty speak, and throw
A gleam of present joy around;
But, at each silent fall of snow,
Our hearts to boyhood's pulses bound—

XI

To boyhood turns reflection back,
With mournful pleasure, to behold
Life's early morn, the sunny track
Of feet, now mingled with the mould:
Where are the playmates of those years?
Hills rise and oceans roll between:
We call—but scarcely one appears—
No more shall be what once hath been.

222

XII

Yes! gazing o'er the bleak, green sea,
The snow-clad peaks and desert plain,
Mirror'd in thought, methinks to me
The spectral Past comes back again:
Once more in Retrospection's eyes,
As 'twere to second life restored,
The perish'd and the past arise,
The early lost, and long deplored!

THE DEFEAT OF WINTER.

I

But yester morn the frozen snow
Grimly o'ermantled lawn and lea;
Grey clouds shut out the sky; the sea
Whitened in foam the cliffs below;
And storm-blasts vexed the leafless tree.

II

And now—as by the sudden wave
Of some benign enchanter's rod—
How placidly the waters lave
The entrance of the dank sea-cave,
How brightly greens the vernal sod!

223

III

Up from the dark mould, see, arise
The snowdrop with its soundless bell;
The crocus opes its azure eyes,
And, by the fountain-side, espies
A thousand daisies in the dell.

IV

Hearken the birds—all winter long,
That through the bleak air tuneless flew;
The woodlands seem alive with song,—
They flit about, a rapturous throng,
And dart the green boughs thro' and thro'.

V

Upon the furze the linnet sits,
And to the silence sweetly sings;
Up from the grass the sky-lark flits,
Pours forth its gushing song by fits,
And upwards soars on twinkling wings.

VI

From crevice and from sheltered nook,
Bursting their winter sleep, the fly
And midge come forth, and gladly look
On the bright sun—some skim the brook,
Some wheel in mazy circles by.

224

VII

The bee within its waxen cell
Hath felt the vernal call, and comes
Forth in the warm daylight to dwell,—
Hath bade the silent hive farewell,
And o'er the field delighted hums.

VIII

Sky—earth—and ocean—each hath felt
The sudden influence; life renewed
Into all nature's veins hath stealt;
And Love, with an engirding belt,
Hath beautified the solitude.

IX

As at a new, a glorious birth,
The soul exults, the heart leaps up;
A visioned joy illumines earth;
The primrose glows with silent mirth,
As does the hyacinth's blue cup.

X

The spirit swells—the thoughts expand,
As if escaped from brooding gloom;
And in the sky, and o'er the land,
Are traced, as with an Angel's hand,
The embryo tints of coming bloom.

225

XI

A waken vanished thoughts—come back
The visions of impassioned youth;
And Hope once more regilds the track,
O'er which hath floated long the rack,
Stormy and dim, of cheerless Truth.

XII

In boyhood, ere the spirit knew
How round the earth the seasons range,
There seemed an amaranthine hue
Upon the wall-flower, and the blue
Anemone, that owned not change;

XIII

But Time, the moral monitor,
Brushed, one by one, bright dreams away,
Till scarce is left, but to deplore
Things that have been—to be no more:
Vainly we seek them—where are they?

XIV

Unto the birds—unto the bloom
Of opening flowers a love was given,
As if our world knew not a tomb—
As if our yearning hearts had room
For boundless bliss, and earth was Heaven!

226

XV

Away!—no dreams of gloom should dim
The spirit on a morn like this;
Fill up a beaker to the brim,
Of sunny thoughts, the beads which swim
Upon it all shall melt in bliss.

MAY-DAY.

I.

Come hither, come hither, and view the face
Of Nature, in all her May-day grace!
By the hedgerow wayside flowers are springing;
On the budded elms the birds are singing;
And up—up—up to the gates of Heaven,
Mounts the lark, on the wings of her rapture driven;
The voice of the streamlet is fresh and loud;
On the sky there is not a speck of cloud:
Come hither, come hither, and join with me
In the season's delightful jubilee!

227

II.

Haste out of doors: from the pastoral mount
The isles of ocean thine eye may count;
From coast to coast, and from town to town,
You can see the white sails gleaming down,
Like monstrous water-birds, which fling
The golden light from each snowy wing;
And the chimney'd steamboat tossing high
Its volumed smoke to the waste of sky;
While you note, in foam, on the yellow beach,
The tiny billows each chasing each,
Meeting, and mixing, and melting away,
Like happy things in the light of day,
As rack dissolves in the soft blue sky,
Or Time in the sea of Eternity.

III.

Why tarry at home? the swarms of air
Are about, and o'erhead, and every where—
The little fly opens its silken wings,
And from right to left like a blossom flings,
And from side to side, like a thistle-seed,
Uplifted by winds from September mead;
The midge and the moth, from their long, dull sleep,
Venture again on the light to peep,
Over land and lake abroad they fly,
Filling air with their murmurous ecstasy:
The hare leaps up from her brushwood bed,
And limps, and turns her timid head;

228

The partridge whirrs from the glade; the mole
Pops out from the earth of its wintry hole;
And the perking squirrel's small nose you see
From the fungous nook of its own beech-tree.

IV.

Come hasten, come hither, and you shall see
The beams of that same sun on tower and tree,
That shone over Adam in Eden's bowers,
And drank up the dew of his garden flowers;
Come hither, and look on the same blue sky,
Whose arching cloudlessness blest the eye
Of sapient Solomon, when he sung,
With fluttering heart, and raptured tongue,
“The rain is over and gone—and lo!
The winter is past, and the young flowers blow,
The turtle coos, the green figs swell,
And the tender grapes have a pleasant smell,
The birds are singing to greet the day;
Arise, my fair one, and come away!”

V.

Come hasten ye out: the reviving year
As in a glass makes the past appear;
And, afar from care, and free from strife,
We bask in the sunshine of morning life—
The days when Hope, from her seraph wing,
Rich rainbow hues over earth did fling;
And lo! the blithe throng of the green play-ground—
The cricketers cheer, and the balls rebound—

229

The marble is shot at the ring—the air
Re-echoes the noises of hounds and hare—
The perish'd and past, the things of yore,
Come back in the loveliest looks they wore,
And faces, long hid in Oblivion's night,
Start from the darkness, and smile in light!

VI.

Come hasten ye hither: our garden bowers
Are green with the promise of budding flowers—
The crocus, and spring's first messenger,
The fairy snowdrop, are blooming here;
The taper-leaf'd tulip is sprouting up;
The hyacinth speaks of its purple cup;
The jonquil boasteth, “Ere few weeks run,
My golden circlet I'll show the sun;”
The gillyflower raises its stem on high,
And peeps on heaven with its pinky eye;
Primroses, an iris-hued multitude,
Woo the bland airs, and in turn are woo'd;
While the wall-flower threatens, with bursting bud,
To darken its blossoms with winter's blood.

VII.

Come here, come hither, and mark how swell
The fruit-buds of the jargonelle;
On its yet but leaflet greening boughs
The apricot open its blossom throws;
The delicate peach-tree's branches run
O'er the warm wall, glad to feel the sun;

230

And the cherry proclaims of cloudless weather,
When its fruit and the blackbirds will toy together;
See, the gooseberry bushes their riches show;
And the currant-bloom hangs its leaves below;
And the damp-loving rasp saith, “I'll win your praise
With my grateful coolness on harvest days.”
Come along, come along, and guess with me
How fair and how fruitful the year shall be!

VIII.

Look into the pasture grounds o'er the pale,
And behold the foal with its switching tail;
About and abroad in its mirth it flies,
With its long black forelocks about its eyes,
Or bends its neck down, with a stretch,
The daisy's earliest flower to reach.
See, as on by the hawthorn fence we pass,
How the sheep are nibbling the tender grass,
Or holding their heads to the sunny ray,
As if their hearts, like its smile, were gay;
While the chattering sparrows, in and out,
Fly the shrubs, and trees, and roofs about;
And sooty rooks, loudly cawing, roam
With sticks and straws to their woodland home.

IX.

Out upon in-door cares! Rejoice
In the thrill of Nature's bewitching voice!
The finger of God hath touch'd the sky,
And the clouds, like a vanquish'd army, fly,

231

Leaving a rich, wide, azure bow,
O'erspanning the works of His hand below:—
The finger of God hath touch'd the earth,
And it starts from slumber in smiling mirth;
Behold it awake in the bird and bee,
In the springing flower and the sprouting tree,
And the leaping trout, and the lapsing stream,
And the south-wind soft, and the warm sunbeam:—
From the sward beneath, and the boughs above
Come the scent of flowers, and the sounds of love;
Then haste thee hither, and join thy voice
With a world's which shouts, “Rejoice, rejoice!”

AN EVENING SKETCH.

FROM THE LINKS OF MUSSELBURGH.

The birds have ceased their songs,
All save the blackbird, that from yon tall ash,
'Mid Pinkie's greenery, from his mellow throat,
In adoration of the setting sun,
Chants forth his evening hymn.
'Tis twilight now;
The sovran sun behind his western hills—
His Grampian range of amethystine hue—

232

In glory hath declined. The volumed clouds,
Kissed by his kind effulgence, hang around,
Like pillars of some tabernacle grand,
Worthy his mighty presence; while the sky,
Illumined to its centre, glows intense,
Changing the sapphire of its arch to gold.
How deep is the tranquillity! yon wood
Is slumbering through its multitude of stems,
Even to the leaflet on the frailest twig!
A gentle gloom pervades the Birslie heights,
An azure softness mingling with the sky;
And westward, looking to the Morphoots dim,
Grey Falsyde, like an aged sentinel,
Stands on the shoulder of his watch-tower green.
Nor lovely less in its serenity
The Forth, now waveless as a lake engulfed
'Mid sheltering hills; without a ripple spreads
Its bosom, silent and immense: the hues
Of flickering light have from its surface died,
Leaving it garbed in sunless majesty.
No more is heard the plover's circling wail,
No more the silver of the sea-mew's wing
In casual dip beheld; on eastern Bass
The flocks of ocean slumber in their cells.
The fisherman, forsaken by the tide,
His shadow lost, drags to the yellow shore
His cumbrous nets, and in the sheltering cove
Behind yon rocky point his shallop moors,
To tempt again the perilous deep at dawn.
With bosoming boughs round Musselburgh hang

233

Its clumps of ancient elm-trees; silently
Pierces the sky its immemorial spire,
Whose curfew-bell, through many a century,
Glad sound, hath loosed the artisan from toil;
And silently, o'er many a chimneyed roof,
The smoke from many a cheerful hearth ascends,
Melting in ether.
As I gaze, behold
The Evening Star illumines the blue south,
Twinkling in loveliness. O holy star!
Thou bright dispenser of the welcome dews,
Thou herald of Night's glowing galaxy,
And harbinger of social bliss! how oft,
Amid the twilights of departed years,
Ere Truth had from the pinions of Romance
Brushed off the downy gold—how oft, alone,
Resting beside the grove-o'ershadowed Esk,
On trunk of mossy oak, with eyes upturned
To thee in admiration, have I sate,
Dreaming sweet dreams, till earth-born turbulence
Was quite forgot, and fancying that in thee,
So glitteringly remote, so calm, so pure,
Free from the sins and sorrows of this world,
There might be realms of real happiness!

234

ON THE DEATH OF IDA.

I

'Tis midnight deep; the full, round moon,
As 'twere a spectre, walks the sky;
The balmy breath of gentlest June
Just stirs the stream that murmurs by:
Above me frowns the solemn wood;
Nature, methinks, seems Solitude
Embodied to the eye.

II

Yes, 'tis a season and a scene,
Ida, to think on thee: the day,
With stir and strife, may come between
Affection and thy beauty's ray;
But feeling here assumes control,
And mourns my desolated soul
That thou art rapt away!

235

III

Thou wert a rainbow to my sight,
The storms of life before thee fled;
The glory and the guiding light
That onward cheered and upward led;
From boyhood to this very hour,
For me, and only me, thy flower
Its fragrance seemed to shed.

IV

Dark though the world for me might show
Its sordid faith and selfish gloom,
Yet, 'mid life's wilderness, to know
For me that sweet flower shed its bloom,
Was joy, was solace—thou art gone—
And hope forsook me, when the stone
Sank darkly o'er thy tomb.

V

And art thou dead? I dare not think
That thus the solemn truth can be;
And broken is the only link
That chain'd youth's pleasant thoughts to me!
Alas! that thou couldst know decay—
That, sighing, I should live to say,
“The cold grave holdeth thee!”

236

VI

For me thou shon'st, as shines a star,
Lonely, in clouds when heaven is lost;
Thou wert my guiding light afar,
When on misfortune's billows tost:
Now darkness hath obscured that light,
And I am left, in rayless night,
On Sorrow's lowering coast.

VII

And art thou gone? I deemed thee some
Immortal essence—art thou gone?
I saw thee laid within the tomb,
And I am left to mourn alone:
Once to have loved is to have loved
Enough; and what with thee I proved,
Again I'll seek in none.

VIII

Earth in thy sight grew faëry land;
Life was Elysium—thought was love—
When, long ago, hand clasped in hand,
We roamed through Autumn's twilight grove;
Or watched the broad uprising moon
Shed, as it were, a wizard noon,
The blasted heath above.

237

IX

Farewell!—and must I say farewell?—
No—thou wilt ever be to me
A present thought; thy form shall dwell
In love's most holy sanctuary;
Thy voice shall mingle with my dreams,
And haunt me when the shot-star gleams
Above the rippling sea.

X

Never revives the past again;
But still thou art, in lonely hours,
To me earth's heaven, the azure main,
Soft music, and the breath of flowers;
My heart shall gain from thee its hues;
And Memory give, though truth refuse,
The bliss that once was ours!

238

OUR NATIVE LAND.

Moriens dulces reminiscitur Argos.

The halo round the Seraph's head,
Too purified for thing of earth,
Is not more beautifully bright
Than that celestial zone of light,
Which Nature's magic hand hath shed
Around the land which gave us birth.
O!—be that country beautified
With woods that wave, and streams that glide,
Where bounteous air and earth unfold
The gales of health and crops of gold;
Let flowers and fields be ever fair;
Let fragrance load the languid air;
Be vines in every valley there,
And olives on each mountain side:—
Or—let it be a wilderness
Where heaven and earth oppose in gloom;

239

Where the low sun all faintly glows
O'er regions of perennial snows:—
Still 'tis the country not the less
Of him, who sows what ne'er may bless
His labours with autumnal bloom!
Yes! partial clans, in every clime,
Since first commenced the march of Time,
Where'er they rest—where'er they roam—
All unforgot,
Have still a spot
Which memory loves, and heart calls—home!
From where Antarctic oceans roar
Round Patagonia's mountain shore;
To where grim Hecla's cone aspires,
With sides of snow, and throat of fires!

240

BLOOM AND BLIGHT.

I

The scene is desolate and bleak;
Dim clouds, presaging tempest, streak
The waning fields of air;
In sombre shade the valleys lie,
And January breezes sigh
Through leafless forests bare;
The rank grass rustles by the stone,
With danky lichens overgrown.

II

The drooping cattle cower below,
While on the beech's topmost bough
The croaking raven sits;
The tumult of the torrent's roar,
That, rain-swoln, rushes to the shore,
Is heard and lost by fits—
Now with a voice o'erpowering all,
Now sinking in a dying fall.

241

III

How vanishes our time away!
'Tis like the circuit of a day,
Since last, with devious feet,
This lone, sequester'd path I trode;
The blooming wild-flowers gemm'd the sod,
And made the breezes sweet;
The hues of earth, the tints of sky,
Were rapture to the heart and eye.

IV

I listen'd to the linnet's song;
I heard the lyric lark prolong
Her heart-exulting note,
When, far removed from mortal sight,
She, soaring to the source of light,
Her way through cloudland sought,
And, from ethereal depths above,
Seem'd hymning earth with strains of love.

V

The wild rose, arch'd in artless bower,
The purpling thyme, the heather flower,
The whin in golden bloom,
Smiled forth upon the shining day,
As if they joy'd in their array
Of beauty and perfume;
And from the heart of every grove
Was heard the cushat's coo of love.

242

VI

And now I listen to the breeze
That whistles through the leafless trees,
And to the pattering rain;
Down roars the stream with foamy surge,
And from the marsh the curlew's dirge
Comes wailing o'er the plain:
Well may such alter'd scene impart
A moral to the thinking heart!

VII

In youth, ah! little do we think
How near the torrent's crumbling brink
The flowers of pleasure grow;
How fickle Fortune's gale; how far
From gleam of Duty's guiding star,
Life's bark may sail below;
What chance and change frail Man may brave,
Betwixt the cradle and the grave!

VIII

Change is impress'd on all we see—
The budding, blooming, blighted tree;
The brightening waning sky;
The sun that rises but to set;
Health with its glowing coronet;
Disease with sunken eye;
And Childhood passing, stage by stage,
Through Manhood to decrepit Age.

243

IX

What read we thence? That not for us
In vain Creation preacheth thus,
By growth and by decay:
That Man should lift his mental eye
Beyond Earth's frail mortality,
And in the endless day
Of Heaven behold a light display'd,
To which Our sunshine is like shade.

MINE OWN.

I

I need not token-flowers to tell
How deeply dear thou art,
Still on mine ear thine accents dwell,
Thy virtues in my heart;
Thy beauty floats before mine eyes
In soft celestial light,
Alike at orient day's uprise,
And pensive shut of night.

244

II

Although afar—although afar—
Yet art thou with me still,
When evening's star, and morning's star,
Gleams o'er the twilight hill;
Thy beauty streams through all my dreams,
The lone night-watches through;
And cloudless skies recall thine eyes,
The archangel's tearless blue.

III

The sinking and the swelling heart
Of fond yet fearful love,
The bliss to meet, the pain to part,
It hath been ours to prove;
The deep embrace of blessedness,
By absence made more blest;
And separation's pangs, which press
Its life-blood from the breast.

IV

Memorials of that vanished day
Of mingled bliss and woe,
When from yon garden bowers away
Time forced my steps to go;
I prize each withered bloom and stalk,
For that dear hand of thine,
Which plucked them on our parting walk,
And gifted them to mine.

245

V

I see thee in thy beauty yet
Upon the gravel stand,
The glowing tints, red, blue, and jet,
Fresh blooming in thy hand:
And lo! all withered, wan, and dried,
Before me here they lie,
To tell that since I left thy side
Long months have lingered by.

VI

But think not months, however long,
(For long all months must be,
Theme of my blessing and my song!
Which sever me from thee,)
Shall e'er undo one tender tie
Affection's fingers wove,
Shall make less deep the daily sigh
Which Absence owes to Love!

VII

'Twas Autumn,—and the redbreast lulled
With song the fading bowers,
When for my hand thy fingers culled
These wan and withered flowers:
Fresh were they then; but, as I gaze
The shrivelled blossoms o'er,
The mountain-peaks are grey with haze,
And gleams the snowy moor.

246

VIII

The clouds of doubt between us rolled,
In shadows passed the day,
But, like a star, thy love consoled
My spirit with its ray;
For through the tempest and the night
That beam was duly shed,
To cherish with its steadfast light
The hope which else had fled.

IX

O hallowed, Heavenly to my view
Is every gentle scene,
Where thy fair foot hath brushed the dew
From off the daisied green!
Thy love, thy loveliness, thy worth,
To me seem blessings given,
To show my soul how things of earth
Can raise its thoughts to Heaven!

X

Farewell! thou shalt not be forgot,
My beautiful, mine own!
O may the sorrows of our lot
Bow down my head alone!
And these dried flowers, which, given to me,
Were moist with morning rain,
Shall bloom of thee, and breathe of thee,
Until we meet again!

247

THE IMPROVISATRICE.

ILLUSTRATIVE OF A PICTURE BY BONE, ENGRAVED BY ROMNEY.

I

Beside her cottage door she sate and sang,
That gentle creature, with her deep black eyes,
As if her heart of grief ne'er owned a pang,
And her young breast were sunny as her skies;
The ripe rich grapes hung clustering round her head,
And roses, by her side, sweet perfume shed.

II

A poetess in spirit, by the touch—
Of Nature framed, she needed not the rules
Of pedants, sophists, dogmatists, and such;
Art's trickery, or the doctrines of the schools:
The glow was at her soul, and so she sung,
Life in her words, and heart upon her tongue.

248

III

Her theme was love—of quiet summer eves,
And shepherds piping in the pastoral dale;
And how, with throbbing heart, beneath the leaves
Of the green elms, the lover breathed his tale,
And she, his idol, from his amorous arms,
Half-pain'd, half-pleas'd, withdrew her conquering charms.

IV

Of Tasso and his passion deep she told,
His inspiration, frenzy, and despair;
And how, thro' lonesome years, amid the mould
Of dungeon cells, his Leonora fair
Rose in her beauty on his tranced sight,
Like eve's one star 'mid winter's gathering night.

V

And then to gentle Petrarch changed the theme,
And to Vaucluse's woodland greenery bright—
Laura his daylight idol, and the dream
Of his mild spirit through each watch of night;
Time purifying still his ardours high,
Till Passion's self became Philosophy.

249

VI

Anon she sang of battle, and the breath
Of Slaughter tainting heaven's salubrious gale;
Households laid prostrate by the leveller Death,
And orphans desolate, and widows pale;
Anguish imploring Rapine, deaf to hear;
Life-withering Famine, and sepulchral Fear.

VII

The wars of fierce and fiery Tamerlane
She sang; and how it soothed his savage rage
To pluck, in daily hate, the humbling chain
Which knit proud Bajazet to his iron cage,
Until, beneath Scorn's unrelenting yoke,
His hopes forsook him, and his heart was broke.

VIII

Then Peter's praise she hymn'd, who o'er the rude
And darken'd Russ shed civilising light,
Triumphant in the van of battle stood,
And vanquish'd Charles at red Pultowa's fight.—
Symphonious with her voice, the rich guitar
Calm'd into peace, or kindled into war.

250

IX

Anon the varied charms of Nature's face
Would lend a syren witchery to her song,
As she the lovely lineaments would trace
Of amaranthine isles, to which belong
Perennial, endless summer; and man's life,
Unpoison'd by Ambition, knows not strife.

X

Straight to the wintry waste of polar seas
Th' enchantress bore with her the soul astray,
Where scowl'd the iceberg, and the sleety breeze
Drifted from howling cubs the bear away,
And fur-clad natives, housed in caverns drear,
Slept thro' the night which darken'd half the year.

XI

The Passions at her bidding throng'd around—
Hope, with her bright blue eyes and golden hair;
Teeth-gnashing Hate; Remorse that bit the ground;
Yellow-brow'd Jealousy, and fierce Despair;—
The Spirits met and mix'd; and from the strife
She drew that pictured chaos, human life.

251

XII

Gaze on that face—'tis fair and feminine;
Yet, in the mirror of those pensive eyes,
Whose lustre rather seems to speak than shine,
A fathomless abyss of passion lies:
Earth is to her a spectral vision bright,
Flashing with sunshine, or begrimed with night.

XIII

'Tis past!—and art thou but a brilliant dream
On which I gaze—a something, by the power
Of Genius conjured from the shapes that teem
In the mind's eye, thro' Inspiration's hour?—
Even as I gaze, the warm illusions fade
Into a silent scene, an empty shade.

XIV

Bare canvass, and the solitary gloom
Of a dim studio—there the Painter stands,
Bidding each nice and tender touch illume
The scene, till beauty on the sight expands;
And lo! the marvel which creative Art
Gifts in its high perfection to the heart!

252

XV

Yes! such was the illusion, and so bright
The Poetess of Nature, which the power
Of genius conjured to the Painter's sight,
In Contemplation's meditative hour,—
The syren shape in Memory's love enshrined,
Which Bone to beauty drew, and Romney lined.

CHRISTMAS MUSINGS.

ADDRESSED TO IANTHE.

I

Time flies apace—another year hath perished,
Perished, and joined the irrevocable past;
Hopes, in its progress brightly born and cherished,
Have been by shade o'ercast,
And sorrows, that seemed evils to our sight,
Have “turned their silver linings to the night:”
So little do we know of what is for us
Doomed by unerring Providence for good,
That, could the past from out its womb restore us
The visions we have wooed,
So inconsistent must existence seem,
That reason should seem frenzy, truth a dream.

253

II

Time flies apace—since last ice-crown'd December
With his snow-mantle overlaid the earth,
What myriad hopes and fears do we remember,
That had their death or birth!
How many joys and sorrows, which have made
Life's pathway one all sunshine, or all shade!
Since last the ruddy Christmas hearth did brighten
The kindred faces of the social ring,
Since last the angel of the frost did whiten
The landscape with his wing,
Hath Misery from our firesides kept aloof?
Hath Death afforded of his power no proof?

III

Ah! who can say thus much? and tho' hath cost me
Full many a heart-pang the departed year,
Yet why should I repine?—it hath not lost me
(What was of all most dear)
Thy love—an undeserved possession, worth
Far more than all the wealth of all the earth!
Yes, in that knowledge there are blessings treasured,
More than a kingdom's gold for me could buy:
Oft are life's goods by a false standard measured
In Error's vulgar eye,
While happiness, true happiness, is found
In the heart's feelings, not in things around.

254

IV

Summer was on the hills, when last we parted,
Flowers in the vale, and beauty in the sky;
Our hearts were true, altho' our hopes were thwarted:
Forward, with wistful eye,
Scarce half-resigned we looked, yet thought howsweet
'Twould be again in after-months to meet.
Now 'tis December chill: the moon is shining
O'er the grey mountains and the stilly sea,
As, by the streamlet's willowy bend reclining,
I pause, remembering thee,
Who to the moonlight lent a softer charm,
As through these wilds we wandered, arm in arm.

V

Yes! as we roamed, the sylvan earth seemed glowing
With many a beauty unremarked before:
The soul was like a deep urn overflowing
With thoughts, a treasured store;
The very flowers seemed born but to exhale,
As breathed the West, their fragrance to the gale.
Methinks I see thee yet—thy form of lightness,
An angel phantom gliding through the trees,
Thine alabaster brow, thy cheek of brightness,
Thy tresses in the breeze
Floating their auburn, and thine eyes that made,
So rich their blue, heaven's azure like a shade.

255

VI

Methinks even yet I feel thy timid fingers,
With their bland pressure, thrilling bliss to mine:
Methinks yet on my cheek thy breathing lingers,
As, fondly leant to thine,
I told how life all pleasureless would be,
Green palm-tree of earth's desert, wanting thee.—
Not yet, not yet, had Disappointment shrouded
Youth's summer calm with storms of wintry strife;
The star of Hope shone o'er our path unclouded;
And Fancy coloured life
With those elysian rainbow hues, which Truth
Melts with his rod, when disenchanting Youth.

VII

Where art thou now? I look around, but see not
The features and the form that haunt my dreams:
Where art thou now? I listen, but for me not
The deep, rich music streams
Of that entrancing voice, which could bestow
A zest to pleasure and a balm to woe:
I miss thy smile, when morn's first light is bursting
Through the green branches of the casement tree;
To list thy voice my lonely ear is thirsting,
Beside the moonlight sea.
Vain are my longings, my repinings vain;
Sleep only gives thee to my arms again.

256

VIII

Yet should it cheer me, that nor Woe hath shattered
The ties that link our hearts, nor Hate, nor Wrath;
And soon the day may dawn, when shall be scattered
All shadows from our path;
And visions be fulfilled, by Hope adored,
In thee, the long-lost, to mine arms restored.
Ah, could I see thee!—see thee, were it only
But for a moment looking bliss to me!
Ah, could I hear thee!—desolate and lonely
Is life, deprived of thee:
I start from out my reverie, to know
That hills between us rise, and rivers flow.

IX

Let fickle Fortune change—be she preparing
To shower her arrows, or to shed her balm,
All that I ask for, pray for, is the sharing
With thee life's storm or calm;
For ah! with others, Wealth and Mirth would be
Less sweet by far than Sorrow shared with thee!
Yes! vainly, foolishly, the vulgar reckon,
That Happiness resides in outward shows:
Contentment from the lowliest cot may beckon
True Love to sweet repose;
For genuine bliss can ne'er be far apart,
When soul meets soul, and heart responds to heart.

257

X

Farewell! let tyrannous Time roll on, estranging
The eyes and heart from each familiar spot,
Be fickle friendships with the seasons changing,
So that thou changest not!
I would not that the love, which owes its birth
To Heaven, should perish like the things of earth!—
Adieu! as falls the flooding moonlight round me,
Fall Heaven's best joys on thy beloved head;
May cares that harass, and may griefs that wound me,
Flee from thy path and bed!
Be every thought that stirs, and hour that flies,
Sweet as thy smile, and radiant as thine eyes!

LINES ON A PORTRAIT OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, BY C. R. LESLIE, ESQ., R.A.

Pride of my country! I delight,
As from the Painter's canvass bright
Thy placid smile beams cheerily,
Musing alone, to gaze on thee,
Imagination's mightiest son,
And, marvelling at thy triumphs won,

258

Think what may be achieved by man,
Even in this life's contracted span!
Ennobler of man's name! thy mind
Is as the free air unconfined;
Thou wav'st thy wand—and from the tomb
Long-vanished spirits trooping come;
Tradition's shadowy ages pass
Before our thoughts, as in a glass;
The past is as the present seen;
And hoar Antiquity looks green.
There glide they on—revived once more,
The feelings and the forms of yore—
The cuirassed warrior, stern and high;
Beauty, with soul-subduing eye;
Religion's choir in cloistral nave;
The hermit in his mossy cave;
The warder on the bastion's brow;
The peasant at his peaceful plough;
The simple serf, the lettered sage,
Soul-glowing youth, and chastened age;
The loftiest and the lowliest birth;
The pomp and poverty of earth!
Prime lustre of our age! with glow
Of grateful pride, I thrill to know
That I am countryman of thine:
Thy fame to Scotland is a mine
Of glory, wealthier than Peru
Can boast her golden regions through.

259

Thy tale is on our hills—thy tale
Re-echoes through each verdant vale;
From southland borders, where the Tweed
Flows murmuring to the shepherd's reed,
And, by the cairn and crested steep,
Ruin and Silence empire keep;
To where the Arctic billow foams
Round Shetland's sad and silent homes,
And weeps the rain, and wails the surge,
As 'twere of living things the dirge.
Kind benefactor of thy race,
The whole world seems thy dwelling-place!
Where'er flows blood of human-kind,
Man will in thee a brother find.
Thou hast not used thy genius high
Life's motley scenes to bid us fly;
Thou hast not told us that our fate
Is to be hated, and to hate;
That faith is falsehood; that within
Man's heart dwells nought save thoughts of sin;
That eyes were only formed to weep;
That death is an eternal sleep:
No!—thou hast taught us that the air
Is sweet, the green earth very fair;
That on the mount and on the main,
That in the forest and the plain,
Nature's boon gifts are richly strewn;
That peace dwells with the good alone;

260

That man's heart is a holy place,
And man of an immortal race!
Thy soul-born greatness can deride,
Illustrious Bard! all paltry pride,
And 'midst thy fellows thou might'st pass
As not apart, but of the mass;
Yet who hath won a fame like thee,
Throughout the world, by land or sea?
With it Time's empire is allied,
And the world rings from side to side:
'Tis fame, the loftiest and the best
That ever mortal genius blest:
'Tis pure—that fame owes not a jot
From pandering to unworthy thought:
It ne'er awakened virtue's sigh,
Nor flushed the cheek of modesty:
'Tis bloodless—from another's woe
Thy laurels were not trained to grow;
And thou canst lay thee down at eve,
Nor with the boast thy heart deceive,
That thou has done thy best to throw
Hope's healing balm o'er human woe;
In south and north, in east and west,
That thou hast made some bosom blest;
Lighted the cheerless home of grief;
To wearied spirits breathed relief;
Stirred youth's ambitious pulse to rise;
And drawn sweet tears from Beauty's eyes.

261

Brother of Homer, and of him,
By Avon's shore, 'mid twilight dim,
Who dreamed immortal dreams, and took
From Nature's hand her pictured book,
Time hath not seen, and may not see,
Till ends his reign, a third like thee.

THE GRAVES OF THE DEAD.

A DIRGE.

A pickaxe, and a spade, a spade,
But and a shrouding sheet;
O, a pit of clay for to be made
For such a guest is meet!
Lord de Vaux

I.

Oh, when should we visit the graves of the dead,
To hallow the memory of days that are fled?
At Morning,—when the dewdrops glisten
On the bladed grass and the whispering leaves,
When the heart-struck silence delights to listen
As the solitary blackbird grieves;

262

Then the glorious orient sun, adorning
The landscape, asks us, where are they,
Who, like larks, with us in life's sweet morning,
Carelessly sung all blithe and gay?
We listen in vain for their gentle voices,
We look in vain for their pleasant smiles;
Yet Nature still in her youth rejoices,
And almost the bosom to joy beguiles.
We find them not within the wildwood,
Up in the mountain, down in the plain,
As erst of yore, when the skies of childhood
Gleam'd bluely o'er us without a stain.
Alas! and alas!
Green grows the grass—
Like the waves we come, like the winds we pass!

II.

Oh, when should we visit the graves of the dead,
To hallow the memory of days that are fled?
At Noontide,—when the wide world round us
Busily hums with tumultuous strife,
And Fate with her viewless chain hath bound us
Within the enchanted ring of life;
'Tis then that the startled soul, recoiling,
Turns, sickening turns, from the noisy crowd,
And feels how empty is all our toiling,
When the certain finish is in the shroud.

263

Lone, lone—by the living all forsaken—
Bud the wild-flowers, and bloom around;
The fierce-eyed sunbeams no more awaken
From that dreamless slumber, sad and sound;
Then in the green fields flocks are bleating,
And neighs the proud steed beneath his palm,
To whose covert boughs the birds retreating,
In coolness chant their choral psalm.
But alas! and alas!
Green grows the grass—
Like the waves we come, like the winds we pass!

III.

Oh, when should we visit the graves of the dead,
To hallow the memory of days that are fled?
At Evening,—when the flowery meadows
With the haze of twilight begin to fill,
And darkly afar the eastward shadows
Stretch from the peaks of the sunless hill;
When the laggard oxen from fields of clover
Low mournfully as on they roam;
And, with sooty wing, sails slowly over
The night-o'ertaken crow to its home:
Oh, then the forms of the dear departed
Float, spectre-like, in Fancy's eye—
They come—the pale—the broken-hearted—
They come—the mirthful—flitting by;

264

We scan their features, we list their voices,
The sights, the sounds of remembered years—
This in its buoyant tone rejoices,
That softly thrills on the brink of tears.
Oh, alas! and alas!
Green grows the grass—
Like the waves we come, like the winds we pass!

IV.

Oh, when should we visit the graves of the dead,
To hallow the memory of days that are fled?
At Midnight,—when the skies are clouded,
The stars seal'd up, and the winds abroad;
When earth in a dreary pall is shrouded,
And sere leaves strew the uncertain road;
When desolate tones are around us moaning,
O'er gravestone grey, and through ruined aisle;
When startled ravens croak, and the groaning
Tempest uptosses forests the while—
Then let us pause by ourselves, and listen
To nature's dirge over human life;
And the heart will throb, the eye will glisten,
When Memory glances to prospects rife
With pleasures, which Time's rude whirlwind banish'd,
With meteor visions that flamed and fled,
With friends that smiled, and smiling vanish'd
To make their lone homes with the dead.

265

For alas! and alas!
Green grows the grass—
Like the waves we come, like the winds we pass.

V.

Oh, when should we visit the graves of the dead,
To hallow the memory of days that are fled?
In Grief,—for then reflection gleaneth
A lesson deep from unstable fate;
And Wisdom's small voice the spirit weaneth
From earth's forlorn and low estate:—
In Mirth,—because 'tis mockery surely
Of what we feel, and perceive around;
And the chasten'd bosom beats more purely,
When press our footsteps on hallowed ground:—
At all times,—for 'tis wisely loosing
The soul from ties that bind it down;
And a godlike strength is gained from musing
On the fate which soon must prove our own:
For here Sorrow's reign is short, if bitter;
And Pleasure's sunshine, though bright, is brief;
And pass our days o'er in gloom or glitter,
Death comes at length, like a silent thief!
Then alas, and alas!
Like the dews from grass—
Like the clouds from heaven, away we pass!

266

THE BARD'S WISH.

I

O! were I laid
In the greenwood shade,
Beneath the covert of waving trees;
Removed from woe,
And the ills below,
That render life but a long disease!

II

No more to weep,
But in soothing sleep
To slumber on long ages through;
My grave-turf bright
With the rosy light
Of eve, or the morning's silver dew!

III

For all my dreams,
And vision'd gleams,
Are not like those of this earthly span;

267

My spirit would stray
For ever away
From the noise of strife, and the haunts of man.

IV

I ask no dirge—
The foaming surge
Of the torrent will sing a lament for me;
And the evening breeze,
That stirs the trees,
Will murmur a mournful lullaby.

V

Plant not—plant not—
Above the spot,
Memorial stones for the stranger's gaze;
The earth and sky
Are enough, for I
Have lived with Nature all my days!

VI

O! were I laid
In the greenwood shade,
Beneath the covert of waving trees;
Removed from woe,
And the ills below,
That render life but a long disease!

268

THE LAMENT OF SELIM.

I.

The waters of the Bosphorus
Have lost their crimson glow as darkles
Day's occidental fire, and thus,
In tearful beauty tremulous,
The radiant Star of Evening sparkles
In the blue south, where Stamboul lies—
Its myriad minarets and spires,
Forsaken by red sunset's fires,
In darkness grouped against the skies:
Around my path the cypress trees
Are stirring in the landward breeze;
The flowers outbreathe beneath my feet,
Rejoicing that the sunny heat
Hath passed, and that the cooling dews
Are on their journey from the height
Of cloudless zenith, to infuse
Freshness, and fragrance, and delight,

269

O'er all the parched and panting things
On which they fall like angels' wings.
Far off the Muezzin's voice is heard,
The watcher's call to evening prayer;
And overhead that holy bird,
The Bulbul, charms the silent air
With notes alone to sorrow given,
Though breathed on earth that speak of Heaven,
And of the blessed bowers above,
For still their theme is love—is love!
If aught below can soothe the soul
Of him whose days ungladden'd roll
On, month by month, and year by year,
With naught to wish for, naught to fear,
It is an hour like this, so calm
Along the fragrant fields of balm
Luxurious Zephyr roams, and brings
Delicious freshness on his wings.

II.

But Thou art gone!—at twilight's gloom
I come to rest beside thy tomb,
O Azza! thou of all the daughters
Of womankind, who wert most dear;
Thy voice than Zem-zem's murmurous waters
Was more delicious to mine ear;
Vainly the summer blossom seeks,
Beloved, to emulate thy cheek's
Soft natural peach-bloom; and thy brow
Outshone in whiteness the pure snow

270

(As sings the Scald in Runic rhymes)
On the hill-tops of northern climes;
Thy tresses were like black ripe berries
Down-clustering from the elder-tree;
Thy parting lips like cloven cherries,
That near each other lovingly;
And O, thine eyes! thy melting eyes,
More bright than Houri's glance of Heaven,
A diamond dowry from the skies
To thee alone of mortals given,
In their own depths of light did swim,
Making the wild gazelle's look dim.

III.

Still glooms the night, still shines the day,
Beneath the moon's soft, silver ray,—
Beneath the sun's triumphant light,
That seems to make all nature bright;
And thou art not!—in solitude
The thoughts of other years awake,
No marvel that my heart should ache,
When on thy vanished charms I brood.
Oh, Azza! what is life to him
Whose star is quenched, whose day is dim—
Dim as the visioned hours of night,
When sorrows frown and cares affright!
And Thou art not!—I look around,
But thou art nowhere to be found!
I listen vainly for thy foot—
I listen, but thy voice is mute!

271

I hear the night-winds sighing drear,
And all is misery, gloom, and fear!
This City of the Silent far
Transcends for me the haunts of men;
I'd rather house me in the den
Of hungry wolves than bide their jar:
There all is weariness, or strife
That makes an agony of life;
Serenely here the eye reposes
On sculptured turban-stones and roses.

IV.

Dark is the night of ruin, dark
As chaos ere the glorious sun
Awoke, or Eve her pearly bark
Launched forth, or stars like omens shone
Of blessedness beyond the grave
For all the faithful and the brave.
Whither would roam my visions, where
Find images of man's despair?
A vessel on a sunless sea
Tossing through mists eternally,
Without an anchor 'mid the waste
Of waves, where shore is never traced,
For ever beating round and round,
Through endless years, the dim profound;
Or like that bird, without the power,
'Mid winds that rush, and clouds that lower,
To light on earth—a bird of Thrace,
That knows no human dwelling-place.

272

V.

They say that woman, like a flower,
Expands her beauties to the day,
Blooms through the lapse of Time's brief hour,
Then withers on the stalk away:
They say her span is short and narrow,
Though gemmed with flowers her earthly path,
And that the barb of Azrael's arrow
To her brings everlasting death—
A thing that Beauty's breath invents
Of perishable elements.
But man has higher hopes, they say,
That powers of darkness cannot bind him,
That, bursting from the tomb away,
He leaves the realms of change behind him;
That o'er Alsirat's arch he flies,
Until the shores of Paradise
Are gained, and Houris with a kiss
Give welcome to the bowers of bliss—
Of bliss that ends not—joy whose touch
To rapturous ecstasies elate him:
So joy-fraught is his doom, and such
The sun-bright fortunes that await him.
And can it be that Woman dies,
Like Gul in all her July glory,
Courting our love to mock our eyes
For aye—the moral of a story?
And can it be that she, who stole
My heart away, who was my trust,
My hope, of every wish the goal,

273

Could be a thing without a soul,
Whose elements were merely dust—
Dust, which shall sleep for evermore
Within the silent tomb's domain,
Which He who framed shall ne'er restore
To beauty, love, and life again?
If so, where lies my comfort, where?
I bow in silence to despair!

VI.

I ask not Heaven; there could not be,
Azza beloved! at least for me,
A paradise that holds not thee.
Ah, no! my first, last, only love!
Nor in the amaranthine bowers,
Nor in the crystal shrines above,
The heart-felt bliss that once was ours
Could e'er my spirit hope to find;
Nor in the maids, whose glances dart,
Ever angelically kind,
New thrills of rapture through the heart:
To thee alone my thoughts would turn,
Fraught with undying love, and burn!

VII.

I lean my forehead on thy stone;
And art Thou not? I dwell alone
In sorrow's cloud, since Thou art gone!
Howe'er I turn—where'er I flee—
Earth is a wilderness to me:

274

I pause to hear thy step in vain,
Thy timid step of fairy lightness;
Ah! ne'er shall break on me again,
Like lightning-flash, thy glance of brightness,
Thrilling my heart-strings with the glow
Of love, in all its lava flow.

VIII.

From men, and from the ways of men,
When twilight's dewy shades descend,
Hither my willing footsteps tend
In solitary guise; and then,
While resting by thy tomb, I find
Solace, in pouring forth my mind
Unto the silence; for I ween
Thou still must be, although unseen,
Circling my path, until I flee
To dwell for evermore with thee,
In realms where anguish is forgot,
And hateful Azrael enters not,
But where a future ever bright
Shall smile, and naught have power to sever;
And where my soul, made blest for ever,
Shall sun itself in Azza's light.

275

THE DARK WAGGON.

I

The Water-Wraith shrieked over Clyde,
The winds through high Dumbarton sighed,
When to the trumpet's call replied
The deep drum from the square;
And in the midnight's misty shade,
With helm, and cloak, and glancing blade,
Two hundred horsemen stood arrayed
Beneath the torch's glare.

II

Around a huge sepulchral van
They took their station, horse and man.
The outer gateway's bolts withdrawn,
In haste the drawbridge fell;
And out, with iron clatter, went
That sullen midnight armament,
Alone the leader knew where bent,
With what—he might not tell.

276

III

Into the darkness they are gone:
The blinded waggon thundered on,
And, save of hoof-tramp, sound was none:
Hurriedly on they scour
The eastward track—away—away—
To none they speak, brook no delay,
Till farm-cocks heralded the day,
And hour had followed hour.

IV

Behind them, mingling with the skies,
Westward the smoke of Glasgow dies—
The pastoral hills of Campsie rise
Northward in morning's air—
By Kirkintilloc, Cumbernold,
And Castlecary, on they hold,
Till Lythgo shows, in mirrored gold,
Its palaced loch so fair.

It is mentioned by both the chroniclers, Hemingford, (i. 196,) and Trivet, (332,) that Edward I. built “a strength” or fort “at Linlitcu” in 1301, and there enjoyed the festivities of Christmas. Lord Hailes inaccurately states that he wintered there; for, by dates since collected from writs, Chalmers has proved that, although Edward was still at Linlithgow on the 12th January, he was, on his way home, at Roxburgh on 12th February, and had reached Morpeth by the 24th.

This fort, or castle, was probably the same that was, a few years afterwards, taken by the stratagem of the patriotic yeoman, Binny, in concealing some of his followers in a waggon of hay; and who was rewarded by King Robert with an estate, which his posterity long afterwards enjoyed.


V

Brief baiting-time:—the bugle sounds,
Onwards the ponderous van rebounds
'Mid the grim squadron, which surrounds
Its path with spur and spear.
Thy shrine, Dumanie, fades on sight,

Dalmeny Church is unquestionably of very great antiquity. From the style of its architecture, which a most competent authority, Mr Billings, (Baronial and Ecclesiastical Antiquities, vol. i.,) has pronounced to be of the purest Norman, it is referred, at least, to the tenth or eleventh centuries. There is extant a charter of Waldeve, Earl of Dunbar, from 1166 to 1182, witnessed by the parson of Dumanie.


And, seen from Niddreff's hazelly height,
The Forth, amid its islands bright,
Shimmers with lustre clear.

On these banks a castle was afterwards erected by the Earls of Wintoun, the picturesque ruins of which are yet a prominent object, by the edge of the Edinburgh and Glasgow railway, to the west of Kirkliston. Queen Mary is said to have slept there, on her flight from Lochleven to Hamilton, 2d May 1568.



277

VI

The Maiden Castle next surveyed,
Across the furzy hills of Braid,
By Craig-Milor,

The name has for centuries been vulgarised into Craigmillar. Adam de Cardonnel, in his Picturesque Antiquities, adheres to the spelling in the text; although it is generally now admitted that the appellation is Gaelic—Craig-moil-ard, or the high bare rock running out into a plain. The original structure is of unknown antiquity.

through Wymet's glade

To Inneresc they wound;

Woolmet, or Wymet, and Inneresc, were granted by charter of David I. to the Abbey of Dunfermline; the latter in confirmation of a previous grant by Malcolm Canmore and Queen Margaret, (Registrum de Dunfermlyn, Imp. Edin. 1842, p. 5, 6.) A small mausoleum of the Wauchope family now occupies the site of the chapel of Wymet; and the venerable pile of St Michael the Archangel, at Inneresc, was ruthlessly demolished in 1804. The house in which the great Randolph died, which was about half a mile distant, was also hewn down, about ten years afterwards, to make way for a shabby masonic lodge.


Then o'er the Garlton crags afar,
Where, oft a check to England's war,
Cospatrick's stronghold of Dunbar
In proud defiance frowned.

The family of Cospatrick, a powerful Northumbrian nobleman, took refuge in Scotland after the death of Harold at Hastings, and in 1072 had extensive lands in the Merse and Lothian gifted them by Malcolm Canmore. They continued to be one of the most opulent and powerful houses in the east of Scotland for a considerable period, as evidenced by their donations, noted in the chartularies of Coldingham, Newbottle, Dryburgh, Kelso, Melrose, and Soltra. Founded on a steep rugged rock, within sea-mark, and communicating with the land through a covered passage, the castle of Dunbar might well, before the invention of gunpowder, have been deemed impregnable. It was often the theatre of warlike contention, and two great battles were fought in its immediate neighbourhood, —the first in 1296, when Earl Warenne defeated the army of Scotland sent for its relief; and the second in 1650, when Leslie was overthrown by Cromwell. It was often besieged, and as often bravely defended; but perhaps never so brilliantly as by Black Agnes against the Earl of Salisbury in 1337.


VII

Weep through each grove, ye tearful rills!
Ye ivied caves, which Echo fills
With voice, lament! Ye proud, free hills,
Where eagles wheel and soar,
Bid noontide o'er your summits throw
Storm's murkiest cloud! Ye vales below,
Let all your wild-flowers cease to blow,
And with bent heads deplore!

VIII

Ye passions, that, with holy fire,
Illume man's bosom—that inspire
To daring deed, or proud desire,
With indignation burn!
Ye household charities, that keep
Watch over childhood's rosy sleep,
With ashes strew the hearthstone,—weep
As o'er a funeral urn!

278

IX

On—on they speed. Oh dreary day,
That, like a vampire, drained away
The blood from Scotland's heart! Delay,
Thou lingering sun, to set!
Rain, twilight! rain down bloody dews
O'er all the eye far northward views;
Nor do thou, night of nights! refuse
A darkness black as jet.

X

Heroic spirits of the dead!
That in the body nobly bled,
By whom the battle-field for bed
Was chosen, look ye down,—
And see if hearts are all grown cold,—
If for their just rights none are bold,—
If servile earth one bosom hold,
Worthy of old renown?

XI

The pass-word given, o'er bridge of Tweed
The cavalcade, with slackened speed,
Rolled on, like one from nightmare freed,
That draws an easier breath;
But o'er and round it hung the gloom
As of some dark, mysterious doom—
Shadows cast forward from the tomb,
And auguries of death.

279

XII

Scotland receded from the view,
And, on the far horizon blue,
Faded her last, dear hills—the mew
Screamed to its sea-isle near.
As day-beams ceased the west to flout,
Each after each the stars came out,
Like camp-fires heaven's high hosts about,
With lustre calm and clear.

XIII

And on, through many a Saxon town
Northumbrian, and of quaint renown,
Before the morning star went down,
With thunderous reel they hied;
While from the lattices aloof,
Of many an angled, grey-stone roof,
Rose sudden heads, as sound of hoof
And wheel to southward died.

XIV

Like Hope's voice preaching to Despair,
Sweetly the chimes for matin prayer
Melted upon the dewy air
From Hexham's holy pile;
But, like the adder deaf, no sound,
Or stern or sweet, an echo found
'Mid that dark squadron, as it wound
Still onward, mile on mile.

280

XV

Streamers, and booths, and country games,
And brawny churls, with rustic names,
And blooming maids, and buxom dames—
A boisterous village fair!
On stage his sleights the jongleur shows,
Like strutting cock the jester crows,
And high the morrice-dancer throws
His antic heels in air.

XVI

Why pause at reel each lad and lass?
A solemn awe pervades the mass;
Wondering they see the travellers pass,
The horsemen journey-worn,
And, in the midst, that blinded van
So hearse-like; while, from man to man,
“Is it of Death,” in whispers ran,
“This spectacle forlorn?”

XVII

Bright are thy shadowy forest-bowers,
Fair Ashby-de-la-Zouche! with flowers;
The wild-deer in its covert cowers,
And, from its pine-tree old,
The startled cushat, in unrest,
Circles around its airy nest,
As forward, on its route unblest,
Aye on that waggon rolled.

281

XVIII

And many a grove-encircled town,
And many a keep of old renown,
That grimly watched o'er dale and down,
They passed unheeding by;
Prone from the rocks the waters streamed,
And, 'mid the yellow harvests, gleamed
The reapers' sickles, but all seemed
Mere pictures to the eye.

XIX

Behold a tournay on the green!
The tents are pitched—the tilters keen
Gambol the listed lines between—
The motley crowds around
For jibe, and jest, and wanton play
Are met—a merry holiday;
And glide the lightsome hours away
In mirth, to music's sound.

XX

And hark! the exulting shouts that rise,
As, cynosure of circling eyes,
Beauty's fair queen awards the prize
To knight that lowly kneels.
“Make way—make way!” is heard aloud—
Like red sea waters part the crowd,
And, scornful of that pageant proud,
On grinding rush the wheels!

282

XXI

Hundreds and hamlets far from sight,
By lonely granges through the night
They camped; and, ere the morning light
Crimsoned the orient, they,
By royal road or baron's park,
Waking the watchful ban-dog's bark,
Before the first song of the lark,
Were on their southward way.

XXII

By Althorpe, and by Oxendon,
Without a halt they hurried on,
Nor paused by that fair cross of stone,
Now for the first time seen,
(For death's dark billows overwhelm
Both jewelled braid, and knightly helm!)
Raised, by the monarch of the realm,
To Eleanor his queen.

This venerable memorial, which gives the name of “Queen's Cross” to the neighbouring locality in Northamptonshire, is a beautiful specimen of architecture, although much defaced by time and the efforts of renovators.

The “trellised” vest, mentioned in stanza XXIV., was a species of armour, so called by contemporary Norman writers, and consisted of a cloth coat, reaching only to the haunches. This was intersected by broad straps of leather, so laid on as to cross each other, and leave small intervening squares of cloth, in the middle of which was a knob of steel.— Vide Meyrick's Ancient Armour, vol. i. p. 11.


XXIII

Five times through darkness and through day,
Since crossing Tweed, with fresh relay
Ever in wait, their forward way
That cavalcade had held;
Now joy! for on the weary wights
Loomed London from the Hampstead heights,
As, by the opal morning, night's
Thin vapours were dispell'd.

283

XXIV

With spur on heel, and spear in rest,
And buckler'd arm, and trellised breast,
Closer around their charge they press'd—
On whirled, with livelier roll,
The wheels begirt with prancing feet,
And arms, a serried mass complete,
Until, by many a stately street,
They reached their destined goal.

XXV

Grim Westminster! thy pile severe
Struck to the heart like sudden fear;
“Hope flies from all that enter here!”
Seemed graven on its crest.
The moat o'erpassed, at warn of bell,
Down thundering the portcullis fell,
And clang'd the studded gates—a knell
Despairing and unblest.

XXVI

Ye guardian angels! that fulfil
Heaven's high decrees, and work its will—
Ye thunderbolts! launched forth to kill—
Where was it then ye slept,
When, foe-bemocked, in prison square,
To death fore-doomed, with dauntless air,
From out that van,
A shackled man,
Sir William Wallace stept!

284

DISENCHANTMENT.

I

Although from Adam stained with crime,
A halo girds the path of time,
As 'twere things humble with sublime,
Divine with mortal blending,
And that which is, with that which seems—
Till blazoned o'er were Jacob's dreams
With Heaven's angelic hosts, in streams
Descending and ascending.

II

Ask of the clouds, why Eden's dyes
Have vanished from the sunset skies?
Ask of the winds, why harmonies
Now breathe not in their voices?
Ask of the spring, why from the bloom
Of lilies comes a less perfume?
And why the linnet, 'mid the broom,
Less lustily rejoices?

285

III

Silent are now the sylvan tents;
The elves to airy elements
Resolved are gone; grim castled rents
No more show demons gazing,
With evil eyes, on wandering men;
And, where the dragon had his den
Of fire, within the haunted glen,
Now herds unharmed are grazing.

A clearer day has dispelled the marvels, which showed themselves in heaven above and in earth beneath, when twilight and superstition went hand in hand. Horace's

“Somnis, terrores magicos, miracula, sagas,
Nocturnos Lemures, portentaque Thessala,”

as well as Milton's

“Gorgons, Hydras, and Chimæas dire,”

have all been found wanting when reduced to the admeasurements of science; and the “sounds that syllable men's names, on sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses,” are quenched in silence, or only exist in what James Hogg most poetically terms

“That undefined and minglod hum.
Voice of the desert, never dumb.”

The inductive philosophy was “the bare bodkin” which gave many a pleasant vision “its quietus.” “Homo, naturæ minister,” saith Lord Bacon, “et interpres, tantum facit et intelligit, quantum de naturæ ordine se vel mente observaverit: nec amplius scit nec potest.”—Nov. Organum, Aph. I.

The fabulous dragon has long acted a conspicuous part in the poetry both of the north and south. We find him in the legends of Regnar Lodbrog and Kempion, and in the episode of Brandimarte in the second book of the Orlando Inamorato. He is also to be recognised as the huge snake of the Edda, and figures with ourselves in the stories of the Chevalier St George and the Dragon—of Moor of Moorhall and the Dragon of Wantley—in the Dragon of Loriton—in the Laidley Worm of Spindleton Haugh—in the Flying Serpent of Lockburne—the Snake of Wormieston, &c. &c. Bartholinus and Saxo-Grammaticus volunteer us some curious information regarding a species of these monsters, whose particular office was to keep watch over hidden treasure. The winged Gryphon is of “auld descent,” and has held a place in unnatural history from Herodotus (Thalia, 116, and Melpomene, 13, 27) to Milton, (Paradise Lost, book v.)—

“As when a Gryphon, through the wilderness,
With winged course, o'er hill or moory dale,
Pursues the Arimaspian,” &c.

IV

No more, as horror stirs the trees,
The path-belated peasant sees
Witches adown the sleety breeze,
To Lapland flats careering:

Of the many mysterious chapters of the human mind, surely one of the most obscure and puzzling is that of witchcraft. For some reason, not sufficiently explained, Lapland was set down as a favourite seat of the orgies of the “Midnight Hags.” When, in the ballad of “The Witch of Fife,” the auld gudeman, in the exercise of his conjugal authority, questions his errant spouse regarding her nocturnal absences without leave, she is made ecstatically to answer—

“Whan we came to the Lapland lone,
The fairies war all in array;
For all the genii of the North
War keepyng their holyday.
The warlocke men and the weird womyng,
And the fays of the woode and the steep,
And the phantom hunteris all were there,
And the mermaidis of the deep,
And they washit us all with the witch-water,
Distillit fra the moorland dow,
Quhill our beauty bloomit like the Lapland rose,
That wylde in the foreste grew.”
Queen's Wake, Night 1st.

“Like, but oh how different,” are these unearthly goings-on to the details in the Walpurgis Night of Faust, (act v. scene 1.) “The phantom-hunters” of the north were not the “Wilde Jäger” of Burger, or “the Erl-king” of Goethe. It is related by Hearne, that the tribes of the Chippewa Indians suppose the northern lights to be occasioned by the frisking of herds of deer in the fields above, caused by the haloo and chase of their departed friends.


As on through storms the Sea-kings sweep,
No more the Kraken huge, asleep,
Looms like an island, 'mid the deep,
Rising and disappearing.

V

No more, reclined by Cona's streams,
Before the seer, in waking dreams,
The dim funereal pageant gleams,
Futurity fore-showing;
No more, released from churchyard trance,
Athwart blue midnight spectres glance,
Or mingle in the bridal dance,
To vanish ere cock-crowing.

It is very probable that the apparitional visit of “Alonzo the Brave” to the bridal of “the Fair Imogene,” was suggested to M. G. Lewis by the story in the old chronicles of the skeleton masquer taking his place among the wedding revellers, at Jedburgh Castle, on the night when Alexander III., in 1286, espoused as his second queen, Joleta, daughter of the Count le Dreux. These were the palmy days of portents; and the prophecy uttered by Thomas of Ercildoune, of the storm which was to roar

“From Rosa's hills to Solway sea,”

was supposed to have had its fulfilment in the death of the lamented monarch, which occurred, only a few months after the appearance of the skeleton masquer, by a fall from his horse, over a precipice, while hunting between Burntisland and Kinghorn, at a place still called “the King's Wood-end.”

Wordsworth appears to have had the subject in his eye, in two of the stanzas of his lyric entitled Presentiments, the last of which runs as follows:—

“Ye daunt the proud array of war,
Pervade the lonely ocean far
As sail hath been unfurled,
For dancers in the festive hall
What ghostly partners hath your call
Fetch'd from the shadowy world.”
poetical works (1845,) p. 176.

The same incident has been made the subject of some very spirited vorses, in a little volume—Ballads and Lays from Scottish History—published in 1844, and which, I fear, has not attracted the attention to which its intrinsic merits assuredly entitle it.



286

VI

Alas! that Fancy's fount should cease!
In rose-hues limn'd, the myths of Greece
Have waned to dreams—the Colchian fleece,
And labours of Alcides:
Nay, Homer, even thy mighty line—
Thy living tale of Troy divine—
The sceptic scholiast doubts if thine,
Or Priam, or Pelides!

VII

As silence listens to the lark,
And orient beams disperse the dark,
How sweet to roam abroad, and mark
Their gold the fields adorning!
But when we think of where are they,
Whose bosoms like our own were gay,
While April gladdened life's young day,
Joy takes the garb of mourning.

VIII

Warm-gushing through the heart come back
The thoughts that brightened boyhood's track;
And hopes, as 'twere from midnight black,
All star-like reawaken;
Until we feel how, one by one,
The faces of the loved are gone,
And grieve for those left here alone,
Not those who have been taken.

287

IX

The past returns in all we see,
The billowy cloud and branching tree;
In all we hear—the bird and bee
Remind of pleasures cherish'd;
When all is lost it loved the best,
Oh! pity on that vacant breast,
Which would not rather be at rest
Than pine amid the perish'd!

X

A balmy eve! the round white moon
Imparadises midmost June,
Tune trills the nightingale on tune—
What magic! when a lover,
To him who, now grey-haired and lone,
Bends o'er the sad sepulchral stone
Of her, whose heart was once his own:
Ah! bright dream briefly over!

XI

See how from port the vessel glides
With streamered masts, o'er halcyon tides;
Its laggard course the sea-boy chides,
All loth that calms should bind him;
But distance only chains him more,
With love-links, to his native shore,
And sleep's best dream is to restore
The home he left behind him.

288

XII

To sanguine youth's enraptured eye
Heaven has its reflex in the sky,
The winds themselves have melody,
Like harp some seraph sweepeth;
A silver decks the hawthorn bloom,
A legend shrines the mossy tomb,
And spirits throng the starry gloom,
Her reign when midnight keepeth.

XIII

Silence o'erhangs the Delphic cave;
Where strove the bravest of the brave,
Naught met the wandering Byron, save
A lone deserted barrow;
And Fancy's iris waned away
When Wordsworth ventured to survey,
Beneath the light of common day,
The dowie dens of Yarrow.

XIV

Little we dream—when life is new,
And Nature fresh and fair to view,
When throbs the heart to pleasure true,
As if for naught it wanted—
That year by year, and ray by ray,
Romance's sunlight dies away,
And long before the hair is grey,
The heart is disenchanted.

289

THE SYCAMINE.

I

The frail yellow leaves they are falling,
As the wild winds sweep the grove;
Plashy and dank is the sward beneath,
And the sky it is grey above.

II

Foaming adown the dark rocks,
Dirge-like, the waterfall
Mourns, as if mourning for something gone,
For ever beyond its call.

III

Sing, redbreast, from the russet spray—
Thy song with the season blends;
For the bees have left us with the blooms,
And the swallows were summer friends.

290

IV

The hawthorn bare, with berries sere,
And the bramble by the stream,
Matted, with clay on its yellow trails,
Decay's wan emblems seem.

V

On this slope bank how oft we lay
In shadow of the sycamine tree;
Pause, hoary Eld, and listen now—
'Twas but the roaring of the sea!

VI

Oh, the shouts and the laughter of yore—
How the tones wind round the heart!
Oh, the faces blent with youth's blue skies—
And could ye so depart!

VII

The crow screams back to the wood,
And the sea-mew to the sea,
And earth seems to the foot of man
No resting-place to be.

VIII

Search ye the corners of the world,
And the isles beyond the main,
And the main itself, for those who went
To come not back again!

291

IX

The rest are a remnant scatter'd
'Mid the living; and, for the dead,
Tread lightly o'er the churchyard mounds—
Ye know not where ye tread!

THE COVENANTERS' NIGHT-HYMN.

[_]

Making all allowances for the many over-coloured pictures, nay, often one-sided statements of such apologetic chroniclers as Knox, Melville, Calderwood, and Row, it is yet difficult to divest the mind of a strong leaning towards the old Presbyterians and champions of the Covenant; probably because we believe them to have been sincere, and know them to have been persecuted and oppressed. Nevertheless, the liking is as often allied to sympathy as to approbation; for a sifting of motives exhibits, in but too many instances, a sad commixture of the chaff of selfishness with the grain of principle—an exhibition of the over and over again played game, by which the gullible many are made the tools of the crafty and designing few. Be it allowed that, both in their preachings from the pulpit and their teachings by example, the Covenanters frequently proceeded more in the spirit of fanaticism than of sober religious feeling; and that, in their antagonistic ardour, they did not hesitate to carry the persecutions of which they themselves so justly complained into the camp of the adversary—sacrificing


292

in their mistaken zeal even the ennobling arts of architecture, sculpture, and painting, as adjuncts of idol-worship—still it is to be remembered that the aggression emanated not from them; and that the rights they contended for were the most sacred and invaluable that man can possess—the freedom of worshipping God according to the dictates of conscience. They sincerely believed that the principles which they maintained were right; and their adherence to these with unalterable constancy, through good report and through bad report; in the hour of privation and suffering, of danger and death; in the silence of the prison-cell, not less than in the excitement of the battle-field; by the blood-stained hearth, on the scaffold, and at the stake,—forms a noble chapter in the history of the human mind—of man as an accountable creature.

Be it remembered, also, that these religious persecutions were not mere things of a day, but were continued through at least three entire generations. They extended from the accession of James VI. to the English throne, (testibus the rhymes of Sir David Lindsay, and the classic prose of Buchanan,) down to the Revolution of 1688—almost a century, during which many thousands tyrannically perished, without in the least degree loosening that tenacity of purpose, or subduing that perfervidum ingenium, which, according to Thuanus, have been national characteristics.

As in almost all similar cases, the cause of the Covenanters, so strenuously and unflinchingly maintained, ultimately resulted in the victory of Protestantism—that victory, the fruits of which we have seemed of late years so readily inclined to throw away; and, in its rural districts more especially, of nothing are the people more justly proud than—

—“The tales
Of persecution and the Covenant,
Whose echo rings through Scotland to this hour.”

So says Wordsworth. These traditions have been emblazoned by the pens of Scott, M`Crie, Galt, Hogg, Wilson, Grahame, and Pollok, and by the pencils of Wilkie, Harvey, and Duncan, —each regarding them with the eye of his peculiar genius. In reference to the following stanzas, it should be remembered that, during the holding of their conventicles—which frequently, in the more troublous time, took place amid mountain solitudes, and during the night—a sentinel was stationed on some commanding height in the neighbourhood, to give warning of the approach of danger.


293

I

Ho! plaided watcher of the hill,
What of the night?—what of the night?
The winds are lown, the woods are still,
The countless stars are sparkling bright;
From out this heathery moorland glen,
By the shy wildfowl only trod,
We raise our hymn, unheard of men,
To Thee, an omnipresent God!

II

Jehovah! though no sign appear,
Through earth our aimless path to lead,
We know, we feel Thee ever near,
A present help in time of need—
Near, as when, pointing out the way,
For ever in thy people's sight,
A pillared wreath of smoke by day,
Which turned to fiery flame at night!

III

Whence came the summons forth to go?—
From Thee awoke the warning sound!
“Out to your tents, O Israel! Lo!
The heathen's warfare girds thee round.
Sons of the faithful! up—away!
The lamb must of the wolf beware;
The falcon seeks the dove for prey;
The fowler spreads his cunning snare!”

294

IV

Day set in gold; 'twas peace around—
'Twas seeming peace by field and flood:
We woke, and on our lintels found
The cross of wrath—the mark of blood.
Lord! in thy cause we mocked at fears,
We scorned the ungodly's threatening words—
Beat out our pruning-hooks to spears,
And turned our ploughshares into swords!

V

Degenerate Scotland! days have been
Thy soil when only freemen trod—
When mountain-crag and valley green
Poured forth the loud acclaim to God!—
The fire which liberty imparts,
Refulgent in each patriot eye,
And, graven on a nation's hearts,
The Word—for which we stand or die!

VI

Unholy change! The scorner's chair
Is now the seat of those who rule;
Tortures, and bonds, and death, the share
Of all except the tyrant's tool.
That faith in which our fathers breathed,
And had their life, for which they died—
That priceless heirloom they bequeathed
Their sons—our impious foes deride!

295

VII

So We have left our homes behind,
And We have belted on the sword,
And We in solemn league have joined,
Yea! covenanted with the Lord,
Never to seek those homes again,
Never to give the sword its sheath,
Until our rights of faith remain
Unfettered as the air we breathe!

VIII

O Thou, who rulest above the sky,
Begirt about with starry thrones,
Cast from the Heaven of Heavens thine eye
Down on our wives and little ones—
From Hallelujahs surging round,
Oh! for a moment turn thine ear,
The widow prostrate on the ground,
The famished orphan's cries to hear!

IX

And Thou wilt hear! it cannot be,
That Thou wilt list the raven's brood,
When from their nest they scream to Thee,
And in due season send them food;
It cannot be that Thou wilt weave
The lily such superb array,
And yet unfed, unsheltered, leave
Thy children—as if less than they!

296

X

We have no hearths—the ashes lie
In blackness where they brightly shone;
We have no homes—the desert sky
Our covering, earth our couch alone:
We have no heritage—depriven
Of these, we ask not such on earth;
Our hearts are sealed; we seek in Heaven
For heritage, and home, and hearth!

XI

O Salem, city of the saint,
And holy men made perfect! We
Pant for thy gates, our spirits faint
Thy glorious golden streets to see—
To mark the rapture that inspires
The ransomed, and redeemed by grace;
To listen to the seraphs' lyres,
And meet the angels face to face!

XII

Father in Heaven! we turn not back,
Though briars and thorns choke up the path;
Rather the tortures of the rack,
Than tread the winepress of thy wrath!
Let thunders crash, let torrents shower,
Let whirlwinds churn the howling sea,
What is the turmoil of an hour,
To an eternal calm with Thee!

297

REQUIEM.

TO THE MUSIC OF MOZART.

I

Gone art thou, in youthful sweetness,
Time's short changeful voyage o'er;
Now thy beauty in completeness
Blooms on Heaven's unfading shore:
What to us is life behind thee?
Darkness and despair alone!
When with sighs we seek to find thee,
Echo answers moan for moan!

II

Not in winter's stormy bluster
Didst thou droop in pale decay,
But 'mid summer light and lustre
Pass to Paradise away.
Yes! when toned to rapture only,
Sang the birds among the bowers,
Rapt from earth to leave us lonely,
Bliss was thine and sorrow ours!

298

III

Mourners, solemn vigil keeping,
Knelt in silence round thy bed;
Could they deem thee only sleeping,
When to Heaven thy spirit fled?
Yes! that spirit then was winging
Upwards from its shell of clay,
Guardian angels round it singing—
“Welcome to the realms of day!”

IV

Less when Eve's low shadows darkling
Shut the wild flowers on the lea,
Than when Dawn's last star is sparkling,
Silence draws our thoughts to thee—
Thee—who, robed in light excelling,
Stood'st a seraph by the hearth—
Far too bright for mortal dwelling,
Far—by far too good for earth!

V

Fare-thee-well! a track of glory
Shows where'er thy steps have been,
Making Life a lovely story,
Earth a rich, romantic scene:
Dim when Duty's way before us,
As the magnet charts the sea,
May thy pure star glowing o'er us
Point the path to Heaven and Thee!

299

THE MATIN CAROL.

I

The splendid matin sun
Is mounting upward through the orient skies;
The young day is begun,
And shadowy twilight from the landscape flies.

II

No more the grey owls roam,
Seeking their prey 'mid duskiness and shade;
The bat hath hied him home,
And in some creviced pile a resting made.

III

Haste, then, my love, O! haste;
The dews are melting from the fresh green grass:
Arise—no longer waste
The pleasant hours that thus so sweetly pass.

300

IV

The frolic hare peeps out,
Out from her leafy covert, and looks round;
The wild birds flit about,
And fill the clear soft air with gentlest sound.

V

Come, love! of softest blue,
Beneath the bordering trees, the stream flows on;
The night-hawk thou may'st view,
Sitting in stirless silence on his stone.

VI

The lark soars up, soars up,
With twinkling pinions to salute the morn;
Over its foxglove cup
The wild bee hangs, winding its tiny horn.

VII

Bright flowers of every dye,
Blossoms of odours sweet are breathing round;
The west wind wanders by,
And, kissing, bends their lithe stalks to the ground.

VIII

All things of bliss, and love,
And gentleness, and harmony proclaim;
Echo, from out the grove,
Murmurs, as I repeat thy dear-loved name.

301

IX

Haste, then, beloved, haste;
Come to these cooling shades, and wander free:
My spirit will not taste
Earth's cup of joy till first 'tis kiss'd by thee!

STANZAS. WHEN THOU AT EVENTIDE ART ROAMING.

This little poem is curious from a circumstance connected with it. Towards the end of 1817, the Rev. Dr M— gave a copy of the MS. to Mr Constable, and it was inserted in his magazine for November, without mark or signature. In 1819, Emmeline, the posthumous work of Mrs Brunton, appeared, with a biographical memoir by the Professor, and an appendix of four small poems, the last of which was this identical one, accompanied with a very flattering notice. On explanation, it appeared that a written copy was found in the work-box, which the authoress of Self-Control had been using on the day previous to her fatal illness; and no doubt of its being hers was entertained, on account of her not being in the habit of making copies. “It was so unusual with her to transcribe,” says the Doctor in a letter now before me, “that this is nearly the only instance. I never hesitated, therefore, to consider it as hers, and to view it as a legacy intended for myself. In the latter light, I flatter myself I may regard it still; though I, of course, restore to its proper owner the merit of the composition.”

I am only sorry that circumstances occurred to break this illusion; but it was broken.

I

When thou at eventide art roaming
Along the elm-o'ershadow'd walk,
Where fast the eddying stream is foaming,
And falling down—a cataract,
'Twas there with thee I wont to talk;
Think thou upon the days gone by,
And heave a sigh.

302

II

When sails the moon above the mountains,
And cloudless skies are purely blue,
And sparkle in her light the fountains,
And darker frowns the lonely yew,
Then be thou melancholy too,
While pausing on the hours I proved
With thee, beloved.

III

When wakes the dawn upon thy dwelling,
And lingering shadows disappear,
As soft the woodland songs are swelling
A choral anthem on thine ear,
Muse—for that hour to thought is dear,
And then its flight remembrance wings
To by-past things.

IV

To me, through every season, dearest;
In every scene, by day, by night,
Thou, present to my mind, appearest
A quenchless star, for ever bright;
My solitary, sole delight;
Where'er I am, by shore—at sea—
I think of thee!

303

REMEMBERED BEAUTY.

A holy image,
Shrined in the soul, for ever beautiful,
Undimm'd with earth—its tears—its weaknesses—
And changeless.
Anster.

Long years have pass'd; but yet, in silent mood,
When pleasure to the heart is but a dream,
And life with cheerless gloom is canopied;
Amidst my musings, when I stray alone
Through moorland wastes and woodland solitudes;
Or when, at twilight, by the hearth I sit,
In loneliness and silence, bursting through
The shadows of my reverie, appears,
In undecay'd perfection, the same smile,
The same bewitching and seraphic form.
It cannot pass away—it haunts me still;
From slumber waking on my midnight couch,
Methinks I see it floating beautiful
Before me—still before me, like a star
O'er the dark outline of a mountain-steep;
And, when the glory of the crimson morn,
Tinging the honeysuckle flowers, breaks in,

304

There still it passes o'er the pulseless mind,
Revolving silently the by-past times,
Quiet and lovely, like a rainbow-gleam
O'er tempests that have shower'd and pass'd away.
Long years have pass'd—we cannot soon forget
The lightning-gleams that flash upon the heart;
Nor pass, amid the solitudes of life,
Its bright green spots unnoticed, or its flowers.
Long years have passed—'twas on a festal night,
A night of innocent mirth and revelry,
When, bounding, throbb'd the youthful heart, and smiles
Play'd, meteor-like, upon a hundred cheeks,
As if contagiously; while sparkling lamps
Pour'd forth a deluging lustre o'er the crowd,
And music, like a Syren, weaned the heart
From every grovelling and contentious thought,
From every care; amid familiar friends,
The lovely and the faithful, glad I stood
To mark them all so joyous; as I gazed,
An eye encounter'd mine, that startled me—
Sure never breathing creature was more fair!
Amid the mazy movements of the dance,
Accordant to the music's finest tone,
Sylph-like she floated; graceful as the swan
Oaring its way athwart a summer lake,
Her step almost as silent: as she stood,
Again that heavenly eye encounter'd mine.
Pale was the brow, as if serenest thought,
Quiet, and innocence, alone dwelt there;

305

But yet around the rosy lips there play'd
A laughing smile, like Hebe's, which dispell'd
Its calmness, and betoken'd life and joy.
Her golden tresses, from her temples pale,
And from her rounded alabaster neck,
Were filleted up with roses and gay flowers,
Wove like a garland round them: skiey robes,
The tincture of the young Year's finest blue,
Were thrown in beauty round her graceful form,
And added to its brightness; so that he
Who dwelt on it delighted, almost fear'd
The vision would disperse into the air,
And mock his gaze with vacancy.—'Tis past.
Years have outspread their shadowy wings between,
But yet the sound of that fair lady's voice
Hath been a music to my soul unheard;
The lightning of that glorious countenance,
The shining riches of that golden hair,
The fascination of those magic eyes,
The smiling beauty of those small red lips,
The graceful lightness of that angel form,
Have been to me but things of memory.
Before that festal night, 'mid woman-kind,
That peerless form did never bless my view;
It was to me a blank—a thing unknown:
After that festal night, my wistful eyes
Have never feasted on its loveliness;
I know not whence it came—or whither fled—
I know not by what human name 'tis call'd—
Whether 'tis yet a blossom of this earth,

306

Or, long ere this, transplanted into Heaven.
It is to me a treasure of the mind,
A picture in the chambers of the brain
Hung up, and framed—a flower from youthful years,
Breath'd on by heavenly zephyrs, and preserved
Safe from decay, in everlasting bloom!
It cannot be that, for abiding-place,
This earth alone is ours; it cannot be
That, for a fleeting span of chequer'd years,
Of broken sunshine, cloudiness, and storm,
We tread this sublunary scene—and die,
Like winds that wail amid a dreary wood,
To silence and to nothingness; like waves
That murmur on the sea-beach, and dissolve.
Why, then, from out the temple of our hearts,
Do aspirations spring, that overleap
The barriers of our mortal destiny,
And chain us to the very gates of Heaven?
Why does the beauty of a vernal morn,
When earth, exulting from her wintry tomb,
Breaks forth with early flowers, and song of birds,
Strike on our hearts, as ominous, and say,
Surely man's fate is such?—At summer eve,
Why do the faëry, unsubstantial clouds,
Trick'd out in rainbow garments, glimmer forth
To mock us with their loveliness, and tell
That earth hath not of these?—The tiny stars,
That gem in countless crowds the midnight sky,
Why were they placed so far beyond the grasp

307

Of sight and comprehension, so beyond
The expansion of our limited faculties,
If, one day, like the isles that speck the main,
These worlds shall spread not open to our view?—
Why do the mountain-steeps their solitudes
Expand?—or, roaring down the dizzy rocks,
The mighty cataracts descend in foam?—
Is it to show our insignificance?
To tell us we are nought?—And, finally,
If born not to behold supernal things,
Why have we glimpses of beatitude—
Have images of majesty and beauty
Presented to our gaze—and taken from us?—
For Thou art one of such, most glorious form,
A portion of some unseen paradise,
That visitest the silence of my thought,
Rendering life beautiful.

308

THE VETERAN TAR.

I

A mariner, whom fate compell'd
To make his home ashore,
Lived in yon cottage on the mount,
With ivy mantled o'er;
Because he could not breathe beyond
The sound of ocean's roar.

II

He placed yon vane upon the roof
To mark how stood the wind;
For breathless days and breezy days
Brought back old times to mind,
When rock'd amid the shrouds, or on
The sunny deck reclined.

309

III

And in his spot of garden ground
All ocean plants were met—
Salt lavender, that lacks perfume,
With scented mignonette;
And, blending with the roses' bloom,
Sea-thistles freak'd with jet.

IV

Models of cannon'd ships of war,
Rigg'd out in gallant style;
Pictures of Camperdown's red fight,
And Nelson at the Nile,
Were round his cabin hung,—his hours,
When lonely, to beguile.

V

And there were charts and soundings, made
By Anson, Cook, and Bligh;
Fractures of coral from the deep,
And storm-stones from the sky;
Shells from the shores of gay Brazil;
Stuff'd birds, and fishes dry.

310

VI

Old Simon had an orphan been,
No relative had he;
Even from his childhood was he seen
A haunter of the quay;
So, at the age of raw thirteen,
He took him to the sea.

VII

Four years on board a merchantman
He sail'd—a growing lad;
And all the isles of western Ind,
In endless summer clad,
He knew, from pastoral St Lucie,
To palmy Trinidad.

VIII

But sterner life was in his thoughts,
When, 'mid the sea-fight's jar,
Stoop'd Victory from the batter'd shrouds,
To crown the British tar;
'Twas then he went, a volunteer,
On board a ship of war.

311

IX

Through forty years of storm and shine
He plough'd the changeful deep;
From where beneath the tropic line
The winged fishes leap,
To where frost seals the Polar seas
In everlasting sleep.

X

I recollect the brave old man:
Methinks upon my view
He comes again—his varnish'd hat,
Striped shirt, and jacket blue;
His bronzed and weather-beaten cheek,
Keen eye, and plaited queue.

XI

Yon turfen bench the veteran loved,
Beneath the threshold tree;
For from that spot he could survey
The broad expanse of sea—
That element, where he so long
Had been a rover free.

312

XII

And lighted up his faded face,
When, drifting in the gale,
He with his telescope could catch,
Far off, a coming sail:
It was a music to his ear,
To list the sea-mew's wail.

XIII

Oft would he tell how, under Smith,
Upon the Egyptian strand,
Eager to beat the boastful French,
They join'd the men on land,
And plied their deadly shots, intrench'd
Behind their bags of sand.

XIV

And when he told, how, thro' the Sound,
With Nelson in his might,
They pass'd the Cronberg batteries,
To quell the Dane in fight,
His voice with vigour fill'd again,
His veteran eye with light.

313

XV

But chiefly of hot Trafalgar
The brave old man would speak;
And, when he show'd his oaken stump,
A glow suffused his cheek,
While his eye fill'd—for wound on wound
Had left him worn and weak.

XVI

Ten years, in vigorous old age,
Within that cot he dwelt;
Tranquil as falls the snow on snow,
Life's lot to him was dealt:
But came infirmity at length,
And slowly o'er him stealt.

XVII

We miss'd him on our seaward walk:
The children went no more
To listen to his evening talk,
Beside the cottage door;
Grim palsy held him to the bed,
Which health eschew'd before.

314

XVIII

'Twas harvest time: day after day
Beheld him weaker grow;
Day after day, his labouring pulse
Became more faint and slow;
For, in the chambers of his heart,
Life's fire was burning low.

XIX

Thus did he weaken, did he wane,
Till frail as frail could be;
But duly at the hour which brings
Homeward the bird and bee,
He made them prop him in his couch,
To gaze upon the sea.

XX

And now he watch'd the moving boat,
And now the moveless ships,
And now the western hills remote,
With gold upon their tips,
As ray by ray the mighty sun
Went down in calm eclipse.

315

XXI

Welcome as homestead to the feet
Of pilgrim travel-tired,
Death to old Simon's dwelling came,
A thing to be desired;
And, breathing peace to all around,
The man of war expired.

THE RUINED NUNNERY.

I

'Twas a tempestuous eve; the rains,
Over the mountains and the plains,
Pour'd down with ceaseless noise;
The forest depths were in a roar;
The sea came foaming to the shore,
And through the rocky caverns hoar
Howl'd with a giant's voice.

316

II

At length the winds began to still,
As Hesper crown'd the southern hill:
The rains began to cease;
Night's star-bestudded map unfurl'd,
Up from the earth the black clouds curl'd;
And the white moon rose o'er the world,
As 'twere to herald Peace.

III

Lull'd was the turmoil on the shore,
While the fierce rack that, just before,
With tempest laden deep,
Swept through the sad and sullen sky,
Grew bright, and, in serenity,
Beneath the quiet moon's calm eye,
Appear'd to fall asleep.

IV

The green trees twinkled in the vale;
Pure was the radiance—pure and pale,
With beauty silvering o'er
The verdant lawn, and lapsing rill;
There was a silence on the hill;
Hush'd were the winds; and all grew still,
Except the river's roar.

317

V

Leaving the fireside's circling talk,
'Twas then my solitary walk
Amid the fields I took,
To where a ruin'd convent stood,
As 'twere the abode of solitude,
Left, 'mid the relics of its wood,
To stockdove and to rook.

VI

Lorn was the scene and desolate,
Rank weeds o'ergrew its mouldering gate:
I clomb its fragile stair;
The moonbeams piercing through the gloom
Of each untenanted lone room,
Where erst the censer shed perfume,
Show'd only ruin there.

VII

Pleased with the prospect—pleased, yet pain'd,
The summit of the walls I gain'd,
And leant me there alone,
Beneath the solitary sky;
While, in the moon's pale argentry,
As woke the wild bird's fitful cry,
The dewy wall-flowers shone.

318

VIII

The jasmine seem'd alive with bees;
Blossoms were on the cultur'd trees,
That now were gnarl'd and wild;
And rose Devotion from each cell,
Where holy Nun, at sound of bell,
Did daily kneel and worship well
The Mother and her Child.

IX

How came they there, these lovely forms?—
Was it to shield them from the storms
Of this unquiet earth,
That from its sinful crowds they fled?
Or, warn'd by Conscience, did the dread
Of Judgment o'er each guilty head,
To Penitence give birth?

X

These questions, who may answer?—Lo!
With eyes of thought, and cheek of woe,
That pale and sighing maid,
Devoutly kneeling at the shrine—
Her true love, bound for Palestine,
Sank with his warriors in the brine,
To sudden death betray'd.

319

XI

Life's day for her had found its close:
Straight from her brow she pluck'd the rose;
And from her cheek the bloom
Faded like tints from autumn flowers,
When over earth the tempests lowers,
And rude winds leave the saddening bowers
To Winter's sullen gloom.

XII

And lo! that other by her side,
Hopeful so soon to be a bride;
Blue eyes and auburn hair,
That might have chain'd all human hearts,
Were vain—her fickle knight departs—
Her soul's deep-cherish'd vision thwarts—
And leaves her to despair.

XIII

With indignation and amaze,
She saw her rival, heard the praise,
Once deem'd her own, bestow'd
On stranger charms; and she could not—
Forlorn, forsaken, and forgot—
Uphold the burden of her lot,
But to its misery bow'd.

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XIV

Then, in her solitary cell,
It yielded painful joy to dwell
On raptures that had been:
Her full heart to her throat would rise,
While turning oft her tearful eyes
From changeful earth to changeless skies,
All cloudless and serene.

XV

A third—around her, one by one,
Like vernal flowers in summer's sun,
Those whom she loved had fled;
So, bowing to her cheerless fate—
Home left unto her desolate—
Her pilgrim step sought out this gate,
To commune with the dead.

XVI

There Recollection's sunlight streams;
And, in the silence of her dreams,
She hears their voices still—
Hears the blue rill amid its flowers,
As erst she heard in Childhood's hours—
Strays with them thro' the garden bowers,
And climbs her native hill.

321

XVII

A fourth—her black and midnight eyes,
Wherein the abyss of passion lies,
Silently burn; but she
Loved whom her kindred sanction'd not:
He fell—she sought the bloody spot—
And, to forget and be forgot,
Was hither doom'd to flee.

XVIII

Yes, far more dear was he, though dead,
Than all yet living things; she fled
A world which gave but pain,
Heroic constancy to prove;
And nursing, for his sake, a love
Which nought could change, and none could move,
Disdain'd to love again.

XIX

Yes! there she strove to yield her soul
Unto Religion's calm control;
But Memory's charms outlast
Long years of solitude and gloom;
And oft his image, from the tomb,
To bless her came, in beauty's bloom,
When hours of prayer were past.

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XX

Thoughts sad and strange came thronging fast,
As, through the pale and peopled past,
Keen Fancy clove her way:
The scene around me changed, and bright
Lay pile and garden on my sight,
As once they shone in summer light,
Ere yet they knew decay.

XXI

Dreams—fancies—visions—such are these;
Yet on the musing mind they seize,
When, on an eve like this
On which I write, through far-past things
Her flight lone Meditation wings,
And to the dallying spirit brings
Pictures of bale or bliss.

XXII

And ye, grey convent walls, teach well,
That onward centuries only swell
The catalogue of change;
Yea, while we look around, and scan
What happen'd in our own brief span,
Things, which occurr'd since life began,
Even to ourselves seem strange.

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XXIII

Then, what is life?—'tis like a flower
That blossoms through one sunny hour;
A bright illusive dream;
A wave that melts upon the shore;
A lightning flash that straight is o'er;
A phantom seen—then seen no more;
A bubble on the stream!

XXIV

Look on the churchyard's yellow skull—
Is not the contemplation full
Of serious thought and deep?
'Tis ownerless; but yet ere fled
The spirit, Love upheld that head,
And friends hung round a dying bed,
To hide their eyes and weep.

XXV

Thus generations pass away—
'Tis renovation and decay—
'Tis childhood and old age:
Like figures in the wizard's glass,
In long succession on we pass,
Act our brief parts; and then, alas!
Are swept from off the stage!

324

THE HOUR OF THOUGHT.

I

The orb of day is sinking,
The star of eve is winking,
The silent dews
Their balm diffuse,
The summer flowers are drinking;
The valley shades grow drearer,
As the sky above glows clearer;
Around all swim,
Perplexed and dim,
Yet the distant hills seem nearer—
O'er their tops the eye may mark
The very leaves, distinct and dark.

II

Now eastern skies are lightening,
Wood, mead, and mount are brightening,
Sink in the blaze
The stellar rays,
The clouds of heaven are whitening;

325

Now the curfew-bell is ringing,
Now the birds forsake their singing,
The beetle fly
Hums dully by,
And the bat his flight is winging;
While the glowing, glorious moon,
Gives to night the smile of noon.

III

O! then in churchyards hoary,
With many a mournful story,
'Tis sweet to stray,
'Mid tombstones grey,
And muse on earthly glory:
Thoughts, deeds, and days departed,
Up from the past are started,
Time's noon and night,
Its bloom and blight,
Hopes crown'd with bliss, or thwarted;
Halcyon peace or demon strife,
Sweetening or disturbing life.

IV

Then wake the dreams of childhood,
Its turbulent or mild mood—
The gather'd shells,
The foxglove bells,
The bird-nest in the wild wood;

326

The corn fields greenly springing;
The twilight blackbird singing
Sweetly, unseen,
From chestnut green,
Till all the air is ringing;
Restless swallows twittering by,
And the gorgeous sunset sky.

V

Then while the moon is glancing,
Through murmuring foliage dancing,
Wild fancy strays
Amid the maze
Of olden times entrancing:
She scans each strange tradition
Of dim-eyed Superstition—
The monk in hood,
With book and rood,
And nun in cell'd contrition;
Horsemen winding through the dale,
Morions dark, and shining mail.

VI

Ah! where are they that knew us,
That then spake kindly to us?
Why thus should they
In evil day
So frigidly eschew us?

327

We call them—they appear not,
They listen not, they hear not;
Their course is run,
Their day is done,
They hope not, and they fear not:
Past for them are heat and cold,
Death hath penn'd them in his fold!

VII

Above their bones unknowing,
Wild flowers and weeds are growing;
By moon or sun
Is nothing done
To them a thought bestowing:
In dark repose they wither,
Like weeds blown hither—thither—
Alone, alone,
The last Trump's tone
Shall call them up together.
Thou shalt hear it, Silence drear!
Grave oblivious, thou shalt hear!

328

TO INEZ, IN ABSENCE.

Heu! quantum minus est reliquis versari, quam tui meminisse!

I

Oh! sweetly o'er th' Atlantic sea,
The moon, with melancholy smile,
Looks down as I, beloved, on thee
Am fondly musing all the while:
And as, along the silver tide,
Its silent course the vessel steers,
I dream of days when, side by side,
We roam'd on eves of other years!

II

Though many a land, though many a wave,
Between us rise, between us roll,
Still, like a beacon, bright to save,
Thou sheddest light upon my soul.
And though the mist of years hath pass'd,
Since first I bless'd its glorious shine,
Yet thoughts, and woes, and days amass'd,
Have only made it doubly thine!

329

III

How sweetly to the pensive mind
The dreams of other days awake,
And all the joys we left behind,
No more on earth to overtake!
Our wanderings by the sandy shore,
Our walks along the twilight plain,
The raptures that we felt of yore,
And ne'er on earth shall feel again!

IV

Unclouded Moon! o'er rippling seas
Thou lookest down in placid grace;
With sails, expanded by the breeze,
Alert, our onward path we trace;
To foreign isles and lands unknown
We steer, where every sigh shall tell,
'Mid thousands as I walk alone,
My thoughts with those far distant dwell.

V

Unclouded Moon! 'tis sweet to mark
Thine aspect, so serene and calm,
Dispersing, vanquishing the dark,
And o'er our sorrows shedding balm.
Departed days like visions pass
Across the hot and fever'd brow,
Blest years, and vanish'd eves, alas!
When thou didst shine as thou dost now!

330

VI

Oh! brightly as of yesterday
The dreams of vanish'd years awake,
The hopes that flatter'd to betray,
And left the joyless heart to break.—
I see thee, as I saw thee then,
Endow'd by youth with magic charm;
I hear thee, as I heard thee, when
We roam'd together, arm in arm.

VII

It were a soothing thought, that thou
Mayhap, now pondering, takest delight
To raise thy white, angelic brow,
And gaze upon the lovely night;
And that the very scenes might rise
Upon thy mind's reverted eye,
That draw from me a thousand sighs,
In starting up—and passing by.

VIII

'Twere nothing did we die—'twere nought
From life at once to pass away;
But thus to wither thought by thought,
And inch by inch, and day by day,—
To mark the lingering tints of light,
As twilight o'er the sky expands,—
To mark the wave's receding flight,
That leaves the bleak and barren sands,—

331

IX

To see the stars that gem the sky
Fade one by one,—to note the leaves
Drop from the boughs all witheringly,
Thro' which the wintry tempest grieves—
'Tis this that chills the drooping heart,
That still we breathe, and feel, and live,
When all the flowers of earth depart,
And life hath not a joy to give!

X

Not parted yet—not parted yet—
Though oceans roll and roar between;
A star that glitters ne'er to set,
Thou smilest bright, and shin'st serene,
Fair Inez! and the waste of life,
All bleak and barren though it be,
Although a scene of care and strife,
Has still a charm in having thee!

332

TO INEZ, IN REMEMBRANCE.

Oh! what are thousand living loves
To one that cannot quit the dead!
Byron.

I

Well—though the clouds of sorrow haste,
With dark'ning gloom, and threat'ning roll,
To blight existence to a waste,
And shut out sunshine from my soul,
Departed Inez! rather far
My musing thought would dwell on thee,
Than join the mirthful, and the jar
Of voices loud, and spirits free.

II

Sad alteration!—here alone,
Where we so oft together sate,
With hearts, where Love's commingling tone
Had link'd us to one mutual fate,
I gaze around me—where art thou,
Whose glance was sunshine to the spot?
These roses bloom'd, as they bloom now,
But thou art—where I see thee not!

333

III

Oh! nevermore—oh! nevermore
This earth again shall smile for me!
I'll listen to the tempest's roar,
Or gaze along the stormy sea.
And from the sunshine I will hide;
But, as the moon in silver gleams,
I'll lean me o'er the vessel's side,
And see thee in my waking dreams.

IV

Then welcome be the doom that calls
To foreign climes my wandering way;
These echoing walks, and empty halls,—
The bloomy lilac on its spray,—
The lily in its innocence,—
The fleur-de-lis with purple vest,—
Pine for thee, vanish'd far from hence,
Removed from earth, and laid to rest.

V

Oh! do not breathe on Inez' lute—
'Twould make her vanish'd form appear,
Since Inez' breathing now is mute—
Since Inez' voice I cannot hear.
All music, and all melody,
The azure stream, and leafy tree,
The glories of the earth and sky
Are stripp'd of half their charms for me!

334

VI

Then welcome be the flapping sail,
And welcome be the stormy main,
And never may the breezes fail,
But when they bring us back again:
And I will wander o'er the deep,
And brave the tempest's threat'ning harms,
Since not a shore to which we sweep
To me can proffer Inez' arms!

VII

Oh! Inez, ever lost and dear,
Soon come the day, and come it must,
When I shall seek thy happier sphere,
And leave this perishable dust.
Then grief shall flee my troubled eyes,
And gloom forsake my drooping heart,
And through the fields of paradise
We two shall roam, and never part.

335

TO INEZ, IN LAMENT.

I

Oh thou! who in my happier days
Wert all to me that earth could hold,
And dearer to my youthful gaze
And yearning heart, than words have told,
Now, far from me, unmark'd and cold,
Thine ashes rest—thy relics lie;
And mouldering in earth's common mould
The frame that seem'd too fair to die!

II

The stranger treads my haunts at morn,
And stops to scan upon the tree
Letters by Time's rude finger worn,
That bore the earthly name of thee.
To him 'tis all unknown; and he
Strays on amid the woodland scene;
And thou, to all alive but me,
Art now as thou hadst never been.

336

III

Ah! little didst thou think, when I
With thee have roam'd at eventide,
Mark'd setting sun, and purpling sky,
And saunter'd by the river's side,
And gazed on thee, my destined bride,
How soon thou shouldst from hence depart,
And leave me here without a guide—
With ruin'd hopes, and broken heart.

IV

Oh, Inez! Inez! I have seen,
Above this spot where thou art laid,
Wild flowers and weeds all rankly green,
As if in mockery wild display'd!
In sombre twilight's purple shade,
Oft by thy grave have I sojourn'd;
And as I mused o'er hopes decay'd,
Mine eyes have stream'd, my heart hath burn'd.

V

I thought of days for ever fled,
When thou wert being's Morning Star;
I thought of feelings nourishèd
In secret, 'mid the world's loud jar;
I thought how, from the crowd afar,
I loved to stray, and for thee sigh;
Nor deem'd, when winds and waves a bar
Between us placed, that thou shouldst die.

337

VI

I saw thee not in thy distress,
Nor ever knew that pale disease
Was preying on that loveliness,
Whose smiles all earthly ills could ease;
But, when afar upon the seas,
I call'd thy magic form to mind,
I little dreamt that charms like these
Were to Death's icy arms resign'd.

VII

Now years have pass'd—and years may pass—
Earth not a fear or charm can have;
Ah! no—I could not view the grass,
That waves and rustles o'er thy grave!
My day is one long ruffled wave;
The night is not a lake of rest;
I dream, and nought is with me, save
A troubled scene—Despair my guest!

VIII

Or if, mayhap, my slumbering hour
Should paint thee to mine arms restored,
Then, then, the passing dream has power
A moment's rapture to afford;
Mirth cheers the heart, and crowns the board;
My bosom's burden finds relief;
I breathe thy name—but at that word
I wake to darkness and to grief!

338

IX

Well—be it so—I would not lose
The thoughts to thee that madly cleave,
For all the vacant mirth of those,
Who, heartless, think it wrong to grieve;
No—nought on earth can now retrieve
The loss my soul hath felt in thee;
Such hours of foolish joy would leave
More darkness in my misery!

X

Inez, to me the light of life
Wert thou, when youth's fond pulse beat high,
And free from care, and far from strife,
Day follow'd day without a sigh;
All that could bless a mortal eye,
All that could charm th' immortal mind,
And wean from frail variety,
Were in thy form and soul combin'd.

XI

Though angel now, thou yet may'st deign
To bend thy radiant look on me,
And view the breast where thou didst reign,
Still pining in its love for thee:
Then let me bend to Heaven's decree,
Support this drooping soul of mine;
And, since to thine it may not flee,
Oh! teach me humbly to resign!

339

HYMN TO THE MOON.

I

How lovely is this silent scene!
How beautiful, fair lamp of night,
On stirless woods, and lakes serene,
Thou sheddest forth thy holy light;
With beam as pure, with ray as bright,
As sorrow's tear from Woman's breast,
When mourning over days departed,
That robb'd her spirit of its rest,
And left her lone and broken-hearted!

II

Refulgent pilgrim of the sky,
Beneath thy march, within thy sight,
What varied realms outstretching lie!
Here landscapes rich with glory bright,
There lonely wastes of utter blight;
The nightingale upon the bough
Of cypress, here her song is pouring;
And there begirt with mounts of snow,
For food the famish'd bear is roaring!

340

III

What marvel that the spirits high
Of eastern climes, and ancient days,
Should hail thee as a deity,
And altars to thine honour raise!
So lovely wert thou to the gaze
Of shepherds on Chaldean hills,
When summer flowers around were springing,
And when to thee a thousand rills
Throughout the quiet night were singing.

IV

And lo! the dwarfish Laplander,
Far from his solitary home,
Dismay'd, beholds the evening star,
While many a mile remains to roam:
Thou lightest up the eastern dome,
And, in his deer-drawn chariot, he
Is hurl'd along the icy river;
And leaps his sunken heart to see
The light in his own casement quiver.

V

Nor beautiful the less art thou,
When Ocean's gentlest breezes fan,
With gelid wing, the feverish glow
That daylight sheds on Indostan!

341

There, on the glittering haunts of man,
And on the amaranthine bowers,
The glory of thy smile reposes,
On hedgerows, white with jasmine flowers,
And minarets o'erhung with roses.

VI

The exile on a foreign shore
Dejected sits, and turns his eye
To thee, in beauty evermore,
Careering through a cloudless sky.
A white cloud comes, and, passing by,
Veils thee a moment from his sight;
Then, as he rests beneath the shadows,
He thinks of many as sweet a night,
When glad he roam'd his native meadows.

VII

Though years in stayless current roll,
Thou art as full of glory yet,
As when to Shakspeare's glowing soul,
Where mightiness and meekness met,
Thou shon'st upon his Juliet;
Tipping with silver all the grove,
And gleaming on the cheek of Beauty,
Who durst forsake, for Romeo's love,
The mandates of paternal duty.

342

VIII

Enthroned amid the cloudless blue,
Majestic, silent, and alone,
Above the fountains of the dew,
Thou glidest on, and glidest on,
To shoreless seas, and lands unknown.
The presence of thy face appears,
Thou eldest born of Beauty's daughters,
A spirit traversing the spheres,
And ruling o'er the pathless waters.

MELANCHOLY.

I

The sun of the morning,
Unclouded and bright,
The landscape adorning
With lustre and light,
In glory and gladness
New bliss may impart;
But, O! give to sadness
And softness of heart—
A moment to ponder—a season to grieve—
The light of the moon, or the shadows of eve!

343

II

Then soothing reflections
Awake to the mind,
And sweet recollections
Of friends who were kind;
Of love that was tender,
And yet could decay;
Of visions whose splendour
Time wither'd away,
In all that for brightness and beauty might seem
The painting of fancy, the work of a dream!

III

The soft cloud of lightness,
The stars beaming through;
The pure moon of brightness,
The deep sky of blue;
The rush of the river
Through vales that are still;
The breezes that ever
Sigh lone o'er the hill,—
Are sounds that can soften, and sights that impart
A bliss to the eye, and a balm to the heart.

344

THE UNKNOWN GRAVE.

Man comes into the world like morning mushrooms, soon thrusting up their heads into the air, and conversing with their kindred of the same production, and as soon they turn into dust and forgetfulness. Jeremy Taylor.

I

Who sleeps below? who sleeps below?—
It is a question idle all!
Ask of the breezes as they blow,
Say, do they heed, or hear thy call?
They murmur in the trees around,
And mock thy voice, an empty sound!

II

A hundred summer suns have shower'd
Their fostering warmth, and radiance bright;
A hundred winter storms have lower'd
With piercing floods, and hues of night,
Since first this remnant of his race
Did tenant his lone dwelling-place.

345

III

Say, did he come from East, from West?
From Southern climes, or where the Pole,
With frosty sceptre, doth arrest
The howling billows as they roll?
Within what realm of peace or strife
Did he first draw the breath of life?

IV

Was he of high or low degree?
Did grandeur smile upon his lot?
Or, born to dark obscurity,
Dwelt he within some lowly cot,
And, from his youth to labour wed,
From toil-strung limbs wrung daily bread?

V

Say, died he ripe, and full of years,
Bow'd down, and bent by hoary eld,
When sound was silence to his ears,
And the dim eyeball sight withheld;
Like a ripe apple falling down,
Unshaken, 'mid the orchard brown;

346

VI

When all the friends that bless'd his prime,
Were vanish'd like a morning dream;
Pluck'd one by one by spareless Time,
And scatter'd in oblivion's stream;
Passing away all silently,
Like snow-flakes melting in the sea:

VII

Or, 'mid the summer of his years,
When round him throng'd his children young,
When bright eyes gush'd with burning tears,
And anguish dwelt on every tongue,
Was he cut off, and left behind
A widow'd wife, scarce half resign'd?

VIII

Or, 'mid the sunshine of his spring,
Came the swift bolt that dash'd him down;
When she, his chosen, blossoming
In beauty, deem'd him all her own,
And forward look'd to happier years
Than ever bless'd this vale of tears?

347

IX

By day, by night, through calm and storm,
O'er distant oceans did he roam,
Far from his land, a lonely form,
The deck his walk, the sea his home:
Toss'd he on wild Biscayan wave,
Or where smooth tides Panama lave?

X

Slept he within the tented field,
With pillowing daisies for his bed?
Captived in battle, did he yield?
Or plunge to victory o'er the dead?
Oft, 'mid destruction, hath he broke
Through reeking blades and rolling smoke?

XI

Perhaps he perish'd for the faith—
One of that persecuted band,
Who suffer'd tortures, bonds, and death,
To free from mental thrall the land,
And, toiling for the martyr's fame,
Espoused his fate, nor found a name!

348

XII

Say, was he one to science blind,
A groper in Earth's dungeon dark?
Or one who with aspiring mind
Did, in the fair creation, mark
The Maker's hand, and kept his soul
Free from this grovelling world's control?

XIII

Hush! wild surmise!—'tis vain—'tis vain—
The summer flowers in beauty blow,
And sighs the wind, and floods the rain,
O'er some old bones that rot below;
No other record can we trace
Of fame or fortune, rank or race!

XIV

Then, what is life, when thus we see
No trace remains of life's career?—
Mortal! whoe'er thou art, for thee
A moral lesson gloweth here;
Putt'st thou in aught of earth thy trust?
'Tis doom'd that dust shall mix with dust.

349

XV

What doth it matter, then, if thus,
Without a stone, without a name,
To impotently herald us,
We float not on the breath of fame;
But, like the dewdrop from the flower.
Pass, after glittering for an hour?

XVI

The soul decays not, freed from earth,
And earthly coils, it bursts away;—
Receiving a celestial birth,
And spurning off its bonds of clay,
It soars, and seeks another sphere,
And blooms through Heaven's eternal year!

XVII

Do good; shun evil; live not thou,
As if at death thy being died;
Nor Error's syren voice allow
To draw thy steps from truth aside;
Look to thy journey's end—the grave!
And trust in Him whose arm can save.

350

DESPONDENCY. A REVERIE.

I

'Twas on the evening of an August day,
A day of clouds and tempests, that I stood
Within the shade of over-arching wood,
My bosom fill'd with visions of decay;
Around were strew'd the shiver'd leaves, all wet;
The boughs above were dripping; and the sky
Threw down the shadows of despondency,—
As if all melancholy things were met
To blast this lower world. I lean'd my side
Against an oak, and sigh'd o'er human pride.

II

I thought of life, and love, and earthly bliss,
Of all we pine for, pant for, and pursue,
And found them like the mist, or matin dew,
Fading to nothingness in Time's abyss.

351

Our fathers, where are they? The moss is green
Upon the tablets that record their worth;
They have commingled with their parent earth,
And only in our dreams of yore are seen—
Our visions of the by-past, which have fled,
To leave us wandering 'mid the buried dead.

III

I thought of men, who look'd upon my face,
Breathing and blooming, breathless now and cold;
I heard their voices issuing from the mould,
Amid the scenes that bear of them no trace.
I thought of smiling children, who have sat
At evening on my knees, and press'd my hand,—
Their cherub features and their accents bland,—
Their innocence,—and their untimely fate;—
How soon their flower was cropt, and laid below
The turf, where daisies spring, and lilies blow.

IV

I thought of sunless regions, where the day
Smiles not, and all is dreariness and death;
Of weltering oceans, where the winter's breath
Beats on the emerald ice and rocky bay;
I thought me of the old times,—of the halls
Of ancient castles mouldering to the dust—
Of swords, long used in war, bedimm'd with rust,
Hanging in danky vaults, upon the walls,
Where coffin'd warriors rest, amid the night
Of darkness, never tinged by morning light.

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V

The unshelter'd cattle low'd upon the plain;
The speckled frog was leaping 'mid the grass,
Down to the lakelet's edge, whose breast of glass
Was wrinkled only by the tardy rain;
Dim was the aspect of the sullen sky;
The night scowl'd gloomier down: I could not throw
From off my heart the weary weight of woe,
But loath'd the world, and coveted to die;
Beholding only in the earth and air
Omens of desolation and despair.

THE ANGLER.

Life is a dream, whose seeming truth
Is moralised in age and youth,
When all the comforts man can share
As wandering as his fancies are;
Till in a mist of dark decay
The dreamer vanish quite away.
Bishop King.

I.

'Twas a blithe morning in the golden month
Of July, when, in pride of summer power,
The sun enliven'd nature: dew-besprent,
A wilderness of flowers their scent exhaled
Into the soft, warm zephyr; early a-foot,
On public roads, and by each hedge-way path,

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From the far North, and from Hibernia's strand,
With vestures many-hued, and ceaseless chat,
The reapers to the coming harvest plied—
Father and mother, stripling, and young child
On back or shoulder borne. I trode again
A scene of youth, bright in its natural lines
Even to a stranger's eyes when first time seen,
But sanctified to mine by many a fond
And faithful recognition. O'er the Esk,
Swoln by nocturnal showers, the hawthorn hung
Its garland of green berries, and the bramble
Trail'd 'mid the camomile its ripening fruit.
Most lovely was the verdure of the hills—
A rich, luxuriant green, o'er which the sky
Of blue, translucent, clear without a cloud,
Outspread its arching amplitude serene.
With many a gush of music, from each brake
Sang forth the choral linnets; and the lark,
Ascending from the clover field, by fits
Soar'd as it sang, and dwindled from the sight.
The cushat stood amidst the topmost boughs
Of the tall tree, his white-ring'd neck aslant,
Down thro' the leaves to see his brooding mate.
'Mid the tall meadow grass the ox reclined,
Or bent his knee, or from beneath the shade
Of the broad beech, with ruminant mouth, gaz'd forth.
Rustling with wealth, a tissue of fair fields
Outstretch'd to left and right in luxury;
And the fir forests on the upland slopes
Contrasted darkly with the golden grain.

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II.

Embathed in beauty pass'd before my sight,
Like blossoms that with sunlight shut and ope,
The half-lost dreams of many a holiday,
In boyhood spent on that blue river side
With those whose names, even now, as alien sounds
Ring in the ear, though then our cordial arms
Enwreathed each other's necks, while on we roam'd,
Singing or silent, pranksome, ne'er at rest,
As life were but a jocund pilgrimage,
Whose pleasant wanderings found a goal in heaven.
But when I reach'd a winding of the stream,
By hazels overarch'd, whose swollen nuts
Hung in rich clusters, from the marginal bank
Of yellow sand, ribb'd by receding waves,
I scared the ousel, that, like elfin sprite,
Amid the water-lilies lithe and green,
Zig-zagg'd from stone to stone; and, turning round
The sudden jut, reveal'd before me stood,
Silent, within that solitary place—
In that green solitude so calm and deep—
An aged angler, plying wistfully,
Amid o'erhanging banks and shelvy rocks,
Far from the bustle and the din of men,
His sinless pastime. Silver were his locks,
His figure lank; his dark eye, like a hawk's,
Glisten'd beneath his hat of whitest straw,
Lightsome of wear, with gut and flies begirt:
The osier creel, athwart his shoulders slung,
Became full well his coat of velveteen,

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Square-tail'd, four-pocket'd, and worn for years,
As told by weather stains. His quarter-boots,
Lash'd with stout leather-thongs, and ankles bare,
Spoke the adept—and of full many a day,
Through many a changeable and chequer'd year,
By mountain torrent, or smooth meadow stream,
To that calm sport devoted. O'er him spread
A tall, broad sycamore; and, at his feet,
Amid the yellow ragwort, rough and high,
An undisturbing spaniel lay, whose lids,
Half-opening, told his master my approach.

III.

I turn'd away, I could not bear to gaze
On that grey angler with his rod and line;
I turn'd away—for to my heart the sight
Brought back, from out the twilight labyrinth
Of bypast things, the memory of a day,
So sever'd from the present by the lapse
Of many a motley'd, life-destroying year,
That on my thoughts the recognition came
Faintly at first—as breaks the timid dawn
Above the sea, or evening's earliest star
Through the pavilion of the twilight dim—
Faintly at first; then kindling to the glow
Of that refulgent sunshine, only known
To boyhood's careless and unclouded hours.

IV.

Even yet I feel around my heart the flush
Of that calm, windless morning, glorified

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With summer sunshine brilliant and intense!
A tiny boy, scarcely ten summers old,
Along blue Esk, under the whispering trees,
And by the crumbling banks, daisy-o'ergrown,
A cloudless, livelong day I trode with one
Whose soul was in his pastime, and whose skill
Upon its shores that day no equal saw.
O'er my small shoulders was the wicker creel
Slung proudly, and the net whose meshes held
The minnow, from the shallows deftly raised.
Hour after hour augmenting our success,
Turn'd what was pleasure first to pleasant toil,
Lent languor to my loitering steps, and gave
Red to the cheek, and dew-damp to the brow:
It was a day that cannot be forgot,
A jubilee in childhood's calendar,
A green hill-top seen o'er the billowy waste
Of dim oblivion's flood: and so it is,
That on my morning couch—what time the sun
Tinges the honeysuckle flowers with gold,
That cluster round the porch—and in the calm
Of evening meditation, when the past
Spontaneously unfolds the treasuries
Of half-forgotten and fragmental things
To memory's ceaseless roamings, it comes back,
Fragrant and fresh, as if 'twere yesterday.
From morn till noon, his light assiduous toil
The angler plied; and when the mid-day sun
Was high in heaven, under a spreading tree,
(Methinks I hear the hum amid its leaves!)

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Upon a couch of wild-flowers down we sat
With healthful palates to our slight repast
Of biscuits, and of cheese, and bottled milk;
The sward our table, and the boughs our roof:
And O! in banquet-hall, where richest cates
Luxurious woo the pamper'd appetite,
Never did viands proffer such delight
To Sybarite upon his silken couch,
As did to us our simple fare that day.

V.

Bright shone the afternoon, say rather burn'd,
In floods of molten golden, with all its rich
Array of blossoms by that river's side—
Wild camomile, and lychnis in whose cups
The bee delights to murmur, harebells blue,
And violets breathing fragrance; nor remote
The golden furze, that to the west-wind's sigh
Lent its peculiar perfume blandly soft.
At times we near'd the wild-duck and her brood
In the far angle of some dim-seen pool,
Silent and sable, underneath the boughs
Of low hung willow; and, at times, the bleat
Of a stray lamb would bid us raise our eyes
To where it stood above us on the rock,
Knee-deep amid the broom—a sportive elf.
Enshrined in recollection, sleep those hours
So brilliant and so beautiful—the scene
So full of pastoral loveliness—the heart
With pleasure overflowing—and the sky

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Pavilion'd over all, an arch of peace—
God with his fair creation reconciled:
And O! to be forgotten only with
The last fond thoughts of memory, I behold
That grand and gorgeous evening, in whose blaze
Homeward with laden panniers we return'd.
Through the green woods outshot the level rays
Of flooding sunlight, tinging the hoar bark
Of the old pine-trees, and in crimson dyes
Bathing the waste of flowers that sprang beneath;
It was an hour of Paradise restored—
Eden forth mirror'd to the view again,
Ere Happiness had yet forsook its bowers,
Or sinless creatures own'd the sway of death.
All was repose, and peace, and harmony;
The flocks upon the soft knolls resting lay,
Or straying nibbled at the pastures green;
Up from its clovery lurking-place, the hare
Arose; the pheasant from the coppice stray'd;
The cony from its hole disporting leapt;
The cattle in the bloomy meadows lay
Ruminant; the shy foal scarce swerved aside
At our approach from under the tall tree
Of his delight, shaking his forelocks long
In wanton play; while, overhead, his hymn,
As 'twere to herald the approach of night,
With all her gathering stars, the blackbird sang
Melodiously, mellifluously, and Earth
Look'd up, reflecting back the smiles of Heaven:
For Innocence o'er hill and dale again

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Seem'd to have spread her mantle, and the voice
Of all but joy in grove and glade was hush'd.

VI.

Thro' the deep glen of Roslin—where arise
Proud castle and chapelle of high St Clair,
And Scotland's prowess speaking—we had traced
The mazy Esk by cavern'd Hawthornden,
Perch'd like an eagle's nest upon the cliffs,
And eloquent for aye with Drummond's song;
Through Melville's flowery glades; and down the park
Of fair Dalkeith, scaring the antler'd deer,
'Neath the huge oaks of Morton and of Monk,
Whispering, as stir their boughs the midnight winds.
These left behind, with purpling evening, now
We stood beside St Michael's holy fane,
With its nine centuries of gravestones girt;
And, from the slopes of Inveresk, gazed down
Upon the Firth of Forth, whose waveless tide
Glow'd like a plain of fire. In majesty,
O'ercanopied with many-vestured clouds,
The mighty sun, low in the farthest west,
With orb dilated, o'er the Grampian chain,
Mountain up-piled on mountain, huge and blue,
Was shedding his last rays adown the shores
Of Fife, with all its towns, and woods, and fields,
And bathing Ben-Ean and Ben-Ledi's peaks
In hues of amethyst. Ray after ray,
From the twin Lomond's conic heights declined,
And died away the glory; and, at length,

360

As sank the last, low horizontal beams,
And Twilight drew her azure curtains round,
From out the south twinkled the evening star.

VII.

Since then full often hath the snowdrop shown
Its early flower, hath summer waved its corn,
Hath autumn shed its leaves, and Arctic gales
Brought wintry desolation on their wings:
When Memory ponders on that boyish scene,
Broken seems almost every tie that links
That day to this, and to the child the man:
The world is alter'd quite in all its thoughts,
In all its works and ways, its sights and sounds—
With the same name it is another sphere,
And by another race inhabited.
The old familiar dwellings, with their trees
Coeval, mouldering wall, and dovecot rent—
The old familiar faces from the streets,
One after one have now all disappear'd,
And sober sires are they who then were sons,
Giddy and gay: a generation new
Dwells where they dwelt, whose tongues are silent quite,
Whose bodily forms are reminiscences
Fading: the leaden talisman of Truth
Hath disenchanted of its rainbow hues
The sky, and robb'd the fields of half their bloom.
I start, to conjure from the gulf of death
The myriads that have gone to come no more:
And where is he, the Angler, by whose side

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That livelong day delightedly I roam'd,
While life to both a sunny pastime seem'd?
Ask of the winds that from the Atlantic blow,
When last they stirr'd the wild-flowers on his grave!

THE TOMBLESS MAN. A DREAM.

I.

I woke from sleep at midnight; all was dark,
Solemn, and silent, an unbroken calm:
It was a fearful vision, and had made
A mystical impression on my mind;
For clouds lay o'er the ocean of my thoughts
In vague and broken masses, strangely wild;
And grim imagination wander'd on
'Mid gloomy yew-trees in a churchyard old,
And mouldering shielings of the eyeless hills,
And snow-clad pathless moors on moonless nights,
And icebergs drifting from the sunless Pole,
And prostrate Indian villages, when spent
The rage of the hurricane has pass'd away,
Leaving a landscape desolate with death;
And as I turn'd me to my vanish'd dream,

362

Clothed in its drapery of gloom, it rose
Upon my spirit, dreary as before.

II.

Alone—alone—a desolate dreary wild,
Herbless and verdureless; low swampy moss,
Where tadpoles grew to frogs, for leagues begirt
My solitary path. Nor sight nor sound
Of moving life, except a grey curlew—
As shrieking tumbled on the timid bird,
Aye glancing backward with its coal-black eye,
Even as by imp invisible pursued—
Was seen or heard; the last low level rays
Of sunset gilded with a blood-red glow
That melancholy moor, with its grey stones
And stagnant water-pools. Aye floundering on,
And on, I stray'd, finding no pathway, save
The runlet of a wintry stream, begirt
With shelvy barren rocks; around, o'erhead,
Yea everywhere, in shapes grotesque and grim,
Towering they rose, encompassing my path,
As 'twere in savage mockery. Lo, a chasm
Yawning, and bottomless, and black! Beneath
I heard the waters in their sheer descent
Descending down, and down; and further down
Descending still, and dashing—now a rush,
And now a roar, and now a fainter fall,
And still remoter, and yet finding still,
For the white anguish of their boiling whirl,
No resting-place. Over my head appear'd,

363

Between the jagged black rifts bluely seen,
Sole harbinger of hope, a patch of sky,
Of deep, clear, solemn sky, shrining a star
Magnificent, that, with a holy light,
Glowing and glittering, shone into the heart,
As 'twere an angel's eye. Entranced I stood,
Drinking the beauty of that gem serene,
How long I wist not; but, when back to earth
Sank my prone eyes, I knew not where I was—
Again the scene had shifted, and the time,
From midnight to the hour when earliest dawn
Gleams in the orient, and with inky lines
The trees seem painted on the girding sky.

III.

A solemn hour!—so silent, that the sound
Even of a falling leaflet had been heard,
Was that, wherein, with meditative step,
With uncompanion'd step, measured and slow,
And wistful gaze, that to the left, the right,
Was often turn'd, as if in secret dread
Of something horrible that must be met—
Of unseen evil not to be eschew'd—
Up a long vista'd avenue I wound,
Untrodden long, and overgrown with moss.
It seem'd an entrance to the hall of gloom;
Grey twilight, in the melancholy shade
Of the hoar branches, show'd the tufted grass
With globules spangled of the fine night-dew—
So fine, that even a midge's tiny tread

364

Had caused them trickle down. Funereal yews,
Notch'd with the growth of centuries, stretching round
Dismal in aspect, and grotesque in shape,
Pair after pair, were ranged: where ended these,
Girdling an open semicircle, tower'd
A row of rifted plane-trees, inky-leaved,
With cinnamon-colour'd bark; and, in the midst,
Hidden almost by their entwining boughs,
An unshut gateway, musty and forlorn,
Its old supporting pillars roughly rich
With sculpturings quaint of intermingled flowers.

IV.

Each pillar held upon its top an urn,
Serpent-begirt; each urn upon its front
A face—and such a face! I turn'd away—
Then gazed again—'twas not to be forgot:—
There was a fascination in the eyes—
Even in their stony stare; like the ribb'd sand
Of ocean was the eager brow; the mouth
Had a hyena grin; the nose, compress'd
With curling sneer, of wolfish cunning spake;
O'er the lank temples, long entwisted curls
Adown the scraggy neck in masses fell;
And fancy, aided by the time and place,
Read in the whole the effigies of a fiend.
Who, and what art thou? ask'd my beating heart—
And but the silence to my heart replied!
That entrance pass'd, I found a grass-grown court,
Vast, void, and desolate; and there a house,

365

Baronial, grim, and grey, with Flemish roof
High-pointed, and with aspect all forlorn:
Four-sided rose the towers at either end
Of the long front, each coped with mouldering flags;
Up from the silent chimneys went no smoke;
And vacantly the deep-brow'd windows stared,
Like eyeballs dead to daylight. O'er the gate
Of entrance, to whose folding-doors a flight
Of steps converging led, startled I saw,
Oh, horrible! the same reflected face
As that on either urn; but gloomier still,
In shadow of the mouldering architrave.

V.

I would have turn'd me back—I would have fled
From that malignant, yet half-syren smile;
But magic held me rooted to the spot,
And some inquisitive horror led me on.
Entering I stood beneath the spacious dome
Of a round hall, vacant, save here and there,
Where from the panelings, in mouldy shreds,
Hung what was arras loom-work; weather-stains
In mould appear'd on the mosaic floors,
Of marble black and white—or what was white,
For time had yellow'd all; and opposite,
High on the wall, within a crumbling frame
Of tarnish'd gold, scowl'd down a pictured form
In the habiliments of bygone days—
With ruff, and doublet slash'd, and studded belt—
'Twas the same face—the Gorgon curls the same,

366

The same lynx eye, the same peak-bearded chin,
And the same nose, with sneering upward curl.

VI.

Again I would have turn'd to flee—again
Tried to elude the snares around my feet;
But struggling could not—though I knew not why,
Self-will and self-possession vaguely lost.
Horror thrill'd through me—to recede was vain;
Fear lurk'd behind in that sepulchral court,
In its mute avenue and grave-like grass;
And to proceed—where led my onward way?
Ranges of doorways branch'd on either side,
Each like the other:—one I oped, and lo!
A dim deserted room, its furniture
Withdrawn; grey, stirless cobwebs from the roof
Hanging; and its deep windows letting in
The pale, sad dawn, than darkness drearier far.
How desolate! Around its cornices
Of florid stucco shone the mimic flowers
Of art's device, carved to delight the eyes
Of those long since but dust within their graves.
The hollow hearth-place, with its fluted jambs
Of clammy Ethiop marble, whence, of yore,
Had risen the Yule-log's animating blaze
On festal faces, tomb-like, coldly yawn'd;
While o'er its centre, lined in hues of night,
Grinn'd the same features with the aspick eyes,
And fox-like watchful, though averted gaze,
The haunting demon of that voiceless home.

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VII.

How silent! to the beating of my heart
I listen'd, and nought else around me heard.
How stirless! even a waving gossamer—
The mazy motes that rise and fall in air—
Had been as signs of life; when, suddenly,
As bursts the thunder-peal upon the calm,
Whence I had come the clank of feet was heard—
A noise remote, which near'd, and near'd, and near'd—
Even to the threshold of that room it came,
Where, with raised hands, spell-bound, I listening stood;
And, the door opening stealthily, I beheld
The embodied figure of the phantom head,
Garb'd in the quaint robes of the portraiture—
A veritable fiend, a life in death!

VIII.

My heart stood still, tho' quickly came my breath;
Headlong I rush'd away, I knew not where:
In frenzied haste rushing I ran; my feet
With terror wing'd, a hell-hound at my heels,
Yea! scarce three strides between us. Through a door
Right opposite I flew, slamming its weight,
To shut me from the spectre who pursued.
And lo! another room, the counterpart
Of that just left, but gloomier: on I rush'd,
Beholding o'er its hearth the grinning face,
Another and the same; the haunting face
Reflected, as it seem'd, from wall to wall!
There, opening as I shut, onward he came,

368

That Broucoloka, not to be escaped,
With measured tread unwearied, like the wolf's
When tracking its sure prey: forward I sprang,
And lo! another room—another face,
Alike, but gloomier still; another door,
And the pursuing fiend—and on—and on,
With palpitating heart and yielding knees,
From room to room, each mirror'd in the last.
At length I reached a porch—amid my hair
I felt his desperate clutch—outward I flung—
The open air was gain'd—I stood alone!

IX.

That welcome postern open'd on a court—
Say rather, grave-yard; gloomy yews begirt
Its cheerless walls; ranges of headstones show'd,
Each on its hoary tablature, half hid
With moss, with hemlock, and with nettles rank,
The sculptured leer of that hyena face,
Softening as backwards, thro' the waves of time,
Receded generations more remote.
It was a square of tombs—of old, grey tombs,
(The oldest of an immemorial date,)
Deserted quite—and rusty gratings black,
Along the yawning mouths of dreary vaults—
And epitaphs unread—and mouldering bones.
Alone forlorn, the only breathing thing
In that unknown, forgotten cemetery,
Reeling, I strove to stand, and all things round
Flicker'd, and wavering, seem'd to wane away,

369

And earth became a blank; the tide of life
Ebbing, as backward ebbs the billowy sea,
Wave after wave, till nought is left behind,
Save casual foam-bells on the barren sand.

X.

From out annihilation's vacancy,
(The elements, as of a second birth,
Kindling within, at first a fitful spark,
And then a light which, glowing to a blaze,
Fill'd me with genial life,) I seemed to wake
Upon a bed of bloom. The breath of spring
Scented the air; mingling their odours sweet,
The bright jonquil, the lily of the vale,
The primrose, and the daffodil, o'erspread
The fresh green turf; and, as it were in love,
Around the boughs of budding lilac wreathed
The honeysuckle, rich in early leaves,
Gold-tinctured now, for sunrise fill'd the clouds
With purple glory, and with aureate beams
The dew-refreshen'd earth. Up, up, the larks
Mounted to heaven, as did the angel wings
Of old in Jacob's vision; and the fly,
Awakening from its wintry sleep, once more
Spread, humming, to the light its gauzy wings.

XI.

A happy being in a happy place,
As 'twere a captive from his chains released,
His dungeon and its darkness, there I lay

370

Nestling, amid the sun-illumined flowers,
Revolving silently the varied scenes,
Grotesque and grim, 'mid which my erring feet
Had stumbled; and a brightness darting in
On my mysterious nightmare, something told
The what and wherefore of the effigies grim—
The wolfish, never-resting, tombless man,
Voicelessly haunting that ancestral home—
Yea of his destiny for evermore
To suffer fearful life-in-death, until
A victim suffer'd from the sons of men,
To soothe the cravings of insatiate Hell,
An agony for ages undergone—
An agony for ages to be borne—
Hope, still elusive, baffled by despair.

XII.

Thus as an eagle, from the altitude
Of the mid-sky, its pride of place attain'd,
Glances around the illimitable void,
And sees no goal, and finds no resting-place
In the blue, boundless depths—then, silently,
Pauses on wing, and with gyrations down
And down descends thorough the blinding clouds,
In billowy masses, many-hued, around
Floating, until their confines past, green earth
Once more appears, and on its loftiest crag
The nest, wherein 'tis bliss to rest his plumes
Flight-wearied; so, from farthest dreamland's shores,
Where clouds and chaos form the continents,

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And reason reigns not, Fancy back return'd
To sights and sounds familiar—to the birds
Singing above, and the bright vale beneath,
With cottages and trees, and the blue sky,
And the glad waters murmuring to the sun.

LINES WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF BUTE.

I.

Ere yet dim twilight brighten'd into day,
Or waned the silver morning star away,
Shedding its last, lone, melancholy smile,
Above the mountain-tops of far Argyll;
Ere yet the solan's wing had brush'd the sea,
Or issued from its cell the mountain bee;
As dawn beyond the orient Cumbraes shone,
Thy northern slope, Byrone,
From Ascog's rocks, o'erflung with woodland bowers,
With scarlet fuschias, and faint myrtle flowers,
My steps essay'd; brushing the diamond dew
From the soft moss, lithe grass, and harebell blue.
Up from the heath aslant the linnet flew

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Startled, and rose the lark on twinkling wing,
And soar'd away, to sing
A farewell to the severing shades of night,
A welcome to the morning's earliest light.
Thy summit gain'd, how tranquilly serene,
Beneath, outspread that panoramic scene
Of continent and isle, and lake and sea,
And tower and town, hill, vale, and spreading tree,
And rock and ruin tinged with amethyst,
Half-seen, half-hidden by the lazy mist,
Volume on volume, which had vaguely wound
The far-off hills around,
And now roll'd downwards; till on high were seen,
Begirt with sombre larch, their foreheads green.

II.

There, there when all except the lark was mute,
O beauty-breathing Bute,
On thee entranced I gazed; each moment brought
A new creation to the eye of thought:
The orient clouds all Iris' hues assumed,
From the pale lily to the rose that bloom'd,
And hung above the pathway of the sun,
As if to harbinger his course begun;
When, lo! his disc burst forth—his beams of gold
Seem'd earth as with a garment to enfold,
And from his piercing eye the loose mists flew,
And heaven with arch of deep autumnal blue
Glow'd overhead; while ocean, like a lake,
Seeming delight to take

373

In its own halcyon-calm, resplendent lay,
From Western Kames to far Kilchattan bay.
Old Largs look'd out amid the orient light,
With its grey dwellings, and, in greenery bright,
Lay Coila's classic shores reveal'd to sight;
And like a Vallombrosa, veil'd in blue,
Arose Mount-Stuart's woodlands on the view;
Kerry and Cowal their bold hill-tops show'd,
And Arran, and Kintyre; like rubies glow'd
The jagged clefts of Goatfell; and below,
As on a chart, delightful Rothesay lay,
Whence sprang of human life the awakening sound,
With all its happy dwellings, stretching round
The semicircle of its sunbright bay.

III.

Byrone, a type of peace thou seemest now,
Yielding thy ridges to the rustic plough,
With corn-fields at thy feet, and many a grove
Whose songs are but of love;
But different was the aspect of that hour,
Which brought, of eld, the Norsemen o'er the deep,
To wrest yon castle's walls from Scotland's power,
And leave her brave to bleed, her fair to weep;
When Husbac fierce, and Olave, Mona's king,

Rothesay Castle is first mentioned in history in connection with its siege by Husbac the Norwegian, and Olave, king of Man, in 1228. Among other means of defence, it is said that the Scots poured down boiling pitch and lead on the heads of their enemies; but it was, however, at length taken, after the Norwegians had lost three hundred men. In 1263, it was retaken by the Scots after the decisive battle of Largs.


Confederate chiefs, with shout and triumphing,
Bade o'er its towers the Scaldic raven fly,
And mock each storm-tost sea-king toiling by!—
Far different were the days,
When flew the fiery cross, with summoning blaze,

374

O'er Blane's hill, and o'er Catan, and o'er Kames,
And round thy peak the phalanx'd Butesmen stood,

This hill was the scene of a conflict between the men of Bute and the troops of Lisle, the English governor, in which that general was slain, and his severed head, presented to the Lord High Steward, was suspended from the battlements of the castle.


As Bruce's followers shed the Baliol's blood,
Yea! gave each Saxon homestead to the flames!

IV.

Proud palace-home of kings! what art thou now?
Worn are the traceries of thy lofty brow!
Yet once in beauteous strength like thee were none,
When Rothesay's Duke was heir to Scotland's throne;

In 1398, Robert III. constituted his eldest son Duke of Rothesay, a title still held by every male heir-apparent to the British crown. It was the first introduction of the ducal dignity—originally a Norman one—into Scotland.


Ere Falkland rose, or Holyrood, in thee
The barons to their sovereign bow'd the knee:
Now, as to mock thy pride,
The very waters of thy moat are dried;
Through fractured arch and doorway freely pass
The sunbeams, into halls o'ergrown with grass;
Thy floors, unroof'd, are open to the sky,
And the snows lodge there when the storm sweeps by;
O'er thy grim battlements, where bent the bow
Thine archers keen, now hops the chattering crow;
And where the beauteous and the brave were guests,
Now breed the bats, the swallows build their nests!
Lost even the legend of the bloody stair,
Whose steps went downward to thy house of prayer;
Gone is the priest, and they who worshipp'd seem
Phantoms to us—a dream within a dream;
Earth hath o'ermantled each memorial stone,
And from their tombs the very dust is gone;
All perish'd, all forgotten, like the ray
Which gilt yon orient hill-tops yesterday;

375

All nameless, save mayhap one stalwart knight,
Who fell with Græme in Falkirk's bloody fight—
Bonkill's stout Stewart,

The walls forming the choir of the very ancient church dedicated to the Holy Virgin are still nearly entire, and stand close to the present parish church of Rothesay. Within a traceried niche, on one side, is the recumbent figure of a knight in complete armour, apparently of the kind in use about the time of Robert II. or III. His feet are upon a lion couchant, and his head upon a faithful watch-dog, with a collar, in beautiful preservation, encircling its neck. The coat-of-arms denotes the person represented to have been of royal lineage. Popular tradition individualises him as the “Stout Stewart of Bonkill” of Blind Harry the minstrel, who fell with Sir John the Grahame at the battle of Falkirk—although that hero was buried near the field of action, as his tombstone there, in the old churchyard, still records.

Sir John Stewart of Bonkill was uncle and tutor to the then Lord High Steward, at that time a minor.

A female figure and child recumbent, also elaborately sculptured in black marble, adorn the opposite niche, and under them, in alto-relievo, are several figures in religious habits. Another effigy of a knight, but much defaced, lies on the ground-floor of the choir—the whole of which was cleaned out and put in order by the late Marquis of Bute in 1827.

whose heroic tale

Oft circles yet the peasant's evening fire,
And how he scorn'd to fly, and how he bled—
He, whose effigies in St Mary's choir,
With planted heel upon the lion's head,
Now rests in marble mail.
Yet still remains the small dark narrow room,
Where the third Robert, yielding to the gloom
Of his despair, heart-broken, laid him down,
Refusing food, to die; and to the wall
Turn'd his determined face, unheeding all,
And to his captive boy-prince left his crown.

On the 4th of April 1406, this unfortunate prince—over-whelmed with grief for the death of his eldest son, David, duke of Rothesay and Earl of Carrick, who miserably perished of hunger in Falkland Castle; and the capture, during a time of truce, of his younger son, Prince James, by the English—died in the castle of Rothesay of a broken heart. The closet, fourteen feet by eight, in which he breathed his last, is still pointed out, in the south-east corner of the castle.


Alas! thy solitary hawthorn tree,
Four-centuried, and o'erthrown, is but of thee
A type, majestic ruin: there it lies,
And annually puts on its May-flower bloom,
To fill thy lonely precincts with perfume,
Yet lifts no more its green head to the skies;

In the court of the castle is a remarkable thorn-tree, which for centuries had waved above the chapel, now in ruins; and which, at the distance of a yard from the ground, measures six feet three inches in circumference. In 1839, it fell from its own weight, and now lies prostrate, with half its roots uncovered, but still vigorous in growth.


The last lone living thing around that knew
Thy glory, when the dizziness and din
Of thronging life o'erflow'd thy halls within,
And o'er thy top St Andrew's banner flew.

V.

Farewell! Elysian island of the west,
Still be thy gardens brighten'd by the rose
Of a perennial spring, and winter's snows
Ne'er chill the warmth of thy maternal breast!

376

May calms for ever sleep around thy coast,
And desolating storms roll far away,
While art with nature vies to form thy bay,
Fairer than that which Naples makes her boast!
Green link between the High-lands and the Low—
Thou gem, half claim'd by earth, and half by sea—
May blessings, like a flood, thy homes o'erflow,
And health, though elsewhere lost, be found in thee!
May thy bland zephyrs to the pallid cheek
Of sickness ever roseate hues restore,
And they who shun the rabble and the roar
Of the wild world, on thy delightful shore
Obtain that soft seclusion which they seek!
Be this a stranger's farewell, green Byrone,
Who ne'er hath trod thy heathery heights before,
And ne'er may see thee more
After yon autumn sun hath westering gone;
Though oft, in pensive mood, when far away,
'Mid city multitudes, his thoughts will stray
To Ascog's lake, blue-sleeping in the morn,
And to the happy homesteads that adorn
Thy Rothesay's lovely bay.
Ascog Lodge, East Bay, Rothesay, September 1843.

377

HYMN TO THE NIGHT WIND.

Unbridled Spirit, throned upon the lap
Of ebon Midnight, whither dost thou stray,
Whence didst thou come, and where is thy abode?—
From slumber I awaken, at the sound
Of thy most melancholy voice; sublime
Thou ridest on the rolling clouds which take
The forms of sphinx, or hypogriff, or car,
Like those by Roman conquerors of yore
In games equestrian used, by fiery steeds
Drawn headlong on; or choosest, all unseen,
To ride the vault, and drive the murky storms
Before thee, or bow down, with giant wing,
The wondering forests as thou sweepest by!
Daughter of darkness! when remote the noise
Of tumult, and of discord, and mankind,
When but the watch-dog's voice is heard, or wolves
That bay the silent night, or from the tower,
Ruin'd and rent, the note of boding owl,
Or lapwing's shrill and solitary cry,
When sleep weighs down the eyelids of the world,

378

And life is as it were not, down the sky,
Forth from thy cave, wide roaming thou dost come,
To hold nocturnal orgies.
Round the pile,
Thou moanest wistfully, of dark abbaye,
And silent charnel-house; the long lank grass,
The hemlock, and the nightshade, and the yew,
Bend at thy tread; and thro' the blacken'd rails
Fleetly thou sweepest, with a wailing voice.
Wayworn and woe-begone, the traveller
Bears on thro' paths unknown; alone he sees
The bright star's fitful twinkling, as along
Night's arch rush sullenly the darksome clouds,
And wilds and melancholy wastes, and streams
Forlorn, and joyless all; no cottage blaze
Strikes through the weary gloom; alone he hears
Thee, awful Spirit! fighting with the stream
Of rushing torrent, torturing it to foam,
And tossing it aloft; the shadowy woods
Join in the chorus, while lone shrieks and sighs
Burst on his ear, as if infernal fiends
Had burst their adamantine chains, and rush'd
To take possession of this lower world.
His bosom sinks, his spirit fails, his heart
Dies in him, and around his captive soul
Dark Superstition weaves her witching spells;
Unholy visions pass before his mind,
Dreams rayless and unhallow'd; spectres pale
Glide past with rustling garments; wormy graves

379

Yawn round him; while the dark and nodding plumes
Of melancholy hearses blast his view.
But not alone to inland solitudes,
To pastoral regions wide and mountains high,
Man's habitations, or the forests dark,
Are circumscribed thy visitings: Behold!
Stemming with eager prow, the Atlantic tide,
Holds on the intrepid mariner; abroad
The wings of Night brood shadowy; heave the waves
Around him, mutinous, their curling heads,
Portentous of a storm; all hands are plied,
A zealous task, and sounds the busy deck
With notes of preparation; many an eye
Is upward cast toward the clouded heaven;
And many a thought, with troubled tenderness,
Dwells on the calm tranquillity of home;
And many a heart in supplicating prayer
Breathes forth; meanwhile, the boldest sailor's cheek
Blanches; stout courage fails; young chilhood's shriek,
Awfully piercing, bursts; and woman's fears
Are speechless. With a low, insidious moan,
Rush past the gales, that harbinger thy way,
And hail thy advent; gloom the murky clouds
Darker around; and heave the maddening waves
Higher their crested summits. With a glare
Unveiling but the clouds and foaming seas,
Flashes the lightning; then, with doubling peal,
Reverberating to the gates of heaven,
Rolls the deep thunder with tremendous crash,

380

Sublime, as if the firmament were rent
Amid the severing clouds, that pour their storms,
Commingling sea and sky.
Disturb'd, arise
The monsters of the deep, and wheel around
Their mountainous bulks unwieldy, while aloft,
Poised on the feathery summit of the wave,
Hangs the frail bark, its howlings of despair
Lost on the mocking storm. Then frantic, thou
Dost rise, tremendous Power, thy wings unfurl'd,
Unfurl'd, but nor to succour, nor to save;
Then is thine hour of triumph; with a yell,
Thou rushest on; and, with a maniac love,
Sing'st in the rifted shroud; the straining mast
Yields, and the cordage cracks. Thou churn'st the deep
To madness, tearing up the yellow sands
From their profound recesses, and dost strew
The clouds around thee, and within thy hand
Takest up the billowy tide, and dashest down
The vessel to destruction—she is not!
But, when the morning lifts her dewy eye,
And to a quiet calm the elements,
Subsiding from their fury, have dispersed,
There art thou, like a satiate conqueror,
Recumbent on the murmuring deep, thy smiles
All unrepentant of the savage wreck.
Yet sometimes art thou, Demon of the night,
An evil spirit ministering to good!—

381

'Mid orient realms, when sultry day hath pass'd,
Breathless; and sunlight, on the western hill,
Dies with a quick decay;

Twilight in tropical countries is of very short duration; the transition from day to darkness being much more rapid than in our northern latitudes.

then, O how dear,

How welcome to the dry and thirsty glebe,
And to the night of woods, where Pagods rise,
And Bramah's priests adore their deity,
From ocean, journeying with an eagle speed,
Come the delightful fannings of thy wing!
The grateful heaven weeps down refreshing dews,
The twilight stars peep forth with glittering ray;
And earth outspreads the carpet of her flowers,
In tenderness exhaling their perfumes,
To lure within their cups thy gelid breath:
There, 'mid the azure landscape, on his roof,
Piazza-girt, watching the evening star,
Among his myrtle blooms, the Indian sits,
Delighted, as with soft refreshing sighs,
Thou wanderest past, lifting his coal-black hair:
The smiles of Vishnoo gleam along the earth;
While by high plantain groves, by limpid streams,
The maidens roam, as subtile Cambdeo lurks

The Indian god of love. By a beautiful allegorical fable, his bowstring is said to be framed of living bees. Vide Southey's Curse of Kehama, for a wonderful tissue of oriental superstition woven into the loom of poetry. Vishnoo, the Preserver, in the Hindoo Pantheon. Meru Mount, the Olympus of eastern mythology, on which the deities are supposed to meet in conclave.—Vide Maurice's Indian Antiquities, Sir William Jones, &c.


Behind a lotus tuft, and, from his string
Of living bees, the unerring arrow twangs:
Malignant Genii lose the power to harm;
From Meru Mount the deities look down,
Well pleased, rejoicing in the general joy.
Nor grateful less, unto the realm where shines
Thy glittering crest, Canopus, on the verge
Of the ungirdled hemisphere, and frown

382

The earth-forsaking pyramids sublime:
In Nilus dipping, through the twilight sky,
Thou roam'st excursive; while, on minaret,
In solemn voice the Muezzin calls to prayer
His Moslem devotees. With thirsty beak,
The birds fly panting to the lilied verge
Of Mœris lake, where swans unnumber'd oar
Their snowy way, amid the azure sheet,
To drink refreshment; while, at thy approach,
Through all their countless multitude of leaves,
The forests murmur, like an infant pleased
Beneath a sire's caress; and nightingales
Sing to thee, through the lapses of the night.
Unsocial Power! the realms of solitude
Thou lovest, and where Desolation spreads
Her far-outstretching pinions; hoary weeds,
Like tresses hanging from the pillar'd pride
Of Balbec,

The curious reader would do well to consult Pocoke's Travels, where an accurate account of these wonderful and stupendous ruins will be found. Amid the frigid and formal exaggerations of Darwin's poetry, the description of the desolation of Palmyra in the Botanic Garden will be found at once picturesque and powerful.

thou dost wave with rustling sound,

Wistfully moaning through the column'd shrines,
By men deserted, and to Silence left,
Whose shadows in the moonlight darksome stretch
O'er the dry sands. The jackall from his den,
Where ancient monarchs held their revels high,
Wondering, comes forth, disturb'd, with upturn'd nose
Scenting the breeze.
Or through Arabian plains,
Thou hold'st thy solitary way, the sands
Uptossing high, and mingling earth with heaven:

For descriptions of this Eastern phenomenon, see Park, Bruce, Volney, Niebuhr, and almost every other Oriental traveller.



383

'Midst of the desert, on a spot of green
Beside the well, the wearied caravans
Rest; and while slumber weighs their eyelids down,
The mountainous surges o'er their destined heads
Thou heap'st relentless. Long at Cairo wait
Their joyless friends expectant, long in vain,
Till hope deferr'd is swallowed in despair.
Farewell! dark essence of regardless will,
That wander'st where thou listest, round the world
Thine endless march pursuing; o'er the peak
Of Alpine Blanc, or through the streamy dells
Of Morven, or beyond Pacific wave
Climbing the mighty Andes, or the vales
Peruvian chusing rather, there to sway,
With creaking sound, the undulating arch
Of wild cane framed,

The bridges over narrow streams, in many parts of Spanish America, are said to be built of cane, which, however strong to support the passenger, are yet waved in the agitation of the storm, and frequently add to the effect of a mountainous and picturesque scenery.—Note on Gertrude of Wyoming.

and flung athwart the depth

Of gulfy chasms; or, with demoniac howl,
While hazy clouds bedim the labouring moon,
Wafting the midnight Sisters on thy car,
To hold unhallow'd orgies on the heaths
Of northern Lapland.
Spirit! fare-thee-well!
In terror, not in love, we sing of thee!

384

THE SNOW.

I

The snow! the snow! 'tis a pleasant thing
To watch it falling, falling
Down upon earth with noiseless wing,
As at some spirit's calling:
Each flake seems a fairy parachute,
From mystic cloudland blown,
And earth is still, and air is mute,
As frost's enchanted zone.

II

The shrubs bend down; behold the trees
Their fingery boughs stretch out
The blossoms of the sky to seize,
As they duck and drive about;
The bare hills plead for a covering,
And, ere the grey twilight,
Around their shoulders broad shall cling
An arctic cloak of white.

385

III

With clapping hands, from drifted door
Of lonely shieling, peeps
The imp, to see thy mantle hoar
O'erspread the craggy steeps.
The eagle round its eyrie screams,
The hill-fox seeks the glade,
And foaming downwards rush the streams,
As mad to be delay'd.

IV

Falling white on the land it lies,
And falling dark in the sea;
The solan to its island flies,
The crow to the thick larch-tree;
Within the penthouse struts the cock,
His draggled mates among;
While black-eyed robin seems to mock
The sadness with his song.

V

Released from school, 'twas ours to wage,
How keenly! bloodless wars—
Tossing the balls in mimic rage,
That left their gorgeous scars;
While doublets dark were powder'd oer,
Till darkness none could find;
And valorous chiefs had wounds before,
And caitiff churls behind.

386

VI

Comrades, to work!—I see him yet,
That piled-up giant grim,
To startle horse and horsemen set,
With Titan girth of limb.
Snell Sir John Frost, with crystal spear,
We hoped thou wouldst have screen'd him;
But Thaw, the traitor, lurking near,
Soon cruelly guillotined him.

VII

The powdery snow! Alas! to me
It speaks of far-off days,
When a boyish skater mingling free
Amid the merry maze.
Methinks I see the broad ice still;
And my nerves all jangling feel,
Blent with the tones of voices shrill,
The ring of the slider's heel.

VIII

A scene of revelry! Soon night
Drew his murky curtains round
The world, while a star of lustre bright
Peep'd from the blue profound.
Yet what cared we for darkening lea,
Or warning bell remote?
With rush and cry we scudded by,
And seized the bliss we sought.

387

IX

Drift on, ye wild winds! leave no traces
Of dim and danky earth;
While eager faces fill their places
Around the blazing hearth:
Then let the stories of the glories
Of our rough sires be told;
Or tale of knight, who lady bright
From thraldom saved of old.

X

Or let the song the charms prolong,
In music's haunting tone,
Of shores where spring's aye blossoming,
And winter is unknown;
Where zephyrs, sick with scent of flowers,
Along the lakelets play;
And lovers, wand'ring thro' the bowers,
Make life a holiday.

XI

Sunset and snow! Lo, eve reveals
Her starr'd map to the moon,
And o'er hush'd earth a radiance steals
More bland than that of noon:
The fur-robed genii of the Pole
Dance o'er our mountains white,
Chain up the billows as they roll,
And pearl the caves with light.

388

XII

The moon above the eastern fells
Holds on a silent way;
The mill-wheel, sparr'd with icicles,
Reflects her silver ray;
The ivy-tod, beneath its load,
Bends down with frosty curl;
And all around seems sown the ground
With diamond and with pearl.

XIII

The groves are black, the hills are white,
And, glittering in the sheen,
The lake expands—a sheet of light—
Its willowy banks between;
From the dark sedge that skirts its edge
The startled wild-duck springs,
While, echoing far up copse and scaur,
The fowler's musket rings.

XIV

From cove to cove how sweet to rove
Around that fairy scene,
Companion'd, as along we move,
By things and thoughts serene;—
Voiceless, except where, cranking, rings,
The skater's curve along,
The demon of the ice, who sings
His deep, hoarse under-song.

389

XV

In days of old, when spirits held
The air, and the earth below,
When o'er the green were, tripping, seen
The fays—what wert thou, Snow?
Leave eastern Greece its fabled fleece,
For Northland has its own—
The witches of Norway pluck their geese,
And thou art their plumes of down.

XVI

The snow! the snow! It brings to mind
A thousand happy things,
And but one sad one—'tis to find
Too sure that Time hath wings!
O, ever sweet is sight or sound
That tells of long ago;
And I gaze around, with thoughts profound,
Upon the falling snow!

390

THE CASTLE OF TIME. A VISION.

I

Up rose the full moon in a heaven of blue,
And sweetly sang the hermit nightingale,
As, with slow steps, I saunter'd through the vale,
Brushing aside the wild flowers bright with dew:
There hung a purple haze athwart the hills;
And all was hush'd beside me and remote;
Gleam'd, as they trickled, the pellucid rills,
Or 'neath the sallows dark seclusion sought;
The stars, dim twinkling in celestial mirth,
Seem'd sleepless eyes that watch'd the slumbermantled earth.

II

A while I stray'd beneath broad arbute trees,
As the scarce-breathing west wind, with a sigh,
The glittering greenness kiss'd in wandering by;
Around me roses bloom'd; and, over these,

391

The moss-brown'd lilac and laburnum bright
Commingled their blown richness; perfume sweet
From wild flowers breathed, and violets exquisite,
Crush'd in their beauty by my careless feet;
O'er earth and air a slumbrous influence stole,
With wizard power, that charm'd the billows of the soul.

III

So, as reclining 'mid the blooms I lay,
The moonlight and the landscape bland declined,
And, rapt from outward shows, the trancèd mind
Woke 'mid the splendours of another day.
It was a wondrous scene; receding far
Into the distance, hills o'er hills arose,
Of mighty shapes and shades irregular,—
Here green with verdure, and there capp'd in snows;
Here gorgeous groves, there desert wastes sublime;
And, gazing, well I knew the changeful realm of Time.

IV

In the midst a Castle stood, whose arches show'd
All architecture's grand varieties;
Carved columns rear'd their summits to the skies,
While, over others, the dark mould was strew'd:
Pile picturesque and wild! with spires and domes,
And pyramids and pillars manifold,
And vaults, wherein both bird and beast made homes;
And part was strongly fresh, and part was old,
And part was mantled o'er by Ruin grey,
And part from eye of man had wholly sunk away.

392

V

Methought a spirit led me up the tower,
And bade me gaze to the east; there, calmly bright,
Revolving pageants charm'd my trancèd sight,
In that deep flow of inspiration's hour,
As changed the vision. On Moriah's steeps
Behold a victim son for offering bound,
While the keen knife the aweless Patriarch keeps
Unsheathed to perpetrate the mortal wound.
But, hark, an angel,—“Stay thy hand from death;
For God hath known thee just, Heaven murmurs of thy faith.”

VI

Now 'tis a desert vast; but wherefore roam
These countless multitudes? before them, lo,
The pillar'd smoke revolves, as on they go,
By Heaven directed to their promised home.
Their garments know not wear; the skies rain bread;
Out gushes water from the obedient rock,
By miracle at once sustain'd and led;
Until, at length, the Shepherd of the flock,
From Pisgah gazes down on Palestine,
Then shuts in death his eyes that glow with hope divine.

VII

A crimson battle-field! careering steeds
Over the prostrate and the perish'd driven;
The moon turns pale, the sun stands still in heaven,
As Israel conquers, and the godless bleeds.

393

A son's rebellion—“Spare him!” cried the King,
The Father; but from Ephraim, tidings dire
Smite on his heart; for Joab, triumphing,
Hath slain the erring in relentless ire:
Then bleeds his heart, then bows he in despair—
“Oh, Absalom, my son!” and tears his silver hair.

VIII

A banquet hall—'tis gorgeous Babylon,
The palace, and the satraps; radiant shine
A thousand lamps; the heathen's festal wine
Brims golden cups that in God's temple shone;
Quench'd is the mirth, the music dies away—
Belshazzar trembles; for a visible hand
Writes on the wall the date of his decay—
Wealth reft, life forfeited, and bondaged land:
'Twas darkness then, but, ere red morning shone,
The Persian bursts his gates, the Mede is on his throne!

IX

Spirit of Homer! is it but a dream,

It is somewhat remarkable that the mists of time should have so darkly intervened as to make at once the poet and his theme matters of dubiety; but so it has happened with the great epic bards of the east and west, with Homer and with Ossian.

“The question as to the truth of the tale of ‘Troy divine,’” remarks Lord Byron, “much of it resting on the talismanic word ‘απειρος;’ probably Homer had the same notion of distance that a coquette has of time, and when he talks of ‘boundless,’ means half a mile; as the latter, by a like figure, when she says eternal attachment, simply specifies three weeks.”

It is no bad example of the mutability and perishing nature of all earthly things, that a realm, whose very existence has become a matter of speculation to the classical antiquary, should have given rise to two of the grandest exhibitions of human genius, in the magnificent epic of the Greeks, and the exquisite epic of the Romans.


A spectre of the fancy, that reveals
To us such majesty and power, and steals
The bosom from what is, to what may seem?
It matters not; still Agamemnon reigns,
The king of men; by Chrysa moors the fleet;
Achilles in his chariot scours the plains,
Showing to Troy slain Hector at his feet;
Andromache laments, and Ruin lowers
On Priam's princely line, and Ilion's fated towers.

394

X

Behold the Persian—like a green bay tree
Flaunting in summer beauty; to the shores
Of Hellespont an armed million pours
To shackle Greece—to subjugate the free:
Yet Xerxes, thou wert man, and shall not die
Thy passionate saying; still thy voice we hear,
As, o'er the peopled plain's immensity,
Flash to the sunset, corslet, helm, and spear,
“A century hence—and of this fair array
There beats no bosom now, but shall be silent clay!”

“One touch of nature,” as the all-observant Shakspeare remarks, “makes the whole world kin;” and really the little anecdote in the text goes far with me in atoning for the ambitious invasion of the proud and puissant Xerxes; for Nature is so steady and exact in her operations, that no heart but one originally benevolent and generous would have ventured on such an apophthegm at such an hour.

Fate, however, intended these myriads a much shorter duration than that which the monarch lamented, as the field of Marathon too bloodily illustrated—“When the sun set, where were they?”


XI

Behold on yon seven hills a city rear'd,

In the text an endeavour is made to sketch the extent of the Roman empire. Perhaps to the loyal of our own country, it may not be a little gratifying to know, that imperial Rome, at the zenith of her glory, never commanded an extent of population equal to that of Great Britain at the present day. We know of no prouder illustration of the effects of mental energy over nature in a state destitute of cultivation, or paralysed by luxurious sloth.


Immense, majestic, mistress of the world;
O'er all the standard of her power unfurl'd,
By subject nations is obey'd and fear'd.
She calls her vassals—Mauritania pours
Her golden tribute; proud Hispania bows;
Rude Albion answers from her chalky shores;
The echo sounds o'er Scandinavia's snows;
Swart Scythia hears the summons; and, afar,
Blue Thule in the main 'neath Eve's descending star.

“Thule,” the Shetland of the ancients, is peetically characterised by Horace as “Ultima Thule,” from its being the most remote situation of olden geography, and consequently considered as one of the “ends of the earth.”

The lines of Seneca (Medea) pointing out the probable effects of future discovery, seem embued almost with the spirit of prophecy, and have been appositely affixed as the motto to the Life of Columbus by Mr Washington Irving.


XII

City of Dido, by the sounding sea!
I know thee by thy grandeur desolate—
Green weeds wave rankly o'er thy levell'd gate,
The sea-fowl and the serpent dwell in thee—

395

Where are thy navies? Whelm'd beneath the wave!
Where are thine armies, that, with thundering tread,
Shook Rome to her foundation-rocks, and gave
Manure to Cannæ of the Roman dead?

Never, perhaps, except by the earlier invasion of Pyrrhus, was the independence of the Roman State so severely threatened as by the invasion of Hannibal.

As to the horrible carnage of Cannæ, some notion may be formed from the succinct account of Livy:—“Ad fidem, deinde, tam lætarum rerum, effundi in vestibulo curiæ jussit annulos aureos, qui tantus acervus fuit, ut, metientibus dimidium super tres modios explêsse, sint quidam auctores. Adjecit deinde verbis, quo majoris cladis indicium esset, neminem, nisi equitem, atque eorum ipsorum primores, id gerere insigne.”—Hist. lib. xxiii.


Nought of thy vanish'd state the silence speaks;
The fisher spreads his nets, on high the heron shrieks!

Few traces of ancient Carthage are said to remain, except the ruins of an aqueduct and the site of the harbour, now called El Mersa. The reader may consult Dr Shaw's Travels, vol. i., and Chateaubriand's Travels, vol. ii., although the accounts given by each are very dissimilar.

“The iniquity of oblivion,” apostrophiseth the eloquent Sir Thomas Browne, in his Hydriotophia, “blindly scattereth her poppy, and deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit of perpetuity. Who can but pity the founder of the Pyramids? Erostratos lives, who burned the temple of Diana —he is almost lost that built it. Time hath spared the epitaph of Adrian's horse, confounded that of himself. In vain we compute our felicities by the advantage of our good names, since bad have equal durations; and Thersites is like to live as long as Agamemnon. Without the favour of the everlasting register, the first man had been as unknown as the last, and Methuselah's long life had been his only chronicle.”


XIII

O, hundred-gated Thebes, magnificent!

Thebes has been more fortunate than either Troy or Carthage, in the circumstance of some of its stupendous structures still remaining. By the modern natives it is called Luxor.

The most recent accounts of this ancient city are to be found in the travels of Belzoni, who collected from amidst the rubbish and sand some of his finest specimens of Egyptian antiquity. See also Carne's interesting Letters from the East.

As to the celebrated statue of Memnon, it may be only necessary briefly to observe, that, according to Pausanias, it was broken by Cambyses. The upper portion was seen lying neglected on the ground, but the lower division emitted duly at sunrise the sound resembling the breaking of a harp-string over-wound up.

From its grandeur Thebes was also called Diospolis, the city of Jupiter, or of the Sun; from its hundred gates it obtained the additional appellation of “Hecatompylos,” to distinguish it from Thebes in Bœotia, and was at one period the finest city of the world.


Where Memnon's image hymn'd the march of Time,
As sank the day-star 'mid the dewy prime,
In tones celestial with the sunrise blent,
I know thee by thy remnants Titan-like;
And thee, proud Memphis, proud, alas! no more,

Memphis, situated on the river of the same name, was once a capital city of Upper Egypt. Of its ancient pride and magnificence but few vestiges now remain; and of the countless thou sands that, generation after generation, flourished within its walls, how many names are now remembered?


Whose thinn'd and desolate fragments scarcely strike
The pilgrim's eye on thy blue river's shore;
And thee, Palmyra, 'mid whose silent piles

One of the chief wonders of this in every way wonderful city was the Temple of the Sun, many columns of which, according to Wood and Volney, yet remain. It is one of the “arcana” of political economy, how a city encompassed by a desert came to attain its power and population; and we would trouble Mr M`Culloch to explain this?


Still lingering grandeur sleeps, the unworshipp'd sun still smiles.

XIV

I see thee now, supreme Jerusalem!
The city of the chosen, great in power;
Glory surrounds thee in thy noontide hour,
Of Palestine's green plains the diadem.
Now graves give up their dead 'mid thunders drear;
A murmuring multitude on Calvary see!—
The temple's vail is rent!—a sound of fear!
'Tis “Eli! Eli!” from the accursed tree;
Daylight shrinks waning from the scene abhorr'd,
And shuddering Nature shares the pangs that pierce her Lord.

Vide Gospel of St Matthew, chap. xxviii.—The reader need scarcely be directed to that most interesting of all sieges in the history of the Jews by Josephus, or to the recent beautiful scriptural drama, The Fall of Jerusalem, by Professor Milman.

For an account of the present state of a city, on many accounts the most remarkable in the world, whether we refer to its origin, its revolutions, or the scenes it has witnessed, the curious are directed to the Travels of Vicomte Chateaubriand, Dr Shaw, Mr Buckingham, and Mr Rae Wilson; but more particularly to the account of Dr Clarke—one of the finest things that ever came from the pen of that most accomplished traveller.



396

XV

From Danube, see, from Don, and Volga's banks,
Come pouring to the South barbarian hordes,

On this most comprehensive topic, we can barely refer to Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Sismondi's Histoire de Republiques Italiennes, Robertson's Dissertation, prefixed to Charles V., and Hallam's History of the Middle Ages.


Innumerous, irresistible; keen swords
Their only heritage, their home the ranks:
Erst like the locusts on Egyptian vales
They darken, and the treasured shores consume;
And Science is o'erthrown, and Courage fails;
And droop the eagles of imperial Rome;
Art palsied wanes; and Wisdom sighs to find
A second gloomier night o'ershadowing lost mankind.

XVI

A fierce acclaim! Alarm's loud trumpet-call—
And up in arms the banded nations rise,
The Red Cross standards flout the morning skies,

The Crusaders bore on their banners or arms the symbol of the Cross, as marking out the cause for which they had taken up arms. The first account I can find of its being displayed on the banners and arms of war is in the instance of the troops of Constantine the Great, after his alleged miraculous conversion to Christianity—an account of which may be found in Milner's Church History, vol. iii., as abridged by him from Eusebius.

It is said that to Constantine and his army the figure of a cross had appeared one afternoon on the sky, with the inscription “Conquer by this.” The punishment of the Cross was thereafter abolished throughout his dominions, and the symbol made one of dignity and honour.

Alluding to the Cross, Mr Gibbon says, “The same symbol sanctified the arms of the soldiers of Constantine; the cross glittered on their helmets, was engraved on their shields, was interwoven into their banners; and the consecrated emblems which adorned the person of the emperor himself were distinguished only by richer materials and more exquisite workmanship.”

For a History of the Crusades, and a very interesting one, the reader is referred to the work of the late Mr Mills; and episodically to the Tales of the Crusaders, by the author of Waverley, who has therein found a subject, and produced a work, worthy of his genius.


To rescue Palestine from Paynim thrall:
The Lion-hearted girds his falchion on,—
Bright beams the Gallic ensign o'er the wave,—
Death's vultures crowd o'er carnaged Ascalon;
But Salem, unsubdued, resists the brave:
Where is the victim gone? His minstrel plays,—
And from false Austria's cell come back responsive lays!

An allusion to Blondel, the favourite minstrel of Cœur-de-Lion, who, according to the legend, discovered in Germany the scene of his master's imprisonment.


XVII

Now rising from the dusk-subjected Earth,
Forth walks Civilisation, to illume
With learning's light divine the Gothic gloom,
Awaking man as 'twere to second birth:

397

Greens barren valley,—blossoms desert plain,—
Towers city flourishing,—smiles hamlet home,—
Track venturous navies the engirding main,—
O'er willing lands Religion's banners roam,—
Dawns mental day—and Freedom's sacred pile
Is rear'd, by proud resolve, in Albion's favour'd isle.

XVIII

Most fortunate, most fortunate, for now
Broods over Gaul the tempest-cloud of blood!
Down, down it streams around, a crimson flood!
Afar the deluge pours, to overthrow
Peoples and empires; Chaos frowns on man
With midnight threatening; Reason is o'erthrown;
Red Murder roams in Desolation's van;
And frenzied Anarchy makes earth her own;
Hope trembles; and Religion, with a sigh,
Shrieks as her burning shrines rejoice the Atheist's eye.

XIX

Yet, Queen of Nations, yet in thee are found
The buckler and the sword; thy war hath gone
Amid Heaven's foes, invincible, alone—
For all beside were bleeding, faint, or bound:
The rampart of the righteous, in the day
Of need, thy succouring arm is strongly felt:
Before thy flooding sunlight rush away
Hell's spectral legions, and in shadows melt;
Crush'd is the serpent brood—the unholy crew,
And triumph wreathes thy brows on deathless Waterloo!

398

XX

I listen, for a sound salutes mine ear
Of harmony divine; beneath the star
Of Eve, 'tis borne across the waves afar,
From isles that studding Ocean's robe appear:
Hearken ye now to Adoration's tones!
At Truth's pure shrine the heathen bows the knee!
Owns his low worthlessness, submissly owns
His trust in Him who bled on Calvary!
'Mid the blue main the sailor stays his oars,
Wondering at incense such from lone Pacific shores.

XXI

Not yet, not yet, not yet Heaven's sunlight darts
Through Error's clouds and Ignorance's night:
Wide are the realms that, in their cheerless blight,
Pine darkling, with forlorn and sullied hearts.—
'Neath priesthood bigotry, 'neath tyrant thrall,
The wavering tremble, and the bold are mute;
Prone to the dust, o'erawed, earth's thousands fall
At the proud stamp of Superstition's foot:
Gleams the keen axe; outgushes the bright flood;
And Moloch's monstrous shrines are dew'd with human blood.

XXII

And these know not the name of Liberty;
And those the boon of Reason cast aside;
Time is to both a dark predestined tide,
Floating their shallops to Oblivion's sea;

399

Pines in its prison unregarded thought;
The immortal soul is sullied and debased;
A worthless gift is conscience, given for nought;
From man the Maker's stamp is quite erased—
Like Autumn leaf, or fly in summer's ray,
He shines his little hour, and vanisheth away!

XXIII

Then spake the Spirit,—“Turn thee to the West,
And see what lies before thee.” It was dim;
For clouds on the blue air, with shadowy skim,
Were rolling their faint billows; and my breast
Tumultuously heaved, as forth I gazed
Upon that prospect's wild immensity;
For shadows show'd themselves, and then, erased,
Left not a trace on that decayless sky—
Bright forms, some fair like Hope; and some like Fear,
With spectral front sublime, stern, desolate, and drear.

XXIV

Now, 'twas Elysian, bright and beautiful,
And now a chaos; though, sometimes, a star,
With momentary glitter, shone afar,
Through tempest-clouds that made its lustre dull.
All was a mystery, till the Spirit's touch
Open'd my eyelids, then the waste array'd
Its scenes in majesty, whose glow was such,
That dim seem'd that which first I had survey'd;
And such a scope was to that vista given,
That almost I could see the golden gates of Heaven.

400

XXV

Beneath 'twas peace and purity; the sword
Was beat into the sickle; and mankind
(As if 'twere daylight pour'd upon the blind)
The crooked paths of Error quite abhorr'd:
Man's heart was changed; a renovated life
Throbb'd in his veins, and turn'd his thoughts to joy;
Sick'ning he shrank from blood and warlike strife,
Loathing the ire that led him to destroy;
Nations were link'd in brotherhood; and Crime
Was heard of but as what had stain'd departed Time.

XXVI

Then I saw Angels coming down from Heaven,
And mingling with mankind, almost as pure;
For, through the atonement of the Cross, a sure
And marvellous redemption had been given:
All ends of the earth obey'd it—East and West,
And South and North, responsive echo gave.
The mighty sea of Discord, lulled to rest,
Was heard no more; Sin's storm was in its grave;
Religion's mandate bade the tumult cease;
And o'er each mountain-top the banners stream'd of Peace.

XXVII

In the same lair the tame beast and the wild
Together caved; the lion and the kid,
Half by the palm-tree's noontide shadow hid,
Roll'd 'mid the wild-flowers with the fearless child,

401

When sudden darkness fell: the crackling skies
Together rushed as 'twere a folding scroll;
I knew the end of human destinies,

“Having played our parts,” quaintly observeth old erudite Burton, “we must for ever be gone. Tombs and monuments have the like fate:—

‘Data sunt ipsis quoque fata sepulchris.’

Kingdoms, towns, provinces, and cities, have their periods, and are consumed. In those flourishing times of Troy, Mycenæ was the fairest city of Greece—Greciæ cunctæ imperitabat; but it, alas! and that Assyrian Nineveh, are quite overthrown. The like fate hath that Egyptian and Bœotian Thebes, Delos, commune Greciæ consiliabulum, the common council-house of Greece; and Babylon, the greatest city that ever the sun shone upon, hath nothing now but the walls and rubbish left.

‘Quid Pandioniæ restant, nisi nomen, Athenæ?’

Thus Pausanias complained in his times. And where is Troy itself now, Persepolis, Carthage, Cyzicum, Sparta, Argos, and all those Grecian cities? Syracuse and Agrigentum, the fairest towns in Sicily, which had sometimes 700,000 inhabitants, are now decayed: the names of Hieron, Empedocles, &c. of those mighty numbers of people, only left. One Anacharsis is remembered among the Scythians; the world itself must have an end, and every part of it. Ceteræ igitur urbes sunt mortales, as Peter Gillius concludes of Constantinople; hæc sanæ quamdiu erunt homines, futura mihi videtur immortalis; but 'tis not so; nor size, nor strength, nor sea, nor land, can vindicate a city; but it and all must vanish at last. And, as to a traveller, great mountains seem plains afar off, at last are not discerned at all; cities, men, monuments decay:—

‘Nec solidis prodest sua machina terris.’

The names are only left, those at length forgotten, and are involved in perpetual night.”

Nothing can be more beautiful in itself, or more illustrative of our subject, than that passage in the epistle of Servius Sulpitius to Cicero, wherein, from the contemplation of national, he endeavours to bear him up against personal calamities. “On my return from Asia, as I was sailing from Ægina towards Megara, I began to contemplate the prospect around me. Ægina was behind, Megara was before me; Piræus on the right, Corinth on the left; all which towns, once famous and flourishing, now lie overturned, and buried in their ruins,” &c.

How much and how often has the balance of power fluctuated among the different states of Europe, since the time that Italy was the leviathan among them? What is Italy now, though containing Rome, Genoa, and Venice, in its bosom, in comparison with Great Britain, with Russia, with France, with Austria, and others, which, at the era of her glory, were designated the “barbari,” or “barbarians,” with as little scrupulosity as a modern Parisian dancing-master desecrates the mob under the comprehensive epithet of the “canaille.” As to Norway, her political importance is entirely past, or, at best, merged into that of Sweden; the chivalry of Spain has degenerated into monkish superstition; and Poland, dismembered and torn to pieces, has no place among the modern divisions of the earth's surface.

“Labitur, et labetur in omne volubilis ævum.”

And speechless awe oppress'd my shrinking soul;
When stood an angel, earth's unburied o'er,
And swore by Him that lives, that “Time should be no more!”

XXVIII

This was the end of all things, and I turn'd
Around, but there lay Darkness, and a void—
Creation's map dim, blotted, and destroy'd—
The sun, the moon, the stars no longer burn'd.
Earth was not now, nor seem'd to have ever been—
Nor wind, nor wave, nor cloud, nor storm, nor shine;
Wide universal chaos wrapt the scene,
And hid the Almighty's countenance divine.
Then died my heart within me; I awoke,
And brightly on mine eyes the silver moonshine broke.

XXIX

I knew the trees above me—heard the rills
That o'er their pebbles gently murmuring ran;
And saw the wild-blooms bathed in lustre wan,
And far away the azure-shoulder'd hills;
Then up I rose. But graven long shall last
On memory's page the marvels sleep hath shown—
With wonders spotted the receding past;
With mysteries manifold the future strewn;
The mouldering Castle of the spoiler, Time;
And Heaven's o'erarching dome, eternal and sublime!

419

THE END.