The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir Edited by Thomas Aird: With A Memoir of the Author |
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| OCCASIONAL POEMS. |
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 | The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir |  |
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OCCASIONAL POEMS.
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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;
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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 outOn 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;
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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'dUpon the breath of Blasphemy, mysterious threats they told:
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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 PeerLay 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;
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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.
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II
Born within the lowly cottageTo 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.
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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.
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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!
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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 orientPours 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.
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X
Home returning, each will carryProud 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 yearAs time progresses with resistless sweep,
Sever'd from life, the patriots disappear,
Who bore St George's standards o'er the deep:
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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 scenesWhere 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.
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A British sailor! 'twas thy proud delightUp 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.
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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;
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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!
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XII
And yet once more thy country calls!—beneathThe 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.
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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!
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III
Then a bumper to him in whose bosom combineAll 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!
| The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir | |