University of Virginia Library

THE QUEEN'S WAKE.

INTRODUCTION.

NIGHT THE FIRST.

Hushed was the court—the courtiers gazed—
Each eye was bent, each soul amazed,
To see that group of genuine worth,
Those far-famed minstrels of the north.
So motley wild their garments seemed;
Their eyes, where tints of madness gleamed,
Fired with impatience every breast,
And expectation stood confest.
Short was the pause; the stranger youth,
The gaudy minstrel of the south,
Whose glossy eye and lady form
Had never braved the northern storm,
Stepped lightly forth—kneeled three times low—
And then, with many a smile and bow,
Mounted the form amid the ring,
And rung his harp's responsive string.
Though true the chords, and mellow-toned,
Long, long he twisted, long he conned;
Well pleased to hear his name they knew;
“'Tis Rizzio!” round in whispers flew.
Valet with Parma's knight he came,
An angler in the tides of fame;
And oft had tried, with anxious pain,
Respect of Scotland's queen to gain.
Too well his eye, with searching art,
Perceived her fond, her wareless heart;
And, though unskilled in Scottish song,
Her notice he had woo'd so long,
With pain by night, and care by day,
He framed this fervid, flowery lay.

Malcolm of Lorn.

THE FIRST BARD'S SONG.

The strain died soft in note of woe,
Nor breath nor whisper 'gan to flow
From courtly circle; all was still
As midnight on the lonely hill.
So well that foreign minstrel's strain
Had mimicked passion, woe, and pain,
Seemed even the chilly hand of death
Stealing away his mellow breath.
So sighed—so stopped—so died his lay,—
His spirit too seemed fled for aye.
'Tis true, the gay attentive throng
Admired, but loved not much, his song;
Admired his wondrous voice and skill,
His harp that thrilled or wept at will;
But that affected gaudy rhyme,
The querulous keys and changing chime,
Scarce could the Highland chieftain brook;
Disdain seemed kindling in his look,
That song so vapid, artful, terse,
Should e'er compete with Scottish verse.
But she, the fairest of the fair,
Who sat enthroned in gilded chair,
Well skilled in foreign minstrelsy
And artful airs of Italy,
Listened his song, with raptures wild,
And on the happy minstrel smiled.
Soon did the wily stranger's eye
The notice most he wished espy,
Then poured his numbers bold and free,
Fired by the grace of majesty;
And when his last notes died away,
When sunk in well-feigned death he lay,
When round the crowd began to ring,
Thinking his spirit on the wing,—
First of the dames she came along,
Wept, sighed, and marvelled 'mid the throng.
And when they raised him, it was said
The beauteous sovereign deigned her aid;
And in her hands, so soft and warm,
Upheld the minstrel's hand and arm.
Then oped his eye with rapture fired;
He smiled, and, bowing oft, retired;
Pleased he so soon had realized
What more than gold or fame he prized.
Next in the list was Gardyn's name:
No sooner called than forth he came.
Stately he strode, nor bow made he,
Nor even a look of courtesy.
The simpering cringe, and fawning look,
Of him who late the lists forsook,
Roused his proud heart, and fired his eye,
That glowed with native dignity.
Full sixty years the bard had seen,
Yet still his manly form and mien,
His garb of ancient Caledon,
Where lines of silk and scarlet shone,
And golden garters 'neath his knee,
Announced no man of mean degree.
Upon his harp, of wondrous frame,
Was carved his lineage and his name;
There stood the cross that name above,
Fair emblem of Almighty love:
Beneath rose an embossment proud,—
A Rose beneath a Thistle bowed.
Lightly upon the form he sprung,
And his bold harp impetuous rung.
Not one by one the chords he tried,
But brushed them o'er from side to side,
With either hand, so rapid, loud,
Shook were the halls of Holyrood.
Then in a mellow tone, and strong,
He poured this wild and dreadful song.

Young Kennedy.

THE SECOND BARD'S SONG.

The Bride's Tale.

Gardyn with stately step withdrew,
While plaudits round the circle flew.
Woe that the bard, whose thrilling song
Has poured from age to age along,
Should perish from the lists of fame,
And lose his only boon—a name.
Yet many a song of wondrous power,
Well known in cot and green-wood bower,
Wherever swells the shepherd's reed
On Yarrow's banks and braes of Tweed;
Yes, many a song of olden time,
Of rude array, and air sublime,
Though long on time's dark whirlpool tossed,
The song is saved, the bard is lost.
Yet have I weened, when these I sung
On Ettrick banks, while mind was young;
When on the eve their strains I threw,
And youths and maidens round me drew;
Or chanted in the lonely glen,
Far from the haunts and eyes of men:
Yes, I have weened, with fondest sigh,
The spirit of the bard was nigh;
Swung by the breeze on braken pile,
Or hovering o'er me with a smile.
Would fancy still her dreams combine,
That spirit, too, might breathe on mine;
Well pleased to see her songs the joy
Of that poor lonely shepherd boy.
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
That many rhymes which still prevail,
Of genuine ardour, bold and free,
Were aye admired, and aye will be,
Had never been, or shortly stood,
But for that Wake at Holyrood.
Certes that many a bard of name,
Who there appeared and strove for fame,
No record names, nor minstrel's tongue;
Not even are known the lays they sung.
The fifth was from a western shore,
Where rolls the dark and sullen Orr:
Of peasant make, and doubtful mein,
Affecting airs of proud disdain.
Wide curled his raven locks and high;
Dark was his visage, dark his eye,
That glanced around on dames and men,
Like falcon's on the cliffs of Ken.
Some ruffian mendicant, whose wit
Presumed at much, for all unfit.
No one could read the character,
If knave or genius writ was there;
But all supposed, from mein and frame,
From Erin he an exile came.
With hollow voice, and harp ill strung,
Some bungling parody he sung,
Well known to maid and matron gray,
Through all the glens of Galloway;
For often had he conned it there,
With simpering and affected air.
Listened the Court, with sidelong bend,
In wonder how the strain would end.
But long ere that it grew so plain,
They scarce from hooting could refrain;
And each to others 'gan to say,
“What good can come from Galloway?”
Woe for the man so indiscreet!
For bard would be a name unmeet
For self-sufficient sordid elf,
Whom none admires but he himself.
Unheard by him the scorner's tongue,
For still he capered and he sung,
With many an awkward gape the while,
And many a dark delighted smile,
Till round the throne the murmurs ran;
Till ladies blushed behind the fan;
And when the rustic ceased to sing,
A hiss of scorn ran round the ring.
Dark grinned the fool around the form,
With blood-shot eye, and face of storm;
Sprung from his seat with awkward leap,
And muttered curses dark and deep.
The sixth, too, from that country he,
Where heath-cocks bay o'er western Dee;
Where Summer spreads her purple screen
O'er moors where greensward ne'er was seen;
Nor shade, o'er all the prospect stern,
Save crusted rock, or warrior's cairn.
Gentle his form, his manners meet,
His harp was soft, his voice was sweet;
He sung Lochryan's hapless maid,
In bloom of youth by love betrayed;
Turned from her lover's bower at last,
To brave the chilly midnight blast;
And bitterer far, the pangs to prove
Of ruined fame, and slighted love;
A tender babe, her arms within,
Sobbing and “shivering at the chin.”
No lady's cheek in court was dry,
So softly poured the melody.
The eighth was from the Leven coast:
The rest who sung that night are lost.
Mounted the bard of Fife on high,
Bushy his beard, and wild his eye:
His cheek was furrowed by the gale,
And his thin locks were long and pale.
Full hardly passed he through the throng,
Dragging on crutches, slow along,
His feeble and unhealthy frame,
And kindness welcomed as he came.
His unpresuming aspect mild,
Calm and benignant as a child,
Yet spoke to all that viewed him nigh,
That more was there than met the eye:
Some wizard of the shore he seemed,
Who through the scenes of life had dreamed,
Of spells that vital life benumb,
Of formless spirits wandering dumb,
Where aspens in the moonbeam quake,
By mouldering pile, or mountain lake.
He deemed that fays and spectres wan
Held converse with the thoughts of man;
In dreams their future fates foretold,
And spread the death-flame on the wold;
Or flagged at eve each restless wing
In dells their vesper hymns to sing.
Such was our bard, such were his lays;
And long, by green Benarty's base,
His wild wood-notes, from ivy cave,
Had waked the dawning from the wave.
At evening fall, in lonesome dale,
He kept strange converse with the gale;
Held worldly pomp in high derision,
And wandered in a world of vision.
Of mountain ash his harp was framed;
The brazen chords all trembling flamed,
As, in a rugged northern tongue,
This mad unearthly song he sung.

The Witch of Fife.

THE EIGHTH BARD'S SONG.

When ceased the minstrel's crazy song,
His heedful glance embraced the throng,
And found the smile of free delight
Dimpling the cheeks of ladies bright.
Ah! never yet was bard unmoved,
When beauty smiled or birth approved!
For though his song he holds at nought—
“An idle strain! a passing thought!”
Child of the soul! 'tis held more dear
Than aught by mortals valued here.
When Leven's bard the Court had viewed,
His eye, his vigour was renewed.
No, not the evening's closing eye,
Veiled in the rainbow's deepest dye,
By summer breezes lulled to rest,
Cradled on Leven's silver breast,
Or slumbering on the distant sea,
Imparted sweeter ecstasy.
Nor even the angel of the night,
Kindling his holy sphere of light,
Afar upon the heaving deep,
To light a world of peaceful sleep,
Though in her beam night spirits glanced,
And lovely fays in circles danced,
Or rank by rank rode lightly by,—
Was sweeter to our minstrel's eye.
Unheard the bird of morning crew;
Unheard the breeze of Ocean blew;
The night unweened had passed away,
And dawning ushered in the day.
The Queen's young maids, of cherub hue,
Aside the silken curtains drew,
And lo, the Night, in still profound,
In fleece of heaven had clothed the ground,
And still her furs, so light and fair,
Floated along the morning air.
Low stooped the pine amid the wood,
And the tall cliffs of Salisbury stood
Like marble columns bent and riven,
Propping a pale and frowning heaven.
The Queen bent from her gilded chair,
And waved her hand with graceful air:—
“Break up the court, my lords; away,
And use the day as best you may,
In sleep, in love, or wassail cheer;
The day is dark, the evening near—
Say, will you grace my halls the while,
And in the dance the day beguile?
Break up the court, my lords; away,
And use the day as best you may.
Give order that my minstrels true
Have royal fare and honours due;
And warned by evening's bugle shrill,
We meet to judge their minstrel skill.”
Whether that Royal Wake gave birth
To days of sleep and nights of mirth,
Which kings and courtiers still approve,
Which sages blame, and ladies love,
Imports not;—but our courtly throng
(That chapel Wake being kept so long)
Slept out the lowering short-lived days,
And heard by night their native lays,
Till fell the eve of Christmas good,
The dedication of the rood.
Ah me! at routs and revels gay,
Reproach of this unthrifty day,
Though none amongst the dames or men
Rank higher than a citizen,
In chair or chariot all are borne,
Closed from the piercing eye of morn.
But then, though dawning blasts were keen,
Scotland's high dames you might have seen,
Ere from the banquet hall they rose,
Shift their laced shoes and silken hose;
Their broidered kirtles round them throw,
And wade their way through wreaths of snow,
Leaning on lord or lover's arm,
Cheerful and reckless of all harm.
Vanished those hardy times outright;
So is our ancient Scottish might.
Sweet be her home, admired her charms,
Bliss to her couch in lover's arms,
I bid in every minstrel's name,
I bid to every lovely dame,
That ever gave one hour away
To cheer the bard or list his lay!
To all who love the raptures high
Of Scottish song and minstrelsy,
Till next the night, in sable shroud,
Shall wrap the halls of Holyrood,
That rival minstrels' songs I borrow—
I bid a hearty kind good-morrow.

NIGHT THE SECOND.

Scarce fled the dawning's dubious gray,
So transient was that dismal day:
The lurid vapours, dense and stern,
Unpierced save by the crusted cairn,
In tenfold shroud the heavens deform;
While far within the brooding storm
Travelled the sun in lonely blue,
And noontide wore a twilight hue.
The sprites that through the welkin wing,
That light and shade alternate bring,
That wrap the eve in dusky veil,
And weave the morning's purple rail;
From pendent clouds of deepest grain,
Shed that dull twilight o'er the main.
Each spire, each tower, and cliff sublime,
Were hooded in the wreathy rime;
And all, ere fell the murk of even,
Were lost within the folds of heaven.
It seemed as if the welkin's breast
Had bowed upon the world to rest;
As heaven and earth to close began,
And seal the destiny of man.
The supper bell at court had rung;
The mass was said, the vesper sung;
In true devotion's sweetest mood,
Beauty had kneeled before the rood;
But all was done in secret guise,
Close from the zealot's searching eyes.
Then burst the bugle's lordly peal
Along the earth's incumbent veil;
Swam on the cloud and lingering shower,
To festive hall and lady's bower;
And found its way, with rapid boom,
To rocks far curtained in the gloom,
And waked their viewless bugle's strain,
That sung the softened notes again.
Upsprung the maid from her love-dream;
The matron from her silken seam;
The abbot from his holy shrine;
The chiefs and warriors from their wine:
For aye the bugle seemed to say,
“The Wake's begun! away, away!”
Fast poured they in, all fair and boon,
Till crowded was the grand saloon;
And scarce was left a little ring,
In which the rival bards might sing.
First in the list that night to play,
Was Farquhar, from the hills of Spey:
A gay and comely youth was he,
And seemed of noble pedigree.
Well known to him Loch-Avin's shore,
And all the dens of dark Glen-More;
Where oft, amid his roving clan,
His shaft had pierced the ptarmigan;
And oft the dun deer's velvet side
That winged shaft had ruthless dyed,
Had struck the heath-cock whirring high,
And brought the eagle from the sky;
And he had dragged the scaly brood
From every Highland lake and flood.
Amid those scenes the youth was bred,
Where nature's eye is stern and dread;
'Mid forests dark, and caverns wild,
And mountains above mountains piled,
Whose hoary summits, tempest-riven,
Uprear eternal snows to heaven.
In Cumbria's dells he too had staid,
Raving like one in trance that's laid,
Of things which Nature gave not birth;
Of heavenly damsels born of earth;
Of pestilence and charnel den;
Of ships and seas, and souls of men:
A moon-struck youth, by all confest,
The dreamer of the watery west.
His locks were fair as sunny sky;
His cheek was ruddy, bright his eye;
His speech was like the music's voice
Mixed with the cataract's swaying noise;
His harp-strings sounded wild and deep,
With lulling swell and lordly sweep.
Aloof from battle's fierce alarms,
Prone his young mind to music's charms:
The cliffs and woods of dark Glen-More
He taught to chant in mystic lore;
For well he weened, by tarn and hill,
Kind viewless spirits wandered still;
And fondly trowed the groups to spy,
Listening his cliff-born melody.
On Leven's bard with scorn he looked,
His homely song he scarcely brooked;
But proudly mounting on the form,
Thus sung The Spirit of the Storm.

Glen-Avin.

THE NINTH BARD'S SONG.

Young Farquhar ceased, and rising slow,
Doffed his plumed bonnet, wiped his brow,
And flushed with conscious dignity,
Cast o'er the crowd his falcon eye,
And found them all in silence deep,
As listening for the tempest sweep;
So well his tale of Avin's seer
Suited the rigour of the year;
So high his strain, so bold his lyre,
So fraught with rays of Celtic fire,
They almost weened each hum that past
The Spirit of the northern blast.
The next was named,—the very sound
Excited merriment around.
But when the bard himself appeared,
The ladies smiled, the courtiers sneered:
For such a simple air and mien
Before a court had never been.
A clown he was, bred in the wild,
And late from native moors exiled,
In hopes his mellow mountain strain
High favour from the great would gain.
Poor wight! he never weened how hard
For poverty to earn regard!
Dejection o'er his visage ran,
His coat was bare, his colour wan,
His forest doublet darned and torn,
His shepherd plaid all rent and worn;
Yet dear the symbols to his eye,
Memorials of a time gone by.
The bard on Ettrick's mountain green
In nature's bosom nursed had been,
And oft had marked in forest lone
Her beauties on her mountain throne;
Had seen her deck the wild-wood tree,
And star with snowy gems the lea;
In loveliest colours paint the plain,
And sow the moor with purple grain;
By golden mead and mountain sheer,
Had viewed the Ettrick waving clear,
Where shadowy flocks of purest snow
Seemed grazing in a world below.
Instead of Ocean's billowy pride,
Where monsters play and navies ride,
Oft had he viewed, as morning rose,
The bosom of the lonely Lowes,
Ploughed far by many a downy keel
Of wild-duck and of vagrant teal.
Oft thrilled his heart at close of even,
To see the dappled vales of heaven,
With many a mountain, moor, and tree,
Asleep upon the Saint Mary;
The pilot swan majestic wind,
With all his cygnet fleet behind,
So softly sail, and swiftly row,
With sable oar and silken prow.
Instead of war's unhallowed form,
His eye had seen the thunderstorm
Descend within the mountain's brim,
And shroud him in its chambers grim;
Then from its bowels burst amain
The sheeted flame and sounding rain,
And by the bolts in thunder borne,
The heaven's own breast and mountain torn;
The wild roe from the forest driven;
The oaks of ages peeled and riven;
Impending oceans whirl and boil,
Convulsed by Nature's grand turmoil.
Instead of arms or golden crest,
His harp with mimic flowers was dressed:
Around, in graceful streamers, fell
The briar-rose and the heather-bell;
And there, his learning deep to prove,
Naturæ Donum graved above.
When o'er her mellow notes he ran,
And his wild mountain chant began,
Then first was noted in his eye
A gleam of native energy.

Old David.

THE TENTH BARD'S SONG.

When ceased the shepherd's simple lay,
With careless mein he lounged away;
No bow he deigned, nor anxious looked
How the gay throng their minstrel brooked;
No doubt within his bosom grew,
That to his skill the prize was due.
Well might he hope, for while he sung,
Louder and louder plaudits rung;
And when he ceased his numbers wild,
Fair royalty approved and smiled.
Long had the bard, with hopes elate,
Sung to the low, the gay, the great;
And once had dared, at flatterer's call,
To tune his harp in Branxholm Hall;
But nor his notes of soothing sound,
Nor zealous word of bard renowned,
Might those persuade, that worth could be
Inherent in such mean degree.
But when the smile of Sovereign fair
Attested genuine nature there,
Throbbed high with rapture every breast,
And all his merit stood confest.
Different the next the herald named;
Warrior he was, in battle maimed,
When Lennox on the downs of Kyle,
O'erthrew Maconnel and Argyle.
Unable more the sword to wield
With dark Clan-Alpine in the field,
Or rouse the dun deer from her den
With fierce Macfarlane and his men;
He strove to earn a minstrel name,
And fondly nursed the sacred flame.
Warm was his heart, and bold his strain;
Wild fancies in his moody brain
Gambolled, unbridled, and unbound,
Lured by a shade, decoyed by sound,
In tender age, when mind was free,
As standing by his nurse's knee,
He heard a tale so passing strange,
Of injured spirit's cool revenge,
It chilled his heart with blasting dread,
Which never more that bosom fled.
When passion's flush had fled his eye,
And gray hairs told that youth was by,
Still quaked his heart at bush or stone,
As wandering in the gloom alone.
Where foxes roam, and eagles rave,
And dark woods round Ben-Lomond wave,
Once on a night, a night of dread!
He held convention with the dead;
Brought warnings to the house of death,
And tidings from a world beneath.
Loud blew the blast—the evening came,
The way was long, the minstrel lame;
The mountain's side was dern with oak,
Darkened with pine, and ribbed with rock;
Blue billows round its base were driven,
Its top was steeped in waves of heaven.
The wood, the wind, the billows' moan,
All spoke in language of their own,
But too well to our minstrel known.
Wearied, bewildered, in amaze,
Hymning in heart the Virgin's praise,
A cross he framed, of birchen bough,
And 'neath that cross he laid him low;
Hid by the heath and Highland plaid,
His old harp in his bosom laid.
Oh! when the winds that wandered by,
Sung on her breast their lullaby,
How thrilled the tones his bosom through,
And deeper, holier, poured his vow!
No sleep was his—he raised his eye,
To note if dangerous place was nigh.
There columned rocks, abrupt and rude,
Hung o'er his gateless solitude:
The muffled sloe, and tangling brier,
Precluded freak or entrance here;
But yonder oped a little path,
O'ershadowed, deep, and dark as death.
Trembling, he groped around his lair
For mountain ash, but none was there.
Teeming with forms, his terror grew;
Heedful he watched, for well he knew,
That in that dark and devious dell
Some lingering ghost or sprite must dwell:
So as he trowed, so it befell.
The stars were wrapt in curtain gray,
The blast of midnight died away;
'Twas just the hour of solemn dread,
When walk the spirits of the dead:
Rustled the leaves with gentle motion,
Groaned his chilled soul in deep devotion.
The lake-fowl's wake was heard no more;
The wave forgot to brush the shore;
Hushed was the bleat on moor and hill;
The wandering clouds of heaven stood still.
What heart could bear, what eye could meet
The spirits in their lone retreat?
Rustled again the darksome dell;
Straight on the minstrel's vision fell
A trembling and unwonted light,
That showed the phantoms to his sight.
Came first a slender female form,
Pale as the moon in winter storm;
A babe of sweet simplicity
Clung to her breast as pale as she,
And aye she sung its lullaby.
That cradle-song of the phantom's child,
O! but it was soothing, holy, and wild!
But O! that song can ill be sung
By Lowland bard or Lowland tongue.

The Spectre's Cradle-song.

The Fate of Macgregor.

THE ELEVENTH BARD'S SONG.

Abrupt as glance of morning sun,
The bard of Lomond's lay is done.
Loves not the swain, from path of dew,
At morn the golden orb to view,
Rise broad and yellow from the main,
While scarce a shadow lines the plain;
Well knows he then the gathering cloud
Shall all his noontide glories shroud.
Like smile of morn before the rain,
Appeared the minstrel's mounting strain.
As easy inexperienced hind,
Who sees not coming rains and wind,
The beacon of the dawning hour,
Nor notes the blink before the shower,
Astonished, 'mid his open grain,
Sees round him pour the sudden rain—
So looked the still attentive throng,
When closed at once Macfarlane's song.
Time was it: when he 'gan to tell
Of spectre stern, aud barge of hell;
Loud, and more loud, the minstrel sung;
Loud, and more loud, the chords he rung;
Wild grew his looks, for well he knew,
The scene was dread, the tale was true;
And ere Loch-Ketturine's wave was won,
Faltered his voice, his breath was done.
He raised his brown hand to his brow,
To veil his eye's enraptured glow;
Flung back his locks of silver gray,
Lifted his crutch, and limped away.
The bard of Clyde stepped next in view;
Tall was his form, his harp was new;
Brightened his dark eye as he sung;
A stammer fluttered on his tongue;
A captain in the wars was he,
And sprung of noble pedigree.

Earl Walter.

THE TWELFTH BARD'S SONG.

When ceased the lay, the plaudits rung,
Not for the bard, or song he sung;
But every eye with pleasure shone,
And cast its smiles on one alone—
That one was princely Hamilton!
And well the gallant chief approved
The bard who sung of sire beloved;
And pleased were all the Court to see
The minstrel hailed so courteously.
Again is every courtier's gaze
Speaking suspense, and deep amaze:
The bard was stately, dark, and stern,—
'Twas Drummond from the moors of Ern;
Tall was his frame, his forehead high,
Still and mysterious was his eye;
His look was like a winter day,
When storms and winds have sunk away.
Well versed was he in holy lore:
In cloistered dome the cowl he wore;
But, wearied with the eternal strain
Of formal breviats, cold and vain,
He wooed, in depth of Highland dale,
The silver spring and mountain gale.
In gray Glen-Ample's forest deep,
Hid from the rains and tempests' sweep,
In bosom of an aged wood
His solitary cottage stood.
Its walls were bastioned, dark and dern,
Dark was its roof of filmot fern,
And dark the vista down the linn,
But all was love and peace within.
Religion, man's first friend and best,
Was in that home a constant guest;
There sweetly, every morn and even,
Warm orisons were poured to Heaven;
And every cliff Glen-Ample knew,
And greenwood on her banks that grew,
In answer to his bounding string,
Had learned the hymns of Heaven to sing,
With many a song of mystic lore,
Rude as when sung in days of yore.
His were the snowy flocks that strayed
Adown Glen-Airtney's forest glade;
And his the goat, and chestnut hind,
Where proud Ben-Vorlich cleaves the wind:
There oft, when suns of summer shone,
The bard would sit and muse alone,
Of innocence expelled by man;
Of nature's fair and wondrous plan;
Of the eternal throne sublime;
Of visions seen in ancient time;
Till his rapt soul would leave her home
In visionary worlds to roam.
Then would the mists that wandered by
Seem hovering spirits to his eye:
Then would the breeze's whistling sweep,
Soft lulling in the cavern deep,
Seem to the enthusiast's dreaming ear
The words of spirits whispered near.
Loathed his firm soul the measured chime
And florid films of modern rhyme:
No other lays became his tongue
But those his rude forefathers sung.
And when, by wandering minstrel warned,
The mandate of his queen he learned,
So much he prized the ancient strain,
High hopes had he the prize to gain.
With modest, yet majestic mein,
He tuned his harp of solemn strain:
Oh list the tale, ye fair and young,
A lay so strange was never sung!

Kilmeny.

THE THIRTEENTH BARD'S SONG.

He ceased; and all with kind concern
Blessed in their hearts the bard of Ern.
By that the chill and piercing air,
The pallid hue of ladies fair,
The hidden yawn, and drumbly eye
Loudly announced the morning nigh.
Beckoned the Queen with courteous smile,
And breathless silence gazed the while:—
“I hold it best, my lords,” she said,
“For knight, for dame, and lovely maid,
At wassail, wake, or revel hall,
To part before the senses pall.
Sweet though the draught of pleasure be,
Why should we drain it to the lee?
Though here the minstrel's fancy play,
Light as the breeze of summer day;
Though there in solemn cadence flow,
Smooth as the night wind o'er the snow;
Now bound away with rolling sweep,
Like tempest o'er the raving deep;
High on the morning's golden screen,
Or casemate of the rainbow lean:—
Such beauties were in vain prolonged,
The soul is cloyed, the minstrel wronged.
“Loud is the morning blast and chill,
The snow-drift speeds along the hill;
Let ladies of the storm beware,
And knights of ladies take a care;
From lanes and alleys guard them well,
Where lurking ghost or sprite may dwell;
But most avoid the dazzling flare,
And spirit of the morning air;
Hide from their eyes that hideous form,
The ruthless angel of the storm.
I wish for every gallant's sake,
That none may rue our Royal Wake:
I wish what most his heart approves,
And every lady what she loves,—
Sweet be her sleep on bed of down,
And pleasing be her dreams till noon.
And when you hear the bugle's strain,
I hope to see you all again.”
Whether the Queen to fear inclined,
Or spoke to cheer the minstrel's mind,
Certes, she spoke with meaning leer,
And ladies smiled her words to hear.
Yet, though the dawn of morning shone,
No lady from that night-wake gone,
Not even the queen durst sleep alone.
And scarce had sleep, with throb and sigh,
O'er breast of snow and moistened eye
Outspread his shadowy canopy,
When every fervid female mind,
Or sailed with witches on the wind,
In Carlisle drank the potent wine,
Or floated on the foamy brine.
Some strove the land of thought to win,
Impelled by hope, withstood by sin;
And some with angry spirit stood
By lonely stream, or pathless wood.
And oft was heard the broken sigh,
The half-formed prayer and smothered cry:
So much the minds of old and young
Were moved by what the minstrels sung.
What Lady Gordon did or said
Could not be learned from lady's maid,
And Huntly swore and shook his head:
But she and all her buskined train
Appeared not at the Wake again.

NIGHT THE THIRD.

The storm had ceased to shroud the hill;
The morning's breath was pure and chill;
And when the sun rose from the main,
No eye the glory could sustain.
The icicles so dazzling bright;
The spreading wold so smooth and white;
The cloudless sky, the air so sheen,
That roes on Pentland's top were seen;
And Grampian mountains, frowning high,
Seemed frozen 'mid the northern sky.
The frame was braced, the mind set free
To feat, or brisk hilarity.
The sun far on his southern throne,
Glowed in stern majesty alone:
'Twas like the loved, the toilsome day,
That dawns on mountains west away,
When the furred Indian hunter hastes
Far up his Appalachian wastes,
To range the savage haunts, and dare
In his dark home the sullen bear.
And ere that noon-day sun had shone
Right on the banks of Duddingston,
Heavens! what a scene of noise and glee,
And busy brisk anxiety!
There age and youth their pastime take
On the smooth ice that chains the lake:
The Highland chief, the Border knight,
In waving plumes, and baldricks bright,
Join in the bloodless friendly war,
The sounding stone to hurl afar.
The hair-breadth aim, the plaudits due,
The rap, the shout, the ardour grew,
Till drowsy day her curtain drew.
The youth, on cramps of polished steel,
Joined in the race, the curve, the wheel;
With arms outstretched, and foot aside,
Like lightning o'er the lake they glide;
And eastward far their impulse keep,
Like angels journeying o'er the deep.
When night her sprangled flag unfurled
Wide o'er a wan and sheeted world,
In keen debate homeward they hie,
For well they knew the Wake was nigh.
By mountain sheer, and column tall,
How solemn was that evening fall!
The air was calm, the stars were bright,
The hoar-frost flightered down the night;
But oft the listening groups stood still,
For spirits talked along the hill.
The fairy tribes had gone to won
In southland climes beneath the sun;
By shady woods, and waters sheen,
And vales of everlasting green,
To sing of Scotia's woodlands wild,
Where human face had never smiled.
The ghost had left the haunted yew,
The wayward bogle fled the clough,
The darksome pool of crisp and foam
Was now no more the kelpie's home:
But Polar spirits sure had spread
O'er hills which native fays had fled;
For all along, from cliff and tree,
On Arthur's Hill, and Salisbury,
Came voices floating down the air
From viewless shades that lingered there:
The words were fraught with mystery;
Voices of men they could not be.
Youths turned their faces to the sky,
With beating heart, and bended eye;
Old chieftains walked with hastened tread
Loath that their hearts should bow to dread:
They feared the spirits of the hill
To sinful Scotland boded ill.
Orion up his baldrick drew,
The evening star was still in view;
Scarce had the Pleiads cleared the main,
Or Charles reyoked his golden wain,
When from the palace-turrets rang
The bugle's note with warning clang:
Each tower, each spire, in music spake,
“Haste, nobles, to Queen Mary's Wake.”
The blooming maid ran to bedight,
In spangled lace, and robe of white,—
That graceful emblem of her youth,
Of guileless heart, and maiden truth.
The matron decked her candid frame
In moony brooch, and silk of flame;
And every earl and baron bold
Sparkled in clasp and loop of gold.
'Twas the last night of hope and fear,
That bards could sing, or Sovereign hear;
And just ere rose the Christmas sun,
The envied prize was lost or won.
The bard that night who foremost came
Was not enrolled, nor known his name:
A youth he was of manly mould,
Gentle as lamb, as lion bold;
But his fair face, and forehead high,
Glowed with intrusive modesty.
'Twas said, by bank of southland stream
Glided his youth in soothing dream;
The harp he loved, and wont to stray
Far to the wilds and woods away,
And sing to brooks that gurgled by,
Of maiden's form and maiden's eye:—
That, when this dream of youth was past,
Deep in the shade his harp he cast;
In busy life his cares beguiled;
His heart was true, and fortune smiled.
But when the Royal Wake began,
Joyful he came the foremost man,
To see the matchless bard approved,
And list the strains he once had loved.
Two nights had passed, the bards had sung—
Queen Mary's harp from ceiling hung,
On which was graved her lovely mold,
Beset with crowns and flowers of gold;
And many a gem of dazzling dye
Glowed on that prize to minstrel's eye.
The youth had heard each minstrel's strain,
And, fearing northern bard would gain,
To try his youthful skill was moved,
Not for himself, but friends he loved.

Mary Scott.

THE FOURTEENTH BARD'S SONG.

Scarce had the closing measure rung,
When from the ring the minstrel sprung;
O'er foot of maid, and cane of man,
Three times he foundered as he ran,
And his gilt harp, of flowery frame,
Left ready for the next that came.
Loud were the plaudits—all the fair
Their eyes turned to the royal chair:
They looked again,—no bard was there!
But whisper, smile, and question ran,
Around the ring anent the man;
While all the nobles of the south
Lauded the generous stranger youth.
The next was bred on southern shore,
Beneath the mists of Lammermore;
And long, by Nith and crystal Tweed,
Had taught the Border youth to read:
The strains of Greece, the bard of Troy,
Were all his theme, and all his joy.
Well toned his voice of wars to sing;
His hair was dark as raven's wing;
His eye an intellectual lance,
No heart could bear its searching glance:
But every bard to him was dear;
His heart was kind, his soul sincere.
When first of Royal Wake he heard,
Forthwith it chained his sole regard:
It was his thought, his hourly theme,
His morning prayer, his midnight dream.
Knights, dames, and squires of each degree,
He deemed as fond of songs as he,
And talked of them continually.
But when he heard the Highland strain,
Scarce could his breast his soul contain;
'Twas all unequalled, and would make
Immortal Bards, immortal Wake!
About Dunedin streets he ran,
Each knight he met, each maid, each man,
In field, in alley, tower, or hall,
The Wake was first, the Wake was all.
Alike to him the south or north,
So high he held the minstrel worth;
So high his ardent mind was wrought,
Once of himself he scarcely thought.
Dear to his heart the strain sublime,
The strain admired in ancient time;
And of his minstrel honours proud,
He strung his harp too high, too loud.

King Edward's Dream.

THE FIFTEENTH BARD'S SONG.

The bard had sung so bold and high,
While patriot fire flashed from his eye,
That ere King Edward won to rest,
Or sheet was spread above his breast,
The harp-strings jarred in wild mis-tone;
The minstrel throbbed, his voice was gone.
Upon his harp he leaned his head,
And softly from the ring was led.
The next was from a western vale,
Where Nith winds slowly down the dale;
Where play the waves o'er golden grain,
Like mimic billows of the main.
Of the old elm his harp was made,
That bent o'er Cluden's loneliest shade:
No gilded sculpture round her flamed,
For his own hand that harp had framed,
In stolen hours, when, labour done,
He strayed to view the parting sun.
O, when the toy to him so fair,
Began to form beneath his care,
How danced his youthful heart with joy!
How constant grew the dear employ!
The sun would chamber in the Ken;
The red star rise o'er Locherben;
The solemn moon in sickly hue,
Waked from her eastern couch of dew,
Would half way gain the vault on high,
Bathe in the Nith, slow stealing by,
And still the bard his task would ply.
When his first notes, from covert gray,
Arrested maiden on her way;
When ceased the reaper's evening tale,
And paused the shepherd of the dale—
Bootless all higher worldly bliss,
To crown our minstrel's happiness!
What all the joys by fortune given,
To cloyless song, the gift of Heaven?
That harp could make the matron stare,
Bristle the peasant's hoary hair,
Make patriot breasts with ardour glow,
And warrior pant to meet the foe;
And long by Nith the maidens young
Shall chant the strains their minstrel sung:
At ewe-bught, or at evening fold,
When resting on the daisied wold,
Combing their locks of waving gold,
Oft the fair group, enrapt, shall name
Their lost, their darling Cunninghame.
His was a song beloved in youth—
A tale of weir—a tale of truth.

Dumlanrig.

THE SIXTEENTH BARD'S SONG.

When ceased the bard's protracted song,
Circled a smile the fair among;
The song was free, and soft its fall,
So soothing, yet so bold withal,
They loved it well, yet, sooth to say,
Too long, too varied was the lay.
'Twas now the witching time of night,
When reason strays, and forms that fright
Are shadowed on the palsied sight;
When fancy moulds upon the mind
Light visions on the passing wind,
And woos, with faltering tongue and sigh,
The shades o'er memory's wilds that fly;
And much the circle longed to hear
Of gliding ghost, or gifted seer,
That in that still and solemn hour
Might stretch imagination's power,
And restless fancy revel free
In painful, pleasing luxury.
Just as the battle-tale was done
The watchman called the hour of one.
Lucky the hour for him who came,
Lucky the wish of every dame:
The bard who rose at herald's call
Was wont to sing in Highland hall,
Where the wild chieftain of M'Lean
Upheld his dark Hebridian reign;
Where floated crane and clamorous gull
Above the misty shores of Mull;
And evermore the billows rave
Round many a saint and sovereign's grave.
There, round Columba's ruins gray,
The shades of monks are wont to stray,
And slender forms of nuns, that weep
In moonlight by the murmuring deep,
O'er early loves and passions crost,
And being's end for ever lost.
No earthly form their names to save,
No stem to flourish o'er their grave,
No blood of theirs beyond the shrine
To nurse the human soul divine,
Still cherish youth by time unworn,
And flow in ages yet unborn;
While mind, surviving evermore,
Unbodied seeks that lonely shore.
In that wild land our minstrel bred,
From youth a life of song had led,
Wandering each shore and upland dull
With Allan Bawn, the bard of Mull,
To sing the deeds of old Fingal
In every cot and Highland hall.
Well knew he, every ghost that came
To visit fair Hebridian dame,
Was that of monk or abbot gone,
Who once, in cell of pictured stone,
Of woman thought, and her alone.
Well knew he, every female shade,
To westland chief that visit paid
In morning pale, or evening dun,
Was that of fair lamenting nun,
Who once, in cloistered home forlorn,
Languished for joys in youth forsworn;
And oft himself had seen them glide
At dawning from his own bed-side.
Forth stepped he with uncourtly bow;
The heron plume waved o'er his brow;
His garb was blent with varied shade,
And round him flowed his Highland plaid.
But woe to Southland dame and knight
In minstrel's tale who took delight.
Though known the air, the song he sung
Was in the barbarous Highland tongue:
But tartaned chiefs in raptures hear
The strains, the words, to them so dear.
Thus ran the bold portentous lay,
As near as southern tongue can say.

The Abbot M'Kinnon.

THE SEVENTEENTH BARD'S SONG.

The Monk's Hymn.

The monks gazed round, the abbot grew wan,
For the closing notes were not sung by man.
They came from the rock, or they came from the air,
From voice they knew not, and knew not where;
But it sung with a mournful melody,
“Greater yet must the offering be.”
In holy dread they past away,
And they walked the ridge of that isle so gray,
And saw the white waves toil and fret,
An hundred fathoms below their feet;
They looked to the countless isles that lie
From Barra to Mull, and from Jura to Skye;
They looked to heaven, they looked to the main,
They looked at all with a silent pain,
As on places they were not to see again.
A little bay lies hid from sight,
O'erhung by cliffs of dreadful height;
When they drew nigh that airy steep,
They heard a voice rise from the deep,
And that voice was sweet as voice could be,
And they feared it came from the Maid of the Sea.
M'Kinnon lay stretched on the verge of the hill,
And peeped from the height on the bay so still;
And he saw her sit on a weedy stone,
Laving her fair breast, and singing alone;
And aye she sank the wave within,
Till it gurgled around her lovely chin,
Then combed her locks of the pale sea-green,
And aye this song was heard between.

The Mermaid's Song.

The abbot arose in dumb dismay,
They turned and fled from the height away,
For dark and portentous was the day.
When they came in view of their rocking sail,
They saw an old man who sat on the wale;
His beard was long, and silver gray,
Like the rime that falls at the break of day;
His locks like wool, and his colour wan,
And he scarcely looked like an earthly man.
They asked his errand, they asked his name,
Whereunto bound, and whence he came;
But a sullen thoughtful silence he kept,
And turned his face to the sea and wept.
Some gave him welcome, and some gave him scorn,
But the abbot stood pale, with terror o'erborne;
He tried to be jocund, but trembled the more,
For he thought he had seen the face before.
Away went the ship with her canvas all spread,
So glad to escape from that island of dread;
And skimmed the blue wave like a streamer of light,
Till fell the dim veil 'twixt the day and the night.
Then the old man arose and stood up on the prow,
And fixed his dim eyes on the ocean below;
And they heard him saying, “Oh, woe is me!
But great as the sin must the sacrifice be.”
Oh, mild was his eye, and his manner sublime,
When he looked unto heaven, and said—“Now is the time.”
He looked to the weather, he looked to the lee,
He looked as for something he dreaded to see,
Then stretched his pale hand, and pointed his eye
To a gleam on the verge of the eastern sky.
The monks soon beheld, on the lofty Ben -More,
A sight which they never had seen before,
A belt of blue lightning around it was driven,
And its crown was encircled by morion of heaven;
And they heard a herald that loud did cry,
“Prepare the way for the abbot of I!”
Then a sound arose, they knew not where,
It came from the sea, or it came from the air,
'Twas louder than tempest that ever blew,
And the sea-fowls screamed, and in terror flew;
Some ran to the cords, some kneeled at the shrine,
But all the wild elements seemed to combine;
'Twas just but one moment of stir and commotion,
And down went the ship like a bird of the ocean!
This moment she sailed all stately and fair,
The next, nor ship nor shadow was there,
But a boil that arose from the deep below;
A mountain gurgling column of snow:
It sunk away with a murmuring moan—
The sea is calm, and the sinners are gone.

CONCLUSION.

[Shepherd of Ettrick! as of yore]

THE MOUNTAIN BARD.

Sir David Graeme.

THE PEDLAR.

GILMANSCLEUCH.

FOUNDED UPON AN ANCIENT FAMILY TRADITION.

THE FRAY OF ELIBANK.

Mess John.

The Death of Douglas,

LORD OF LIDDISDALE.

Willie Wilkin.

Thirlestane.

A FRAGMENT.

[OMITTED]

Lord Derwent.

A FRAGMENT.

[OMITTED]

The Laird of Lairistan,

OR THE THREE CHAMPIONS OF LIDDISDALE.

The Wife of Crowle.

The Tweeddale Raide.

Robin an' Nanny.

Sandy Tod.

A SCOTTISH PASTORAL.

Farewell to Ettrick.

The Author's Address to his auld dog Hector.

May of the Moril Glen.

MADOR OF THE MOOR.

INTRODUCTION.

CANTO FIRST. The Hunting.

CANTO SECOND. The Minstrel.

CANTO THIRD. The Cottage.

CANTO FOURTH. The Palmer.

CANTO FIFTH. The Christening.

[OMITTED]

CONCLUSION.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE SUN.

DEDICATION TO FIRST EDITION. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD BYRON.

Not for thy crabbed state-creed, wayward wight,
Thy noble lineage, nor thy virtues high,
(God bless the mark!) do I this homage plight;
No—'tis thy bold and native energy;
Thy soul that dares each bound to overfly,
Ranging through Nature on erratic wing:
These do I honour, and would fondly try
With thee a wild aerial strain to sing:
Then, O! round Shepherd's head thy charmed mantle fling.

1. PART FIRST.

2. PART SECOND.

3. PART THIRD.

4. PART FOURTH.

THE POETIC MIRROR.

The Gude Greye Katt.

The Greye Kattis Sang.

QUEEN HYNDE.

1. PART FIRST.

2. PART SECOND.

3. PART THIRD.

4. PART FOURTH.

Oh fain would I borrow the harp of that land,
Where the dark sullen eagle broods over the strand,
Afar in his correi where shrub never grew;
Or mounts on bold pinion away from the view,
On beams of the morning to journey alone,
And peal his loud matin where echoes are none—
The harp of that region of storm and of calm,
To mount with the eagle, or sport with the lamb;
To warble in sunshine, in discord to jar,
And roar in the tempest of nature or war!
Of that have I need, and but that I'll have none,
To sound the memorial of old Beregon.
The city is crowded, each alley and hall;
Loud rattles the scabbard on pavement and wall.
The bow and broad arrow of Scythia are there,
And files of bright lances gleam high in the air;
They flash and they flicker, so dazzling and high,
Like streamers of steel on the fields of the sky;
But nigher survey them, how deep is their stain!
That redness is not with the drops of the rain;
Proud badges of battle, depart they must never,
But there as memorials fester for ever.
Our clans and the Norsemen nor beckon nor smile.
As file meets with column, and column with file;
Yet still there was bustle by night and by day,
And ne'er were the maids of green Albyn so gay:
But many a sad mother to Heaven appeals;
And from the old warior the groan often steals,
As from his high turrets he sees with despair
The black Bull of Norway pawing the air.
Queen Hynde waits the issue, submissive and dumb,
And noble King Eric with love is o'ercome.
King Eric came over, a conqueror proved;
A kingdom he wanted, a kingdom beloved:
The queen was an item he did not imply,
But the conqueror fell at the glance of her eye.
His proffer was made as a lure to the land,
For woman he loved not nor woman's command:
The name of a hero was all his delight;
His sword was a meteor unmatch'd in the fight;
The north he had conquer'd, and govern'd the whole
From Dwina's dark flood to the waves of the pole;
And ne'er in his course had he vanquished been,
Till now, by a young Caledonian queen.
But thou, gentle maiden, to whom I appeal,
Who never has felt what thou could'st not conceal—
Love's dearest remembrance, that brought with the sigh
The stound to the heart, and the tear to the eye—
O, ill canst thou judge of the mighty turmoil
In the warrior's bosom, thus caught in the toil!
For the queen kept the words of her father in view,
Who charged that, in secret no lover should sue;
And therefore bold Eric was still kept at bay,
For all his impatience and all he could say:
And this was her answer both early and late,
“The time is at hand that determines my fate:
Then he whose arm in battle is strongest,
Whose shield is broadest, or falchion longest,
And twice in the lists shall win the day,
I am his to claim and carry away.
But till that day all suit is vain—
In strict retirement I remain.”
Ah princely Haco, woe for thee!
What hopest thou round these towers to see,
Which still thou circlest morn and even,
With cheek and eye upturn'd to heaven;
Or rather, to each casement high
In Selma's towers, for answering eye?
And thou hast seen it, though at more
Than fifty fathoms from the shore:
And who can eye of maiden fair
Read more than half way up the air?
The glance of love, the blushing hue,
Are lost amid the hazy blue:
But other signs—As, snowy veil
Rear'd high aloft like streamer pale;
A helmet waved in queenly hand;
A dazzling glance from gilded brand,
Whose point is northward turned away,
Where Eric's camp like city lay,—
These signals boded nothing good,
And scarce could be misunderstood.
A thousand times Prince Haco bow'd,
And humblest gratitude avow'd;
He kiss'd his hand, then kneel'd profound,
And thrust his sword's point in the ground,
In homage to that virgin queen,
For such he deem'd capricious Wene;
And she it was. But what she knew,
That thus such signals out she threw,
Or if 'twas all a freakish jest,
Nor friend nor foeman ever wist.
But as it was, it gave the alarm
Unto the prince to watch and arm.
His was a brave and goodly train,
The pride of Norway's stormy reign;
All youths on fame and honour bent,
And all of noble, proud descent,
Who the high heir of Eric's crown,
As path to fortune and renown,
Had follow'd with supreme good-will,
Claiming the post of honour still;
And, sooth, a comelier warrior train
Ne'er mounted wave of northern main.
To these he said, in secret guise,
With looks profound and shrewdly wise,
“I dread these coward Scots for ill;
There has been bustling on that hill,
As if some treachery were design'd,
Or some misprision in the wind:
Scouts have been running up and down,
From town to camp, from camp to town.
(For an encampment, strong and high,
The Scots had form'd on Valon-Righ.)
“'Tis meet that we should arm and watch,
Such violators first to catch,
If such there be. If I am wrong,
Our silent watch will not be long;
While, should we baulk some foul surprise,
Our fame to Odin's throne will rise.”—
His warriors armed with youthful pride,
But laugh'd full mirthfully aside;
And wondered where their gallant prince
Caught such enormous sapience.
Meantime the troops of various climes
Met in the city lanes betimes,
And there they crowded, trading, bustling,
Till eventide, full rudely justling.
They met, they scowl'd—then rushing, mingled,
While their rude weapons jarr'd and jingled.
Few words were changed for ill or good;
For why? They were not understood:
But many brazen looks said plain,
“Friend, you and I may meet again!”
In short, throughout each Highland clan
A spirit most indignant ran.
They could not brook their foes to see
Parade their streets unawed and free;
And from their cliff-borne camp they view'd
The march of these barbarians rude
Beneath their feet from day to day,
Like tigers growling o'er their prey.
Nor wanted there the chiefs among
Some fiery heads that, right or wrong,
Would blow this breeze into a storm.
First of these chiefs was Donald Gorm,
Whose spirit, like the waves that roar
For ever on his stormy shore,
Was ne'er at ease by night or day,
But restless and perturbed as they.
Among the clansmen of his name,
Revenge was his perpetual theme,
Until so fierce his fury burn'd,
His sovereign's faith aside was spurn'd;
And, if to join him there was none,
He'd break the truce and fight alone!
“We'll go,” said Donald, “in the night,
And seize this king of boasted might;
And first we'll bind him heel to head,
And bear him to our rock with speed;
And then we'll turn, and kill, and kill,
And spoil and ravage at our will!
That cumbrous host we well may dread,
With doughty Eric at its head;
But, rend that moving spring away,
And down it falls the spoiler's prey.
What boots it me a maiden's vow,
Vouchsafed I see not why, nor how?
If Donald this achievement grand
Performs by dint of shield and brand,
He reigns the King of fair Scotland!”—
“God bless the mark!” said every tongue,
And every sword on buckler rung.
King Eric's camp was scanned with care,
For sundry spies went sauntering there;
But so it happ'd that Haco's tent
Surpass'd the king's in ornament.
The prince's proud battalions lay
Round his with streamers soaring gay,
And golden crests, and herald show;
So that the spies went to and fro,
Staring aghast; then back they sped,
And, with sagacity inbred,
Declared, and swore, with gaping wonder,
That all the kings of the earth were yonder!
This was a prize, we may suppose,
Too rich for Donald Gorm to lose:
So straight was pass'd the order high,
That all the men of Mull and Skye,
And Moidart too, themselves should dight
In arms at dead hour of the night,
And follow where their chief should lead,
To enterprise of glorious meed.
The harp had ceased in Selma's hall,
And from her towers and turrets tall
No glimmering torch or taper shone—
For they had died out one by one,
Like fading stars, whose time was spent
Above the airy firmament.
Many a bard on Valon-Righ
Had sung his song of victory,
And gone to rest—or converse hold
With spirits of the bards of old.
The cymbal's clang, the bugle's swell,
The trumpet's blare, the bagpipe's yell,
Had ceased, and silence reign'd alone
Around the skirts of Beregon,
Where thousands lay, stretch'd on the soil,
Panting for battle and for broil.
But Donald Gorm had other scheme
Than thus on battle clang to dream:
He panted for the waking fight,
The blood and havoc of the night;
The silent rush on prostrate foe;
The stroke, the stab, the overthrow;
Their mortal terror, flight, and thrall,
And captive king—the best of all!
A thousand times, with grin and growl,
Did Donald curse the minstrel's howl;
Then roll'd him on his russet floor,
And railed against the lagging hour.
For every minute in its flight,
From evening till the noon of night,
Was fetter laid on Donald's might.
The hour arrived, as hour must come
To those that dread it for their doom,
As well as those who for it long—
And Donald's men, in phalanx strong,
Moved from the cliff around the steep
With swiftness and in silence deep.
Then Haco's watcher by the tarn
Straight hasted back, his prince to warn;
And found him and his troop prepared,
Couch'd on their arms, and keeping guard,
Hid in the heather and the brake,
Alongst the road the Scots must take.
Down came the Skye-men like a torrent,
Foaming, and muttering terms abhorrent;
Furious they came, with whirl and crush,
As midnight tides through narrows rush;
Or, when the storm is at the sorest,
Like wild bulls rushing from the forest,
With grinding hoof, and clattering horn,
And hollow humming as in scorn;
So rushed this phalanx multiform,
Led by the headlong Donald Gorm.
The front bore on swift as the wind,
But Haco's gallants closed behind;
And Donald's rear was levell'd low,
As fast as blow could follow blow.
His front pour'd on from tent to tent,
And robb'd and romaged as they went;
While those behind, without a blow,
Were chased and routed by the foe.
Right over ditch, and foss, and fen,
Was Donald borne by his own men;
For all his boast of warrior deed,
He ne'er got blow at foeman's head.
O Donald Gorm, hard fate is thine,
Exposed to punishment condign!
The truce is broke, and thou hast lost
One-fifth of all thy gallant host.
The daring deed thou canst not hide;
Thy kinsmen vanish'd from thy side,
And shame imprinted on thy brow—
Ha! Donald Gorm, what think'st thou now?
To-morrow all will be in flame,
And only thou must bear the blame;
For thou hast dared thy country's troth,
Thy sovereign's honour, and her oath,
Thus rashly, rudely, to deface;
And all for nought but deep disgrace.
Over thy head there broods a storm
Will blast thy honours, Donald Gorm!
But one thing yet thou dost not know:
Thou hadst to deal with generous foe,
Who sorrow'd at thy rash ado—
A hero, and a lover too;
Who dared not this thy deed proclaim,
Lest royal Hynde should bear the blame.
When past was all the hasty fray,
And Donald Gorm thus chased away;
And not one son of Norway miss'd,
Excepting Odin's sacred priest,
Whom Donald's men had caught asleep,
And hurried off unto the steep—
They deem'd him chief of high command,
Some ancient lord of Scania's band;—
When fled, I say, that headlong force,
Prince Haco call'd his counsellors.
“My gallant friends,” said he, “I must
Rejoice to find in whom I trust.
This night you've shown, with courage true,
What youths of noble blood can do,—
Have saved our sovereign's sacred life,
And crush'd at once a dangerous strife.
Now, trust me, we'll more credit win
By hushing this with little din,
Than, by ostent and fulsome boast,
To break the truce with Albyn's host,
And lose at once the glorious right
Of gaining all by heroes' might.
By secret trust full well I know
The treachery bred with private foe,
That gave us chance thus to debel.—
This thing I know, but dare not tell.
“Then let us strip these savage slain,
And sink their bodies in the main;
And pass the whole with answer brief,
As enterprise of robber chief—
A trivial thing, of no regard,
Unsuiting honours or reward.”—
Each gallant thought as Haco did,
Although his motives still were hid.
The slain were heap'd upon a team,
And in the sea, to sink or swim,
Their bodies hurl'd without delay;
And all was o'er by break of day.
Then such a stir arose at dawn—
Torrents of blood like rivers ran;
But none could tell with whom the blame,
Or whence the purple deluge came.
Amazement fill'd the Norway men;
They gather'd round in thousands ten,
Until the king all patience lost,
And call'd a muster of his host;
No one was miss'd in all the lists,
Save one of Odin's sacred priests!
King Eric, as a monarch brave,
Of priestcraft was the very slave.
This omen dire his soul oppress'd;
He caught the terror of the rest,
And orders gave, in sullen mood,
For sacrifice of human blood.
Haco was grieved; for in that rite
He had no trust—took no delight;
And therefore told all that had pass'd
Unto the king, from first to last;
But chiefly dwelt on signal seen
From casement of the Scottish queen.
Now hush'd were Eric's false alarms:
He caught his nephew in his arms;
For his big heart impetuous strove
With throes of glory and of love;
And thrice he bless'd his hero young,
Who thus withheld the blabbing tongue
From telling of a deed of fame
That added lustre to his name;
Then said, “No favour he could crave,
That, as reward, he should not have.”
The prince of this laid hold, and said,
“My king and uncle, then I plead,
That I to-morrow be allow'd
The honour and distinction proud,
Within the lists with thee to stand,
A champion for my native land.
And thou in Haco's deeds shalt trace
The might of Odin's heavenly race.”
The king now frown'd in sullen mood,
Nor tried his promise to elude.
Generous, as absolute in sway,
And downright as the light of day,
He all at once, in terms uncouth,
Reproved the madness of the youth:—
“Thou tendril of a rampant plant!
Darest thou to ask, or I to grant,
A thing that throws from my right hand
The glory of my native land?
What would my well-tried champions say,
Were I to fling such prize away,
And all our soaring hopes destroy,
For the wild frenzy of a boy?
Thy rash, fond aim full well I see—
Thou think'st the choice will fall on thee.
Dare not to raise such lofty looks;
Eric but ill a rival brooks;
And thus to sacrifice his all,
He may not, and he never shall.”
“My liege, I had your sacred word,
Given fully, of your own accord;
I ween'd on that I might rely:
Can Odin's son his troth deny?
I claim it; and to-morrow stand,
To win or fall at thy right hand.
Thy word is given; if broke it be,
By Thor, the breaker fights with me!”
“Haco, thou art a noble stem,
That well should brook the diadem.
My sacred word I must fulfil,
Though grievously against my will.
By one rash promise I am cross'd,
And all my fame in battle lost.
How dare I in myself confide
With such a stripling by my side?
For should'st thou fall, or wounded be,
Farewell to Eric's victory!
But at the hour the heralds name,
Come, and the post of honour claim
As right of thy illustrious line:—
My word is pass'd, and it is thine.”
Turn we to Donald of the Isle,
In sad dilemma placed the while;
To censure subject for th' abuse
Of sovereign's faith, and broken truce.
He kept his place in outer ward,
To fight with friend or foe prepared;
And much he wonder'd when he saw
The armies mix, as if no flaw
Or breach of contract had been known:
Still Donald kept his hold alone,
Till Eric's muster-roll was o'er,
And freedom reign'd as theretofore.
“'Tis strange,” said Donald, “should this breach
And foul defeat the throne not reach.
It would appear there is no blame
Attach'd to queen's or liegeman's name.
Therefore I judge it best at once
The daring outrage to renounce;
And prove it, swear it though they should,
Deny it all through fire and blood.”
“Dear master, know, your gallant men
Amid King Eric's camp lie slain.”
“There let them lie; I'll flatly swear
They are not mine, nor ever were.”
“Your clan is short: what will you say,
When call'd out on a muster-day?”
“I'll say, the men of Mull are gone
To fetch supplies of venison;
To see their dames, and shun the strife;
And all have forfeited their life.”
“The priest of Odin, in our thrall,
Will broad disclosure make of all.”
“Were he the devil's priest array'd,
One whom I more than Odin dread,
I'd let him blood, and make his bed
Full fifty feet below my tread,
Rather than he should blab disgrace
On great M'Ola's royal race.
My fathers had one liberal form,
Which stands unbroke by Donald Gorm—
It is, that neither old nor young.
Nor oath pronounced by human tongue,
Shall e'er a rest or bearing find
Between his honour and the wind.
Come, and the secret thou shalt know,
How the old dotard brooks the blow.”
The chief and bard together went
In to the priest, with foul intent:
The old man rested on the floor,
With lip of scorn, and look demure:
His ankles were by withe entwined;
His arms were cross'd and bound behind;
His grisly beard seem'd scarce terrene—
It flow'd, like Centaur's shaggy mane,
Far o'er his girdle crimosin,
And quiver'd to his palsied chin.
A portrait of majestic scorn
Was that old heathen priest forlorn,
With eye fix'd on his galling yoke,
And leaning calmly to the rock.
“Father, full froward was the fate,
That cast thee in this captive state,”
Said Donald, with affected grief;
“But here comes one to bring relief:
Since mighty Odin hides his face,
And there's no other eye of grace,
This boon thy Odin sends to thee—
A thirsty brand to set thee free!”
“Beware, thou sanguine, savage chief,
Slave to a new and fond belief!—
Beware how thou upliftest sword,
Or utter'st rash or ruthless word,
Against the lowest holy guide
To Odin's service sanctified.
Know'st thou who measures mortal age?
Who love's the battle's lofty rage
And riots mid the overthrow,
In wreaking vengeance on each foe?
Even He, whose servant for his sin
Lies chain'd thy hateful power within.
Then be thou ware, the crime eschew,
Nor do a deed thou sore shalt rue.”
“Speak, Rimmon, bard of Turim's hall;
What think'st thou of this heathen's fall?”
“Thou lord of that romantic land,
The winged isle, of steep and strand;
And all the creeks of brake and fern,
Those pathless piles, so dark and dern,
That stretch from Sunart's sombre dell,
To Duich's heights of moor and fell;
Thou stem of royal seed—nay, more,
Son of an hundred kings of yore!
Unto thy servant deign regard;
Woe to the chief that slights his bard!
“I've heard an adage in my time,
A simple old Milesian rhyme,
Which bore, that, whatsoever god
Was worshipp'd all the world abroad,
From him that reigns in heaven alone,
Unto the gods of wood and stone—
That, still among each erring crew,
These gods should have a reverence due;
Because, in offering insult there,
A nation's feelings injured are;
And man's deep curse, when insults move
His sacred feelings to disprove,
Is next to that of God's above.
I say no more; but that I've found
These ancient sayings often sound.”
Donald look'd down with dark grimace,
And primm'd his mouth, and held his peace;
And rather seem'd disposed to show
Relenting heart o'er prostrate foe.
But as imprudence in th' extreme,
Or dire mischance (a gentler name),
Suggested, the old priest began
To brave the spirit of the man;
And his o'erbearing pride defy,
By brief and threatening prophecy.
“'Tis known,” said he, “o'er all the lands
Where Odin's heavenly sway expands,
That whosoever dares enthrall
The meanest guide unto his hall,
Or move a tongue his faith to upbraid,
Or hand against his sacred head,
That sinner's blood shall first be spilt
Of all his kindred's, for his guilt.
Therefore I dare the whole decrees
Of those who bow to oaken trees;
Or to the dazzling God of Day;
Or moon, that climbs the Milky Way;
Or to that God, mysterious, mild,
That died and lived, the Virgin's child—
I dare you all by curse unheard,
To wrong a hair of this gray beard;
Or down to Lok the caitiff goes,
The first of Odin's fated foes.”
“So be the offence and the reward!
Thou speak'st to one that ne'er was dared,”
Said Donald, as he rose amain,
Trembling with anger and disdain;
And ere his bard a word could say
His master's vengeance to allay,
Cursing and foaming in his rage,
Sheer to the belt he clove the sage:
To either side one half did bow;
His head and breast were cleft in two;
An eye was left on either cheek,
And half a tongue, to see, and speak.
Oh, never was so vile a blow,
Or such a bloody wreck of woe!
Old Rimmon bow'd upon his knee;
And, that such sight he might not see,
Shaded his eyes with his right hand,
And pour'd forth coronach so grand,
O'er the old stranger's mournful fate
That Donald Gorm became sedate;
And soften'd was his frown severe,
To stern regret and sorrow drear.
But his stout heart not to belie,
He dash'd the round tear from his eye;
Then turn'd, and wiped his bloody glaive
And bade to dig the heathen's grave
Far in the bowels of the hill,
And with huge rocks the crevice fill,
That forth he might not win at all,
To blab in Odin's heavenly hall:
For, sooth, whate'er was doom'd to be,
He would that boisterous deity
Might lay his bloody guerdons by
For those who own'd his sovereignty.
Sore trembled Turim's ancient bard,
For the rash deed his lord had dared;
And, the transgression to redeem,
Sung a most solemn requiem.
Of Donald's nightly overthrow
No note was taken by the foe;
For, yielding to the generous prince,
King Eric slyly blink'd the offence.
Those strangers both were sway'd by love;
And hoped before the queen to prove
Their heroism, and matchless might,
And claim unto her hand by right.
But either mighty Odin heard
His dying servant's last award,
Or some all-seeing righteous eye
Beheld the ancient father die.
To Eric's tent that night were call'd,
Priest, prophet, patriarch, and scald;
And thence were heard, in thundering jar,
Loud anthems to the god of war;
And when the orisons were said,
And victims on the altar laid,
And rose the frenzy to the full,
With cup drunk from an enemy's skull;
Then blood was dash'd on all around,
As text, or omen, to expound;
And that, survey'd with much grimace,
Boded success to Odin's race.
Again the frenzied song of war
On the night breeze was borne afar,
Till, on the dark and gelid rock,
The drowsy cormorant awoke,
And, moved by wonder and dismay,
Scream'd out in concert with the lay.
Some sentinels that hovered nigh,
On the north cliff of Valon-Righ,
Descended softly to the plain,
And overheard the closing strain;
And thus it ran, the roundelay,
As near as Scottish tongue could say:—

Song.

The combat-day arrived at last,
And with it congregations vast
Of maidens, youths, and aged men,
From isle, from dale, and Highland glen;
All panting, burning, to survey
The deeds of that eventful day.
And every group, disputing, came,
Who were the warriors first in fame:
For every clan avow'd its head
Unmatch'd in might and warrior deed—
One 'gainst a world to throw the gage,
The master spirit of the age.
Full plain it was to eye and ear,
That chose to see, and chose to hear,
That no three lords the land could call,
Would satisfaction give to all.
That morning rose in ruddy hue
So bright, that all the fields of dew,
The gleaming mountains, and the wood,
Appear'd one mighty waste of blood;
Even the slow billow of the main
Appear'd to heave and roll in pain—
A clammy, viscous, purple tide,
That murmur'd to the mountain side,
And broke, with harsh and heavy groan,
Upon the beach of Beregon.
The sages look'd with wistful eye
Upon the flush'd and frowning sky;
Then, on the purpled earth and sea,
And sigh'd a prayer internally.
But scarcely had the morning's prime
Flamed o'er the mountain's top sublime,
Ere sable shades began to spread,
And mingle with the murky red;
The sun glared through a curtain gray
With broaden'd face and blunted ray;
And short way had he left the rath
Upon his high and gloomy path,
Till nought appear'd to human sight
But a small speck of watery light,
That seem'd above the rack to fly,
Careering through a troubled sky.
Dark and more dark the morning frown'd;
At length the shadows closed around,
Until the noontide of the day
Look'd like a twilight in dismay.
'Twas like that interval of gloom
'Twixt death and everlasting doom,
When the lorn spirit, reft away
From its frail tenement of clay,
Is forced through wastes of night to roam,
In search of an eternal home—
That space of terror, hope, and dole,
The awful twilight of the soul.
Alas! what earthly anxiousness
Resembles such a pause as this?
But mortal tremor and alarm,
For the success of foeman's arm,
And for the congregating gloom,
That almost threaten'd nature's doom,
Were never moved to wilder scope
Than on that day of fear and hope.
In Eric's council was no flaw,
His will was rule, his word was law;
But in the Scottish camp there grew
A furious general interview.
There was no lord, nor chief of name,
Who put not in conclusive claim,
As his the right the brand to wield
Upon the glorious combat-field.
After great heat, in proud deport,
With stern arraignment and retort,
Resource or remedy was none,
But that of casting lots alone;
A base alternative, 'twas true,
But that, or battle, nought would do.
The lots were cast with proper form,
And fell on Mar, and Donald Gorm,
And Allan Bane, of wide command,
The goodliest knight in fair Scotland.
Mar's name was called throughout the crowd;
The men of Dee hurra'd aloud;
But those of Athol and Argyle
Look'd to the earth, with hem and smile;
While Moray lads, with envy stung,
Cursed in a broad unfashion'd tongue.
Brave Donald Gorm was not proclaim'd.
Gods, how the men of Morven flamed!
And those of Rannoch and Loch-Ow
Pull'd the blue bonnet o'er the brow,
And mutter'd words of scorn and hate,
Lamenting Albyn's hapless fate;
While through the clans of Ross there pass'd
A murmur like the mountain blast.
Each neighbouring clan was moved to scorn,
That such a chance from it was torn
Of royal sway, and warrior boast,
And given to those they hated most.
While distant tribes forbore to foam,
Pleased that it came no nigher home.
But when the name of Allan Bane,
Lochaber's calm and mighty thane,
Was call'd, there was no grumbling sound,
Nor aught but plaudits floated round.
The gather'd thousands seem'd to feel,
That Heaven had chosen for their weal;
For lord was none, in sway or fame,
In all the land, of equal name.
The ring was form'd above the bay,
Where Eric's ships incumbent lay;
Its circle measured furlongs ten,
One half inclosed by Norway men,
While all the Scots rank'd on the lea,
Between the city gate and sea;
And 'twixt the hosts, from east to west,
Strong ramparts, lined with guards, were placed.
The seven towers of Beregon
Were clothed and crowded every one.
High soaring o'er the sordid strife,
Unmeasured piles of mortal life,
Breathing, and moving frown'd they there,
Like cloudy pyramids of air.
Both friends and foemen turn'd their eyes
To these pilasters of the skies,
And almost ween'd the living towers,
The altars of the heavenly powers;
The tabernacles of the skies,
Where angels offered sacrifice,
With victims heap'd of shadowy forms
Above the pathway of the storms,
Up render'd from some dread abode,
The foes of men and foes of God;
And there piled for some dire cremation,
Some final, horrid immolation.
The whole of that momentous scene
Was such, as on this earth again
The eye of man can never see,
On this side of eternity.
The various nations arm'd and filed;
The thousands round on summits piled,
Of rock, of ravelin, and mast;
The sky with darkness overcast;
And when the trumpet's rending blare
Bade champions to their posts repair,
Ten times ten thousand panting breasts
Were quaking, yearning, o'er the lists;
Ten thousand hearts with ardour burn'd;
Ten thousand eyes were upward turn'd,
Trying to pierce the fields of air;
But there was nought but darkness there!
What could they do but mutter vow,
And turn their eyes again below?
King Eric and his champions twain
Enter'd the lists the first; and then
Appear'd the Scottish heroes three,
Arm'd and accoutred gallantly.
But when they met to measure swords,
And change salute in courteous words,
From the Scots files there rose a groan;
For far, in stature and in bone,
The Norse excell'd; so far indeed
That theirs appear'd of pigmy breed.
The heroes measured sword and shield,
Then to their various stations wheel'd;
And just when ready to begin,
Prince Haco sprung like lightning in,
Kneel'd to the king, and made demand
To fight that day at his right hand,
As his the right by heritage.
The champions boded Eric's rage,
And gazed at Haco. But anon
King Eric bade the knight begone
From his right hand, with kingly grace,
And the young hero took his place.
A mighty clamour rent the air,
And shook the loaded atmosphere;
He was, forsooth, a comely sight,
In golden armour burnish'd bright,
And raiment white, all glittering sheen
With gems of purple and of green.
With face so fair and form so tall,
So courteous, and so young withal,
He seem'd, amid the multitude,
Like sun-beam through a darksome cloud.
Among the shouts that scaled the shower,
A shriek was heard from Selma's tower.
Far upward Haco turn'd his eye,
And saw, far in the hollow sky,
A female form of radiant white
Upheld, and fainting with affright;
But soon she waved a snowy veil:
The prince's cheek grew red, then pale;
And with rash hand, and streaming eye,
He heaved his golden helmet high.
King Eric gave him stern reproof,
And warn'd him to his post aloof;
But his fond heart, with burning glow,
Was roused to more than man might do;
He trod on air; he grasp'd at fame;
His sword a meteor seem'd of flame.
The king was match'd with lordly Mar;
And Allan Bane with Osnagar,
A Dane of most gigantic form;
And the brave prince with Donald Gorm.
The marshals walk'd the circle round,
Survey'd the lists and vantage ground,
Then raised a signal over head,
The baleful flag of bloody red.
The trumpet sounded once; and then
Bugle and tabor roll'd amain
O'er all the host with rending swell;
Till slumbering echoes caught the knell,
And, calling to the mountain side,
Proclaim'd the combat far and wide.
The trumpet gave the second boom;
Again the clamour rent the gloom!
It gave the third: no murmur ran;
No sound moved by the breath of man
O'er all that collied, countless throng;
For trembling feelings, fierce, and strong,
Oppress'd them all. Blench'd was each cheek,
And lip, that moved, but durst not speak.
The triple combat then began;
That instant man was match'd to man;
And at that very moment flew
From out the cloud the lightning blue;
The thunder follow'd, and the hail
Came like a torrent with the peal,
Straight in the faces of the three
Who fought for Albyn's liberty.
The priests and scalds of Scania raised
The stormy hymn, and Odin praised;
But Albyn's thousands, blinded quite
With hail, and sleet, and glancing light,
To covert fled in dire dismay,
Trembling and faltering by the way;
All ignorant of what befell,
And asking news which none could tell.
But not the wrath of angry heaven,
The storm with tenfold fury driven,
The forked flames, with flash and quiver,
The thunder that made earth to shiver,
Could daunt the courage of the brave,
Who fought for glory or the grave.
No stately marshal was allow'd,
Nor umpire, verging from the crowd,
To meddle with the mortal strife;
Each hero fought for death or life.
Few words on either side were spoke,
To daunt opponent or provoke;
For why? the storm so fiercely jarr'd,
They neither could be said nor heard.
Their weapons met with clanging blows,
And high from helm and buckler rose.
Mar lost his ground, as Eric press'd;
But calmly still the king regress'd;
With foe before, and foe behind,
To quit his line he had no mind,
And vantage of the rain and wind.
'Tween Osnagar and Allan Bane
The fight was dreadful. But the Dane,
With every vantage of the field,
Eluded Allan's oval shield,
And pierced his shoulder to the bone,
Reddening his arm and hacqueton.
This roused the Scottish hero so,
That back he bore his giant foe;
And it was plain to every eye,
Though few there were that could espy,
That Albyn, in her Allan Bane,
Would suffer no dishonest stain.
Ha! mighty Donald of the main,
Why flagg'st thou on the battle-plain?
Why is thy bronzied cheek aghast,
And thy fierce visage overcast?
Can thunder's roar, or fire, or storm,
Appal the heart of Donald Gorm,
Who, till this hour, at danger spurn'd,
Whose sword in battle ne'er was turn'd?
No; but there had been boding sight,
Some dreadful visitant o'ernight!
And now the hero powerless seem'd,
And fought as if he slept and dream'd.
When Haco first met eye to eye
With the impetuous Lord of Skye,
One thought alone possess'd the host;
Even Eric deem'd his nephew lost,
And only kept proud Mar at bay,
To watch the issue of the day.
Haco strode up with giddy pace,
And shook his brand in Donald's face.
The day had shortly been, forsooth,
If such a fair and flexile youth
Had shook a gilded sword or spear
At that imperious islander—
Heavens! how the tempest's howling breath
Had heighten'd been by Donald's wrath;
Whereas he now to battle fared,
As if he neither saw nor heard.
Haco made play, and join'd, and sprung
From side to side, like galliard young.
Now on his golden shield he clang'd;
Now on his foeman's buckler bang'd;
Now back, now forward would he fly,
In hopes to catch a royal eye.
But all the feints he could perform
Were lost on drowsy Donald Gorm;
Though life and death were laid in stake,
He held his guard as scarce awake.
The prince grew reckless and surprised,
Thinking his foeman him despised;
And, pressing down that sluggish brand,
He closed with Donald hand to hand.
Then did a furious course ensue,
Of push and parry, hack and hew;
Until the prince, in sidelong bound,
Gave Donald's thigh a ghastly wound.
Then burst the chief's inherent ire
Forth like the blaze of smother'd fire.
Alas! 'twas bravery's parting qualm,
The rending blast before the calm;
The last swoln billow in the bay,
When winds have turn'd another way.
“Curse on thy wanton slight!” he cried,
“Thou gossip for a maiden's side!
And curse upon the wizard charm,
That thus hath chain'd M'Ola's arm,
Whose pristine might and majesty
Were framed to punish ten like thee!
Here's to thy foppish heart abhorr'd!
Ward, if thou may'st, this noble sword.
Hence to thy ghostly charlatan,
And bear him back his curse and ban;
And say, that I'll requite it well,
In whate'er place he dares to dwell—
In earth, in cloud, in heaven or hell!”
Thus saying, Donald forward flung,
And at the prince his weapon swung
With back and forward sweep amain;
But only fought the wind and rain,
Or thing invisible to man.
He toil'd, he wheel'd, and forward ran;
But not one stroke, for all his fume,
So much as levell'd Haco's plume,
Or downward on his buckler rang,
Or made his golden helmet clang:
His rage seem'd madness in th' extreme—
The struggle of a frenzied dream.
The prince kept guard, but smiled to see
The wildness of his enemy;
At length, with flourish, and with spring
Forward, like falcon on the wing,
He pierced the raving maniac's side:
Forth well'd the warm and purple tide;
And, like an oak before the storm,
Down crash'd the might of Donald Gorm.
A shout from Norway's files too well
Proclaim'd the loss Scot dared not tell.
“True son of Odin!” Eric cried,
And rush'd on Mar with madden'd stride.
“Presumptuous lord! What thing art thou
That comest King Eric's ire to brow?
Would that I had (if such there be)
A score of Scottish lords like thee!
With dint of this good sword of mine,
I'd heap them all on Odin's shrine!”—
So saying, at one dreadful blow,
He shear'd the warrior's helm in two,
With lightning's force.—The Scottish lord
Lies prostrate o'er his bloodless sword.
By this time giant Osnagar
Was from his station borne afar;
And sore by Allan Bane oppress'd,
Heaved like the sea his ample chest;
His hand unto his weapon clave—
Scarce could he wield that weighty glaive.
He in his targe to trust began,
For blood o'er all his armour ran;
And, as he wore from side to side,
Most bitterly to Odin cried.
One other minute in the strife,
And Osnagar had yielded life;
But to that goal when Allan press'd,
Two other swords met at his breast.—
“Yield!” cried King Eric, “yield, or fall!”—
“I never did, and never shall!”
The chief replied.—But Eric's arm
Waved back his friends from further harm.
“Most generous king, I will not yield,
Nor living quit the combat-field:
Come one, come all, this arm to try—
Here do I stand, to win or die.
Shall it be told on Lochy's side,
That Allan Bane for rescue cried?”
King Eric smiled, and made reply:
“Thou bear'st thyself most gallantly;
We're three to one, and doubly strong;
But none shall gallant foeman wrong:
Then yield thee to a king this day,
Whose sword in battle ne'er gave way.”
“For once it shall!” bold Allan cried,
And made a blow at Eric's side.—
“Hurra!” cried Eric joyfully;
“I'll trust this wight with none but me.
Keep all aloof, both friend and foe,
Till we two change a single blow.
His wayward will he needs must have,
Though he is one I fain would save.”
Clash went the swords, the bucklers clash'd,
And 'gainst each other soon were dash'd;
But short the strife, ere Allan Bane
Lay stunn'd upon the slippery plain,
Bereft of buckler and of brand,
But without wound from Eric's hand.
He was no more in Eric's clasp
Than leopard in the lion's grasp.
The king upraised the wondering thane,
With soothing words and smiling mien;
Returned his sword, and, as a charm,
Bound golden bracelet round his arm;
Then, in a bold, impatient strain,
These words address'd to Allan Bane:—
“Thou art as stout and stanch a knight
As ever braved our northern might;
But know thou this (and when thou dost,
Thou know'st it to thy nation's cost),
In youth, before this beard was brown,
Or only waved a golden down,
I, from a child to battle bred,
Was forth to single combat led;
Before my eighteenth year, I say
Had clothed this chin, which now is gray,
Within the lists I had to fight
For life, before my father's sight.
I won, and of applause was vain.
I've fought a thousand times since then;
In southern climes have laurels won
Beyond the seasons and the sun;
I've journey'd all the world around,
Wherever fame was to be found;
Have fought with Frank and Turcoman,
With prince, with vizier, and with khan;
And though their painim creed I spurn'd,
This sword was ne'er in combat turn'd.
“The seventh day we fight again,
In triple combat, on the plain;
But as well may you challenge then
Great Odin, prince of gods and men,
Or brave that liquid fiery levin,
Red streaming from the forge of heaven,
Trying its power to countercharm,
As brave the force of Eric's arm.
“This tell the nobles of your land;
And say, I make sincere demand
Of them, ere more deray is done,
To yield the queen. I have her won.
I flinch not from my royal seal:
It is in friendship I appeal.
But should they wish again to just,
And in the second combat trust,
'Tis well; then henceforth I must claim
The guardship of the royal dame.
They have but choice 'twixt bad and worse;
I claim but what I'll take perforce.
One hour I wait return discreet—
The next I do as I think meet.”
By that time Mar had breathed his last,
And Donald Gorm was nearing fast
The bourne of all the human race;
Yet, in his stern and rugged face,
There seem'd no terror, wrath, or teen,
Save at some being all unseen.
When Haco raised him to his knee,
He look'd aside most movingly,
And to the wind these words address'd—
He saw nought but the slaughter'd priest!—
“Ay, thou may'st stand, and smile, and beck,
With thy half head on half a neck;
M'Ola soon shall be with thee,
His sworn and subtile enemy.
Thou basilisk of burning spheres!
Thou, and thy hellish, damn'd compeers,
With dreams and visions of dismay,
And terrors of a future day—
With dreadful darkness, fire, and storm,
At last have vanquished Donald Gorm!
But some shall rue, since so it be:
Go to, go to—I'll be with thee.”
The hero turn'd his beamless eye
Toward the grisly peaks of Skye:
Some thought unfathomed seemed to hover
His dark departing spirit over—
Of roaming on his mountain wind,
Swifter than hawk or dappled hind:
Of stag-hound's bay and bugles swelling,
And answering echoes bravely yelling;
But all was one distorted scene,
The vision of a soul in pain,
That trembled, neither bound nor free,
'Twixt time and immortality.
With that wild look it fled for ever,
From hollow groan, and rigid shiver—
From clenched hand, and writhing brow—
Eternal God!—What is it now?

5. PART FIFTH.

6. PART SIXTH.

No Muse was ever invoked by me,
But an uncouth harp of olden key;
And with her have I ranged the Border green,
The Grampians stern, and the starry sheen;
With my gray plaid flapping around the strings,
And ragged coat, with its waving wings;
Yet aye my heart beat light and high
When an air of heaven, in passing by,
Breathed on the mellow chords; and then
I knew it was no earthly strain,
But note of wild mysterious kind,
From some blest land of unbodied mind.
But whence it flew—or whether it came
From the sounding rock or the solar beam,
Or tuneful angels passing away
O'er the bridge of the sky in the showery day,
When the cloudy curtain pervaded the east,
And the sunbeam kiss'd its humid breast—
In vain I look'd to the cloud overhead;
To the echoing mountain dark and dread;
To the sun-fawn fleet, or aerial bow—
I knew not whence were the strains till now.
They were from thee, thou radiant dame,
O'er fancy's region that reign'st supreme;
Thou lovely queen of beauty most bright,
And of everlasting new delight,
Of foible, of freak, of gambol, and glee;
Of all that pleases,
And all that teazes,
All that we fret at, yet love to see
In petulance, pity, and love refined,
Thou emblem extreme of the female mind!
Oh come to my bower here deep in the dell,
Thou queen of the land 'twixt heaven and hell;
Even now thou seest, and smilest to see,
A shepherd kneel on the sward to thee:
But sure thou wilt come with thy gleesome train,
To assist in his last and lingering strain.
Oh come from thy halls of the emerald bright,
Thy bowers of the green and the mellow light,
That shrink from the blaze of the summer noon,
And ope to the light of the modest moon.
Oh well I know the enchanting mien
Of my loved muse, my Fairy Queen!
Her rokely of green, with its sparry hue,
Its warp of the moonbeam and weft of the dew;
Her smile, where a thousand witcheries play.
And her eye, that steals the soul away;
The strains that tell they were never mundane;
And the bells of her palfrey's flowing mane;
For oft have I heard their tinklings light,
And oft have I seen her at noon of the night,
With her beauteous elves in the pale moonlight.
Then, thou who raised'st old Edmund's lay
Above the strains of the olden day;
And waked'st the bard of Avon's theme
To the visions of his midnight dream—
Yea, even the harp that rang abroad
Through all the paradise of God,
And the sons of the morning with it drew,
By thee was remodell'd, and strung anew—
Oh come on thy path of the starry ray,
Thou queen of the land of the gloaming gray,
And the dawning's mild and pallid hue,
From thy valleys beyond the land of the dew,
The realm of a thousand gilded domes,
The richest region that fancy roams!
I have sought for thee in the blue hare-bell,
And deep in the fox-glove's silken cell;
For I fear'd thou hadst drunk of its potion deep,
And the breeze of the world had rock'd thee asleep;
Then into the wild-rose I cast mine eye,
And trembled because the prickles were nigh,
And deem'd the specks on its foliage green
Might be the blood of my Fairy Queen,
Then gazing, wonder'd if blood might be
In an immortal thing like thee.
I have open'd the woodbine's velvet vest,
And sought the hyacinth's virgin breast;
Then anxious lain on the dewy lea,
And look'd to a twinkling star for thee,
That nightly mounted the orient sheen,
Streaming in purple and glowing in green;
And thought, as I eyed its changing sphere,
My Fairy Queen might sojourn there.
Then would I sigh and turn me around,
And lay my ear to the hollow ground,
To the little air-springs of central birth
That bring low murmurs out of the earth;
And there would I listen, in breathless way,
Till I heard the worm creep through the clay,
And the little blackamoor pioneer
A-grubbing his way in darkness drear:
Nought cheer'd me on which the daylight shone,
For the children of darkness moved alone.
Yet neither in field nor in flowery heath,
In heaven above nor in earth beneath,
In star, nor in moon, nor in midnight wind,
His elfish queen could her minstrel find.
But now I have found thee, thou vagrant thing,
Though where I neither dare say nor sing!
For it was in a home so passing fair,
That an angel of light might have linger'd there:
I found thee playing thy freakish spell
Where the sun never shone, and the rain never fell,
Where the ruddy cheek of youth ne'er lay,
And never was kiss'd by the breeze of day;
It was sweet as the woodland breeze of even,
And pure as the star of the western heaven,
As fair as the dawn of the sunny east,
And soft as the down of the solan's breast.
Yes, now have I found thee, and thee will keep,
Though thy spirits yell on the midnight steep;
Though the earth should quake when nature is still,
And the thunders growl in the breast of the hill;
Though the moon should frown through a pall of gray,
And the stars fling blood on the Milky Way;
Since now I have found thee, I'll hold thee fast,
Till thou garnish my song—it is the last!
Sing of the dreary gloom that hung
Clouding the brows of old and young
Through all the Scandinavian host,
And on the monarch press'd the most,
Who was of direful dreams the prey;
Some bodings of an olden day,
That told of trouble and of teen,
Of late fulfill'd had darkly been;
Foil'd by a hind before his host,
His consecrated armour lost,
That held a charm he valued more
Than aught his ample kingdom bore.
His scowl bespoke his heart's dismay,
And bore with it decisive sway;
For when in temper he was cross'd,
His was the mood of all the host.
Captain pass'd brother captain by,
Paused, beckon'd, waiting some reply;
But there was none, save look that spoke
Of direful deed; no hint was broke;
But all perceived the army's mood
Foreboded tumult, reif, and blood.
Well did they bode; the order flew;
King Eric out his legions drew,
Ranging his grim and hardy files
Around old Selma's stately piles.
In armour bright he walk'd alone
Before his host, and bade lead on
To force the Connel and the Croy,
To waste, to ravage, and destroy,
With fire and sword, and foray keen,
And none to save but Albyn's queen.
Then waked his trumpet's brazen throat,
With such a copious rending note,
That rocks and doons began to pant;
The gray and solid adamant
Travail'd in anguish with the noise,
With the first throes of thunder voice,
And issued sounds that shook the spheres,
And silence of a thousand years.
Short was the march along the coast,
Till, lo, a herald met the host!
The same that first its rage appeased
Now came to have his bond released;
Scotland's apostle there once more
Opposed King Eric on the shore.
The king at first in high disdain
Answer'd the sage, and scarce would deign
Exchange of speech; but such a grace
Shone in Columba's saintly face,
That Eric calm'd, and stay'd his van
To listen to the reverend man.
“Sire, I was call'd to distant shore,
Which caused the breach we all deplore;
On God's own mission forth I went,
To save this Christian throne intent:
My purpose fail'd, but then, as now,
I trusted Heaven, and must avow
Our nobles' fraud. Fearful, I ween,
Of parting with their youthful queen,
They have done that which monarch must
Declare right generous, though unjust;
They knew not Eric's honour high,
And now regret it grievously,
But must be pardon'd. List then me—
You've fought and conquer'd three to three;
But still your victory is not won,
Nor can be, ere to-morrow's sun
See Albyn's champions once more beat,
And then we yield us to our fate.
Our queen, with Scotia's coronet,
Shall on the combat field be set,
And whoso wins shall wear that crown,
And claim the maiden as his own:
She cannot wed all three, 'tis true,
But to her choice the three must bow.”
The king grinn'd in derision proud,
And shook his beard, and said aloud—
“Thou say'st? Then, shall my champions be
Men not endow'd to cope with me
In maiden's love? Of monstrous form,
I've plenty, thanks to clime and storm,
That are, for all their spurious brood,
A match for aught of Albyn's blood.
But, carping wizard as thou art!
Com'st thou again to act a part
Of wheedling fraud, to chant and chime,
And gain a blink of loathsome time?
To practise some unholy scheme,
Some low and servile stratagem?
I say it boldly to thy face—
There is no chief of Albyn's race
Dares for his soul presume to stand
And brave again this deadly brand
Thou know'st it, churl, as well as I.
Vile Christian! I thy power defy!
Thee and thy gods I hold as dust,
And in this arm and Odin's trust.”
“Say'st thou we dare not, sire? why then
Came I thus forth from Scotia's queen
These words to say? Hath she, as thou,
Swerved from her holy plighted vow,
And, without warning or pretence,
In savage stormy insolence,
Broke on thy ranks with havoc red?
No! such is not the Christian's creed.
Thou'rt the aggressor—doubly so:
This thou hast done, and, ere I go,
I'll say, if 'twere my latest breath,
Thou dar'st not fight and keep thy faith!”
“Worm! reptile! dolt! What dost thou say,
Thou clod of cold presumptuous clay?
Dares such a being, sear'd and knurl'd,
Beard Eric of the northern world,
Whose arm has quench'd the Saxon's light,
And broke the German's iron might;
The Pole and Paynim overrun,
And beat the blue and bloody Hun?
Dar'st thou, in name of Christian cur,
Or virgin young, these honours blur?
He tells thee once again, and swears
By Odin's self, who sees and hears
This lifted hand, and solemn vow,
He'll fight your champions brow to brow:
And if none dares his arm withstand,
He'll fight the best two of your land.
Chiefs, kinsmen, sheathe your swords to-day
In peace, and measure back the way
Straight to the camp. If Odin speed,
To-morrow sees your sovereign's head
Circled by Albyn's ancient crown,
And honours of supreme renown!”
Columba bow'd as it behoved,
But smiled to see the monarch moved
To such a towering tempest pride,
Which scarce to reason seem'd allied;
And as he gazed in Eric's face,
Some thoughts like these his mind did trace:—
“I've touch'd the proper peg that winds
That high-toned string of mortal minds
Up to the height! Oh, God of Life!
Why mad'st thou man a thing of strife,
Of pride, and lust, of power so high
That scarcely quails beneath the sky!
Yet a poor pin, a scratch, a thrust
Can bring his honours to the dust,
And lay the haughty godlike form
A fellow to the crawling worm!
I've sped; but thou alone can'st know
Whether I've sped for weal or woe;
O thou To-Morrow! who can see
What joy or sorrow waits on thee!”
The seer retired, but quickly stay'd,
And turning short, to Eric said—
“Sire, I request, before I go,
From thy own lips this thing to know—
Where be the maidens that were sent
As hostages unto thy tent?
For they were noble maids each one:
Then say, without evasion,
Where they are now, for words are said
Which tend thy honour to upbraid,
And manhood too. Then pr'ythee, tell,
Where be the maids we love so well?”
Eric look'd grave; his towering pride
'Gan in a moment to subside;
His speech sunk to a hollow calm,
And his pale lip bespoke a qualm
Of conscience, whilst these words he spoke:
“By all the gods, and dreadful Lok,
I know not—dare not hint a dread
Into what clime their fate is sped;
They are where they are call'd to be
By the Great King of Heaven's decree!”
“Sire, I have nothing from this speech,
Vague as the voice on ocean's beach,
Of sounding billow bursting in
With harsh unmodulated din:
If thou hast dared such foul offence
As injure virgin innocence,
The curse of Heaven be on thy head!
Hence be thy valour pall'd in dread,
And all thy pomp and power decay—”
“Withhold thy dread anathema,”
King Eric cried; “I'd rather brave
The rage of Albyn's winter wave;
Her tempests wild, her headlands stern;
Her friths so crooked, dark, and dern;
Her nation's force in rear and van,
Than the vile curse of Christian man!
“Bring forth these champions of your land,
That mine may meet them brand to brand:
I dare them; if that will not do,
I'll fight the cravens one to two:
Thou hast my answer—speed thee hence
And for thy nation's best defence
Be thou prepared; for if the queen
To grace the combat is not seen,
I swear by Odin's warlike name,
And Thor's, the god of storm and flame,
No lists shall be, nor warrior boast;
I'll pour my vengeance on your host,
And neither leave you root nor stem,
Memorial, name, nor diadem.”
Columba raised his hand on high,
About to make sublime reply;
But Eric to his trumpets' blare
Wheel'd off, and left the father there,
Like statue raised by wizard charm,
With open mouth—with out-stretched arm—
Forehead uplifted to the sky,
And beard projecting potently.
There stood the seer, with breath drawn in,
And features bended to begin;
But, lo! ere he a word could say,
The king had wheel'd and sped away!
The sire relax'd his form the while,
His features softening to a smile;
And back he strode in thoughtfulness,
To tell the queen of his success.
He found her deck'd in youthful pride,
And blithesome as a maiden bride,
Resolved to trust her royal right
Unto her doughty kinsmen's might.
Despite of all her lords could say,
Who urged her from the lists to stay,
She vow'd the combat she should see,
And trust to Heaven's ascendency.
Columba's prayers and counsels wise
Had from despondence clear'd her eyes;
While something he had said or done,
Unto all living else unknown,
Had raised her hopes to such a height,
They almost had outrun the right;
For aught her court could see or deem,
They were even forward in the extreme.
No matter! Hynde felt no annoy,
But of the combat talk'd with joy;
And of the manner she would greet
King Eric kneeling at her feet,
Or raise the chief that should him slay
Unto her throne that self-same day.
These rash resolves could not be lost
To any part of Albyn's host;
For all were summon'd to appear
That dared to stand the test severe;
While highest honours were decreed
To those whose valour should succeed
In saving Albyn's rights and laws;
That highest, most momentous cause
For which a hero ever fought,
Or sovereign hero's aid besought.
The evening came, and still no knight
Had proffer'd life for Scotia's right.
The morning rose in shroud of gray,
That usher'd in the pregnant day,
Big with the germs of future fame,
Of Albyn's glory or her shame;
And still no champion made demand
Of fighting for his sovereign's hand!
Just as the morn began to shower
Its radiance on Dunstaffnage tower,
Queen Hynde, array'd in robes of state,
Descended by the southern gate,
With face that own'd no hid distress,
But smiled in angel loveliness;
And there, amid the assembled crowd,
A herald thus proclaim'd aloud:
“Here stands our virgin queen alone,
The sole support of Albyn's throne,
Craving the aid of hero's might,
To guard her and her sacred right.
If any here dares wield a sword
'Gainst Scandinavia's sovereign lord,
Or champions of his giant band,
Let such approach our sovereign's hand,
And tender here his envied claim,
That so enroll'd may be his name;
And Scotia's banners may not fly
O'er lists where none dares for her die;
The right, and left, and post between,
Must fall by lot—God save the Queen!”
Still there was none that forward press'd;
Then first Queen Hynde's wan looks confess'd
An inward pang allied to fear,
A disappointment hard to bear;
Till Saint Columba by her side,
With locks of silver waving wide,
And spread hands quivering in the air,
Thus to the heavens preferr'd his prayer:
“O thou Almighty One, whose throne
O'erlooks Eternity alone!
Who once, in deep humility,
Lay cradled on a virgin's knee,
Turn here thine eyes on one whose face
Bespeaks the virtues of her race—
Who in this time of dire alarm
Puts not her trust in human arm,
But in thy mercy and thy truth;—
Then, oh! in pity to her youth,
Preserve her to her native land;
Save the dear maid of thy right hand,
And rouse up heroes that may quell
The pride of braggart infidel.
“Yes, thou wilt grant thy aid divine
To those who stand for thee and thine;
Wilt steel their hearts and guard their heads,
Till of their high and glorious deeds
Their everlasting rocks shall ring,
And bards unborn their honours sing.”
Then bow'd the saint his brow serene,
And tens of thousands said—Amen!
The bugle's note and herald's voice
Proffer'd again the exalted choice
To every youth of noble mind,
To chief, to yeoman, and to hind,
Of fighting in his country's name,
For royalty and deathless fame:
Then up came courteous Sutherland,
And, kneeling, kiss'd his sovereign's hand,
Proffer'd his arm, his sword, his life,
To combat in the glorious strife;
Saying, he delay'd the honour dear,
In hopes that better would appear:
Then drew his lot, and fell the right,
To fight with Eric's left-hand knight.
Red Gaul of Ross came up the next,
And said these words with voice perplex'd:—
“My beauteous liege, I stood aloof,
In hopes some lord of more approof
Would eagerly rush forth to throw
The gauntlet to our reckless foe;
But, as I am, for Albyn's good
I dedicate my sword and blood.”
“I know full well, my generous lord,
No braver chief e'er drew a sword,”
The queen replied. “To such as thee
I well can trust my throne and me.
Now to the test, the final lot,
Whether you fight the king or not.”—
He drew the left, and thereupon
To fight King Eric there was none.
From Hynde's dark eye, that glisten'd clear,
Was seen to drop the briny tear;
While yet a soften'd smile of pain,
Like sunbeam through the morning rain,
Unto her lords seem'd to confess
Their want of noble generousness.
Still good Columba cheer'd her on,
And bade her trust in Christ alone,
Who could his sacred pledge redeem
Even in their last and great extreme.
But time there was no more to say,
The boats were gather'd in the bay,
And the decisive hour drew near
When Hynde must in the lists appear.
On board she went in joyless mood:
An hundred barges plough'd the flood;
While many a bold and warlike strain
Of music peal'd along the main,
That seem'd to say, in daring tone,
“Here comes the Queen of Caledon!
Who dares her royal rights gainsay?
Hie, braggarts, to your wastes away,
For, fume and banter as you will,
Old Albyn shall be Albyn still!”
Alas! what variance God hath seen
Between man's heart and outward mien!
It was a gorgeous sight that day,
When Hynde arrived in Keila Bay,
On high above her maidens borne,
Like radiant streamer of the morn;
A ray of pure and heavenly light,
Shining in gold and diamonds bright:
A lovelier thing of human frame
From armies never drew acclaim,
Or look'd more queenly and serene,
As, heaving o'er the billow's mane,
An hundred barges her behind
Came rippling on before the wind;
And, as they sunk the waves between,
Seem'd paying homage to their queen.
Such freight ne'er sail'd on western sea;
A thousand dames of high degree,
With lords and gallants many a one,
Came with the Queen of Caledon.
The lists were framed and fenced around
With palisades on level ground;
And these again were lined the while
With warriors, rank'd in triple file.
Upon the east was raised a throne,
Where Hynde in all her beauty shone;
And dames unnumber'd, on each side,
Shone o'er the lists in blooming pride;
Their tartans streaming, row on row,
Bright as the tints of heavenly bow.
Sure 'twas a fair and goodly view!
Even Eric's dull and swarthy crew,
Whose minds had been bred up in broil,
Inured to blood and battle toil,
Acknowledged beauty's power supreme,
By looks of wonder's last extreme.
There one with half a glance might spy
The gaping mouth and gazing eye,
The turgid blink, the scowl askance,
The sterile stare, the amorous glance;
The thousand looks that utterance found
In language mightier than in sound.
Ah, Beauty! but for woman's mien
And form, thy name had never been!
When all the wonted forms were past,
The judges' rules, the warning blast,
King Eric and his champions twain
Enter'd the lists the first again;
And there, in daring martial pride,
Walk'd round the ring with stately stride.
Brave Sutherland appear'd at length,
And Gaul, a burly mass of strength,
Gnarl'd and misshaped from toe to chin;
But, ah! the soul, that frame within,
Was pure, and brave, and calm, and just—
A pearl amid a coil of dust.
There was a pause; the champions eyed
Each other well, and talk'd aside;
Queen Hynde grew wan as winter snows,
Then ruddy as the damask rose,
As far she cast her humid eye,
O'er serried thousands crowding nigh;
But none rush'd in—(O hour of shame!)
To save his queen from foreign claim.
'Twas said, the bugle blasts between
Columba's lips were moving seen,
And his dim eyes to Heaven up-cast,
As that dumb prayer had been his last.
Oh read not dumb! What speech can feign
The language of a soul in pain?
That prayer, though made in deep distress,
Was not by creature succourless;
For, beaming from his faded eye,
There shot a ray of hope on high.
First to the queen King Eric kneel'd:
Then to the judges of the field
He turn'd, and said, “'Tis past the hour;
I claim my mistress and her dower.
Produce three champions of your land,
Or give my bride into my hand.
The pledge is forfeited. Think'st thou
We three will shed the blood of two?
No, by the gods!—But I alone
Shall fight that couple one by one;
Grant this, and I by it abide;
If not, then bring me forth my bride;
Or, by yon heaven, and burning hell,
And all that in both regions dwell,
In carnage red I'll pen a law,
Such as your nation never saw!”
“Hold, sire!” cried one of Scottish blood,
“This hasty challenge is not good;
The hour's not sped by half at least;
The shadow falls not to the east.
Yon arched oriel casement mark;
When its armorial rim grows dark,
The hour is past; till then 'tis meet
That thou should'st wait in mode discreet,
Since Albyn's hero's bold intent
Is thwarted by some strange event;
So it would seem: remain awhile,
Till once the shadow from the pile
Falls eastward; then, with woeful heart,
Old Albyn from her queen must part.”
To Selma's tower looked one and all;
The sunbeam stray'd aslant the wall,
In scatter'd fragments, pointed bright,
Though scarce one hundredth part was light;
But still the casement's carved frame
Shone with a bright and yellow flame.
Each Scottish eye, as by a charm,
Fixed on that tower in wild alarm,
Till every little gilded mark
Vanish'd amid the shadow dark;
Save that the casement's arch alone
With dim and fading lustre shone.
The last ray of the lingering sun
Is verging thence—the prize is won!
Columba rose, but not alone,
To lead the queen down from the throne,
And give her to the imperious hand
Of the oppressor of the land:
The tears stream'd o'er her pallid cheek.
She look'd abroad, but could not speak.
Then many a stifled groan was heard,
From breasts that were but ill prepared
To yield their queen to such a fate;
Ten thousand swords were drawn too late;
One moment, and the prize is won—
'Tis past.—The will of God be done!
What gathering shout is that begun?
Toward the lists it seems to run!
It heightens, gains, and swells around;
The skies are shaken with the sound,
While dancing swords and plumes give way,
Bespeaking tumult or deray.
Queen Hynde in middle step stood still,
Her sponsors paused with right good-will,
And Eric stepp'd aside to see
What meant that loud temerity.
That moment through the lists there sprung
A warrior, stalwart, lithe, and young,
Cover'd with foam and ocean brine,
And blood upon his brigantine;
Then pointing to the oriel frame,
That still was tinged with fading flame,
He cried, “Behold all is not lost!
I make appeal to Eric's host.”
“No! to himself thou shalt appeal,
To him who never yet did fail
On such request to yield a foe,
Or friend, or kinsman blow for blow!”
King Eric said: “Here's fame for thee
To win. Thou art the man for me
To match! for rarely have I seen
A comelier warrior tread the green!
Woe's me, for such a blooming spray
Which I must level with the clay!”
“Yes, I'm for thee!” that warrior said,
And threw away his belted plaid;
And lo! his panoply was braced
With belts of gold, and interlaced
With many a fringe and mottled hem,
Where lurk'd the ruby's burning gem.
Such princely champion ne'er before
Had gauntlet thrown on Albyn's shore!
Out through the host a whisper ran,
Which said he was no earthly man,
But angel sent from God on high,
To help in great extremity.
Others there were, who said he bore
Semblance to Haco, now no more;
So lithe, so brisk, so void of fear,
So brilliant in his warlike gear.
A ray of hope, like wildfire's gleam,
From maidens' eyes began to beam;
But in the eye of warrior grim
That ray of hope was deadly dim.
Ah! how could youth, whate'er his worth,
Excel great Eric of the north,
Whose arm had spread, through human kind,
Dismay before and death behind?
Forthwith the deadly strife began;
Clash went the weapons, man to man.
Harold of Elle, a Danish knight,
Was match'd with Gaul, on Eric's right;
And Hildemor, from Bothnia's strand,
Was match'd with seemly Sutherland;
Gigantic heroes, bred to strife,
And combat yearly for their life.
In that fierce onset to the fray
There was no flout nor giving way;
To work they fell, with blow and thrust,
And strokes that shore the level dust
From shields descending. Then, anon,
Flickering in air their weapons shone,
With crossing clang so fierce and high,
As if the javelins of the sky,
The livid lightnings, at their speed,
Had met and quiver'd o'er each head.
But soon both wings, as with assent,
Paused, and stood still, to gaze intent
On the tremendous strife that grew,
'Twixt Eric and his foeman new.
Such rabid rage on combat field,
No human eye had e'er beheld;
They tried to wound, but ne'er below,
Round, round they battled, toe to toe,
But not one inch would either flee;
They fought on foot—they fought on knee—
Against each other fiercely flung;
They clang'd, they grappled, and they swung,
They fought e'en stretch'd upon the green,
Though streams of blood ran them between.
Thou ne'er hast seen the combat grand
Of two wild steeds of southern land,
Rivals in love: how grows their rage,
And shakes the fen when they engage;
Or two wild bulls of bison brood,
The milk-white sovereigns of the wood—
And the dire echoes that outyell
The grovelling, bellowing sounds of hell:
To view these savages aloof,
Rending the ground with horn and hoof,
Or meet to gore, and foam, and die,
Is scarce a sight for maiden's eye.
Or two huge monsters of the wave
Rearing their forms, with lash and lave,
Far up the air; their snort and howl—
Then, grappling, sink with groan and growl,
While the red ocean boils ahight,
And nature sickens at the sight,
Such wars have been since Eden's day,
When thou first err'd, and peace gave way;
Yes, such dread scenes have often been,
Though such thine eye hath never seen;
And if thou hadst, as nought they were
Unto the mortal combat there,
Where heroes toiled in deadly strife,
For love, for empire, and for life.
It was as if two Alpine hills,
Lords of a thousand rocks and rills,
And sovereigns of the cloudy clime,
Had once in battle join'd sublime;
Together dash'd their mighty heads,
Those gray and grisly pyramids,
The footstools to the gates of heaven:
Think of them shatter'd, torn, and riven,
And down the shrieking steeps beneath,
Red rolling o'er a waste of death.
Such was the strife, while every heart
Around them bore a trembling part.
Ah! many an eye was dimm'd of sight,
When, in the terrors of their might,
They saw the heroes grappling fast,
And deem'd each struggle was the last;
But no! They seem'd two beings framed
Not to be wounded, foil'd, or maim'd.
Three times they closed within the shield;
Twice roll'd they down upon the field;
But then, 'gainst Eric was the odds,
They heard him cursing by his gods!
And when they parted for a space,
A wildness glared in Eric's face;—
A haggard rage not to be told,
A something dreadful to behold.
'Twas as if spirit from the earth,
Proud of its righteousness and worth,
Had hurried to the gates on high,
Passing poor pensive journeyers by;
But lo! when at the gates above,
The paradise of peace and love,
He finds all entrance there denied,
And the poor ghost is thrust aside;
Barr'd from the presence of his God,
And banish'd to some drear abode,
In darkness and in chains to lie
Through ages of eternity.
Think of that spirit's woeful case,
The lines of his deploring face,
And livid hues 'twixt black and wan,
And think of Eric if you can!
This dread expression was not miss'd
By the eye of his antagonist,
Who, without wooing strength or breath,
Rushed in for victory or death.
But Eric still withstood his shock;
He fought, a tower, a strength, a rock,
That ne'er had bowed unto the blast,
And knew no yielding till the last.
At length their motions grew more slow,
Their swords fell lighter every blow;
And all perceiv'd they near'd the last,
And the bitterness of death was past:
On swords that bent and stream'd with blood,
They lean'd, and stagger'd as they stood;
Yet grimly levell'd eye to eye,
And not one inch would either fly.
The conflict's o'er—wild tremor reigns,
And stillness for a space remains.
King Eric was the first that fell:
Down like a tower with groan and knell
The prince of heroes falls supine!
A shudder pass'd through Norway's line,
Yet none durst enter in the list,
Although upon the monarch's breast
The foot of conquering foe was set,
And sword upraised in vengeful threat,
His royal head and trunk to sever,
And close his conquests up for ever.
None interfered, nor call'd it crime,
Such were the statutes of the time.
But fate withheld the stroke design'd,
For, like the willow in the wind,
The conqueror's plume began to bow,
And nod and totter to and fro;
Then back he stagger'd on the field,
Low bending o'er his sword and shield;
And ere his panting breath was gone,
He reach'd the rail and lean'd thereon;
Then hands were stretch'd (why should they not?)
That loosed his gorget from his throat;
His helm and corslet they untie,
And all his belted panoply;
And though no mortal wound they saw,
The blood oozed through at every flaw.
The champions on the field that stood,
Still gazing on the deadly feud,
Now, without languor or remark,
Flew to the combat stern and stark:
When, strange to tell! the lord of Ross.
The warrior shapeless, gnarl'd, and gross,
So hardly press'd the giant Dane,
That round and round upon the plain
He made him shift and shun the strife,
Then fairly turn and fly for life.
Gaul follow'd; but as well he might
Have chased the red deer on the height,
As his tall enemy, that strode
Slow round the field with taunt and nod;
Gaul waddling after, sword in hand,
Puffing, and cursing him to stand;
Loud rang the shouts around the pale,
And laughter gibber'd on the gale.
On the other hand the strife was sore
'Twixt Sutherland and Hildemor;
It was a combat to be seen,
If premier combat had not been,
To which all others, when compared,
Sunk into things of no regard.
Keen was the strife—the Scot gave way.
Either in need or galliard play;
And, as he wore across the field,
They reach'd a spot of blood congeal'd,
Where, as the Swede rush'd on his foe,
He slid, and stumbled with the blow;
When Sutherland, with ready slight,
Met in his fall the hapless wight,
And pierced the corslet and the core
Of the redoubted Hildemor:
He roll'd in blood, and aptly tried
To stem the red and rushing tide;
Then feebly at his foeman struck,
And cursed his gods for his misluck:
The accents gurgled in his throat—
Still moved the tongue, but speech was not;
And, with a spurn and hideous growl,
Out fled the giant's murky soul.
Now, two to one, the flying Dane
In gnashing terror scower'd the plain;
His king and his companion gone,
A madness seized the knight upon;
He tried to leap the circling piles,
For shelter 'mid the Danish files,
But was repulsed with fierce disdain,
And thrown back headlong on the plain:
No hope thus left him in the strife,
He kneel'd to Gaul, and begg'd for life.
“No,” said the chief; “it may not be;
The devil waits dinner for the three!
Henceforth with earth thou hast no tie,
The man is damn'd that dreads to die:
But one relief for thee is left,
And, here it is.” With that he cleft
The stalwart craven to the brow,
Severing his ample brain in two.
“Beshrew thee for a bloody Scot,
If thou'st not done what I could not!”
Said Sutherland, as turning by—
But seeing the tear in Ross's eye,
And sorrow on his nut-brown cheek
So deep that word he could not speak,
The burly chief he kindly press'd
Unto his bold and kindred breast.
The day now won, a wild dismay
Blench'd every cheek of Norroway!
The list now oped to Odin's priest,
Who ran to have his king released;
Upraised his huge and fainting frame,
And comfort spoke in Odin's name;
While leeches plied with license brief,
But, ah! the case was past relief!
Seven deadly wounds, and all before,
Told them great Eric's reign was o'er,
Still, not one sentence he had spoke,
But whisper'd o'er the name of Lok.
Lok! Lok! that name of terror hung
Alone upon his dying tongue.
One told him that, on Albyn's side,
Detraction had a tale supplied
Of a low hind, MacUiston named,
Who not even birth or lineage claim'd,
Yet had achieved this wondrous deed,
Laid low in dust that royal head,
And dared, even on his great acquest,
To set his foot on Eric's breast!
When this the hero heard, he roll'd
And writh'd, as if in serpent's hold;
And from his motions it was plain
He deem'd he fought the field again;
While, from his eye's impassion'd gleam
And smile of fury, it did seem
He thought his fame he could redeem.
At length, with throbbings long and deep,
Calm as a child about to sleep,
That softly lifts imploring eye
Unto the face of parent nigh,
So lay, so look'd, in piteous case,
That terror of the human race;
And so must all the achievements vast
Of this poor world end at the last.
He stretch'd the priest his hand to hold;
That hand was bloody, glued, and cold;
While these last words hung on his breath,
“Appease the gods!—Revenge my death!”
Leave we the uproar and distress
Which Norway's chiefs could ill suppress;
And pass we over, for a while,
To Hynde, the flower of Albyn's isle,
Who saw, with joy ne'er felt before,
Her gallant champion Eiden More
Upraise his pale and wounded head,
Like beauteous phantom from the dead,
And wipe his bloody brow, and say
The faintness quite had pass'd away;
For untried armour wrought the harm,
And not the force of Eric's arm.
The nobles now, with clamorous glee,
Brought to the queen the conquering three,
And bade her choose a sovereign lord,
With whom they all should well accord:
So was she bound in her distress,
And in th' event could not do less.
The courtly Sutherland look'd down,
As guessing well to whom the crown
Was destined. As for Eiden More
(Or poor MacUiston, call'd before),
Leaning and pale he took his stand,
And turn'd his eyes on Sutherland,
As one his sovereign soon to be;
But burly Gaul fell on his knee,
And said, with sly and waggish whine,
“My liege, I hope the chance is mine!”
The queen descended to the green
With lightsome step, but solemn mien;
And, passing Ross and Sutherland,
She took MacUiston by the hand,
And, with a firm unalter'd voice,
Said, “Here I make my maiden choice.
Since thou hast come without a meed
To save me in my utmost need;
And sure, though humbly born, thou art
A prince and hero at the heart;
So, next my Saviour that's above,
Hence thee I'll honour, bless, and love.”
MacUiston's cheek grew pale as snow,
And the cold drops fell from his brow;
He raised his blood-stain'd hand, and seem'd
About to speak; and, as they deem'd,
He meant his sovereign to dissuade,
And disapprove of all was said:
But ere a word his tongue could frame,
Forward rush'd lord, and noble dame,
And chief, and squire, in courteous way,
Due homage to their king to pay.
For all extoll'd, with ready tongue,
The bravery of a hind so young;
And vow'd by such a hero's hand
In utmost danger firm to stand.
With prayers, and vows, and blessings said,
The crown was set upon his head;
Then shouts ascended on the wind,
“Long live King Eiden and Queen Hynde!”
Need was there for a leader brave,
For Norway's host, like wave on wave,
Began to move with backward motion,
Like tide receding on the ocean;
Only to come with double sway,
Resistless, on its sounding way.
The king's last words had moved the host
To grief and rage the uttermost;
And without head to rule the whole,
The tumult grew without control.
Distant from home, and in command
Of the great bulwark of the land,
The soldiers swore that land to have,
Or of green Albyn make a grave;
Even Odin's priest approved the choice,
And only ask'd for sacrifice.
“Now is the time!” the soldiers cried,
“While Albyn's army is employ'd
In joyful rite, and must repass
Yon straits with all their force in mass!”—
The chiefs gave way, and join'd the flame,
For why, their notions were the same;
And thus their army moved away
To set the battle in array.
Eiden, the new-made king, beheld
The movements on the adverse field;
And cried, in firm commanding tone,
“Each Scottish leader, straight begone,
And range your clans these columns under,
For, lo, a storm is gathering yonder!
And, if maturely I foresee,
Dreadful the breaking out will be.
“Meantime, let all the dames of birth
Speed to the boats and cross the firth;
For, in such dangers, woman still
Is a dead weight on warrior's will.
Dread not our strength, though some may scoff,
There's help at hand you wot not of;
Mine be the chance to lead the van,
And fight on foot the foremost man;
Stranger I am to take command;
But, as my guardians on each hand,
I choose forth Ross and Sutherland.
“Haste! there is not a moment's speed
To lose, else we shall rue the deed.
See that these orders be obey'd,
And promptly. If they are delay'd
By any here, better his head
Had been laid low among the dead!”
The lords were almost stunn'd to death:
They stared and gasp'd as if for breath.
“What's this,” said they; “A peasant's son
Speak thus to chiefs of Caledon?
Better we had our deed revoke,
Than bow our necks to such a yoke!”
Eiden perceived that they demurr'd,
And, heaving high his mighty sword,
Which token gave of lustihood,
Bestain'd with Eric's royal blood—
“My lords,” said he, “the danger's nigh,
Who's to command—Is't you or I?—
By your award the right is mine;
When you ordain it, I resign.
But my commands are given to-day,
And he that dares to disobey—
I say no more—submission's best—
If more must be, I'll do the rest.”
One of M'Ola's haughty race,
Who held and ruled the forest chase,
Along the lofty hills that lie
'Twixt Lochy's side and Kyle-an-righ,
By sad mischance a speech began
To this resolved, impatient man;
A speech that tended more t'inflame
Proud opposition than to tame.
King Eiden stepp'd across the space,
With scowl portentous on his face;
And in the midst of all his kin
He clove the chieftain to the chin.
“If more such speeches be to say,
We'll hear them out some other day.
This moment's ours—the next, I wis,
Is his who best improveth this.”
He said, and, heaving his claymore,
Resumed the stand he held before.
The chiefs were awed at such control;
Such energy of frame and soul
They ne'er had witness'd among men,
Far less in upstart denizen;
Still there were some aloof that stood,
Unused to yield to vassal blood.
Just at that instant, through the array
A troop of strangers burst their way;
Led by an ancient chief, who rode
A stately steed, with silver shod:
And oh that chief was stern to view!
His robe was crimson set with blue;
While on his head, like spheral crown,
Stood broad and belted chaperon:
His face was bent like curve of bow;
His hair as white as Alpine snow;
His gray beard, quivering with disdain,
Hung mingled with his horse's mane.
Soon as he spied King Eiden stand,
With bloody sword rear'd in his hand,
He cried, “Ah, varlet! Do I see
Thee where I swore thou should'st not be?
How darest thou rear that bloody glaive
Before my face, thou saucy knave?
Hast thou been at thy old misdeeds
Of breaking swords and splitting heads?
Thy mad temerity confess'd
Hath drawn an old man from his rest.
Curs'd knave! I have thee at the last!
Seize on him, friends, and bind him fast!”
“Hold, dearest sire, for mercy's sake!
The time is precious; all's at stake.
To-day I have a task to do;
To-morrow at thy feet I'll bow.”
“Ah, thoughtless, froward, frantic boy!
Thou'st come to combat for a toy;
To fight with one will put thee down,
And for a foe that wears thy crown.
But I'll prevent it. Ne'er shall man
Before my face thy youth trepan.
Seize on the stripling, I command;
I'll bind him with this aged hand!”
“Sire, I've already fought and won;
The great decisive deed is done.
This day thy grandson's hand hath slain
Great Eric of the northern main;
Hath gained for thee supreme renown,
And won my father's ancient crown;
And, what is more than power or fame,
I've won the flower of all our name!”
“What! Thou, young eaglet of the rock!
Brave scion of a noble stock!
Hast thou our sister realms set free
Of their relentless enemy?
The man who hath for twenty years
Kept us in terror and in tears;
Who all despite to me hath done;
Hath slain my kinsmen one by one;
And my two sons, too rashly brave,
Brought both to an untimely grave?
Ah! knave and vagrant as thou art,
Come let me hold thee to my heart!
“Ye chiefs of Albyn, cease your noise
List Colmar King of Erin's voice!
This is your prince whom I embrace,
The flower of all our royal race;
King Eugene's son of soul refined,
And cousin to your sovereign Hynde;
MacUiston's both, as you know well,
And that old dotard monk can tell.
The truant fled me in disguise,
To seek adventures most unwise;
I follow'd, and sent men away
To seize him ere the combat-day,
Who last night found him in his bed:
He slew my officers and fled!
And, in despite of earth and hell,
Has done this day what you can tell.
“Yet he hath that which man exalts,
For all his foibles and his faults:
Oh, he is brave! most nobly brave!
Forgive these tears; I love the knave!
And here to Albyn's fair command
I join the crown of Erin's land.
“Fear not the north's huge power combined;
I have ten thousand men behind;
Who, with Prince Eiden at their head,
Such havoc and deray shall breed
'Mongst that detested brutal host,
Glad shall they be to leave your coast.”
Then the old pagan moved his crown
From off his head, and kneel'd him down,
And thus, with reverend lifted eye,
Address'd his bright divinity:
“Thou glorious Sun, my father's god,
Look down from thy sublime abode
On thy old servant's sacred joy,
And bless this brave and blooming boy:
Not with the common light of day
Be thou director of his way,
But on his inward spirit shine
With light empyreal and divine;
For thousands on his reign's success
Depend for mortal happiness.
“And when thou leav'st thy heavenly path,
To sojourn in the realms beneath,
Be charges of him nightly given
Unto thy lovely Queen of Heaven;
Who, with serene and modest face,
Watches above the human race,
And sways by visions of dismay
The spirits prone to go astray;
For 'tis not hidden from thy sight,
That dangers of the silent night,
Dangers of women's witching smile,
Of wassail, wake, and courtier's wile,
Far deadlier are to virtuous sway
Than all the perils of the day.
“And now, thou source of light and love,
Great Spirit of all things that move
If thou wilt hearken to my prayer,
I'll such a sacrifice prepare,
As ne'er on beal-day morn did smoke
Beneath thy own vicegerent oak.
“O blessed Sun! I here avow
Thee for my only god, and bow
Before thy bright and holy face,
Sublime protector of my race!
Whilst thy omnipotence shall burn,
Creation's father'd eyes must turn
To thee for life in donative,
And every comfort life can give.
I ask but life for me and mine,
Whilst thy transcendent glories shine;
If farther world of bliss there be,
To Christian souls I yield it free.”
Columba, hearing all reveal'd,
Before the ancient monarch kneel'd,
And cried, “O king! did I not say,
That this thy son should Albyn sway?
That he was destined—he alone,
To save his father's ancient throne?
Thou didst oppose the high decree
As far as influence lay with thee;
Now it hath happ'd in way so odd
That man could not the event forbode:
But who can thwart the arm divine?
Thanks to another God than thine!”
Colmar look'd with averted stare
On the good father kneeling there;
But deeming him below reply,
He only hemm'd, and strode him by.
Then, taking Eiden by the hand,
He led him forth along the strand,
Heaving his ample shield in air,
And wildly shaking his white hair;
And with deep sobs and laughter blent,
He wept, and shouted as he went,
“Who buckles brand on brigantine,
To follow Uiston's son and mine?
The top of Albyn's royal tree!
Who's for King Eiden and for me?”
The Scottish nobles, mad with joy,
At finding there was no alloy
Yet mingled with the metal good
Of Fingal's and the Fergus' blood—
With shouts, and songs, and one assent,
To battle rush'd incontinent.
The Norse came on: as well they might
Have tried to stay the morning light,
The torrent turn by sword or spear,
Or stop the storm in its career.
The Danish men came in the van
On Sutherland's and Ross's clan—
And dreadful was their onset shock,
On the small plain beneath the rock;
Thousands were slain; and, woe to tell!
There Colmar, King of Erin, fell;
And Gaul of Ross, as brave a lord
As ever wielded warrior's sword.
But clan on clan, like billows toiling,
Came panting on, for battle boiling,
And swept the Danish host before,
Like wreck upon the ocean shore,
Which every wave drives on and on—
So roll'd the strife tow'rds Beregon.
To tell of all the deeds of might
That there were done from morn to night.
Would steep my virgin patroness
To the fair bosom in distress:
And to relate the deeds of doom
Wrought by the royal young bridegroom,
Would class my song 'mid fabulous lore,
A folly I indulge no more.
Whene'er a breach was made in flank
Or rear of Albyn's battle rank,
There was MacUiston to supply
The breach, and quell the enemy:
Alas! he struck a foe too late
When brave old Colmar met his fate.
But yet the sire upraised his head,
And feebly laugh'd, and bless'd the deed;
Then, bending back his rigid form,
Like shrivell'd pine beneath the storm,
He fix'd his latest visive ray
Upon the glorious God of Day;
And some weak piping sounds were heard,
As if a joy with terror jarr'd;
The parting spirit's last recess
From dust and dreary nothingness!
The battle spread from cliff to shore,
Along the fields, where late before
The Danes and Norse the battle won
That drove the Scots from Beregon:
This day that order was reversed,
The invader's closest files were pierced,
And foot by foot forced to give way;
Till, at the to-fall of the day,
Their speed of foot they 'gan to try
Within the city gates to fly:
They wanted Eric in their van,
Which brave MacUiston overran.
Cold, stretch'd upon his ample shield,
King Eric's corse lay on the field;
Deserted in the flame of fight,
When Norway's files wheel'd to the right.
That and old Colmar's, side by side,
Were borne in barge across the tide,
That funeral honours might be paid,
When to Iona's isle convey'd.
The tidings of the battle won,
And mighty deeds the king had done,
And who he was, on wings of wind,
Flew o'er the ferry to Queen Hynde:
Then of her joy supreme I wot
A bride may judge, but man can not.
Meantime, as deep the darkness grew,
Eiden march'd over Drimna-huah,
And down upon Bomean Moor
Descending at the midnight hour,
He found the enemy's camp at rest,
Without a guard to east or west;
Nought there remain'd in shape of foe,
But wounded men and menials low;
For all within the city gate
Had fled, on learning the defeat;
And many less intent on prey,
Unto the fleet had stolen away.
Spoil was there none, save armour good,
And hides, and furs, and beastly food;
And ere the dawn of morning came,
That mighty camp was all on flame;
A sight that cheer'd each Scottish glen,
But woeful one to Norwaymen!
On the return of morning light,
Full grievous was that army's plight,
Without a general of respect,
Or prince, or leader, to direct,
Save one was qualified the least—
Odin's most high and potent priest.
At board, at muster, or in field,
No warrior council Eric held;
Through life he suffer'd no cabal;
King, general, he was all and all.
But this bluff priest, in wondrous way,
Held over him perpetual sway;
While his last hest, “the gods to appease,”
Made this old fox's powers increase;
Save him, the host would list to none:
They ran to him, and him alone.
Until that time, King Eric's word
Had saved the city from the sword,
From pillage, and the thousand woes
That conquer'd city undergoes;
And he had saved the innocent
From the last throes of ravishment.
But now this foul and bloated priest
Issued forthwith the loved behest,
To take the city for a prey,
The loss and charges to defray,
By way of fair and just reprise:
But keep the maids for sacrifice.
And once that great oblation made
Unto the gods, as Eric bade,
The priest would answer with his head,
For Odin's high and heavenly aid.
The soldiers lauded with acclaim
The priest of Odin's blessed name;
And darted on the spoil away,
Like hungry tigers on their prey.
One hundred virgins, richly dress'd,
Were brought before this goodly priest;
And out of these selected he
His god's own number—three times three;
Those that remain'd by lot were shared
Amongst the soldiers of the guard.
Oh, grievous chance! sure death was bliss,
To such a hideous doom as this!
Well might they say, on such a lot,
Is there a God in heaven or not?
Unto the top of Selma's tower,
Beyond the reach of human power,
The nine were borne for sacrifice,
With songs and shouts that rent the skies,
And the poor victims of despair
Were stretch'd upon an altar there.
By this time many a weeping dame
Had left that hive of sin and shame,
And fled to Eiden's camp on high,
Still placed upon Doon-Valon-Righ:
All other comforts he disdain'd,
Compared with the advantage gain'd;
And there above his foes he hung,
Like osprey o'er the gannet's young.
But ah! the rueful news that came
Distracted every warlike scheme:
There lay the victims in their view,
Surrounded by the hideous crew;
And Selma's seven towers could then
Have guarded been by twenty men
Against a thousand. Such a scene
May Christian ne'er behold again!
The hymns of Odin that ascended
'Mid screams of death and horror blended,
Form'd such a dire discordant yell,
As sinner scarce shall hear from hell,
When through the far domains of night
He takes his drear reluctant flight,
By power unseen impell'd behind,
That sails him swifter than the wind,
To some unfathom'd gulf below,
Which minstrel fears, but does not know—
Of utter darkness and of dread
The very spring and fountain-head.
“O Christian sire! if thee 'tis given
To influence the powers of heaven,
For woman's sake, though shunn'd by thee,
For hers who nursed thee on her knee,
Now use it; for no earthly power
Can save in this distressing hour!
Pray Him, in whom my soul believes,
Trembles before, but not conceives,
To send relief—Oh, father cry!”
King Eiden said, with streaming eye.
Columba stood amidst the men,
And sung a hymn from David's pen;
Then kneel'd upon the flinty rock,
The Almighty's succour to invoke;
But ere his God he had address'd,
Or suppliant word to him express'd,
The shouts from Selma's turrets sounding,
And tens of thousands these surrounding;
And smoke ascending to the sun,
Told that th' unholy deed was done.
The king, the saint, and warrior bands,
Upon their faces laid their hands,
That on such scene they might not look,
Nor the abhorr'd remembrance brook;
But good Columba bent his eyes
On heaven, and, with most vehement cries,
Implored his Saviour and his God
To smite with his avenging rod
Those rude and violating beasts,
Those vile polluted idolists,
Who dared to stain the murderous knife
In Christian virgins' sacred life.
And, as 'tis told in ancient rhyme,
Some words like these, in tone sublime,
He mutter'd to the Eternal's ear,
Which made the kneelers quake to hear:—
“Father of angels and of men!
Thou, whose omniscient heedful ken
Takes in the ample bounds of space,
Wherever smiles the human face,
Or seraphs sing, or angels dwell,
Or demons that in torment yell,—
Turn here in mercy from above
One glance of justice and of love;
Of love to those who look to thee,
And justice on their enemy;
And view a deed that stamps disgrace
On thy beloved human race.
Oh God! can such a deed beseem
Creatures thou diedst to redeem?
“If thou Jehovah art alone,
And Odin but a god of stone,
Pour down thy vengeance from the skies
On these polluted obsequies.
View but the deed, and ere 'tis done
In darkness thou wilt veil the sun:
His flaming orb shall cease to burn;
The moon and stars to blood shall turn,
While the broad sky aside shall fold,
And like a garment up be roll'd.
“Oh, if thou comest—as come thou wilt,
Vengeance to take on human guilt;
Then be thy wrath in terror shown,
By thunders from thy awful throne.
Descend in majesty supreme;
Thy chariot be devouring flame;
That all the elements may die
Beneath the lightning of thine eye.
The vales shall yawn, in terror rending,
The mountains quake at thy descending,
Nay, bow their hoary heads, and heave
Like skiff upon the yielding wave.
“Stretch but thy finger from the spheres
Towards these bloody worshippers,
And lo! the sinners and the spot
Shall quickly be as they were not!
As things of terror no more seen,
Nay, be as they had never been.
“Our eyes are fix'd on thee above—
Our hope in thy redeeming love:
Then, oh, in mercy to our race,
Hear in the heavens thy dwelling-place!”
While yet the Christian army kneel'd,
Ere brow was raised from rock or shield,
Heaven's golden portals were unbarr'd,
And the Almighty's voice was heard!
It came not forth like thunders loud,
When lightnings through the liquid cloud
Break up the dense and dismal gloom
With chafe, with clatter, and with boom;
It came with such a mighty sound,
As if the heavens, the depths profound,
And tempests at their utmost noise,
Cried all together in one voice.
Deep call'd to deep, and wave to wave;
Stone unto stone, and grave to grave:
The yawning cliffs and caverns groan'd;
The mountains totter'd as they moan'd;
All nature roar'd in one dire steven;
Heaven cried to earth, and earth to heaven,
Till both the offenders and offended
Knew that the Eternal God descended.
After the voice a whirlwind blew,
Before it every fragment flew
Of movent nature, all in cumber,
And living creatures without number
Were borne aloft with whirling motion:
It lifted ships out of the ocean!
And all, without one falling shiver,
Were borne away, and lost for ever;
But there were cries of death and dread
Heard in the darkness overhead!
After the wind, with rending roll
A crash was heard from pole to pole,
As if the Almighty's hand had rent
The ample yielding firmament;
Or split with jangle and with knell
The adamantine arch of hell;
And, lo! from out the heavens there came
A sea of rolling smouldering flame,
Which o'er the sinners' heads impended,
And slowly, dreadfully descended;
While with their shouts the welkin broke,
“Great Odin comes! our god, our rock!”
Just while their horrid sacrifice
Still flamed with incense to the skies;
Just when their hearts were at the proudest,
And orisons had pealed the loudest,
The liquid sounding flame inclosed them,
And roll'd them in its furnace bosom!
That city fill'd with loathsome crime,
With all its piles of ancient time,
After the fiery column broke,
Scarce gave a crackle or a smoke,
More than a heap of chaff or tinder,
But melted to a trivial cinder!—
Scarce had the eye of trembling hind
Regained its sight—with terror blind,
His heart began to beat in time,
Or shudder'd at the heinous crime,
Ere the appalling scene was o'er!
One single moment, and no more,
All glitter'd with a glowing gleen,
Then pass'd as they had never been.
Walls, towers, and sinners, in one sweep,
Were solder'd to a formless heap,
To stand, until that final day
When this fair world shall melt away,
As beacons sacred and sublime
Of judgment sent for human crime.

THE FOREST MINSTREL.

CLASS FIRST—PATHETIC SONGS.

The Soldier's Widow.

The Flower.

The Moon was A-waning.

Mary at her Lover's Grave.

Bonnie Dundee.

My Peggy an' I.

Cauld is the Blast.

The Gloamin'

Lord Eglintoun's Auld Man.

The Guardian Angel.

CLASS SECOND—LOVE SONGS.

My Blythe and Bonnie Lassie.

Bonnie Mary.

The Braes of Bushby.

Blythe an' Cheerie.

To Miss Jane S---f.

The Bonnie Lass of Deloraine.

I hae lost my Jeanie, O.

Here, fix'd by choice.

I'm gane a' wrang, Jamie.

The Hay-makers.

The Bogles.

Bonnie Jean.

Bonnie Leezy.

Now well may I.

The Sheep Shearing.

How Foolish are Mankind.

My Dear Little Jeanie.

CLASS THIRD—HUMOROUS SONGS.

Doctor Monroe.

Love's Like a Dizziness.

Auld Ettrick John.

Bonnie Beety.

Ayont the Mow amang the Hay.

The Drinkin', O;

A SANG FOR THE LADIES.

Gracie Miller.

Birniebouzle.

Life is a Weary Cobble o' Care.

Jock an' his Mother.

Athol Cummers.

Willie Wastle.

Auld John Borthick.

CLASS FOURTH—NATIONAL SONGS.

Bauldy Frazer.

Scotia's Glens.

The Jubilee.

The Auld Highlandman.

Buccleuch's Birth-Day.

Highland Harry back again.

Hap an' rowe the feetie o't.

Born, Laddie.

Donald M'Donald.

By a Bush.

Prince Owen and the Seer.

My Native Isle.

Honest Duncan.

Highland Laddie.

The Emigrant.

The British Tar.

Caledonia.

POETICAL TALES AND BALLADS.

Connel of Dee.

A Greek Pastoral.

YOUTH.

MAIDEN.

Cradle Song of the Elves.

YOUTH.
“No! love is the source of all that's sweet,
And only for happy beings meet—
The bond of creation since time began,
That brought the grace of heaven to man.
Let us bathe in its bliss without control,
And love with all the heart and soul;
For mine are with thee, and only thee,
Thou Queen of the maidens of Thessaly!”

MAIDEN.
“If thou couldst love as a virgin can,
And not as sordid selfish man;
If thy love for me
From taint were as free
As the evening breeze from the Salon sea,
Or the odours hale
Of the morning gale,
Breathed over the flowers of Tempe's vale;
And no endearment or embrace,
That would raise a blush on a virgin's face,
Or a saint's below, or a spirit's above—
Then I could love!—Oh, as I could love!”

YOUTH.
“Thou art too gentle, pure, and good,
For a lover of earthly flesh and blood;
But I will love thee and cherish thee so,
As a maiden was never loved here below;
With a heavenly aim,
And a holy flame,
And an endearment that wants a name.
I will lead thee where the breeze is lightest,
And where the fountain wells the brightest,
Where the nightingale laments the oftest,
And where the buds of flowers are softest:
There in the glade,
My lovely maid,
I will fold within this rainbow plaid.
I will press her to my faithful breast,
And watch her calm and peaceful rest;
And o'er each aspiration dear,
I will breathe a prayer to Mercy's ear;
And no embrace or kiss shall be,
That a saint in heaven will blush to see.”

The Russiadde:

A FRAGMENT OF AN ANCIENT EPIC POEM, SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY GILBERT HUME, A SUTOR OF SELKIRK.

BOOK FIRST.

Mora Campbell.

The Good Man of Alloa.

Elen of Reigh.

The Powris of Moseke.

Moralitas.

A Lay of the Martyrs.

The Origin of the Fairies.

From such unhallow'd love as this,
With all its splendour and all its bliss,
Its end of terror and its bane,
May Heaven preserve us all!—Amen.

The P and the Q;

OR THE ADVENTURES OF JOCK M'PHERSON.

[OMITTED]

The Spirit of the Glen.

The Field of Waterloo,

AND DEATH-BED PRAYER OF A SOLDIER.

Allan of Dale.

ALLAN.
Sweet Mary of Moy, is it so with thee?
Have I caught thee on thy bended knee,
Beginning thy rath orisons here,
In the bower to the breathings of love so dear?
Oh tell me, Mary, what this can mean!
Hast thou such a great transgressor been?
Is the loveliest model of mortal kind
A thing of an erring, tainted mind,
That thus she must kneel and heave the sigh,
With the tear-drop dimming her azure eye?
To whom wert thou going thy vows to pay?
Or for what, or for whom, wert thou going to pray?

MARY.
I was going to pray in the name divine
Of Him that died for me and for mine;
I was going to pray for them and me,
And haply, Allan, for thine and thee;
And now I have answered as well as I may
Your questions thus put in so strange a way:
But I deem it behaviour most unmeet,
Thus to follow a maid to her lone retreat,
To hear her her heart of its sins unload,
And all the secrets 'twixt her and her God.
For shame! that my kindred should hear such a tale
Of the gallant young Allan of Borlan-dale!

ALLAN.
Sweet Mary of Moy, I must be plain:
I have told you once, and tell you again,
Though in love I am deeper than woman can be,
You must either part with your faith or me.

MARY.
What! part with my faith? You may as well demand,
That I should part with my own right hand!
Than part with that faith I would sooner incline
To part with my heart from its mortal shrine.

ALLAN.

LADY OF MOY.
Hush, Mary! dear Mary! what madness is this?
These dreams of the morning, my darling, dismiss:
Awake from this torpor of slumber so deep;
You are raving and clamouring through your sleep:
Up, up, and array you in scarlet and blue:
For Allan of Dale is come here to woo.

MARY.
Tell Allan of Dale straight home to hie,
And court Helen Kay, or his darling of Skye:
This positive message deliver from me,
For I list not his heretic face to see.

LADY.
My Mary! dear Mary! what am I to deem?
Arouse you, my love; you are still in your dream:
Your lover's views of things divine
May differ in some degree from thine;
But I think he is one who will not pother
Betwixt the one faith and the other.

MARY.
That is worse and worse: for my lover must be
Attach'd to my faith as well as to me:
We must kneel at one beloved shrine,
And the mode of his worship must be mine.
For why should a wedded pair devout,
By different paths seek heaven out?
Or in that dwelling happy be,
Who of the road could never agree?
O mother! this day, without all fail,
I had given my hand to young Borlan-dale;
But I've had such a hint from the throne on high,
Or some good angel hovering nigh,
That tongue of mortal should never prevail
On me to be bride to this Allan of Dale,
Unless he sign over a bond, for me
In the path of religion his guide to be.

Jock Johnstone the Tinkler.

Ringan and May.

I heard a laverock singing with glee,
And oh but the bird sang cheerilye;
Then I askit at my true love Ringan,
If he kend what the bonny bird was singing?
Now, my love Ringan is blithe and young,
But he has a fair and flattering tongue;
And oh, I'm fear'd I like ower weel
His tales of love, though kind and leal!
So I said to him, in scornful ways,
“You ken nae word that wee burd says!”
Then my love he turn'd about to me,
And there was a smile in his pawky ee;
And he says, “My May, my dawtied dow,
I ken that strain far better nor you;
For that little fairy that lilts so loud,
And hangs on the fringe of the sunny cloud,
Is telling the tale, in chants and chimes,
I have told to thee a thousand times.
I will let thee hear how our strains accord,
And the laverock's sweet sang, word for word:

Interpretation of the Lark's Song.

The Haunted Glen.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

• Lu, a Scottish prince, carried off by the Fairies, and afterwards chosen their king.
• Knight.
• Spirit.
• Lula, a princess living in concealment.
• Philany, Fairy.
• Dew, Fairy.
• Snowflake, Fairy.
• Foambell, Fairy.
• Rue, Fairy.
• Mothe, Fairy.
• Gossamer, Fairy.

Scene I.

—A dell, by moonlight, with a distant view behind.
A fairy enters, winding swiftly among the trees. Voice above.
Voice.
Fairy, fairy, whither away?

Fairy.
Come down and see;
It fits not thee
To hide in the bud of the chestnut tree,
And scare with yelp and eldritch croon
The spirits that pass by the light of the moon.

Voice.
I heard a sound come through the wood,
I feared it came from flesh and blood;
But I'll be with thee for evil or good.

Spirit enters.
Fairy.
I know thee not—I cannot tell
Whether thou art from heaven or hell.
In Scottish glen, since the days of old,
I have watched the hamlet and the fold;
Long have I sojourned by mountain and dale;
I have sailed on the moonbeam, and rode on the gale
For a thousand years, and a thousand more,
But, spirit, I never saw thee before.

Spirit.
Here am I sent a while to dwell;
Tell me thy nature, and mine I'll tell.

Fairy.
This form was made when the rose first grew,
Of an odour dissolved in the falling dew,
When first from the heaven it 'gan to distil
Above the top of the highest hill:
And if I may judge, from the moment I came,
There's a germ of the rainbow in my frame;
For my being grew, I remember well,
When first the bow on the rose-bud fell;
And the very first scene that met my view,
Was its pale blossom, tinged anew
With stripes of the green, the red, and the blue.
But I am a spirit of joy and love,
For the breath that formed me was from above.

Spirit.
Then, gladsome spirit, list to me,
For we may meet by tower and tree:
When first the fires of vengeance and wrath
Were kindled in a world beneath,
They from their boundaries burst on high,
And flashed into the middle sky;
From these a thin blue vapour came,
Something between a smoke and flame,
And it journeyed on through the firmament,
Till with a sun-beam it was blent:
Of that I was framed, and in my mood
There is something evil and something good.
But I have been busy since I came here;
There's a comely corse lies stretched near—
Within yon wood of alders grey
There was murder done at the close of day.
Oh, I ne'er saw so lovely a sight,
As a maiden's corse in the pale moonlight!

Fairy.
Ah! spirit of stern and ill intent,
The land may rue that thou wast sent.

Spirit.
'Tis true, I love to seek and see
The evils of humanity,
And the woes and the plagues of the human lot!
But I cannot hurt where sin is not.
Come, trifling fay, I'll consort you,
The relics of mortal beauty to view;
The writhed limb you there may see,
And the stripes of blood upon the lea;
Half open is her still blue eye;
Her face is turned unto the sky;
The shadows sleep on her bosom bare,
And the dew-weft on her raven hair;
And never again shall spirit see
Such picture of sorrow and sanctity!

Fairy.
Get thee away,
Thou elfin gray,
Thou art not fit with fairies to stay!
For me, I am sent by the still moonlight,
Each floweret's bosom to bedight,
For the fairies revel here o'er-night.
The time draws on when Lu of Kyle,
Who in Fairyland had sojourned a while,
Must be crowned, by a virgin's hand,
The king of the fairies of fair Scotland:
And fairies have ridden, and fairies have run,
From the evening set till the morning sun,
The first of mortal maidens to find,
Fairest of body, and purest of mind;
For she must be chaste as the snow-drop at noon,
Stately as cherubim, mild as the moon,
Sweet as the rose-bud, and fresh as the dew,
That sets the crown on the head of King Lu.

Spirit.
If right I judge, you will only miss
Your aim in travelling far for this;
For in this glen there dwells a dame,
The fairest of human form and name;
But if I get sway of this woodland scene,
This matchless maid shall be, ere e'en,
What many a maiden before has been.

Fairy.
Get thee away,
Thou elfin gray,
Thou art not fit with fairies to stay!
The fairies of Scotia are mild as the even,
Jocund and blithe as the laverock in heaven;
Tender to childhood, gentle to age,
Pesterous to priest, and freakish to sage;
But whatever they do, or wherever they go,
They grieve aye for human failings and woe.
Get thee away, over brake, over thorn;
Woo thy dead corse till the break of the morn,
For I hear the sound of the fairies' horn.

[Spirit vanishes.
Scene continues.
Endless trains of Fairies, clothed in green, and riding on white steeds, are seen in the distance.

Song within.

Enter Lu and Female Fairies.
First Fairy.
Our names, prince—our new names!

Lu.
[He embraces them all.

Dew.
Prince, here I met with a spirit stern,
Who said that by this forest dern,
There dwells the fairest, loveliest dame,
That ever wore the human frame;
But wicked men and fiends below
Have both combined to work her woe.
Prince, watch this glen, and if you see
A knight of comely courtesy
Lead a fair maiden to the wood,
Of lady mien, and mournful mood;
Be sure that knight's intent is ill,
For the blood is on his corslet still!

Lu.
Hie you away by valley and brae,
Attend to your tasks by night and by day,
And each take a thousand fays along,
To tend your behests for right or for wrong;
And here will I watch till the rising sun,
For fear more guilty deeds be done.

The Fairies dance slowly round him in a circle, and sing.

Scene II.

—A wood.
Enter Lu.
Lu.

[Exit.
Enter Lula and Knight.
Lula.
Where do you lead me, knight? I may not go
Farther into the glen: have you not heard
How it is haunted?

Knight.
Fear not, gentle Lula;
No spirit may do harm to innocence
And beauty such as thine. Come, let us stray
Deeper into this dell, and watch the rise
Of the full moon. See how her radiant verge
Streams through the broken cliffs of yon far hill,
Like fragments of a moon. The queen of heaven
Smiles from her lattice. Has it not a cast
Of sweet sublimity that scene, my Lula?

Lula.
It has—oh, I could list and look for ever,
And muse upon these goings on of nature!

Knight.
'Tis a fit scene for love. Will you not hear
The man that loves you to distraction, breathe
The vows of constancy and endless love?

Lula.
Nay, then I'm gone; I loathe the very name
Of love, and every baneful consequence
That follows in its train. Why talk to me
Of love, when Emma's lost? Emma, who loved you
With fondness never equalled! Tell me, knight,
Where think you Emma's gone?

Knight.
How can I know?
Woe's me, poor Emma! She is fled, I fear,
With false deceiver, or some base-born hind—
Let us not think of her.

Lula.
Yet you grow pale
At mention of her name—I honour you
For this. 'Tis true she loved you! What is here?
There's blood upon your basnet, knight! Your hilt
And arm are stained with it. What blood is this?

Knight.
It is the blood of my white steed, which I
Slew in a rage, that now I sore repent.

Lula.
Your steed is whole and standing in his stall;
I saw him; ask your groom.

Knight.
It was my hound,
My milk-white hound—Woe's me that she is slain!

Lula.
Your hound is well, and hunting through the wood.

Knight.
It was a deer that held the hound at bay,
'Twas that I meant.

Lula.
You have not slain a deer
For months and days, nor is it hunting time;
You rave, or do not think of what you say.
But here's our gentle robin come again,
To cheer us with his homely note. O knight,
Let us return. Hear what the robin sings!

Knight.
Come let us dive into the dell, my Lula,
And see the moon lie bathing in the stream,
Deep in the centre of the wood; it is
A scene will charm you. Let us go, my love.

Lula.
I never farther leave my home at eve;
That glen is dangerous, for spirits there
Hold nightly rendezvous. Poor Emma loved
Thoughtful to stray in it—now, where, alas!
Is simple Emma? Knight, though I nought fear,
Strange fancies crowd on me. Ah, might it be
As I now deem! Do guardian spirits ever
Take form of beast or bird?

Knight.
So sages say;
But wherefore ask? Come, let us go, my love,
Down that sweet winding glen. You cannot fear
To walk that space with me? I know the scene
Hath that in't will delight you. You shall see
The moonbeam streaming o'er the shadowy hill,
To kiss the winding wave, and deck the trees
In golden foliage. You shall see the shades
Of hills, and trees, and rocks, lie stretched afar,
Bathing in liquid crystal, till you lose
Sense which is the true world, the stars and moon,
And which the elemental imagery.
Oh! I beseech you let us go, sweet Lula.

Lula.
Well, I will go, for when I hear you talk
Of nature, I am charmed—'tis so unlike
The converse of these simple cottagers;
But talk of that alone, and not of love,
Else I'll not list, nor answer deign to you.
Why am I plagued with language which I loathe? [Going, stops short.

Protect my senses, Heaven! Can it be!
Look at that bird, sir knight—is it not changed
In form and hue since last we looked at it?

Knight.
What is it?

Lula.
See! it grows and changes still;
Waylays and threatens us—I will not go
Farther upon that path for will of man.

Knight.
Then my resolve is fixed—Dame, you shall go,
Return home as you may.

Lula.
What do you mean?

Knight.
Only that you shall go into that glen,
Far as I list to lead you: if you prove
As coy when you return, my well-earned skill
In woman I give up. Nay, struggle not,
Nor pule, nor cry, for neither shall avail!

Lu enters, and by a wave of his hand lays the Knight flat on his back.
Lula.
O comely stranger, spare my helpless youth!
Protect and guard me! here I throw myself
Into your arms.

Lu.
And from all brutal force
And insult shall these arms protect thee, maid.

Lula.
Yes, I can trust you, there is in your look
And your embrace, that chastened dignity,
That calm pure sympathy, which I have longed
And pined so much to look on. Whence are you?
From what blest land or kingdom came you thus
To my deliverance?

Lu.
These lands were mine,
Far as the soaring eagle's eye can reach;
But I resigned them for a dynasty
Wild and ethereal. Could you love me, Lula?

Lula.
I know not: If your touch and looks were aye
As pure as they are now—methinks I could.

Lu.
Then I'll be aught for thee—I'll be again
The thing I was, that I may be caressed
And loved by you; though pain, and woe, and death,
And spirits' vengeance, on the issue wait.
Come with me, gentle maid; and while I lead you
Home to your cot, I will a tale unfold
Shall make your ears to tingle, and your thoughts
Wander into delirious mystery.

[Exeunt Lu and Lula. The Knight rises.
Knight.

Scene III.

—The glen.—Twilight.
Lu and Fairy meeting.
Lu.
Welcome my little Foambell, here:
How fare thy flocks by frith and meer,
By river, pool, and streamlet clear?

Foam.

Lu.
But here comes slender Gossamer,
Like shred of silver through the air.—
What news, thou gentle, pitying child,
From mountain, glen, and pathless wild?

Gos.
Ah, woeful news! my heart's in pain!
All would be joy in my domain,
The kid and lamb would sport in peace,
The young deer dwell in happiness;
But man—remorseless, ravenous man,
Kills and devours; and stay who can!
The life-blood and the trembling limb
Of parting life are joy to him:
That rank devourer hence restrain,
Or take from me my charge again.

Lu.
Woe's me, that those we so much love,
Such troublers should of nature prove:
But here comes one whose placid face
Speaks better things of the human race.
Welcome, sweet Snowflake, back to me;
How thrives sweet virgin purity?

Snow.

Song by Lu.

Never, gentle spirits, never
Yield your cares of human kind!
Can you leave the lonely river,
From the moonlight valley sever,
All your guardian love resigned?
Thrown aside and scorned the giver?
Never, gentle spirits, never!

Chorus of Fairies.

Never till the dawn of day,
Dawn of truth that shine shall ever,
Will we quit our polar way;
Over greenwood, glen, and brae,
Over tree,
Over lea,
Over fell and forest free,
Over rock, and over river,
Over cairn and cloud to quiver;
Never, gentle spirits, never!
Never!—Never!

Scene IV.

—A deep dell.
Knight sitting disconsolate.
Knight.
Sure there's some power unseen, unmeet for man
To cope with, watches o'er that witching thing.
First by a stripling I was stunned, and laid
Flat without motion; next to slough decoyed,
Bayed by a madman—by a blood-hound torn.
If I escape infection from the fangs
Of that outrageous monster, I shall never
Strive for possession of that maiden more,
Though my heart burn within me.

Spirit enters, and speaks and sings aside.
Spirit.
Sings.

Enter Lu and Fairies.
Lu.
Fairies, the night wears on apace;
There's a paleness spread on the heaven's face,
A silvery haze so mild to see,
As lambent and as pure as we.
Soon will we mount with blithesome sway
Through these bright paths on our spiral way,
On the locks of the morning star to swing,
Or the veil of the sky for dew to wring;
To gallop the blue so lightsome and boon,
Or braid the fair tresses of beauty so bright,
That wanton and wave at the horns of the moon,
They are half of them ether, and half of them light.
But ere we depart from the morning ray,
To follow the moonlight west away,
O spirits, advise what shall be done,
This loveliest flower beneath the sun,
From shame, from sin, and from sorrow to win.

Dew.
Bear her away,
'Twixt the night and the day;
We spirits have might
When we work for the right,
And each of us as much can bear
Of aught corporeal through the air,
As the swallow can carry on wing opprest,
Or the merle upbear to her downy nest.
Then bear her away
'Twixt the night and the day,
For she is too pure in the world to stay.

Lu.
That may not be—by right divine,
In holy church and at holy shrine,
She has been washed with prayer and vow,
And named by a name to which we bow:
Or she must change with free good-will,
Or be as she is for good or for ill.
Should I her gain, say, shall she be
The Queen of the Fairies, and queen to me?

Dew.
Treason and pain!
Speak not again;
Trial and penance must long remain!
Bonnie Philany, Snowflake, and Foam,
Rainbow, Rainbow, blink and go home!

Phil.
(Aside).
Regard not, prince, that freakish thing,
From jealousy her ravings spring;
One we must have, whatever befall;
To-morrow is our great festival,
And nought but mortal virgin's hand
Must crown thee King of Fairyland;
And then thy fate is fixed for ever,
From us and ours no more to sever.

Lu.
Would that the time were not so soon!
It is not yet the wane of the moon.

Phil.
Prince, I have a word to say to thee—
Your troubled mind and eye I see;
But if you dare to harbour a thought
Of yielding a crown so dearly bought,
With all the joys of the moonlight dell,
And the fervent beings that love you so well,
For the sake of a flower that will soon decay,
A piece of fair well-moulded clay,
We'll pick these bright eyes from your head,
And there we'll fix two eyes of lead;
We'll pull the heart from thy breast-bone,
And there we'll lodge a heart of stone:
So take thou care, lest some espy
The thoughts that in thy bosom lie.

Lu.

Song.

The First Sermon.

The Mermaid.

Cary O'Kean.

Bothwell Brigg.

The Three Men of Moriston.

The Liddel Bower;

A BALLAD.

The Carle of Invertime.

Who has not heard of a Carle uncouth,
The terror of age and the scorn of youth,
Well known in this and every clime
As the grim Gudeman of Invertime?—
A stern old porter who carries the key
That opens the gate to a strange country!
The Carle's old heart with joy is dancing,
When, down the valley he sees advancing
The lovely, the brave, the good, or the great,
To pay the sad toll of his darksome gate.
'Tis said nought gives such joy to him
As the freezing blood and the stiffening limb;
It has never been mine his house to scan,
So I scarce trow this of our grim Gudeman.
Wise men believe, yet I scarce know why,
That he grimly smiles as he shoves them by;
And cares not whither to isles of bliss
They go or to sorrow's dark wilderness;
Or if, driven afar, their fate should be
To toss on the waves of a shoreless sea;
Or sunk in lakes of surging flame,
Burning and boiling, and ever the same,
Where groups of mortals toss amain
On the sultry billow and down again.
Time, from the sky shall blot out the sun,
Yet ne'er will this den of dool have done.
It makes me shake and it makes me shiver;
His presence forbid it should last for ever!
Sad, wise, or witty—all find to their cost,
That the grim old Carle is still at his post:
He sits and he sees with joy elate,
In myriads men pour in at his gate.
Some come in gladness and joy to close
Account with Time, and sink to repose;
Some come in sorrow; they think, in sooth,
It hard to be summon'd in strength and youth.
There lady and losel, peasant and lord,
Men of the pen, the sermon, the sword,
The counsellor, leech, and the monarch sublime,
All come to the Carle of Invertime.
Amongst the others, one morning came
An aged and a venerable dame,
Stooping, and palsied, and pain'd to boot,
Moaning and shaking from head to foot.
Slow in her pace, yet steady of mind,
She turn'd not once, nor look'd behind;
Nor dreading nor daring her future fate,
She tottered along to the dismal gate.
A gleam of light danced in the eye
Of the grim Gudeman as the dame drew nigh;
Little cared he for an old gray wife,
Who hung like a link 'tween death and life;
But, by the side of the eldern dame,
A form so pure and so lovely came,
That the Carle's cold veinless heart heaved high,
A tear like an ice-drop came to his eye;
He vowed through his gate she should not win:
She seem'd no child of sorrow and sin.
As thus he stood in his porch to mark,
His looks now light and his looks now dark,
He marvell'd to hear so lovely a thing
Lift up her voice and gently sing
A strain, too holy, too sweet, and wild,
And charming to come from an earth-born child;
It glow'd with love, and fervour, and faith,
And seem'd to triumph o'er time and death:
“Great Fountain of Light,
And Spirit of Might,
To work thy will has been my delight;
And here at my knee,
From guiltiness free,
I bring a mild meek spirit to thee.
“When first I went to guide her to truth,
She was in the opening blossom of youth;
When scarce on her leaf, so spotless and new,
Ripe reason had come with her dropping dew.
Where life's pure river is but a rill,
She grew, and scarce knew good from ill;
But my sisters three
Came soon to me,
Pure Love, true Faith, sweet Charity.
Through doubts and fears,
These eighty years,
We have showed her the way to the heavenly spheres.
Our first stage down life's infant stream
Was all a maze and a childish dream;
And nought was there of sin or sense,
But dawning beauty and innocence;
A fairy dance of sweet delight,
Through flowers, and bowers, and visions bright.
Sometimes a hymn, and sometimes a prayer,
Was poured to thee with a fervent air;
'Twas sung or said, and straight was seen
The sweet child gamboling on the green;
While the pure hymn, late pour'd to thee,
Was chanted light as a song of glee.
“As we went down the vale of life,
With flowers the road became less rife.
By pitfall, precipice, and pool,
Our way was shaped, by line and rule.
'Mid hours of joy and days of mirth,
And hopes and fears, high thoughts had birth,
And natural yearnings of the mind,
Of something onward, undefined—
Which scarce the trembling soul durst scan—
Of God's most wondrous love to man,
And some far forward state of bliss,
Of beauty, and of holiness;
But to all woes and evils blinded,
Or thoughts of death, unless reminded.
Oh! happy age, remember'd well,
Where neither sin nor shame can dwell!
Even then thine eye,
From heaven high,
Saw that her monitor was nigh;
At morn and even,
To turn to heaven
The grateful eye for blessings given.
And from the first prevailing tide
Of sin, and vanity, and pride,
To save her, and to lead her on
To glories unreveal'd, unknown.
“Onward we came; life's streamlet then
Enter'd a green and odorous glen;
Increased, and through fair flowrets rolling,
And shady bowers, seem'd past controlling;
Flowing 'mid roses, fast and free—
This was a trying stage for me!
The maiden's youthful heart began
To dance through scenes Elysian;
To breathe in love's ambrosial dew,
Moved by sensations sweet and new;
For, without look or word of blame,
Her radiant blushes went and came;
Her eye, of heaven's own azure blue,
In glance and lustre brighter grew;
Showing fond feelings all akin
To that pure soul which lived within.
“With heart so soft and soul sincere,
Love found his way by eye and ear.
Then how I labour'd, day and night,
To watch her ways and guide her right!
I brought cool airs from paradise
To purify her melting sighs;
I steep'd my vail in heaven's own spring,
And o'er her watch'd on silent wing;
And, when she laid her down to rest,
I spread the vail o'er her virgin breast:
All earthly passions far did flee,
And heart and soul she turn'd to thee.
“Throughout her life
Of wedded wife,
I wean'd her soul from passion's strife;
But oh! what fears,
And frequent tears
For the peril of childhood's tender years!
And when her firstborn's feeble moan
Was hushed by the soul's departing groan;
In that hour of maternal grief,
I pointed her way to the sole relief.
Another sweet babe there came and went—
Her gushing eyes she fix'd, and bent
Upon that mansion bright and sweet,
Where sever'd and kindred spirits meet.
“She has wept for the living, and wept for the dead,
Laid low in the grave her husband's head;
She has toil'd for bread with the hands of age,
And, through her useful pilgrimage,
Has seen her race sink, one by one—
All, all she loved—yet, left and lone,
With cheer unchanged, with heart unshook,
On God she fix'd her steadfast look.
And now with the eye of purest faith,
She sees, beyond the vale of death,
A day that has no cloud or shower—
She has less dread of her parting hour,
Than ever had babe of its mother's breast,
When it lays its innocent head to rest.
“O Maker of Earth, dread Ruler above,
Receive her spirit, her faith approve!
A tenderer mother, a nobler wife,
Ne'er waged, 'gainst earth and its sorrows, strife;
I never can bid a form arise
With purer heart than hers to the skies.”

The Frazers in the Correi.

The Lady's Dream.

Up an' rin awa', Geordie.

I'll no wake wi' Annie.

Dennis Delany.

A Ballad about Love.

The Lord of Balloch.

The Miser's Warning.

Lytill Pynkie.

The Two Men of Colston;

OR THE TRUE ENGLISH CHARACTER.

Fragment.

[OMITTED]

The Admonition.

Red Clan-Ranald's Men

POEMS DESCRIPTIVE AND SENTIMENTAL.

Superstition and Grace.

There was an auld carle wonn'd under yon shaw,
His cheek was the clay, and his hair was the snaw;
His brow was as glazed as the winter night,
But mingled with lines of immortal light;
And forth from his livid lips there flew
A flame of a lurid murky hue.
But there was a mystery him within,
That roused up the twangs and terrors of sin;
And there was a gleide in that auld carle's ee,
That the saint and the sinner baith trembled to see.
But, oh! when the moor gat her coverlet gray;
When the gloaming had flaughted the night and the day;
When the craws had flown to the greenwood shaw,
And the kid blett over the Lammer Law;
When the dew had laid the valley asteep,
And the gowan had faul't her buds to sleep;
When naething was heard but the merlin's maen,
Oh, then, that gyre carle was never his lane.
A bonnie wee baby, sae meek and mild,
Then walk'd with him in the dowie wild;
But, oh! nae pen that ever grew
Could describe that baby's heavenly hue:
Yet all the barmings of sturt and strife,
And weary wailings of mortal life,
Would soon have been hush'd to endless peace
At ae blink of that baby's face.
Her brow sae fair, and her e'e sae meek,
And the pale rose bloom upon her cheek;
Her locks, and the bend of her sweet e'e bree,
And her smile, might have waken'd the dead to see.
Her snood, befringed wi' many a gem,
Was stown frae the rainbow's brightest hem;
And her rail, mair white than the snawy drift,
Was never woven aneath the lift;
It threw sic a light on the hill and the gair,
That it show'd the wild deer to her lair;
And the brown bird of the moorland fell
Upraised his head from the heather bell,
For he thought that his dawning of love and mirth,
Instead of the heaven was springing from earth;
And the fairies waken'd frae their beds of dew,
And they sang a hymn, and that hymn was new.
Oh, ladies, list! for never again
Shall you hear sic a wild, unearthly strain:
For they sang the night breeze in a swoon,
And they sang the gowd locks frae the moon;
They sang the redbreast frae the wood,
And the laverock out o' the marled cloud,
The capperkayle frae the bosky brae,
And the seraphs down frae the milky way;
And some wee feres of bloodless birth
Came out o' the worm-holes o' the earth,
And swoof'd sae lightly round the lea,
That they wadna kythe to mortal e'e;
While the eldritch sang, it rang sae shrill,
That the waesome tod yool'd on the hill:
Oh, ladies, list! for the choral band
Thus hymn'd the song of Fairy Land:

Song of the Fairies.

Then the carle he kneel'd to that seraph young,
And named her with a tremulous tongue;
And the light of God shone on his face,
As he look'd to heaven and named her Grace;
And he barr'd the day of sorrow and pain
Ever to thrall the world again;
Then he clasp'd his hands, and wept full sore,
When he bade her adieu for evermore.
Oh! never was baby's smile so meek
When she felt the tear drop on her cheek;
And never was baby's look so wae
When she saw the stern auld carle gae;
But a' his e'eless and elfin train,
And a' his ghaists and gyes are gane:
Then gleids that gleam'd in the darksome shaw,
And his fairies had flown the last of a'.
Then the poor auld carle was blythe to flee
Away frae the queen isle of the sea,
And never mair seeks the walks of men,
Unless in the disk of the gloaming glen.

Lines to Sir Walter Scott, Bart.

The Descent of Love.

Wallace.

Hymn to the Evening Star.

Will and Davie:

A SCOTTISH PASTORAL.

DAVIE.
Ah, Will, these purple heather blooms,
That round us shed their light perfumes,
These sparkling gems of crystal dew,
That morning sky so mild and blue,
Have raised my heart to such a height,
I breathe so pure, I feel so light,
'Gainst all the reasons you can bring
I must and will my matin sing.
Cheer up your heart, for once be gay;
Screw on your flute and join the lay!

WILL.

DAVIE.

The enraptured youth now ceased to sing;
But still, on ether's waving wing,
From echo's cave was borne along
The dying measures of the song:
With eye entranced, and head declined,
They listened to the waving wind—
Hung on the cliff-born fairy lay,
Till the last quaver died away.

Storm of Thunder among Mountains.

Marion Graham.

To the Genius of Shakspeare.

The Auld Man's Fareweel to his Wee House.

The Battle of Busaco.

The Gipsies.

[OMITTED]

Verses Addressed to the Right Honourable Lady Anne Scott of Buccleuch.

Moralitas.

A Last Adieu.

On the Death of Mr. Pitt.

The Dawn of July, 1810.

On the Close of the Year 1812.

Epitaph on a Living Character.

On the Lifting of the Banner of Buccleuch,

AT THE GREAT FOOT-BALL MATCH ON CARTERHAUGH, DEC. 5, 1815.

Love.

Stanzas. Recited in a party of Social Friends, met in honour of the entry into Paris by the Allies—1814.

Elegy on Lady Rosslyn.

St. Mary of the Lowes.

Superstition.

Epitaph on a Living Character.

Morning.

The Fall of the Leaf.

A Witch's Chant.

Regret.

A Bard's Address to his Youngest Daughter.

Elegy.

[Fair was thy blossom, tender flower]

Verses to the Comet of 1811.

1828.

The Monitors.

SACRED MELODIES.

Jewish Captives Parting.

The Captive's Song.

Jacob and Laban.

The Rose of Sharon.

Maiden of Jeshimon.

DUET.

1st voice.
Oh, lives one love-spark in your breast,
Maiden of Jeshimon, pray you tell?

2d voice.
Go ask at her whom you now love best,
Ask her the way you know full well.

1st voice.
Women are fickle, and all untrue!

2d voice.
Men are ungrateful—so are you!

1st voice.
Vanity!

2d voice.
Lenity!

Both voices.
Wormwood and gall!

2d voice.
Suavity!

1st voice.
Levity!

Both voices.
Worst of all!
Once full happy and blithe were we,
Blithe as bird on the greenwood tree!

1st voice.
Long I loved, and loved you dear,

2d voice.
Many a day and many a year:

Both voices.
Then all nature seemed completer—
Smiling sweeter.
Ah, how dear!

1st voice.
But 'tis gone!

2d voice.
Let it go!

1st voice.

Recitante.

Can'st thou say so, true love?

2d voice.

Recitante.

Time, that wears all away,
Will lay me low!

Both voices.
Again we'll sport, as we have done,
Round the tree, over the lea;
Nature then shall smile again,
And who so blithe and blest as we?
Sweet the bird shall sing on the tree,
And sweet the sun rise over the sea!

Dweller in Heaven.

On Carmel's Brow.

The Guardian Angels.

DUET.

Whither journeyest thou?
Where dost thou dwell?
Dwell'st thou in the rainbow,
Or hills of Israel?
Beauteous guardian angel,
Tarry here with me;
Or guide me through the twilight,
Far, far, with thee!
The young and fair
We'll guard with care,
From every snare
And treachery.

Two Voices.

1st voice.
Dost thou dread it?

2d voice.
Thou shalt see.

1st voice.
Dost thou shun it?

2d voice.
Oft I've done it.

Both voices.
Kind the heart that needs no suing!
Sweet the toil when good we're doing!
Sweet the toil, &c., &c.

1st voice.
Wert thou a watcher here?

2d voice.
Many a thousand year.

Both voices.
Then, for aye, our task pursuing,
Never done, yet always doing,
Till our time of bliss draws near.

1st voice.
Shall it never?

2d voice.
Yes, for ever.

Both voices.
Then our joys be ever new,
As our love and duty true!
Our task is love, and 'tis from above,
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

MISCELLANEOUS SONGS.

Where am I gaun?

An aged Widow's Lament.

M'Kimman.

Song of the times of Charles First.

Gin ye meet a Bonnie Lassie.

Moggy an' me.

Rise! Rise! Lowland and Highland men.

Lock the Door, Lariston.

The Bower of Tay.

The Bittern's Quavering Trump on High.

The Lassie of Yarrow.

The Soldier's Widow.

John of Brackadale.

Why should I Sit an' Sigh.

The Last Cradle Song.

A Border Melody.

What gars the Parting Day-beam Blush?

Poor Little Jessie.

Ah, Peggie, since thou'rt gane away.

The Broom sae Green.

Flora Macdonald's Farewell.

Bonnie Prince Charlie.

The Skylark.

Gang to the Brakens wi' me.

The Minstrel Boy.

Farewell to Glen-Shalloch.

The Laird o' Lamington.

The Souters o' Selkirk.

O, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!

Arabian Song.

The Village of Balmaquhapple.

Callum-a-Glen.

When the Kye comes Hame.

Lenachan's Farewell.

The Stuarts of Appin.

The Poor Man.

The Women Fo'k.

M'Lean's Welcome.

The Maid of the Sea.

Go Home to your Rest.

The Harp of Ossian.

When Maggy Gangs Away.

A Father's Lament.

There's Gowd in the Breast.

Why Weeps yon Highland Maid?

My Emma, my Darling.

The Mermaid's Song.

Donald M'Gillavry.

O'er the Ocean Bounding.

Charlie is my Darling.

If e'er I am thine.

Meg o' Marley.

The Ladies' Evening Song.

Mary, canst thou leave me?

Mary is my only Joy.

O, weel befa' the Maiden gay.

Cameron's Welcome Hame.

Ye Breezes that spring.

Come rowe the Boat

The Highlander's Farewell.

How dear to me the Hour.

The Hill of Lochiel.

The Flowers of Scotland.

My Love's Bonnie.

Sing on, sing on, my Bonnie Bird.

Love Letter.

Mischievous Woman.

Fair was thy Blossom.

Courting Song.

There's nae Laddie coming.

Appie M'Gie.

The Gathering of the Clans.

I hae naebody now.

The Forty-Second's welcome to Scotland.

The Lass o' Carlisle.

My Love she's but a Lassie yet.

The Moon.

The Witch o' Fife

Row on, Row on.

I hae lost my Love.

Allan Dhu.

Love's Visit.

A Widow's Wail.

Auld Joe Nicholson's Nanny.

The Broken Heart

Ohon-a-Righ!

The Laddie that I ken o'.

Angel's Morning Song to the Shepherd.

The Blue and the Yellow.

Sir Morgan O'Doherty's Farewell to Scotland.

Reply to Sir Morgan O'Doherty's Farewell to Scotland.

King Willie.

The Flower of Annisley.

Oh, Love's a bitter thing to bide.

The Cutting o' my Hair.

A genuine Love-Letter.

A Highland Song of Triumph for King William's Birthday.

Lass, an ye loe me, tell me now.

I'm a' gane wrang.

The Covenanter's Scaffold Song.

The Shepherd Boy's Song.

Maggy o' Buccleuch.

A Boy's Song.

Pull away, Jolly Boys.

Stanzas.

[My sweet little cherub, how calm thou'rt reposing!]

March of Intellect.

I dinna blame thy bonnie Face.

Oh, saw ye this sweet bonnie Lassie o' mine?

Auld John Nicol.

What Tongue can speak the glowing Heart?

I'll bid my Heart be still.

To Mary at Parting.

Good Night, and Joy.