The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
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The Guardian Angel.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
The Guardian Angel.
The dawning was mild, and the hamlet was wild,
For it stood by an untrodden shore of the main,
When Duncan was rais'd from his slumber, amaz'd
By a voice at his door, that did shortly complain—
“Rise, Duncan, I perish!” his bosom was fir'd
With feelings no language or pen can convey:
'Twas a voice he had heard, and with rapture admir'd,
Ere fatal Culloden had forced him away.
For it stood by an untrodden shore of the main,
When Duncan was rais'd from his slumber, amaz'd
By a voice at his door, that did shortly complain—
“Rise, Duncan, I perish!” his bosom was fir'd
With feelings no language or pen can convey:
'Twas a voice he had heard, and with rapture admir'd,
Ere fatal Culloden had forced him away.
He flew to the rock that o'ershadow'd his cot,
And wistfully look'd where his vision could reach;
He shouted—but only the echoes about
Him answer'd, and billows that rush'd on the beach.
For the winds were at rest, but the ocean, opprest,
Still heav'd like an earthquake, and broke on the shore;
The mist settled high on the mountains of Skye,
And the wild howling storm ruffled nature no more.
And wistfully look'd where his vision could reach;
He shouted—but only the echoes about
Him answer'd, and billows that rush'd on the beach.
For the winds were at rest, but the ocean, opprest,
Still heav'd like an earthquake, and broke on the shore;
The mist settled high on the mountains of Skye,
And the wild howling storm ruffled nature no more.
He search'd every glen, every creek, every isle,
Although every sense was with reason at strife;
When the sun blinked red o'er the hills of Argyle,
He found his Matilda, his lady, his wife!
Resign'd to her fate, on a little green plat,
Where a cliff intercepted the wanderer's way,
On her bosom so fair, and her fine yellow-hair,
The frost of the morning lay crisped and gray.
Although every sense was with reason at strife;
When the sun blinked red o'er the hills of Argyle,
He found his Matilda, his lady, his wife!
Resign'd to her fate, on a little green plat,
Where a cliff intercepted the wanderer's way,
On her bosom so fair, and her fine yellow-hair,
The frost of the morning lay crisped and gray.
He wept like a child, while beside her he kneel'd,
And cried, “O, kind Father, look down on my woe!
O, spare my sweet wife, and the whole of my life
My heart, for the gift, shall with gratitude glow!”
By care and attention she slowly recovers,
And found herself lock'd in her husband's embrace.
But, reader, if ever thou hast been a lover,
Thy heart will outgo me, and furnish this space.
And cried, “O, kind Father, look down on my woe!
O, spare my sweet wife, and the whole of my life
My heart, for the gift, shall with gratitude glow!”
By care and attention she slowly recovers,
And found herself lock'd in her husband's embrace.
But, reader, if ever thou hast been a lover,
Thy heart will outgo me, and furnish this space.
She said she had heard of his quiet retreat
And had come from the vale ere the tempest had lower'd;
That the snow and the sleet had benumb'd her weak feet,
And with hunger and cold she was quite overpower'd.
For her way she had lost, and the torrents she cross'd
Had often nigh borne her away to the main;
But the night coming on, she had laid herself down,
And pray'd to her Maker, nor pray'd she in vain.
And had come from the vale ere the tempest had lower'd;
That the snow and the sleet had benumb'd her weak feet,
And with hunger and cold she was quite overpower'd.
For her way she had lost, and the torrents she cross'd
Had often nigh borne her away to the main;
But the night coming on, she had laid herself down,
And pray'd to her Maker, nor pray'd she in vain.
“But did not you call at my cottage so early,
When morning's gray streamers scarce crested the fell?
A voice then did name me, and waken'd me fairly,
And bade me arise, and the voice I knew well.”
“Than where I was found I was never more nigh thee:
I sunk, overcome by toil, famine, and grief;
Some pitying angel, then hovering by me,
Has taken my voice to afford me relief.”
When morning's gray streamers scarce crested the fell?
A voice then did name me, and waken'd me fairly,
And bade me arise, and the voice I knew well.”
“Than where I was found I was never more nigh thee:
I sunk, overcome by toil, famine, and grief;
Some pitying angel, then hovering by me,
Has taken my voice to afford me relief.”
Then down they both bow'd, and most solemnly vow'd
To their great Benefactor his goodness to mind,
Both evening and morning unto them returning;
And well they perform'd the engagement we find.
They both now are cold; but the tale they have told
To many, while gratitude's tears fell in store;
And whenever I pass by the bonny Glenasby,
I mind the adventure on Morven's lone shore.
To their great Benefactor his goodness to mind,
Both evening and morning unto them returning;
And well they perform'd the engagement we find.
They both now are cold; but the tale they have told
To many, while gratitude's tears fell in store;
And whenever I pass by the bonny Glenasby,
I mind the adventure on Morven's lone shore.
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |