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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| POEMS DESCRIPTIVE AND SENTIMENTAL. |
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
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.
Sing, sing!
How shall we sing
Round the babe of the spirits' king?
How shall we sing our last adieu,
Baby of life, when we sing to you?
Now the little night-burdie may cheip i' the wa',
The plover may whew, and the cock may craw;
For the bairny's sleep is sweet and sure,
And the maiden's rest is blest and pure,
Through all the links of the Lammer Muir.
Sin our bonnie baby was sent frae heaven,
She comes o'ernight wi' the dew of even;
And when the day-sky bursts frae the main,
She swaws wi' the dew to heaven again:
But the light shall dawn, and the howlet flee,
The dead shall quake, when the day shall be,
That she shall smile in the gladsome noon,
And sleep, and sleep, in the light of the moon.
Then shall our hallelues wake anew
With harp, and viol, and ayril true.
But, well-a-day!
How shall we say
Our earthly adieu ere we pass away?
Ring! Ring!
Dance and sing,
And on the green broom your garlands hing;
Hallow the hopes of this ray of grace,
For sweet is the smile of our baby's face;
And every ghaist of geysand hue
Has melted away in the air she drew.
The kelpy may dern, in drear and dool,
Deep in the howe of his eiry pool;
Gil-Moules frae hint the hallan may flee
Through by the threshold and through by the key,
And the mermaid moote in the saffron sea:
But we are left in the greenwood glen,
Because we love the children of men,
Sweetly to sing, and never to rue,
Till now that we hymn our last adieu;
Baby of life, we sing it to you!
How shall we sing
Round the babe of the spirits' king?
How shall we sing our last adieu,
Baby of life, when we sing to you?
Now the little night-burdie may cheip i' the wa',
The plover may whew, and the cock may craw;
For the bairny's sleep is sweet and sure,
And the maiden's rest is blest and pure,
Through all the links of the Lammer Muir.
Sin our bonnie baby was sent frae heaven,
She comes o'ernight wi' the dew of even;
And when the day-sky bursts frae the main,
She swaws wi' the dew to heaven again:
But the light shall dawn, and the howlet flee,
The dead shall quake, when the day shall be,
That she shall smile in the gladsome noon,
And sleep, and sleep, in the light of the moon.
Then shall our hallelues wake anew
With harp, and viol, and ayril true.
375
How shall we say
Our earthly adieu ere we pass away?
Ring! Ring!
Dance and sing,
And on the green broom your garlands hing;
Hallow the hopes of this ray of grace,
For sweet is the smile of our baby's face;
And every ghaist of geysand hue
Has melted away in the air she drew.
The kelpy may dern, in drear and dool,
Deep in the howe of his eiry pool;
Gil-Moules frae hint the hallan may flee
Through by the threshold and through by the key,
And the mermaid moote in the saffron sea:
But we are left in the greenwood glen,
Because we love the children of men,
Sweetly to sing, and never to rue,
Till now that we hymn our last adieu;
Baby of life, we sing it to you!
Sing, sing!
How shall we sing
Round the babe of the spirits' king?
Hither the breezes of Elfland bring,
Then, fairies, away—away on the wing!
We now maun flit to a land of bliss—
To a land of holy silentness;
To a land where the night-wind never blew,
But thy fair spring shall ever be new.
When the moon shall wake, nae mair to wane,
And the cloud and the rainbow baith are gane,
In bowers aboon the break o' the day,
We'll sing to our baby for ever and aye.
How shall we sing
Round the babe of the spirits' king?
Hither the breezes of Elfland bring,
Then, fairies, away—away on the wing!
We now maun flit to a land of bliss—
To a land of holy silentness;
To a land where the night-wind never blew,
But thy fair spring shall ever be new.
When the moon shall wake, nae mair to wane,
And the cloud and the rainbow baith are gane,
In bowers aboon the break o' the day,
We'll sing to our baby for ever and aye.
Then the carle beheld them swoof alang,
And heard the words of their farewell sang;
They seem'd to ling asklent the wind,
And left a pathway of light behind;
But he heard them singing as they flew—
“Baby of life, adieu! adieu!
Baby of grace, we sing to you!”
Then the carle he kneel'd to that seraph young,
And heard the words of their farewell sang;
They seem'd to ling asklent the wind,
And left a pathway of light behind;
But he heard them singing as they flew—
“Baby of life, adieu! adieu!
Baby of grace, we sing to you!”
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.
Sound, my old harp, thy boldest key
To strain of high festivity!
Can'st thou be silent in the brake,
Loitering by Altrive's mountain lake,
When he who gave the hand its sway
That now has tuned thee many a day,
Has gained thee honours trulier won,
Than e'er by sword of Albyn's son;
High guerdon of a soul refined,
The meed of an exalted mind?
To strain of high festivity!
Can'st thou be silent in the brake,
Loitering by Altrive's mountain lake,
When he who gave the hand its sway
That now has tuned thee many a day,
Has gained thee honours trulier won,
Than e'er by sword of Albyn's son;
High guerdon of a soul refined,
The meed of an exalted mind?
Well suits such wreath thy loyal head,
My counsellor, and friend indeed.
Though hard through life I've pressed my way
For many a chill and joyless day,
Since I have lived enrapt to hail
My sovereign's worth, my friend's avail,
And see, what more I prize than gain,
Our forest harp the bays obtain,
I'll ween I have not lived in vain.
My counsellor, and friend indeed.
Though hard through life I've pressed my way
For many a chill and joyless day,
Since I have lived enrapt to hail
My sovereign's worth, my friend's avail,
And see, what more I prize than gain,
Our forest harp the bays obtain,
I'll ween I have not lived in vain.
Ah! could I dream when first we met,
When by the scanty ingle set,
Beyond the moors where curlews wheel
In Ettrick's bleakest, loneliest sheil,
Conning old songs of other times,
Most uncouth chants and crabbed rhymes—
Could I e'er dream that wayward wight,
Of roguish joke, and heart so light,
In whose oft-changing eye I gazed,
Not without dread the head was crazed,
Should e'er, by genius' force alone,
Skim o'er an ocean sailed by none;
All the hid shoals of envy miss,
And gain such noble port as this?
When by the scanty ingle set,
Beyond the moors where curlews wheel
In Ettrick's bleakest, loneliest sheil,
Conning old songs of other times,
Most uncouth chants and crabbed rhymes—
Could I e'er dream that wayward wight,
Of roguish joke, and heart so light,
In whose oft-changing eye I gazed,
Not without dread the head was crazed,
Should e'er, by genius' force alone,
Skim o'er an ocean sailed by none;
All the hid shoals of envy miss,
And gain such noble port as this?
I could not: but I cherish still
Mirth at the scene, and ever will,
When o'er the fells we took our way;
('Tis twenty years, even to a day,
Since we two sought the fabled urn
Of marble blue by Rankleburn):
No tomb appeared; but oft we traced
Towns, camps, and battle-lines effaced,
Which never were, nor could remain,
Save in the bold enthusiast's brain:
The same to us—it turned our lays
To chiefs and tales of ancient days.
One broken pot alone was found
Deep in the rubbish under ground,
In middle of the ancient fane—
“A gallant helmet split in twain!”
The truth was obvious; but in faith
On you all words were waste of breath;
You only looked demure and sly,
And sore the brow fell o'er the eye;
You could not bear that you should ride
O'er pathless waste and forest wide,
Only to say that you had been
To see that nought was to be seen.
Mirth at the scene, and ever will,
When o'er the fells we took our way;
('Tis twenty years, even to a day,
Since we two sought the fabled urn
Of marble blue by Rankleburn):
No tomb appeared; but oft we traced
Towns, camps, and battle-lines effaced,
Which never were, nor could remain,
Save in the bold enthusiast's brain:
The same to us—it turned our lays
To chiefs and tales of ancient days.
One broken pot alone was found
Deep in the rubbish under ground,
In middle of the ancient fane—
“A gallant helmet split in twain!”
The truth was obvious; but in faith
On you all words were waste of breath;
376
And sore the brow fell o'er the eye;
You could not bear that you should ride
O'er pathless waste and forest wide,
Only to say that you had been
To see that nought was to be seen.
The evenings came; more social mirth
Ne'er flowed around the cottage hearth:
When Maitland's song first met your ear,
How the furled visage up did clear,
Beaming delight! though now a shade
Of doubt would darken into dread
That some unskilled presumptuous arm
Had marred tradition's mighty charm.
Ne'er flowed around the cottage hearth:
When Maitland's song first met your ear,
How the furled visage up did clear,
Beaming delight! though now a shade
Of doubt would darken into dread
That some unskilled presumptuous arm
Had marred tradition's mighty charm.
Scarce grew thy lurking dread the less,
Till she, the ancient minstreless,
With fervid voice, and kindling eye,
And withered arms waving on high,
Sung forth these words in eldritch shriek,
While tears stood on thy nut-brown cheek—
Till she, the ancient minstreless,
With fervid voice, and kindling eye,
And withered arms waving on high,
Sung forth these words in eldritch shriek,
While tears stood on thy nut-brown cheek—
“Na, we are nane o' the lads o' France,
Nor e'er pretend to be;
We be three lads of fair Scotland,
Auld Maitland's sons, a' three!”
Nor e'er pretend to be;
We be three lads of fair Scotland,
Auld Maitland's sons, a' three!”
Thy fist made all the table ring—
“By ---, sir, but that is the thing!”
“By ---, sir, but that is the thing!”
Yes, twenty years have come and fled
Since we two met, and time has shed
His riming honours o'er each brow—
My state the same, how changed art thou!
But every year yet overpast
I've loved thee dearer than the last.
For all the volumes thou hast wrote,
Those that are owned, and that are not,
Let these be conned even to a grain,
I've said it, and will say't again—
Who knows thee but by these alone,
The better half is still unknown.
Since we two met, and time has shed
His riming honours o'er each brow—
My state the same, how changed art thou!
But every year yet overpast
I've loved thee dearer than the last.
For all the volumes thou hast wrote,
Those that are owned, and that are not,
Let these be conned even to a grain,
I've said it, and will say't again—
Who knows thee but by these alone,
The better half is still unknown.
I know thee well—no kinder breast
Beats for the woes of the distrest,
Bleeds for the wounds it cannot heal,
Or yearns more o'er thy country's weal.
Thy love embraces Britain o'er,
And spreads and radiates with her shore;
Scarce fading on her ocean's foam,
But still 'tis brightest nearest home,
Till those within its central rays,
Rejoicing, bask within the blaze.
Beats for the woes of the distrest,
Bleeds for the wounds it cannot heal,
Or yearns more o'er thy country's weal.
Thy love embraces Britain o'er,
And spreads and radiates with her shore;
Scarce fading on her ocean's foam,
But still 'tis brightest nearest home,
Till those within its central rays,
Rejoicing, bask within the blaze.
Blessed be the act of sovereign grace,
That raised thee 'bove the rhyming race;
Blessed be the heart and head elate,
The noble generous estimate
That marked thy worth, and owned the hand
Resistless in its native land.
Bootless the waste of empty words,
Thy pen is worth ten thousand swords.
That raised thee 'bove the rhyming race;
Blessed be the heart and head elate,
The noble generous estimate
That marked thy worth, and owned the hand
Resistless in its native land.
Bootless the waste of empty words,
Thy pen is worth ten thousand swords.
Long brook thy honours, gallant knight,
So firm of soul, so stanch of right;
For had thy form but reached its prime,
Free from mischance in early time,
No stouter sturdier arm of weir
Had wielded sword or battle spear.
For war thy boardly frame was born,
For battle shout, and bugle-horn;
Thy boyish feats, thy youthful dream—
How thy muse kindles at the theme!
Chance marred the path, or Heaven's decree;
How blessed for Scotland and for me!
So firm of soul, so stanch of right;
For had thy form but reached its prime,
Free from mischance in early time,
No stouter sturdier arm of weir
Had wielded sword or battle spear.
For war thy boardly frame was born,
For battle shout, and bugle-horn;
Thy boyish feats, thy youthful dream—
How thy muse kindles at the theme!
Chance marred the path, or Heaven's decree;
How blessed for Scotland and for me!
Scarce sounds thy name as 't did before,—
Walter the Abbot now no more:
Well,—let it be,—I'll not repine,
But love the title since 'tis thine.
Long brook thy honours, firm to stand
As Eildon rock; and that thy land,
The first e'er won by dint of rhyme,
May bear thy name till latest time,
And stretch from bourn of Abbot's-lea
To Philhope Cross, and Eildon Tree,
Is the heart's wish of one who's still
Thy grateful shepherd of the hill!
Walter the Abbot now no more:
Well,—let it be,—I'll not repine,
But love the title since 'tis thine.
Long brook thy honours, firm to stand
As Eildon rock; and that thy land,
The first e'er won by dint of rhyme,
May bear thy name till latest time,
And stretch from bourn of Abbot's-lea
To Philhope Cross, and Eildon Tree,
Is the heart's wish of one who's still
Thy grateful shepherd of the hill!
The Descent of Love.
Ah youthful Love! thy votarist,
Though oft he turns into a jest
Thy freaks or foibles, yet will join
In humble worship at thy shrine,
And eulogize thee morn and even,
As the best, earliest gift of Heaven.
Though oft he turns into a jest
Thy freaks or foibles, yet will join
In humble worship at thy shrine,
And eulogize thee morn and even,
As the best, earliest gift of Heaven.
Thou blushing thing of pain and bliss!
Child of a happier sphere than this!
Wert thou a nursling of the sky,
Foster'd in Paradise on high,
To thrill the radiant breasts above?
No—angels feel not youthful love!
Theirs is a flame we cannot know,
A holy ardour free from woe;
But ours a joy, supreme, intense,
A short and splendid recompense
For an esteem, unbroke, unmoved,
Which man immortal might have proved.
Art thou not then, O virtuous love,
The dearest gift of Heaven above?
Child of a happier sphere than this!
Wert thou a nursling of the sky,
Foster'd in Paradise on high,
To thrill the radiant breasts above?
No—angels feel not youthful love!
Theirs is a flame we cannot know,
A holy ardour free from woe;
But ours a joy, supreme, intense,
A short and splendid recompense
For an esteem, unbroke, unmoved,
Which man immortal might have proved.
Art thou not then, O virtuous love,
The dearest gift of Heaven above?
Blest be thy native home on earth,
The place that own'd thy mystic birth,
When far beneath the golden morn
Was thy seraphic being born.
Where Euphrates and Tigris' strands
Join 'mid the sweet Assyrian lands;
Where that great river rolling blue
Mirror'd the earliest flowers that grew,
When scarce had bud began to blow,
Or blossom deck'd the world below,
Then was the shade of tiny tree
The bed of thy nativity.
The place that own'd thy mystic birth,
When far beneath the golden morn
Was thy seraphic being born.
Where Euphrates and Tigris' strands
Join 'mid the sweet Assyrian lands;
Where that great river rolling blue
Mirror'd the earliest flowers that grew,
When scarce had bud began to blow,
Or blossom deck'd the world below,
377
The bed of thy nativity.
While the first pair of human frame
Lay weeping their immortal blame,
By deep remorse and sorrow toss'd,
For all their gifts and glory lost;
Even then, when grief was at the full,
And no redress their pains to lull,
Thy cherub form from heaven descended,
In all the rays of beauty blended,
And their repentant breasts above
Thou wov'st the holy ties of love;
While by a mystic art unnamed
Of thy fair self the bonds were framed,
And ne'er did heavenly art entwine
A wreath so cheering and divine.
Lay weeping their immortal blame,
By deep remorse and sorrow toss'd,
For all their gifts and glory lost;
Even then, when grief was at the full,
And no redress their pains to lull,
Thy cherub form from heaven descended,
In all the rays of beauty blended,
And their repentant breasts above
Thou wov'st the holy ties of love;
While by a mystic art unnamed
Of thy fair self the bonds were framed,
And ne'er did heavenly art entwine
A wreath so cheering and divine.
Full soon the pair thy presence own'd;
They found their hearts to nature bound
By tie, not proved, nor understood,
A bond of kindred and of blood,
And in delight without alloy
Their hearts rejoiced in nature's joy.
The river flow'd more silvery bright,
The flowers were glowing with delight,
The young twin roses had begun
Their homage to the morning sun,
In odours breathed from bosoms meek,
And made obeisance cheek to cheek.
They found their hearts to nature bound
By tie, not proved, nor understood,
A bond of kindred and of blood,
And in delight without alloy
Their hearts rejoiced in nature's joy.
The river flow'd more silvery bright,
The flowers were glowing with delight,
The young twin roses had begun
Their homage to the morning sun,
In odours breathed from bosoms meek,
And made obeisance cheek to cheek.
In a blest world they seem'd to move,
A world of pathos and of love,
Where all was deck'd in glories new;
The sunbeam kiss'd the morning dew:
The fields were robed in deeper green;
The blue of heaven was more serene;
The birds sang sweeter in the grove,
Hailing the natal morn of love;
Not even from Eden's sacred tree
Was ever pour'd such melody.
A world of pathos and of love,
Where all was deck'd in glories new;
The sunbeam kiss'd the morning dew:
The fields were robed in deeper green;
The blue of heaven was more serene;
The birds sang sweeter in the grove,
Hailing the natal morn of love;
Not even from Eden's sacred tree
Was ever pour'd such melody.
But of all ecstasies refined,
The greatest still remain'd behind,
A new delight thrill'd and subdued,
When eye met eye with love imbued;
When he with raptures scarce terrene
First turn'd his view on nature's queen,
On that dear form whose soften'd charms
Besought protection in his arms;
Whose every look, and smile, and sigh,
Bespoke a chasten'd courtesy.
He saw her eye of deeper blue,
Her cheek grown rosier in its hue,
While her fair bosom's gentle swell
With hallow'd heavings rose and fell;
Then was thy heavenly being blest
With earthly home of holy rest,
And woman's breast was form'd to be
The tabernacle meet for thee.
The greatest still remain'd behind,
A new delight thrill'd and subdued,
When eye met eye with love imbued;
When he with raptures scarce terrene
First turn'd his view on nature's queen,
On that dear form whose soften'd charms
Besought protection in his arms;
Whose every look, and smile, and sigh,
Bespoke a chasten'd courtesy.
He saw her eye of deeper blue,
Her cheek grown rosier in its hue,
While her fair bosom's gentle swell
With hallow'd heavings rose and fell;
Then was thy heavenly being blest
With earthly home of holy rest,
And woman's breast was form'd to be
The tabernacle meet for thee.
Wallace.
Let every nation, every age,
Boast of its warrior, patriot, sage;
Take all in list below the sun,
From Samson down to Wellington;
And in one little northern land,
Amid the ocean's raving strand,
A shapeless mass of isle and firth,
The outmost limits of the earth,
I pledge my word a knight to name,
For patriot worth, for warrior fame,
For might, for honour, courage true,
For love of king, and country too,
That shall them all in one outdo.
Boast of its warrior, patriot, sage;
Take all in list below the sun,
From Samson down to Wellington;
And in one little northern land,
Amid the ocean's raving strand,
A shapeless mass of isle and firth,
The outmost limits of the earth,
I pledge my word a knight to name,
For patriot worth, for warrior fame,
For might, for honour, courage true,
For love of king, and country too,
That shall them all in one outdo.
Bold is the challenge. I have laid
My word in pawn; and if 'tis said
Or thought (as God forbid the sin)
“A poet's word's not worth a pin;”
Why then I pledge my pen beside,
In which, forsooth, I more confide.
“Who is this patriot? Where the isle?”
I hear you say, and see you smile:
Well—mockery is the poet's due
When his position proves untrue.
That land is Caledonia hight;
That hero's name is Wallace wight.
My word in pawn; and if 'tis said
Or thought (as God forbid the sin)
“A poet's word's not worth a pin;”
Why then I pledge my pen beside,
In which, forsooth, I more confide.
“Who is this patriot? Where the isle?”
I hear you say, and see you smile:
Well—mockery is the poet's due
When his position proves untrue.
That land is Caledonia hight;
That hero's name is Wallace wight.
Wallace! unstained, illustrious name!
My country's honour, and her shame!
Can there a Scottish heart be found,
That glows not at the very sound
Of such a name? Is breast so base
That burns not at our hero's praise?
There was—but with thy life it past,
And thou hast found thy due at last,
Wallace! unstained, illustrious name!
My country's honour, and her shame!
My country's honour, and her shame!
Can there a Scottish heart be found,
That glows not at the very sound
Of such a name? Is breast so base
That burns not at our hero's praise?
There was—but with thy life it past,
And thou hast found thy due at last,
Wallace! unstained, illustrious name!
My country's honour, and her shame!
Cæsar might roam in days agone
O'er lands where science never shone;
And Grecia's maniac king o'errun
The nations of the morning sun,
Whom the great Tartar, next in fame,
Far journeying, saw and overcame.
These themes of many an annalist,
These things insatiate and unblest,
What have they done?—Did good design
With one of all their deeds combine?
With such resources, such array,
Such warriors to dispute their way,
Their fame's fantastic and untrue,
Nor praise nor honour is their due.
Cursed be the trophies, cursed the joy
Of him who conquers to destroy!
O'er lands where science never shone;
And Grecia's maniac king o'errun
The nations of the morning sun,
Whom the great Tartar, next in fame,
Far journeying, saw and overcame.
These themes of many an annalist,
These things insatiate and unblest,
378
With one of all their deeds combine?
With such resources, such array,
Such warriors to dispute their way,
Their fame's fantastic and untrue,
Nor praise nor honour is their due.
Cursed be the trophies, cursed the joy
Of him who conquers to destroy!
Descend to days ourselves have seen,
And deeds such as have never been
Of devastation, tyrant wrath,
Of ruin, and dismay, and death;—
Even there, what hero e'er hath stood
Amid oppression's foaming flood,
Without one stay to rest upon,
Unawed, undaunted, and alone;
And by his single arm of might
Preserved his country's primal right?
If such there be, a nation's pride,
With Wallace be he named and tried.
And deeds such as have never been
Of devastation, tyrant wrath,
Of ruin, and dismay, and death;—
Even there, what hero e'er hath stood
Amid oppression's foaming flood,
Without one stay to rest upon,
Unawed, undaunted, and alone;
And by his single arm of might
Preserved his country's primal right?
If such there be, a nation's pride,
With Wallace be he named and tried.
No; vain the contest, vain the proof;
Stand, Swede and Corsican, aloof:
What boots the hero's enterprise
Without a nation's energies?
Endeavours else would madness seem—
So all men say, and all men deem.
Stand, Swede and Corsican, aloof:
What boots the hero's enterprise
Without a nation's energies?
Endeavours else would madness seem—
So all men say, and all men deem.
But there was one,—when power had bowed,
When king and nobles were subdued,
And joined the oppressor to efface
The last faint lines of Scotia's race:
When bent before the mighty blast
Prince, chief, and warrior; and the last,
The peasant, on his native field,
Was forced indignantly to yield,
In whom alone the glorious light
Was smothered, not extinguished quite.
'Twas then that one gigantic soul
Dared the whole tide of power control;
Lifted his mighty sword—and then,
Amid the multitudes of men,
Stood like a rock whose rugged side
Repels the wind, the storm, the tide;
Proclaimed the freedom of the land,
Though lodged within his own right hand;
And vowed to Heaven that land to free,
Or die with her lost liberty!
When king and nobles were subdued,
And joined the oppressor to efface
The last faint lines of Scotia's race:
When bent before the mighty blast
Prince, chief, and warrior; and the last,
The peasant, on his native field,
Was forced indignantly to yield,
In whom alone the glorious light
Was smothered, not extinguished quite.
'Twas then that one gigantic soul
Dared the whole tide of power control;
Lifted his mighty sword—and then,
Amid the multitudes of men,
Stood like a rock whose rugged side
Repels the wind, the storm, the tide;
Proclaimed the freedom of the land,
Though lodged within his own right hand;
And vowed to Heaven that land to free,
Or die with her lost liberty!
That noble heart, that free-born mind,
Was lodged within no common hind.
His stature was the pine tree's height;
His strength beyond the bison's might;
Serene of soul, of courage high,
The light of heaven was in his eye;
While every look, and word, and nod,
Bespoke the chief upraised by God;
And deeds of a resistless brand
Gave token of supreme command:
The hardy peasant roused to ire,
Soon caught a portion of the fire.
Was lodged within no common hind.
His stature was the pine tree's height;
His strength beyond the bison's might;
Serene of soul, of courage high,
The light of heaven was in his eye;
While every look, and word, and nod,
Bespoke the chief upraised by God;
And deeds of a resistless brand
Gave token of supreme command:
The hardy peasant roused to ire,
Soon caught a portion of the fire.
Then burst the glorious flame to light;
The spark of heaven spread far and bright.
The shepherd left the mountain steep,
He left his folds and flocks of sheep;
The hind forsook his furrowed field,
And grasped the spear and knotted shield;
And even the haggard artizan
Looked fiercer than the eye of man
E'er looked before; and one might trace
A grimness settled on each face,
A resolution that bespoke
Hatred of tyrant's galling yoke.
Scotland, thou nurse of courage true,
Beneath the plaid and bonnet blue!
Land of the loyal patriot flame,
Where Wallace fought, and Bruce o'ercame;
Land of the mountain-oak and pine,
I have one honour—I am thine!
The spark of heaven spread far and bright.
The shepherd left the mountain steep,
He left his folds and flocks of sheep;
The hind forsook his furrowed field,
And grasped the spear and knotted shield;
And even the haggard artizan
Looked fiercer than the eye of man
E'er looked before; and one might trace
A grimness settled on each face,
A resolution that bespoke
Hatred of tyrant's galling yoke.
Scotland, thou nurse of courage true,
Beneath the plaid and bonnet blue!
Land of the loyal patriot flame,
Where Wallace fought, and Bruce o'ercame;
Land of the mountain-oak and pine,
I have one honour—I am thine!
Armies decayed, as by a charm,
Before one dread resistless arm;
The mightiest towers were level laid;
The foe was humbled and dismayed:
For no defence could aught avail;
Nor fort, nor city, hill nor vale,
Could shield them from the fierce alarm,
And vengeance of that deadly arm.
Before one dread resistless arm;
The mightiest towers were level laid;
The foe was humbled and dismayed:
For no defence could aught avail;
Nor fort, nor city, hill nor vale,
Could shield them from the fierce alarm,
And vengeance of that deadly arm.
Aloof the envious nobles stood,
Awed at the waste of warrior blood;
They saw the land from foes set free,
And scarcely weened how it might be;
But few there were who deigned to yield
Assistance in the glorious field.
Awed at the waste of warrior blood;
They saw the land from foes set free,
And scarcely weened how it might be;
But few there were who deigned to yield
Assistance in the glorious field.
No lands, no wealth, no rich resource,
Had Wallace to sustain his force;
A heavy sword and dauntless heart
Were all he had—the hero's part!
Without reward his warriors fought—
None was to give, and none they sought;
Freedom the only hire they know,
And booty from a vanquished foe.
Had Wallace to sustain his force;
A heavy sword and dauntless heart
Were all he had—the hero's part!
Without reward his warriors fought—
None was to give, and none they sought;
Freedom the only hire they know,
And booty from a vanquished foe.
The greatest king on earth was foiled,
His realms invaded and despoiled.
Proud England with amazement saw
The chief descend whose sword was law,
With all his motley, bold array,—
The Borderer in his homely gray,
The tartaned clans of every glen,
The wildest hordes of living men,
In every shade the rainbow knew,
The green, the red, the pale, the blue,—
Men of all colours, come to kill,
To burn and ravage at their will,
Through her rich valleys far and near,
And none to check their bold career:
No force, no fraud, no strife they dread,
With doughty Wallace at their head.
Before him, jarring kings combined,
And pride and envy raged behind;
Yet still unchanged, unawed, he fought,
Due vengeance on the English wrought,
And woe to him that dared withstand
His progress through that guilty land!
One year in midst of it he lay,
Returned triumphant with the prey,
And never met with town, or tower,
Or foe, he did not overpower.
His realms invaded and despoiled.
Proud England with amazement saw
The chief descend whose sword was law,
With all his motley, bold array,—
The Borderer in his homely gray,
The tartaned clans of every glen,
The wildest hordes of living men,
In every shade the rainbow knew,
The green, the red, the pale, the blue,—
Men of all colours, come to kill,
To burn and ravage at their will,
Through her rich valleys far and near,
And none to check their bold career:
No force, no fraud, no strife they dread,
With doughty Wallace at their head.
Before him, jarring kings combined,
And pride and envy raged behind;
379
Due vengeance on the English wrought,
And woe to him that dared withstand
His progress through that guilty land!
One year in midst of it he lay,
Returned triumphant with the prey,
And never met with town, or tower,
Or foe, he did not overpower.
His men enriched, his country freed,
(Mark well the hero's every deed!)
All vacant stood the Scottish throne,
'Twas claimed by six, possessed by none:
His conquering army wished to set
Upon his head the coronet;
And this, as Regent, had he chose,
There was no force that could oppose:
But with a heart that would not lure,
And soul as firm as it was pure,
All power or title he disclaimed;
And that it might no more be named,
His high command and guardian sword
Back to the states he straight restored,
Who had that power to him decreed
When in their last and utmost need.
If this is not true patriot worth,
Where hath it ripened on the earth?
(Mark well the hero's every deed!)
All vacant stood the Scottish throne,
'Twas claimed by six, possessed by none:
His conquering army wished to set
Upon his head the coronet;
And this, as Regent, had he chose,
There was no force that could oppose:
But with a heart that would not lure,
And soul as firm as it was pure,
All power or title he disclaimed;
And that it might no more be named,
His high command and guardian sword
Back to the states he straight restored,
Who had that power to him decreed
When in their last and utmost need.
If this is not true patriot worth,
Where hath it ripened on the earth?
Again the land's in danger great,
For wild division rends the state;
Again the staff to him they yield
To lead them to the sanguine field.
'Gainst his own prince he's doomed to fight,
All to uphold that prince's right,
While envy, hate, and Highland pride,
Success to the great cause denied.
For wild division rends the state;
Again the staff to him they yield
To lead them to the sanguine field.
'Gainst his own prince he's doomed to fight,
All to uphold that prince's right,
While envy, hate, and Highland pride,
Success to the great cause denied.
By foes beleaguered, faint, outworn,
His mighty soul with grief was torn;
Down to the Carron's shore alone
Darkling he strayed, to vent his moan
For those had fallen in that day's strife,
And yielded but with yielding life;
Stewart and Graham—the good, the great;
Man's perfidy, and Scotland's fate.
'Twas there and then, concealed from sight
Within the curtain of the night,
That to his prince these words he said,
And his free bosom open laid.
His mighty soul with grief was torn;
Down to the Carron's shore alone
Darkling he strayed, to vent his moan
For those had fallen in that day's strife,
And yielded but with yielding life;
Stewart and Graham—the good, the great;
Man's perfidy, and Scotland's fate.
'Twas there and then, concealed from sight
Within the curtain of the night,
That to his prince these words he said,
And his free bosom open laid.
“And dost thou ween, unhappy knight,
That I for power or honours fight?
That I would sear this head with crown,
Or hand with sceptre not mine own?
That Wallace e'er would stoop to claim
Usurper's loathed and hateful name,
And thus disgrace the sacred cause
Of country's freedom, rights, and laws?
Cursed be the arm for this that fought,
The heart that cherished such a thought!
That I for power or honours fight?
That I would sear this head with crown,
Or hand with sceptre not mine own?
That Wallace e'er would stoop to claim
Usurper's loathed and hateful name,
And thus disgrace the sacred cause
Of country's freedom, rights, and laws?
Cursed be the arm for this that fought,
The heart that cherished such a thought!
“No, prince;—I've fought for liberty;
I've done but what belonged to thee.
When basely thou renounced the crown,
And joined with foes against thine own;
When all the nobles, all the great,
That should have borne the battle's weight,
Had left poor Scotland to the tide
Of tyrant might, and none to guide;
'Twas then that I, by forest deep,
In pathless wild, and mountain steep,
Where friend or comforter was none,
Withstood King Edward's power alone.
Striving, nor vainly did I strive,
To keep the trembling spark alive,
I reared our standard on the tree,
And fought for liberty and thee.
I've done but what belonged to thee.
When basely thou renounced the crown,
And joined with foes against thine own;
When all the nobles, all the great,
That should have borne the battle's weight,
Had left poor Scotland to the tide
Of tyrant might, and none to guide;
'Twas then that I, by forest deep,
In pathless wild, and mountain steep,
Where friend or comforter was none,
Withstood King Edward's power alone.
Striving, nor vainly did I strive,
To keep the trembling spark alive,
I reared our standard on the tree,
And fought for liberty and thee.
“Though twice I've driven him from our coast,
By treachery is the advantage lost;
Whilst thou, injurious to thy land,
Hast torn her bowels with the hand
That should have proved her guardian shield,
And pressed the foremost on the field.
By treachery is the advantage lost;
Whilst thou, injurious to thy land,
Hast torn her bowels with the hand
That should have proved her guardian shield,
And pressed the foremost on the field.
“Oh, yet be free!—and here I swear
The Scottish crown thou hence shalt wear;
My guardian power I'll yield with pride,
And fight thy battles by thy side:
Be Scotland free from England's chain,
I am content though I remain
The meanest follower in thy train.”
The Scottish crown thou hence shalt wear;
My guardian power I'll yield with pride,
And fight thy battles by thy side:
Be Scotland free from England's chain,
I am content though I remain
The meanest follower in thy train.”
This glorious model match who can?
There spoke the patriot and the man.
True son of Scotia!—Chief of fame,
Dear is thy memory and thy name!
A memory that claims a part
In the best feelings of the heart;
A rousing charm that points to truth;
A torch that lights the soul of youth
To valour, honour, warrior feat,
To all that's good and all that's great.
Star of my country—of the land
That never crouched to foeman's brand!
There spoke the patriot and the man.
True son of Scotia!—Chief of fame,
Dear is thy memory and thy name!
A memory that claims a part
In the best feelings of the heart;
A rousing charm that points to truth;
A torch that lights the soul of youth
To valour, honour, warrior feat,
To all that's good and all that's great.
Star of my country—of the land
That never crouched to foeman's brand!
Oft have I seen the veteran old,
When telling tales of warrior bold,
If word of One were said or sung,
Nay, if, by chance, from maiden's tongue
Wallace's name in whispers fell,
His form would seem to grow and swell,
His eye would shed a brighter ray,
And prouder wave his locks of gray.
When telling tales of warrior bold,
If word of One were said or sung,
Nay, if, by chance, from maiden's tongue
Wallace's name in whispers fell,
His form would seem to grow and swell,
His eye would shed a brighter ray,
And prouder wave his locks of gray.
To drowsy boy in winter night,
Speak but the name of Wallace wight;
Although his weather-beaten head
Should on his ragged sleeve be laid
In dozing mood, with closed eye,
With white bluff cheek, and mouth awry;
If Wallace' name but meet his ear
How his brown visage up will clear!
His eyelids heavy and opprest
He'll raise, and gape to hear the rest.
Speak but the name of Wallace wight;
Although his weather-beaten head
Should on his ragged sleeve be laid
In dozing mood, with closed eye,
With white bluff cheek, and mouth awry;
If Wallace' name but meet his ear
How his brown visage up will clear!
His eyelids heavy and opprest
He'll raise, and gape to hear the rest.
380
Oft had the sire, at midnight deep,
Been wakened from his grateful sleep
By prattling imp, that he might say
Tales o'er and o'er till break of day;
Tales that had broke the lubber's rest
Of Him whose name he loved the best;
Of hard unequal combats won;
What heroes fought and were outdone;
And haply, ere next evening fell,
These tales were all again to tell.
Ah! many a lip of maiden coy,
And cheek of blowzy cottage boy,
Have at his deeds with ardour flamed,
And blenched when a Monteith was named.
Been wakened from his grateful sleep
By prattling imp, that he might say
Tales o'er and o'er till break of day;
Tales that had broke the lubber's rest
Of Him whose name he loved the best;
Of hard unequal combats won;
What heroes fought and were outdone;
And haply, ere next evening fell,
These tales were all again to tell.
Ah! many a lip of maiden coy,
And cheek of blowzy cottage boy,
Have at his deeds with ardour flamed,
And blenched when a Monteith was named.
Blessed be the dame whose kindred faith
Drove her from church in triple wrath!
She deemed the bedesman Southron's tool,
A sneaking knave, a prating fool,
For saying that “since time began
One Samson was the strongest man;
And that the Bible's sacred page
Was the best book of any age.”
But on the threshold, in her wrath,
To vindicate her patriot faith,
She turned, and cried, squeaking amain,
“Read Wallace, and say so again!”
Drove her from church in triple wrath!
She deemed the bedesman Southron's tool,
A sneaking knave, a prating fool,
For saying that “since time began
One Samson was the strongest man;
And that the Bible's sacred page
Was the best book of any age.”
But on the threshold, in her wrath,
To vindicate her patriot faith,
She turned, and cried, squeaking amain,
“Read Wallace, and say so again!”
That name, in Scotia permanent,
Is with our hearts and annals blent;
Memorial dear, without a blot,
What once she was, and now is not!
And still of all the names I see,
Even in this land of loyalty,
On roll of fame recorded wide,
Or margined on rebellion's side,
(Rebellion's side! Ah, woe's my heart,
That loyalty finds such desert!)
But yet of all these chiefs of worth,
These heroes of the plaided north,
There is not name beloved so well;
On which the soul delights to dwell
Without alloy—or still that can
Stand as the polar star of man:
And doubly blest that man shall be,
That cherisheth his memory!
Is with our hearts and annals blent;
Memorial dear, without a blot,
What once she was, and now is not!
And still of all the names I see,
Even in this land of loyalty,
On roll of fame recorded wide,
Or margined on rebellion's side,
(Rebellion's side! Ah, woe's my heart,
That loyalty finds such desert!)
But yet of all these chiefs of worth,
These heroes of the plaided north,
There is not name beloved so well;
On which the soul delights to dwell
Without alloy—or still that can
Stand as the polar star of man:
And doubly blest that man shall be,
That cherisheth his memory!
This poem was reluctantly and hurriedly written, in compliance with the solicitations of a friend who would not be gainsayed, to compete for a prize offered by a gentleman for the best poem on the subject. The prize was finally awarded to Mrs. Felicia Hemans; and, as far as the merits of mine went, very justly; hers being greatly superior both in elegance of thought and composition. Had I been constituted the judge myself, I would have given hers the preference by many degrees; and I estimated it the more highly as coming from one of the people that were the hero's foes, oppressors, and destroyers. I think my heart never warmed so much to an author for any poem that ever was written.
Hymn to the Evening Star.
Arise, arise, thou Queen of Love!
Thy bed is chilled with evening dew;
Thy robe the virgin fays have wove,
And reared thy canopy of blue.
Thy bed is chilled with evening dew;
Thy robe the virgin fays have wove,
And reared thy canopy of blue.
Oh, let me see thy golden breast,
Thy amber hallow o'er the hill,
And all the chambers of the west,
Thy coronal with glory fill!
Thy amber hallow o'er the hill,
And all the chambers of the west,
Thy coronal with glory fill!
Oh come!—the evening colours fade,
Soft silence broods o'er lawn and lea;
And beauty in the greenwood shade
Uplifts a longing eye for thee.
Soft silence broods o'er lawn and lea;
And beauty in the greenwood shade
Uplifts a longing eye for thee.
Thy temple be this sylvan bower,
Where wounded lovers kneel confest;
Thine altar-cloth the daisy flower;
Thy tabernacle beauty's breast;
Where wounded lovers kneel confest;
Thine altar-cloth the daisy flower;
Thy tabernacle beauty's breast;
Be this thy dearest, holiest shrine;
Thy breviary two beaming eyes;
And aye I'll pant to see thee shine—
Beloved star, arise, arise!
Thy breviary two beaming eyes;
And aye I'll pant to see thee shine—
Beloved star, arise, arise!
Oh, let thy spirit seek the glade,
To hear thy holy vesper sung,—
But tell not where my cheek was laid,
Nor where my careless arm was flung.
To hear thy holy vesper sung,—
But tell not where my cheek was laid,
Nor where my careless arm was flung.
As slowly steals, on angel's wing,
Thy light pavilion down the sky,
Before thee let young seraphs sing
The softest love-sick melody!
Thy light pavilion down the sky,
Before thee let young seraphs sing
The softest love-sick melody!
And here on thy beloved shrine,
Where fragrant flames of incense glow,
Pure as that heavenly breast of thine,
And fairer than the virgin snow;
Where fragrant flames of incense glow,
Pure as that heavenly breast of thine,
And fairer than the virgin snow;
Here will I worship with delight,
And pay the vows I made to thee,
Until thy mild and modest light
Is cradled on the heaving sea.
And pay the vows I made to thee,
Until thy mild and modest light
Is cradled on the heaving sea.
Will and Davie:
A SCOTTISH PASTORAL.
Where Yarrow pours her silver billow
Through bowers of birch, and brakes of willow;
Where loud the grouse crows on the fell,
And sweet the thrush sings in the dell;
Where milk-white flocks unnumbered lie,
And mirth laughs keen in every eye;
And plenty smiles from day to day,
Beneath Buccleuch's indulgent sway;
Two friendly shepherds, blithe and young,
Oft on the greensward sat and sung,
Or scoured the lofty fells together,
And brushed the red flower from the heather.
Through bowers of birch, and brakes of willow;
Where loud the grouse crows on the fell,
And sweet the thrush sings in the dell;
Where milk-white flocks unnumbered lie,
And mirth laughs keen in every eye;
And plenty smiles from day to day,
Beneath Buccleuch's indulgent sway;
Two friendly shepherds, blithe and young,
Oft on the greensward sat and sung,
Or scoured the lofty fells together,
And brushed the red flower from the heather.
One morn they tuned, by dawn of day,
On Bowerhope Law the rural lay;
For such a scene that lay was meet—
As wildly gay, as simply sweet;
The great may even lend an ear
Wild Yarrow's mountain strains to hear.
DAVIE.On Bowerhope Law the rural lay;
For such a scene that lay was meet—
As wildly gay, as simply sweet;
The great may even lend an ear
Wild Yarrow's mountain strains to hear.
Ah, Will, these purple heather blooms,
That round us shed their light perfumes,
381
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.
Ah, shepherd, cease; your idle strain
Adds sharpness to my bosom's pain.
How can ye pour that strain so airy,
That trifling, idle, wild vagary;
Nor, sadly, once reflect with me
On what has been, and what may be?
Adds sharpness to my bosom's pain.
How can ye pour that strain so airy,
That trifling, idle, wild vagary;
Nor, sadly, once reflect with me
On what has been, and what may be?
“As little heeds the lark on high
The watchful falcon hovering nigh,
But flickering his kind mate above,
He trills his matin song of love.
Ah, reckless bird, that lively strain
Thy mate shall never hear again!
The spoiler tears thy panting breast,
And all forsaken is thy nest.”
The watchful falcon hovering nigh,
But flickering his kind mate above,
He trills his matin song of love.
Ah, reckless bird, that lively strain
Thy mate shall never hear again!
The spoiler tears thy panting breast,
And all forsaken is thy nest.”
Cease, shepherd, cease—the case is yours;
The sky of Britain threatening lowers!
Else, let your strain be soft and slow,
And every fall a note of woe.
The sky of Britain threatening lowers!
Else, let your strain be soft and slow,
And every fall a note of woe.
DAVIE.
How can I strike one plaintive sound
While nature smiles so sweet around?
See how our lambs, in many a skein,
Are dancing on the daisied green;
Their pliant limbs they keenly brace,
Strained in the unambitious race;
Till gruff old wedders, blithe to see
The young things skip so merrily,
With motley antics join the throng,
And bob and caper them among.
While nature smiles so sweet around?
See how our lambs, in many a skein,
Are dancing on the daisied green;
Their pliant limbs they keenly brace,
Strained in the unambitious race;
Till gruff old wedders, blithe to see
The young things skip so merrily,
With motley antics join the throng,
And bob and caper them among.
The plover whistles in the glen,
The tewit lilts above the fen;
Even the hoarse curlew strains her throat,
And yelps her loudest, liveliest note:
The rural joy then must I shun,
So ripened by the rising sun?
No—while my bosom beats so high,
Responsive to a lovely eye
That pierced it with a gilded arrow,
I'll sing of love, of joy, and Yarrow.
The tewit lilts above the fen;
Even the hoarse curlew strains her throat,
And yelps her loudest, liveliest note:
The rural joy then must I shun,
So ripened by the rising sun?
No—while my bosom beats so high,
Responsive to a lovely eye
That pierced it with a gilded arrow,
I'll sing of love, of joy, and Yarrow.
I'll sing that rural scene before me;
That shady world of placid glory.
See how the afer vibrates o'er
The lofty front of brown Clokmore;
Beyond Carlevon's rocky crest
The drowsy moon sinks pale to rest;
An angel shade of silken green
O'erveils the cliffs of wild Loch Skene;
While Border Cheviot, blue and high,
Melts like a shadow on the sky.
That shady world of placid glory.
See how the afer vibrates o'er
The lofty front of brown Clokmore;
Beyond Carlevon's rocky crest
The drowsy moon sinks pale to rest;
An angel shade of silken green
O'erveils the cliffs of wild Loch Skene;
While Border Cheviot, blue and high,
Melts like a shadow on the sky.
From proud Mount Benger's top, the sun
His airy course has scarce begun;
His orient cheek is resting still
Upon the gray cairn on the hill.
The scarlet curtain of the sky,
A wreathed and waving canopy,
Sweels like the dew on mountain flower
Or frost-work in the southland shower.
His airy course has scarce begun;
His orient cheek is resting still
Upon the gray cairn on the hill.
The scarlet curtain of the sky,
A wreathed and waving canopy,
Sweels like the dew on mountain flower
Or frost-work in the southland shower.
The Yarrow, like a baldrick thrown
Loose on the vale, lies bent and lone;
A silver snake of every dye
That gilds the mountain, tincts the sky;
And slowly o'er her verdant vales
A cobweb veil of vapour sails.
Loose on the vale, lies bent and lone;
A silver snake of every dye
That gilds the mountain, tincts the sky;
And slowly o'er her verdant vales
A cobweb veil of vapour sails.
Saint Mary holds her mirror sheen,
To moorland gray and mountain green;
To speckled schell-fowl hovering nigh,
To milky swan and morning sky:
Their phantom cliffs hang trembling low,
And hoary thorns inverted grow.
To moorland gray and mountain green;
To speckled schell-fowl hovering nigh,
To milky swan and morning sky:
Their phantom cliffs hang trembling low,
And hoary thorns inverted grow.
Her purple bosom sleeps as still
As sunbeam on the silent hill,
No curling breeze across it strays,
No sportful eddy o'er it plays,
Save where the wild duck wanders slow,
Or dark trout spreads his waxing O.
As sunbeam on the silent hill,
No curling breeze across it strays,
No sportful eddy o'er it plays,
Save where the wild duck wanders slow,
Or dark trout spreads his waxing O.
Look to the east—'tis shadow all,
Crowned by yon broad and dazzling ball.
Turn westward—mountain, glen, and wold,
Are all one blaze of burning gold!
Crowned by yon broad and dazzling ball.
Turn westward—mountain, glen, and wold,
Are all one blaze of burning gold!
Ah, God of nature! such a scene,
So grand, so lovely, so serene,
Bears the free soul on rapture's wing,
Before thy diamond throne to sing;
Above yon sky's celestial blue,
To gaze on glories ever new;
And list the strains of angel song
From angel harps that pour along,
By fragrant breezes softly driven
O'er suns that sand the floors of heaven.
So grand, so lovely, so serene,
Bears the free soul on rapture's wing,
Before thy diamond throne to sing;
Above yon sky's celestial blue,
To gaze on glories ever new;
And list the strains of angel song
From angel harps that pour along,
By fragrant breezes softly driven
O'er suns that sand the floors of heaven.
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.
“No; such a day I find not registered
In my old worn-out memory, although there
The calendar's distinct and legible.
Full sixty years I've sojourned 'neath these rocks:
Look at them, stranger—these dim hideous cliffs,
That wrangle with the heavens. These to me
Are as my kindred; each aërial sound
That comes down from these hoary monitors
Hath language in it. The old raven's voice
Is to me as a brother's; and the eagle
From off his morning cliff tells me the tidings
Of days to come. The cataract's changing note,
Its trumpet tones, and its soft swelling melody,
Have all an utterance. Here I am as much
A thing of nature, of the wilderness,
As cloud or cliff, eagle or sounding stream—
A shred of the ever-changing elements.
In my old worn-out memory, although there
The calendar's distinct and legible.
382
Look at them, stranger—these dim hideous cliffs,
That wrangle with the heavens. These to me
Are as my kindred; each aërial sound
That comes down from these hoary monitors
Hath language in it. The old raven's voice
Is to me as a brother's; and the eagle
From off his morning cliff tells me the tidings
Of days to come. The cataract's changing note,
Its trumpet tones, and its soft swelling melody,
Have all an utterance. Here I am as much
A thing of nature, of the wilderness,
As cloud or cliff, eagle or sounding stream—
A shred of the ever-changing elements.
“But on that dreadful day my ample book,
The great vocabulary of nature, closed,
And voices more triumphant went abroad.
Can'st thou divulge me, traveller; were the spirits
Of the vast deep let loose, trying to shake
And shiver this fair universe to pieces?
Or did the eternal God himself descend
Upon our mountains?”
The great vocabulary of nature, closed,
And voices more triumphant went abroad.
Can'st thou divulge me, traveller; were the spirits
Of the vast deep let loose, trying to shake
And shiver this fair universe to pieces?
Or did the eternal God himself descend
Upon our mountains?”
“It was nature all,
Nothing but nature's self, be thou assured,
Most venerable hind; but thou hast seen her
In temporary and strong convulsion.”
Nothing but nature's self, be thou assured,
Most venerable hind; but thou hast seen her
In temporary and strong convulsion.”
“No; I know all her features, all her hues,
And all her thousand voices. Yon fleet clouds,
Which I term billows of the firmament—
Look to them, traveller: how they heave, and sail
From cliff to cliff, roll down into the chasms,
Then rise from the opposing steeps like spray—
Is it not grand?—And think'st thou I not know
Each boding hue, each movement, and each shade,
Of that aërial ocean? What am I
But as a wave of it? and dost thou think,
Old as I am, that I not know myself?
And all her thousand voices. Yon fleet clouds,
Which I term billows of the firmament—
Look to them, traveller: how they heave, and sail
From cliff to cliff, roll down into the chasms,
Then rise from the opposing steeps like spray—
Is it not grand?—And think'st thou I not know
Each boding hue, each movement, and each shade,
Of that aërial ocean? What am I
But as a wave of it? and dost thou think,
Old as I am, that I not know myself?
“You children of the valley live and think
As such behoves, amid the reign of man;
Look on these regions of sublimity,
Changing their shades to all infinitude,
Yet still the same—This is the reign of God!
As such behoves, amid the reign of man;
Look on these regions of sublimity,
Changing their shades to all infinitude,
Yet still the same—This is the reign of God!
“Stare not, I am no maniac. Sit thee down,
While I describe that morning as I saw it
From this same spot.—I rose and looked around;
The hour told that the morning was advanced,
But Heaven said, No. Methought the sun had stood
Still o'er the valley of Jehoshaphat,
Or that the night of Egypt had returned.
It was a hideous twilight. No bird sung;
The flocks forgot to feed, and stood and gazed,
Nor wist they what to dread. Sometimes I heard
A tremulous bleat come from the hills, and then
It came in such a tone it frightened me.
Still darker grew the morn; the brooding cloud
Lean'd its grim bosom deeper o'er the glen;
The heavens and earth were mingled, closed around
And here was I, an old and trembling thing,
Immured between them. For my hills I looked;
I looked to heaven, and for the blessed sun,
But all were lost—all curtained in together
In one impervious veil. I prayed to God,
And waited the event. Forthwith arose
A rushing sound somewhere above my head,
Whether in earth or heaven, in rock or cloud,
I could not tell; but nearer still it came,
And louder and more furious was the sound,
Like many torrents rushing on the wind.
Anon I saw the bosom of the cloud
Begin to heave and work with boiling motion,
And on its murky breast strange hues arose
Of dull and pallid blue, or muffled red,
While frightful openings yawned and closed again.
Nature lay on a bed of travailing;
Now strong convulsions, throes, and wrestlings,
Showed that with serpent birth her breast would rend:
Short then the pause and troubled, ere I saw
The heaven's slow swarthy bosom burst asunder,
And rain, and hail, and bolts of liquid flame
Issued at once. No sooner had the blaze
Dazzled my sight, than from the inmost cloud
The voice of the Eternal God came forth
As if in tenfold wrath; while every cave,
And every echo of these frowning cliffs
Shouted and jabbered as in mockery.
How my heart trembled! and a chillness crept
O'er all my frame; for such a rending crash,
So loud and so prolonged, ne'er stunned the ear
Of sinful worm. Fain would I have rebuked
The hills for such unholy mimicry,
For every rock, ravine, and yawning bourn,
Nay, every tiny clough, sent forth its thunder,
Jarring it proudly: Thus with every peal
Ten thousand thunders issued forth their voices.
Forgive me, stranger, but at times I deemed
The palaces of heaven were rent asunder,
And clattering down the air. The hills were smitten
For their presumption; for the lightning struck
And wounded their green bosoms; and their rocks,
Their proudest peaks were splintered and o'erthrown
By these fleet darts from the Almighty's hand,
And toppled down their sides with feeble sound,
As in confession of their nothingness
Before their Maker's anger. First the hail
Burst through its sable shroud, and strewed the land
With whitened desolation; then the doors,
The flood-gates of that dark impending tide,
Were all let loose, and on the prostrate earth
The mighty cataracts of the heaven descended;
From these proud mountains poured a thousand streams,
Where streams before ne'er ran, and every one
Pelting and foaming 'gainst all opposition
With upstart insolence, as who should say
Here am I; who dare bar my mighty course?
Then, ever and anon, the rending peal
Made the rocks chatter, rolled from hill to hill,
And boomed along the sky. Oh, such a scene
These old dim eyes shall never look upon,
Nor these ears listen, in this earthly frame!
Then tell not me of nature's operations;
That was no produce of her onward work,
But a dire judgment and a grievous one,
As all the land hath found. My Bible calls
Thunder the voice of the Eternal God.
For me, I had a thought, a sinful one,
But I must tell it:—I did dread the fiends
Had met in conclave in that hollow cloud,
That seemed in burning colic with the mass
Within its hideous womb. The gleaming bolts
I deemed the arrows of the Almighty, sent
To scatter and confound them. Then the roars
In still redoubled violence that ensued,
I weened the clamour of outraged demons
Bellowing in wrathful anguish. Then methought
I heard them growling in their burning chariots
Far, far away, above the fields of air,
One after one. It was a passing thought,
A wild and sinful one—God pardon me!
But when the glorious sun looked from on high,
Through golden windows opening in the cloud,
In mild and glowing majesty, it was
Like a glad glimpse of heaven to me, who had
Sat in the shadow of infernal gloom
Amid its horror, uproar, and turmoil;
I could not choose but hail the God of Day,
And King of Glory, on his triumph won.”
While I describe that morning as I saw it
From this same spot.—I rose and looked around;
The hour told that the morning was advanced,
But Heaven said, No. Methought the sun had stood
Still o'er the valley of Jehoshaphat,
Or that the night of Egypt had returned.
It was a hideous twilight. No bird sung;
The flocks forgot to feed, and stood and gazed,
Nor wist they what to dread. Sometimes I heard
A tremulous bleat come from the hills, and then
It came in such a tone it frightened me.
Still darker grew the morn; the brooding cloud
Lean'd its grim bosom deeper o'er the glen;
The heavens and earth were mingled, closed around
And here was I, an old and trembling thing,
Immured between them. For my hills I looked;
I looked to heaven, and for the blessed sun,
But all were lost—all curtained in together
In one impervious veil. I prayed to God,
And waited the event. Forthwith arose
A rushing sound somewhere above my head,
Whether in earth or heaven, in rock or cloud,
I could not tell; but nearer still it came,
And louder and more furious was the sound,
Like many torrents rushing on the wind.
Anon I saw the bosom of the cloud
Begin to heave and work with boiling motion,
And on its murky breast strange hues arose
Of dull and pallid blue, or muffled red,
While frightful openings yawned and closed again.
Nature lay on a bed of travailing;
Now strong convulsions, throes, and wrestlings,
Showed that with serpent birth her breast would rend:
Short then the pause and troubled, ere I saw
The heaven's slow swarthy bosom burst asunder,
And rain, and hail, and bolts of liquid flame
Issued at once. No sooner had the blaze
Dazzled my sight, than from the inmost cloud
The voice of the Eternal God came forth
As if in tenfold wrath; while every cave,
And every echo of these frowning cliffs
Shouted and jabbered as in mockery.
How my heart trembled! and a chillness crept
O'er all my frame; for such a rending crash,
So loud and so prolonged, ne'er stunned the ear
Of sinful worm. Fain would I have rebuked
The hills for such unholy mimicry,
For every rock, ravine, and yawning bourn,
Nay, every tiny clough, sent forth its thunder,
Jarring it proudly: Thus with every peal
Ten thousand thunders issued forth their voices.
Forgive me, stranger, but at times I deemed
The palaces of heaven were rent asunder,
And clattering down the air. The hills were smitten
For their presumption; for the lightning struck
And wounded their green bosoms; and their rocks,
Their proudest peaks were splintered and o'erthrown
By these fleet darts from the Almighty's hand,
And toppled down their sides with feeble sound,
As in confession of their nothingness
Before their Maker's anger. First the hail
Burst through its sable shroud, and strewed the land
With whitened desolation; then the doors,
The flood-gates of that dark impending tide,
Were all let loose, and on the prostrate earth
The mighty cataracts of the heaven descended;
From these proud mountains poured a thousand streams,
Where streams before ne'er ran, and every one
Pelting and foaming 'gainst all opposition
With upstart insolence, as who should say
383
Then, ever and anon, the rending peal
Made the rocks chatter, rolled from hill to hill,
And boomed along the sky. Oh, such a scene
These old dim eyes shall never look upon,
Nor these ears listen, in this earthly frame!
Then tell not me of nature's operations;
That was no produce of her onward work,
But a dire judgment and a grievous one,
As all the land hath found. My Bible calls
Thunder the voice of the Eternal God.
For me, I had a thought, a sinful one,
But I must tell it:—I did dread the fiends
Had met in conclave in that hollow cloud,
That seemed in burning colic with the mass
Within its hideous womb. The gleaming bolts
I deemed the arrows of the Almighty, sent
To scatter and confound them. Then the roars
In still redoubled violence that ensued,
I weened the clamour of outraged demons
Bellowing in wrathful anguish. Then methought
I heard them growling in their burning chariots
Far, far away, above the fields of air,
One after one. It was a passing thought,
A wild and sinful one—God pardon me!
But when the glorious sun looked from on high,
Through golden windows opening in the cloud,
In mild and glowing majesty, it was
Like a glad glimpse of heaven to me, who had
Sat in the shadow of infernal gloom
Amid its horror, uproar, and turmoil;
I could not choose but hail the God of Day,
And King of Glory, on his triumph won.”
Marion Graham.
Awake, my bonnie Marion Graham,
And see this scene before it closes:
The eastern lift is a' on flame,
And a' besprinkled o'er wi' roses.
It is a sight will glad your e'e,
A sight my Marion lo'es to see.
And see this scene before it closes:
The eastern lift is a' on flame,
And a' besprinkled o'er wi' roses.
It is a sight will glad your e'e,
A sight my Marion lo'es to see.
Here are the streaks of gowden light,
Fair as my Marion's locks o' yellow;
And tints of blue as heavenly bright
As smile within her e'e sae mellow;
Her cheeks, young roses, even seem
To dimple in yon heavenly beam.
Fair as my Marion's locks o' yellow;
And tints of blue as heavenly bright
As smile within her e'e sae mellow;
Her cheeks, young roses, even seem
To dimple in yon heavenly beam.
Awake, my bonnie Marion Graham,
Ye never saw sae bright adorning;
I canna bear that my sweet dame
Should lose the pleasures o' this morning;
For what wad a' its beauties be
Without some likeness unto thee?
Ye never saw sae bright adorning;
I canna bear that my sweet dame
Should lose the pleasures o' this morning;
For what wad a' its beauties be
Without some likeness unto thee?
I see thee in the silver stream,
The budding rose, and gracefu' willow;
I see thee in yon morning beam,
And beauty of the glowing billow;
I see thy innocence and glee
In every lamb that skims the lea.
The budding rose, and gracefu' willow;
I see thee in yon morning beam,
And beauty of the glowing billow;
I see thy innocence and glee
In every lamb that skims the lea.
And could you trow it, lovely May?
I see thee in the hues of even;
Thy virgin bed the milky way,
Thy coverlet the veil of heaven:
There have I seen a vision dim
Hush'd by an angel's holy hymn.
I see thee in the hues of even;
Thy virgin bed the milky way,
Thy coverlet the veil of heaven:
There have I seen a vision dim
Hush'd by an angel's holy hymn.
And, Marion, when this morn, above
The gates of heaven, I saw advancing
The morning's gem—the star of love,
My heart with rapture fell a-dancing;
Yet I in all its rays could see,
And all its glories, only thee.
The gates of heaven, I saw advancing
The morning's gem—the star of love,
My heart with rapture fell a-dancing;
Yet I in all its rays could see,
And all its glories, only thee.
Ah, Marion Graham, 'tis e'en ower true,
And Gude forgie my fond devotion!
In earth's sweet green, and heaven's blue,
And all the dyes that deck the ocean,
The scene that brings nae mind o' thee
Has little beauty to my e'e.
And Gude forgie my fond devotion!
In earth's sweet green, and heaven's blue,
And all the dyes that deck the ocean,
The scene that brings nae mind o' thee
Has little beauty to my e'e.
Get up, you little wily knave!
I ken your pawky jinks an' jeering;
You like to hear your lover rave,
An' gar him trow ye dinna hear him;
Yet weel this homage you'll repay—
Get up, my love, an' come away!
I ken your pawky jinks an' jeering;
You like to hear your lover rave,
An' gar him trow ye dinna hear him;
Yet weel this homage you'll repay—
Get up, my love, an' come away!
To the Genius of Shakspeare.
Spirit all limitless,
Where is thy dwelling-place?
Spirit of him whose high name we revere,
Come on thy seraph wings,
Come from thy wanderings,
And smile on thy votaries, who sigh for thee here!
Where is thy dwelling-place?
Spirit of him whose high name we revere,
Come on thy seraph wings,
Come from thy wanderings,
And smile on thy votaries, who sigh for thee here!
Come, O thou spark divine!
Rise from thy hallowed shrine;
Here in the windings of Forth thou shalt see
Hearts true to nature's call,
Spirits congenial,
Proud of their country, yet bowing to thee.
Rise from thy hallowed shrine;
Here in the windings of Forth thou shalt see
Hearts true to nature's call,
Spirits congenial,
Proud of their country, yet bowing to thee.
Here, with rapt heart and tongue,
While our fond minds were young,
Oft thy bold numbers we poured in our mirth;
Now in our hall for aye
This shall be holiday,
Bard of all Nature, to honour thy birth.
While our fond minds were young,
Oft thy bold numbers we poured in our mirth;
Now in our hall for aye
This shall be holiday,
Bard of all Nature, to honour thy birth.
Whether thou tremblest o'er
Green grave of Elsinore,
Stayest o'er the hill of Dunsinnan to hover,
Bosworth, or Shrewsbury,
Egypt, or Phillippi;
Come from thy roamings the universe over.
Green grave of Elsinore,
Stayest o'er the hill of Dunsinnan to hover,
Bosworth, or Shrewsbury,
Egypt, or Phillippi;
Come from thy roamings the universe over.
384
Whether thou journey'st far
On by the morning star,
Dream'st on the shadowy brows of the moon,
Or linger'st in fairyland,
Mid lovely elves to stand,
Singing thy carols unearthly and boon;—
On by the morning star,
Dream'st on the shadowy brows of the moon,
Or linger'st in fairyland,
Mid lovely elves to stand,
Singing thy carols unearthly and boon;—
Here thou art called upon,
Come thou to Caledon!
Come to the land of the ardent and free!
The land of the lone recess,
Mountain and wilderness,
This is the land, thou wild meteor, for thee!
Come thou to Caledon!
Come to the land of the ardent and free!
The land of the lone recess,
Mountain and wilderness,
This is the land, thou wild meteor, for thee!
Oh, never since time had birth,
Rose from the pregnant earth
Gems such as late have in Scotia sprung;—
Gems that in future day,
When ages pass away,
Like thee shall be honoured, like thee shall be sung!
Rose from the pregnant earth
Gems such as late have in Scotia sprung;—
Gems that in future day,
When ages pass away,
Like thee shall be honoured, like thee shall be sung!
Then here, by the sounding sea,
Forest, and greenwood tree,
Here to solicit thee cease shall we never:
Yes, thou effulgence bright,
Here must thy flame relight,
Or vanish from Nature for ever and ever!
Forest, and greenwood tree,
Here to solicit thee cease shall we never:
Yes, thou effulgence bright,
Here must thy flame relight,
Or vanish from Nature for ever and ever!
The Auld Man's Fareweel to his Wee House.
I like ye weel, my wee auld house,
Though laigh the wa's an' flat the riggin';
Though round thy lum the sourick grows,
An' rain-draps gaw my cozy biggin'.
Though laigh the wa's an' flat the riggin';
Though round thy lum the sourick grows,
An' rain-draps gaw my cozy biggin'.
Lang hast thou happit mine an' me,
My head's grown gray aneath thy kipple;
An' aye thy ingle cheek was free
Baith to the blind man an' the cripple:
My head's grown gray aneath thy kipple;
An' aye thy ingle cheek was free
Baith to the blind man an' the cripple:
An' to the puir forsaken wight
Wi' bairnie at her bosom cryin',
My cot was open day an' night,
Nor wanted bed for sick to lie in.
Wi' bairnie at her bosom cryin',
My cot was open day an' night,
Nor wanted bed for sick to lie in.
What gart my ewes thrive on the hill,
An' kept my little store increasin'?—
The rich man never wished me ill,
The puir man left me aye his blessin'.
An' kept my little store increasin'?—
The rich man never wished me ill,
The puir man left me aye his blessin'.
Troth, I maun greet wi' thee to part,
Though to a better house I'm flittin';
Sic joys will never glad my heart
As I've had by thy hallan sittin'.
Though to a better house I'm flittin';
Sic joys will never glad my heart
As I've had by thy hallan sittin'.
My bonnie bairns around me smiled;
My sonsie wife sat by me spinnin',
Aye liltin' owre her ditties wild,
In notes sae artless and sae winnin'.
My sonsie wife sat by me spinnin',
Aye liltin' owre her ditties wild,
In notes sae artless and sae winnin'.
Our frugal meal was aye a feast;
Our e'enin' psalm a hymn of joy:
Aye calm an' peacefu' was our rest;
Our bliss, our love without alloy.
Our e'enin' psalm a hymn of joy:
Aye calm an' peacefu' was our rest;
Our bliss, our love without alloy.
I canna help but haud thee dear,
My auld, storm-battered hamely sheilin';
Thy sooty lum an' kipples clear
I better lo'e than gaudy ceilin'.
My auld, storm-battered hamely sheilin';
Thy sooty lum an' kipples clear
I better lo'e than gaudy ceilin'.
Thy roof will fa', thy rafters start,
How damp an' cauld thy hearth will be!
Ah, sae will soon ilk honest heart,
That erst was blithe an' bauld in thee.
How damp an' cauld thy hearth will be!
Ah, sae will soon ilk honest heart,
That erst was blithe an' bauld in thee.
I thought to cower aneath thy wa',
Till death had closed my weary e'en;
Then left thee for the narrow ha',
Wi' lowly roof o' swaird sae green.
Till death had closed my weary e'en;
Then left thee for the narrow ha',
Wi' lowly roof o' swaird sae green.
Fareweel, my house an' burnie clear,
My bourtree bush an' bowzy tree;
The wee while I maun sojourn here,
I'll never find a hame like thee!
My bourtree bush an' bowzy tree;
The wee while I maun sojourn here,
I'll never find a hame like thee!
The Battle of Busaco.
Beyond Busaco's mountains dun,
When far had rolled the sultry sun,
And night her pall of gloom had thrown
O'er nature's still convexity;
When far had rolled the sultry sun,
And night her pall of gloom had thrown
O'er nature's still convexity;
High on the heath our tents were spread;
The cold turf was our cheerless bed;
And o'er the hero's dew-chilled head
The banners flapped incessantly.
The cold turf was our cheerless bed;
And o'er the hero's dew-chilled head
The banners flapped incessantly.
The loud war-trumpet woke the morn,
The quivering drum, the pealing horn;
From rank to rank the cry is borne—
“Arouse, for death or victory!”
The quivering drum, the pealing horn;
From rank to rank the cry is borne—
“Arouse, for death or victory!”
The orb of day, in crimson dye,
Began to mount the morning sky;
Then what a scene for warrior's eye
Hung on the bold declivity!
Began to mount the morning sky;
Then what a scene for warrior's eye
Hung on the bold declivity!
The serried bayonets glittering stood
Like icicles on hills of blood;
An aërial stream, a silver wood
Reeled in the flickering canopy.
Like icicles on hills of blood;
An aërial stream, a silver wood
Reeled in the flickering canopy.
Like waves of ocean rolling fast,
Or thunder-cloud before the blast,
Massena's legions, stern and vast,
Rushed to the dreadful revelry.
Or thunder-cloud before the blast,
Massena's legions, stern and vast,
Rushed to the dreadful revelry.
The pause is o'er—the fateful shock
A thousand thousand thunders woke:
The air grows sick, the mountains rock;
Red ruin rides triumphantly.
A thousand thousand thunders woke:
The air grows sick, the mountains rock;
Red ruin rides triumphantly.
Light boiled the war-cloud to the sky,
In phantom towers and columns high,
But dark and dense their bases lie
Prone on the battle's boundary.
In phantom towers and columns high,
But dark and dense their bases lie
Prone on the battle's boundary.
The thistle waved her bonnet blue,
The harp her wildest war-notes threw,
The red rose gained a fresher hue,
Busaco, in thy heraldry!
The harp her wildest war-notes threw,
The red rose gained a fresher hue,
Busaco, in thy heraldry!
385
Hail, gallant brothers! woe befall
The foe that braves our triple wall!
Thy sons, O wretched Portugal,
Roused at their deeds of chivalry.
The foe that braves our triple wall!
Thy sons, O wretched Portugal,
Roused at their deeds of chivalry.
The Gipsies.
Hast thou not noted on the bye-way side,
Where England's loanings stretch unsoiled and wide,
Or by the brook that through the valley pours,
Where mimic waves play lightly through the flowers—
A noisy crew, far straggling in the glade,
Busied with trifles or in slumber laid;
Their children lolling round them on the grass,
Or pestering with their sports the patient ass?
Where England's loanings stretch unsoiled and wide,
Or by the brook that through the valley pours,
Where mimic waves play lightly through the flowers—
A noisy crew, far straggling in the glade,
Busied with trifles or in slumber laid;
Their children lolling round them on the grass,
Or pestering with their sports the patient ass?
The wrinkled grandam there you may espy,
The ripe young maiden with the glossy eye,
Men in their prime—the striplings dark and dun,
Scathed by the storms and freckled by the sun:
Oh, mark them well, when next the group you see
In vacant barn, or resting on the lea!
They are the remnant of a race of old—
Spare not the trifle for your fortune told,
For there shalt thou behold with nature blent
A tint of mind in every lineament;
A mould of soul distinct, but hard to trace,
Unknown except to Israel's wandering race;
For thence, as sages say, their line they drew—
Oh, mark them well! the tales of old are true.
The ripe young maiden with the glossy eye,
Men in their prime—the striplings dark and dun,
Scathed by the storms and freckled by the sun:
Oh, mark them well, when next the group you see
In vacant barn, or resting on the lea!
They are the remnant of a race of old—
Spare not the trifle for your fortune told,
For there shalt thou behold with nature blent
A tint of mind in every lineament;
A mould of soul distinct, but hard to trace,
Unknown except to Israel's wandering race;
For thence, as sages say, their line they drew—
Oh, mark them well! the tales of old are true.
'Tis told that once in ages long gone by,
When Christian zeal ran to extremity;
When Europe, like a flood no might could stem,
Poured forth her millions on Jerusalem;
One roaming tribe of Araby they won,
Bent on the spoil and foray just begun.
Great was their value—every path they knew,
Where sprung the fountain, where the forage grew,
And better wist than all the Christian men
How to mislead and vex the Saracen.
When Christian zeal ran to extremity;
When Europe, like a flood no might could stem,
Poured forth her millions on Jerusalem;
One roaming tribe of Araby they won,
Bent on the spoil and foray just begun.
Great was their value—every path they knew,
Where sprung the fountain, where the forage grew,
And better wist than all the Christian men
How to mislead and vex the Saracen.
But when the nations by experience knew
Their folly, and from eastern realms withdrew,
The alien tribe durst not remain behind,
Empires and hordes against them were combined.
Thither they came.—But still the word of Heaven
Stedfast remains to ancient Abram given:
“Wild shall they be 'mid nations from their birth,
All hands against them—theirs against all earth.”
Thus still they wander unrestrained and free
As erst their fathers did in Araby.
Peopled or not—it is the same—they view
The earth as their unalienable due,
And move by one undeviating plan
To take whate'er they may—protect who can.
Strange are their annals—Oh, regard them well!
For thou hast much to hear and I to tell.
[OMITTED]
Their folly, and from eastern realms withdrew,
The alien tribe durst not remain behind,
Empires and hordes against them were combined.
Thither they came.—But still the word of Heaven
Stedfast remains to ancient Abram given:
“Wild shall they be 'mid nations from their birth,
All hands against them—theirs against all earth.”
Thus still they wander unrestrained and free
As erst their fathers did in Araby.
Peopled or not—it is the same—they view
The earth as their unalienable due,
And move by one undeviating plan
To take whate'er they may—protect who can.
Strange are their annals—Oh, regard them well!
For thou hast much to hear and I to tell.
Verses Addressed to the Right Honourable Lady Anne Scott of Buccleuch.
To her whose bounty oft hath shed
Joy round the peasant's lowly bed,
When trouble pressed, and friends were few,
And God and angels only knew—
To Her who loves the board to cheer,
And hearth of simple cottager;
Who loves the tale of rural hind,
And wayward visions of his mind,
I dedicate with high delight,
The theme of many a winter night.
Joy round the peasant's lowly bed,
When trouble pressed, and friends were few,
And God and angels only knew—
To Her who loves the board to cheer,
And hearth of simple cottager;
Who loves the tale of rural hind,
And wayward visions of his mind,
I dedicate with high delight,
The theme of many a winter night.
What other name on Yarrow's yale
Can shepherd choose to grace his tale?
There, other living name is none
Heard with one feeling—one alone.
Some heavenly charm must name endear
That all men love, and all revere!
Even the rude boy of rustic form,
And robes all fluttering to the storm,
Whose roguish lip and graceless eye
Incline to mock the passer-by,
Walks by the Maid with softer tread,
And lowly bends his burly head,
Following with eye of milder ray
The gentle form that glides away.
The little school-nymph, drawing near,
Says with a sly and courteous leer,
As plain as eye and manner can,
“Thou lov'st me—bless thee, Lady Anne!”
Even babes catch the beloved theme,
And learn to lisp their Lady's name.
Can shepherd choose to grace his tale?
There, other living name is none
Heard with one feeling—one alone.
Some heavenly charm must name endear
That all men love, and all revere!
Even the rude boy of rustic form,
And robes all fluttering to the storm,
Whose roguish lip and graceless eye
Incline to mock the passer-by,
Walks by the Maid with softer tread,
And lowly bends his burly head,
Following with eye of milder ray
The gentle form that glides away.
The little school-nymph, drawing near,
Says with a sly and courteous leer,
As plain as eye and manner can,
“Thou lov'st me—bless thee, Lady Anne!”
Even babes catch the beloved theme,
And learn to lisp their Lady's name.
The orphan's blessing rests on thee;
Happy thou art, and long shall be:
'Tis not in sorrow, nor distress,
Nor fortune's power to make thee less.
The heart unaltered in its mood,
That joys alone in doing good,
And follows in the heavenly road,
And steps where once an angel trode;
The joys within such heart that burn,
No loss can quench nor time o'erturn.
The stars may from their orbits bend,
The mountains rock, the heavens rend,
The sun's last ember cool and quiver,
But these shall glow and glow for ever.
Happy thou art, and long shall be:
'Tis not in sorrow, nor distress,
Nor fortune's power to make thee less.
The heart unaltered in its mood,
That joys alone in doing good,
And follows in the heavenly road,
And steps where once an angel trode;
The joys within such heart that burn,
No loss can quench nor time o'erturn.
The stars may from their orbits bend,
The mountains rock, the heavens rend,
The sun's last ember cool and quiver,
But these shall glow and glow for ever.
Then thou, who lov'st the shepherd's home,
And cherishest his lowly dome,
Oh, list the mystic lore sublime
Of fairy tales of ancient time!
I learned them in the lonely glen,
The last abodes of living men,
Where never stranger came our way
By summer night or winter day;
Where neighbouring hind or cot was none:
Our converse was with heaven alone;
With voices through the cloud that sung,
And brooding storms that round us hung.
And cherishest his lowly dome,
Oh, list the mystic lore sublime
Of fairy tales of ancient time!
I learned them in the lonely glen,
The last abodes of living men,
Where never stranger came our way
By summer night or winter day;
386
Our converse was with heaven alone;
With voices through the cloud that sung,
And brooding storms that round us hung.
O Lady, judge, if judge you may,
How stern and ample was the sway
Of themes like these, when darkness fell,
And gray-haired sires the tales would tell!
When doors were barred, and eldron dame
Plied at her task beside the flame
That through the smoke and gloom alone
On dim and umbered faces shone—
The bleat of mountain goat on high,
That from the cliff came quavering by;
The echoing rock, the rushing flood,
The cataract's swell, the moaning wood,
That undefined and mingled hum—
Voice of the desert never dumb,
All these have left within this heart
A feeling tongue can ne'er impart;
A wildered and unearthly flame,
A something that's without a name.
How stern and ample was the sway
Of themes like these, when darkness fell,
And gray-haired sires the tales would tell!
When doors were barred, and eldron dame
Plied at her task beside the flame
That through the smoke and gloom alone
On dim and umbered faces shone—
The bleat of mountain goat on high,
That from the cliff came quavering by;
The echoing rock, the rushing flood,
The cataract's swell, the moaning wood,
That undefined and mingled hum—
Voice of the desert never dumb,
All these have left within this heart
A feeling tongue can ne'er impart;
A wildered and unearthly flame,
A something that's without a name.
And, Lady, thou wilt never deem
Religious tale offensive theme;
Our creeds may differ in degree,
But small that difference sure can be!
As flowers which vary in their dyes,
We all shall bloom in paradise:
As sire who loves his children well,
The loveliest face he cannot tell—
So 'tis with us—We are the same,
One faith, one Father, and one aim.
Religious tale offensive theme;
Our creeds may differ in degree,
But small that difference sure can be!
As flowers which vary in their dyes,
We all shall bloom in paradise:
As sire who loves his children well,
The loveliest face he cannot tell—
So 'tis with us—We are the same,
One faith, one Father, and one aim.
And hadst thou lived where I was bred,
Amid the scenes where martyrs bled,
Their sufferings all to thee endeared
By those most honoured and revered;
And, where the wild dark streamlet waves,
Hadst wept above their lonely graves,
Thou wouldst have felt, I know it true,
As I have done, and aye must do.
And for the same exalted cause,
For mankind's rights, and nature's laws,
The cause of liberty divine,
Thy fathers bled as well as mine.
Amid the scenes where martyrs bled,
Their sufferings all to thee endeared
By those most honoured and revered;
And, where the wild dark streamlet waves,
Hadst wept above their lonely graves,
Thou wouldst have felt, I know it true,
As I have done, and aye must do.
And for the same exalted cause,
For mankind's rights, and nature's laws,
The cause of liberty divine,
Thy fathers bled as well as mine.
Then be it thine, O noble Maid,
On some still eve these tales to read;
And thou wilt read I know full well,
For still thou lov'st the haunted dell;
To linger by the sainted spring,
And trace the ancient fairy ring,
Where moonlight revels long were held
In many a lone sequestered field,
By Yarrow den, and Ettrick shaw,
And the green mounds of Carterhaugh.
On some still eve these tales to read;
And thou wilt read I know full well,
For still thou lov'st the haunted dell;
To linger by the sainted spring,
And trace the ancient fairy ring,
Where moonlight revels long were held
In many a lone sequestered field,
By Yarrow den, and Ettrick shaw,
And the green mounds of Carterhaugh.
Oh for one kindred heart that thought
As lady must and minstrel ought!—
That loves like thee the whispering wood,
And range of mountain solitude!
Think how more wild the greenwood scene,
If times were still as they have been;
If fairies at the fall of even,
Down from the eye-brow of the heaven,
Or some aërial land afar,
Came on the beam of rising star,
Their lightsome gambols to renew;
From the green leaf to quaff the dew,
Or dance with such a graceful tread
As scarce to bend the gowan's head!
As lady must and minstrel ought!—
That loves like thee the whispering wood,
And range of mountain solitude!
Think how more wild the greenwood scene,
If times were still as they have been;
If fairies at the fall of even,
Down from the eye-brow of the heaven,
Or some aërial land afar,
Came on the beam of rising star,
Their lightsome gambols to renew;
From the green leaf to quaff the dew,
Or dance with such a graceful tread
As scarce to bend the gowan's head!
Think if thou wert, some evening still,
Within thy wood of green Bowhill,
Thy native wood, the forest's pride,—
Lover or sister by thy side;
In converse sweet the hour to improve,
Of things below and things above,
Of an existence scarce begun,
And note the stars rise one by one:—
Just then, the moon and day-light blending,
To see the fairy bands descending,
Wheeling and shivering as they came,
Like glimmering shreds of human frame;
Or sailing 'mid the golden air,
In skiffs of yielding gossamer.
Within thy wood of green Bowhill,
Thy native wood, the forest's pride,—
Lover or sister by thy side;
In converse sweet the hour to improve,
Of things below and things above,
Of an existence scarce begun,
And note the stars rise one by one:—
Just then, the moon and day-light blending,
To see the fairy bands descending,
Wheeling and shivering as they came,
Like glimmering shreds of human frame;
Or sailing 'mid the golden air,
In skiffs of yielding gossamer.
Oh, I would wander forth alone
Where human eye hath never shone,
Away o'er continents and isles,
A thousand and a thousand miles,
For one such eve to sit with thee,
Their strains to hear and forms to see!
Absent the while all fears of harm,
Secure in Heaven's protecting arm;
To list the songs such beings sung,
And hear them speak in human tongue;
To see in beauty, perfect, pure,
Of human face the miniature,
And smile of being free from sin,
That had not death impressed within.
Oh, can it ever be forgot
What Scotland had, and now has not?
Where human eye hath never shone,
Away o'er continents and isles,
A thousand and a thousand miles,
For one such eve to sit with thee,
Their strains to hear and forms to see!
Absent the while all fears of harm,
Secure in Heaven's protecting arm;
To list the songs such beings sung,
And hear them speak in human tongue;
To see in beauty, perfect, pure,
Of human face the miniature,
And smile of being free from sin,
That had not death impressed within.
Oh, can it ever be forgot
What Scotland had, and now has not?
Such scenes, dear Lady, now no more
Are given, or fitted as before
To eye or ear of guilty dust;
But when it comes, as come it must,
The time when I, from earth set free,
Shall turn the spark I fain would be;
If there's a land, as grandsires tell,
Where brownies, elves, and fairies dwell,
There my first visit shall be sped—
Journeyer of earth, go hide thy head!
Of all thy travelling splendour shorn,
Though in thy golden chariot borne,
Yon little cloud of many a hue
That wanders o'er the solar blue—
That do I challenge and engage
To be my travelling equipage,
Then onward, onward far to steer,
The breeze of heaven my charioteer;
The soul's own energy my guide,
Eternal hope my all beside.
At such a shrine who would not bow!—
Traveller of earth, where art thou now?
Are given, or fitted as before
To eye or ear of guilty dust;
But when it comes, as come it must,
The time when I, from earth set free,
Shall turn the spark I fain would be;
If there's a land, as grandsires tell,
Where brownies, elves, and fairies dwell,
There my first visit shall be sped—
Journeyer of earth, go hide thy head!
Of all thy travelling splendour shorn,
Though in thy golden chariot borne,
Yon little cloud of many a hue
That wanders o'er the solar blue—
That do I challenge and engage
To be my travelling equipage,
Then onward, onward far to steer,
The breeze of heaven my charioteer;
387
Eternal hope my all beside.
At such a shrine who would not bow!—
Traveller of earth, where art thou now?
Then let me for these legends claim
My young, my honoured lady's name;
That honour is reward complete,
Yet I must crave, if not unmeet,
One little boon—delightful task
For maid to grant, or minstrel ask!
My young, my honoured lady's name;
That honour is reward complete,
Yet I must crave, if not unmeet,
One little boon—delightful task
For maid to grant, or minstrel ask!
One day thou mayest remember well,
For short the time since it befell,
When, o'er thy forest bowers of oak,
The eddying storm in darkness broke.
Loud sung the blast adown the dell,
And Yarrow lent her treble swell;
The mountain's form grew more sublime,
Wrapt in its wreaths of rolling rime;
And Newark Cairn, in hoary shroud,
Appeared like giant o'er the cloud.
The eve fell dark, and grimly scowled,
Loud and more loud the tempest howled;
Without was turmoil, waste, and din,
The kelpie's cry was in the linn—
But all was love and peace within:
And aye, between, the melting strain
Poured from thy woodland harp amain,
Which mixing with the storm around,
Gave a wild cadence to the sound.
For short the time since it befell,
When, o'er thy forest bowers of oak,
The eddying storm in darkness broke.
Loud sung the blast adown the dell,
And Yarrow lent her treble swell;
The mountain's form grew more sublime,
Wrapt in its wreaths of rolling rime;
And Newark Cairn, in hoary shroud,
Appeared like giant o'er the cloud.
The eve fell dark, and grimly scowled,
Loud and more loud the tempest howled;
Without was turmoil, waste, and din,
The kelpie's cry was in the linn—
But all was love and peace within:
And aye, between, the melting strain
Poured from thy woodland harp amain,
Which mixing with the storm around,
Gave a wild cadence to the sound.
That mingled scene, in every part,
Hath so impressed thy shepherd's heart
With glowing feelings, kindling bright
Some filial visions of delight,
That almost border upon pain,
And he would hear those strains again.
They brought delusions not to last,
Blending the future with the past;
Dreams of fair stems in foliage new,
Of flowers that spring where others grew,
Of beauty ne'er to be outdone,
And stars that rise when sets the sun,
The patriarchal days of yore,
The mountain music heard no more,
With all the scene before his eyes,
A family's and a nation's ties—
Bonds which the heavens alone can rend,
With chief, with father, and with friend.
No wonder that such scene refined
Should dwell on rude enthusiast's mind!
Strange his reverse!—he never wist—
Poor inmate of the cloud and mist!
That ever he, as friend, should claim
The proudest Caledonian name.
Hath so impressed thy shepherd's heart
With glowing feelings, kindling bright
Some filial visions of delight,
That almost border upon pain,
And he would hear those strains again.
They brought delusions not to last,
Blending the future with the past;
Dreams of fair stems in foliage new,
Of flowers that spring where others grew,
Of beauty ne'er to be outdone,
And stars that rise when sets the sun,
The patriarchal days of yore,
The mountain music heard no more,
With all the scene before his eyes,
A family's and a nation's ties—
Bonds which the heavens alone can rend,
With chief, with father, and with friend.
No wonder that such scene refined
Should dwell on rude enthusiast's mind!
Strange his reverse!—he never wist—
Poor inmate of the cloud and mist!
That ever he, as friend, should claim
The proudest Caledonian name.
These Verses were published in the first edition of “The Brownie of Bodsbeck,” as the dedication of that work.
Moralitas.
She that giveth heart away
For the homage of a day,
To a downy dimpling chin,
Smile that tells the void within—
Swaggering gait, and stays of steel—
Saucy head and sounding heel—
Gives the gift of woe and weeping;
Gives a thing not worth the keeping;
Gives a trifle—gives a toy:
Sweetest viands soonest cloy.
For the homage of a day,
To a downy dimpling chin,
Smile that tells the void within—
Swaggering gait, and stays of steel—
Saucy head and sounding heel—
Gives the gift of woe and weeping;
Gives a thing not worth the keeping;
Gives a trifle—gives a toy:
Sweetest viands soonest cloy.
Gains—Good Lord! what doth she gain?—
Years of sorrow and of pain;
Gains the curse that leaves her never;
Gains the pang that lasts for ever.
Years of sorrow and of pain;
Gains the curse that leaves her never;
Gains the pang that lasts for ever.
And why? Ah, hath not reason shown it,
Though the heart dares hardly own it?
Well it traces love to be
The fruit of the forbidden tree;
The test of that angelic creature;
The touchstone of her human nature,
Which proved her, though of heavenly birth,
An erring meteor of the earth.
Though the heart dares hardly own it?
Well it traces love to be
The fruit of the forbidden tree;
The test of that angelic creature;
The touchstone of her human nature,
Which proved her, though of heavenly birth,
An erring meteor of the earth.
And what, by Heaven's sovereign will,
Was trial once is trial still;
It is the fruit that virgin's eye
Can ne'er approach too cautiously;
It is the fruit that virgin's hand
Must never touch but on command
Of parent, guardian, friends in common—
Approved both by man and woman;
Else woe to her as maid or wife!
For all her days of mortal life,
The curse falls heavy on her crime,
And heavier wears by length of time;
And, as of future joys to reft her,
Upon her race that follows after.
Was trial once is trial still;
It is the fruit that virgin's eye
Can ne'er approach too cautiously;
It is the fruit that virgin's hand
Must never touch but on command
Of parent, guardian, friends in common—
Approved both by man and woman;
Else woe to her as maid or wife!
For all her days of mortal life,
The curse falls heavy on her crime,
And heavier wears by length of time;
And, as of future joys to reft her,
Upon her race that follows after.
But oh, if prudence and discretion
Baulk the forward inclination—
Cool the bosom, check the eye,
And guide the hand that binds the tie—
Then, then alone is love a treasure,
A blessing of unbounded measure,
Which every pledge of love endears;
It buds with age, and grows with years—
As from the earth it points on high,
Till its fair tendrils in the sky
Blossom in joy, and ever will,
And woman is an angel still.
Baulk the forward inclination—
Cool the bosom, check the eye,
And guide the hand that binds the tie—
Then, then alone is love a treasure,
A blessing of unbounded measure,
Which every pledge of love endears;
It buds with age, and grows with years—
As from the earth it points on high,
Till its fair tendrils in the sky
Blossom in joy, and ever will,
And woman is an angel still.
A Last Adieu.
Adieu, my loved parent, the trial is o'er,
The veil o'er thy couch of forgetfulness spread;
Thy kind heart shall grieve for my follies no more,
Nor the suppliant tear for thy wanderer be shed.
The veil o'er thy couch of forgetfulness spread;
Thy kind heart shall grieve for my follies no more,
Nor the suppliant tear for thy wanderer be shed.
Long over thy head has the tempest blown fell,
But riches, unknown, were unvalued by thee;
In the wild wast thou born, in the wild didst thou dwell,
The pupil of Nature, benevolent and free.
But riches, unknown, were unvalued by thee;
In the wild wast thou born, in the wild didst thou dwell,
The pupil of Nature, benevolent and free.
388
And never, in all her uncultured domain,
Was nourished a spirit more genial and kind;
Chill poverty could not thy ardour restrain,
Nor cloud thy gay smile, or the glow of thy mind.
Was nourished a spirit more genial and kind;
Chill poverty could not thy ardour restrain,
Nor cloud thy gay smile, or the glow of thy mind.
When winter-wreaths lay round our cottage so small,
When fancy was ardent, and feeling was strong;
Oh! how I would long for the gloaming to fall,
To sit by thy knee and attend to thy song;
When fancy was ardent, and feeling was strong;
Oh! how I would long for the gloaming to fall,
To sit by thy knee and attend to thy song;
The song of the field where the warrior bled;
The garland of blossom dishonoured too soon;
The elves of the greenwood, the ghosts of the dead,
And fairies that journeyed by light of the moon.
The garland of blossom dishonoured too soon;
The elves of the greenwood, the ghosts of the dead,
And fairies that journeyed by light of the moon.
I loved thee, my parent—my highest desire
Was 'neath independence to shield thy gray head,
But fortune denied it—extinguished the fire—
And, now thou art gone, my ambition is fled.
Was 'neath independence to shield thy gray head,
But fortune denied it—extinguished the fire—
And, now thou art gone, my ambition is fled.
I loved thee, and now thou art laid in thy grave,
Thy memory I'll cherish, while memory is mine;
And the boon that my tongue aye from Heaven shall crave,
Shall be, the last blessing that hung upon thine.
Thy memory I'll cherish, while memory is mine;
And the boon that my tongue aye from Heaven shall crave,
Shall be, the last blessing that hung upon thine.
Though over thy ashes no tombstone is seen,
The place shall be hallowed when ages are past;
No monument tells 'mid the wilderness green,
Where the Minstreless lies of the Border the last:
The place shall be hallowed when ages are past;
No monument tells 'mid the wilderness green,
Where the Minstreless lies of the Border the last:
But over that grave will the lover of song,
And the lover of goodness, stand silent and sigh;
And the fays of the wild will thy requiem prolong,
And shed on thy coverlet dews of the sky.
And the lover of goodness, stand silent and sigh;
And the fays of the wild will thy requiem prolong,
And shed on thy coverlet dews of the sky.
And there from the rue and the rose's perfume,
His dew-web of dawn shall the gossamer won;
And there shall the daisy and violet bloom,
And I'll water them all with the tears of a son.
His dew-web of dawn shall the gossamer won;
And there shall the daisy and violet bloom,
And I'll water them all with the tears of a son.
Adieu, my loved parent! the trial is past—
Again thy loved bosom my dwelling may be;
And long as the name of thy darling shall last
All due be the song and the honour to thee!
Again thy loved bosom my dwelling may be;
And long as the name of thy darling shall last
All due be the song and the honour to thee!
On the Death of Mr. Pitt.
And art thou departed, ere yet from the field
The tidings of glory are borne?
Oh, art thou departed, our bulwark, our shield,
And live I thy exit to mourn?
Our country's horizon for ever is shorn
Of a splendour that stedfastly shone;
The darkness is shed, and the storm is gone forth;
Our sun and our moon have both dropped to the earth;
The child of the mighty is come to the birth,
But the strength of the parent is gone.
The tidings of glory are borne?
Oh, art thou departed, our bulwark, our shield,
And live I thy exit to mourn?
Our country's horizon for ever is shorn
Of a splendour that stedfastly shone;
The darkness is shed, and the storm is gone forth;
Our sun and our moon have both dropped to the earth;
The child of the mighty is come to the birth,
But the strength of the parent is gone.
O Pitt! I may wail thee, and wail without blame,
For here cannot party deride;
'Twas in the lone wild I first heard of thy name,
With Nature alone for my guide,
That taught me to love thee: my boast and my pride
Thenceforth thou hast been, and shalt be:
I read, and I wondered—but still I read on;
My bosom heaved high with an ardour unknown,
But I found it congenial in all with thine own,
And I took up my rest under thee.
For here cannot party deride;
'Twas in the lone wild I first heard of thy name,
With Nature alone for my guide,
That taught me to love thee: my boast and my pride
Thenceforth thou hast been, and shalt be:
I read, and I wondered—but still I read on;
My bosom heaved high with an ardour unknown,
But I found it congenial in all with thine own,
And I took up my rest under thee.
I wondered when senators sternly expressed
Disgust at each motion of thine;
For I was as simple as babe at the breast,
And their motives I could not divine.
I knew not—and still small the knowledge is mine—
Of the passions that mankind dissever—
That minds there are framed like the turbulent ocean,
That fumes on its barriers with ceaseless commotion;
On the rock that stands highest, commanding devotion,
There dash its rude billows for ever.
Disgust at each motion of thine;
For I was as simple as babe at the breast,
And their motives I could not divine.
I knew not—and still small the knowledge is mine—
Of the passions that mankind dissever—
That minds there are framed like the turbulent ocean,
That fumes on its barriers with ceaseless commotion;
On the rock that stands highest, commanding devotion,
There dash its rude billows for ever.
They said thou wert proud—I have pondered it long—
I have tried thee by plummet and line—
Have weighed in the balance the right and the wrong,
And am forced in the charge to combine.
They called thee ambitious—a censure condign!
I know it—I own it was true!
But it was of thy country alone thou wert proud;
Thy ambition was all for her glory and good;
For these thy proud heart a wild torrent withstood,
Which broke what it could not subdue.
I have tried thee by plummet and line—
Have weighed in the balance the right and the wrong,
And am forced in the charge to combine.
They called thee ambitious—a censure condign!
I know it—I own it was true!
But it was of thy country alone thou wert proud;
Thy ambition was all for her glory and good;
For these thy proud heart a wild torrent withstood,
Which broke what it could not subdue.
Be hallowed thy memory, illustrious shade!
A shepherd can ill understand;
But he weens that as clear and unbiassed a head,
As clean and less sordid a hand,
Or a heart more untainted, did never command
The wealth of a nation on earth;
And he knows that long hence, when his head's low as thine,
That the good, and the great, and the brave, and benign,
And the lovers of country and king, will combine
To hallow the hour of thy birth!
A shepherd can ill understand;
But he weens that as clear and unbiassed a head,
As clean and less sordid a hand,
Or a heart more untainted, did never command
The wealth of a nation on earth;
And he knows that long hence, when his head's low as thine,
That the good, and the great, and the brave, and benign,
And the lovers of country and king, will combine
To hallow the hour of thy birth!
The Dawn of July, 1810.
Hail, lovely July! fair and gay,
Thou risest with this holy day;
The radiance of thy infant ray
Betokens gay hilarity.
Thou risest with this holy day;
The radiance of thy infant ray
Betokens gay hilarity.
How sweet to us the rising flush!—
But why that rosy maiden blush,
While from the vale and verdant bush
Distils the melting melody?
But why that rosy maiden blush,
While from the vale and verdant bush
Distils the melting melody?
Is it, because when met thy view
Edina, set 'mid hills of dew,
And spires that bore the welkin blue,
There all was dead serenity;
Edina, set 'mid hills of dew,
And spires that bore the welkin blue,
There all was dead serenity;
389
No eye the glorious scene to scan,
When up thy silken veil was drawn,
And broad yon orb of flame began
To mount the green wave's canopy?
When up thy silken veil was drawn,
And broad yon orb of flame began
To mount the green wave's canopy?
But welcome thou, sweet summer's queen!
Arrayed in robes of gaudy green,
With stripes and dazzling gems between,
In richest wild variety.
Arrayed in robes of gaudy green,
With stripes and dazzling gems between,
In richest wild variety.
The hedge-row bends in lines of snow,
Deep blossoms o'er the valleys blow,
And wild-flowers deck the mountain's brow,
In modest sweet simplicity.
Deep blossoms o'er the valleys blow,
And wild-flowers deck the mountain's brow,
In modest sweet simplicity.
Fair harbinger of plenty nigh,
Calm be thy course, and mild thy sky;
That tear that glistens in thine eye
Adds beauty to thy majesty.
Calm be thy course, and mild thy sky;
That tear that glistens in thine eye
Adds beauty to thy majesty.
Yet have I seen on life's lone way,
Its dawn, like thine, as fair and gay;
And all its splendours dashed away
By storms of black adversity!
Its dawn, like thine, as fair and gay;
And all its splendours dashed away
By storms of black adversity!
On the Close of the Year 1812.
Dunedin, thy skirts are unhallowed and lone,
And dark are the rocks that encircle thy throne;
The dwelling of beings unbodied is there—
There are spirits abroad, let the traveller beware!
And dark are the rocks that encircle thy throne;
The dwelling of beings unbodied is there—
There are spirits abroad, let the traveller beware!
The year on the brink of eternity hung,
The clock had rung long, and the watchman had sung,
And just when the murmurs of midnight grew still,
A symphony broke from the shelve of the hill:
It was not by man, for no mortal was there—
There are spirits abroad, let the traveller beware!
They sung of the year that was passing away,
And the stars hid their blushes in curtain of gray.
The clock had rung long, and the watchman had sung,
And just when the murmurs of midnight grew still,
A symphony broke from the shelve of the hill:
It was not by man, for no mortal was there—
There are spirits abroad, let the traveller beware!
They sung of the year that was passing away,
And the stars hid their blushes in curtain of gray.
Dirge.
Thou art gone, thou art gone, with thy sceptre of dread!With thy brands of destruction, and wains of the dead;
With thy rolls and thy registers, bloated with woe,
And thy millions of souls to the mansions below.
At the fall of thy bier shall time's sepulchre sigh,
And thy winding-sheet all the lone dwellings shall dye:
Oh, well o'er the shoreless abyss mayest thou shiver,
Down, down to the centre, for ever and ever!
These strains were at midnight heard floating in air:
There are spirits abroad, let the traveller beware!
There are spirits abroad, let the traveller beware!
Epitaph on a Living Character.
Warrior, when the battle's o'er,
Tumult, terror, groaning, yelling,
Come and wipe thy red claymore,
O'er this low and lonely dwelling!
Weep the prince of prank and pother;
Warrior, weep a fallen brother.
Tumult, terror, groaning, yelling,
Come and wipe thy red claymore,
O'er this low and lonely dwelling!
Weep the prince of prank and pother;
Warrior, weep a fallen brother.
When the midnight revel's done,
Lasses sleeping, alleys quiet,
Come and fire one rousing gun
O'er this king of rout and riot.
Silent now the tale of wonder,
Song of mirth and rap of thunder.
Lasses sleeping, alleys quiet,
Come and fire one rousing gun
O'er this king of rout and riot.
Silent now the tale of wonder,
Song of mirth and rap of thunder.
Little he for fighting cared,
Hurt or harm he wished to no man;
Face of man he little feared,
Less the face of lovely woman;
Left, for brethren dry and hearty,
Deeds of death to Bonaparte.
Hurt or harm he wished to no man;
Face of man he little feared,
Less the face of lovely woman;
Left, for brethren dry and hearty,
Deeds of death to Bonaparte.
Warrior, dry the falling tear,
What can from the dust recover?
Cold the heart lies crumbling here,
All his fun and freaks are over;
Like the foam-bell on the river,
They are gone—and gone for ever!
What can from the dust recover?
Cold the heart lies crumbling here,
All his fun and freaks are over;
Like the foam-bell on the river,
They are gone—and gone for ever!
On the Lifting of the Banner of Buccleuch,
AT THE GREAT FOOT-BALL MATCH ON CARTERHAUGH, DEC. 5, 1815.
And hast thou here, like hermit gray,
Thy mystic characters unrolled
O'er peaceful revellers to play,
Thou emblem of the days of old?
Or comest thou with the veteran's smile,
Who deems his day of conquest fled,
Yet loves to view the bloodless toil
Of sons whose sires he often led?
Thy mystic characters unrolled
O'er peaceful revellers to play,
Thou emblem of the days of old?
Or comest thou with the veteran's smile,
Who deems his day of conquest fled,
Yet loves to view the bloodless toil
Of sons whose sires he often led?
Not such thy peaceable intent,
When, over Border waste and wood,
On foray and achievement bent,
Like eagle on the path of blood.
Symbol to ancient valour dear!
Much has been dared and done for thee—
I almost weep to see thee here,
And deem thee raised in mockery.
When, over Border waste and wood,
On foray and achievement bent,
Like eagle on the path of blood.
Symbol to ancient valour dear!
Much has been dared and done for thee—
I almost weep to see thee here,
And deem thee raised in mockery.
But no—familiar to the brave,
'Twas thine thy gleaming moon and star
Above their manly sports to wave
As free as in the field of war:
To thee the faithful clansman's shout
In revel as in rage was dear;
The more beloved in festal rout,
The better fenced when foes were near.
'Twas thine thy gleaming moon and star
Above their manly sports to wave
As free as in the field of war:
To thee the faithful clansman's shout
In revel as in rage was dear;
The more beloved in festal rout,
The better fenced when foes were near.
I love thee for the olden day,
The iron age of hardihood—
The rather that thou led'st the way
To peace and joy through paths of blood
For were it not the deeds of weir,
When thou wert foremost in the fray,
We had not been assembled here,
Rejoicing in a Father's sway.
The iron age of hardihood—
The rather that thou led'st the way
To peace and joy through paths of blood
390
When thou wert foremost in the fray,
We had not been assembled here,
Rejoicing in a Father's sway.
And even the days ourselves have known,
Alike the moral truth impress—
Valour and constancy alone
Can purchase peace and happiness.
Then hail, memorial of the brave,
The liegeman's pride, the Border's awe!
May thy gray pennon never wave
On sterner field than Carterhaugh!
Alike the moral truth impress—
Valour and constancy alone
Can purchase peace and happiness.
Then hail, memorial of the brave,
The liegeman's pride, the Border's awe!
May thy gray pennon never wave
On sterner field than Carterhaugh!
Love.
Can I forget a time of generous bliss,
Of trembling hope and boundless happiness,
When neither self nor sorrow durst assail?—
That day I'll sing till my remembrance fail.
Of trembling hope and boundless happiness,
When neither self nor sorrow durst assail?—
That day I'll sing till my remembrance fail.
When Winter's stern and sullen reign was o'er,
And the slow wave fell lighter on the shore;
When spring-tide lengthened far the jocund eve,
And the red sun still lingered o'er the wave;
When little wild birds sought the forest land,
And poured their lays so melting and so bland—
All grew enchantment to my youthful view;
The virgin's cheek turned of a rosier hue;
The amber clouds that hung above the west,
The violet's hue, the daisy's snowy vest,
All wore a charm mine eye had never viewed—
What could it mean? Was nature all renewed?
I saw her new endearing glories well—
I looked, and sighed, but why I could not tell.
Love! What had love to do with earth or sky,
Or aught beyond a maiden's blithesome eye?
It was not love, that I was free to say—
Ah me! too soon she proved her sovereign sway.
'Twas she that lent the beauties to the scene,
Painted the clouds, and bloomed along the green,
Cheered every gambol, warbled from the spray,
And called the soul's young visions into play.
And the slow wave fell lighter on the shore;
When spring-tide lengthened far the jocund eve,
And the red sun still lingered o'er the wave;
When little wild birds sought the forest land,
And poured their lays so melting and so bland—
All grew enchantment to my youthful view;
The virgin's cheek turned of a rosier hue;
The amber clouds that hung above the west,
The violet's hue, the daisy's snowy vest,
All wore a charm mine eye had never viewed—
What could it mean? Was nature all renewed?
I saw her new endearing glories well—
I looked, and sighed, but why I could not tell.
Love! What had love to do with earth or sky,
Or aught beyond a maiden's blithesome eye?
It was not love, that I was free to say—
Ah me! too soon she proved her sovereign sway.
'Twas she that lent the beauties to the scene,
Painted the clouds, and bloomed along the green,
Cheered every gambol, warbled from the spray,
And called the soul's young visions into play.
Celestial love! when first in Eden's bower,
The dire commotions of the soul had power;
When angels turned the pitying eye away
From Beauty's fall, and nature's first decay;
When first thy balm the wounded spirit knew
From heaven descending downward like the dew;
And since that time, if aught may ease the smart
Of future anguish pillowed on the heart,
It is the transport of thy blissful hour,
When smiles the eye of beauty's sweetest flower.
Oh, when two hearts in each fond hope combine,
Who would at the award of heaven repine?
Or who would change the joys his soul that thrill,
For immortality of human ill?
The dire commotions of the soul had power;
When angels turned the pitying eye away
From Beauty's fall, and nature's first decay;
When first thy balm the wounded spirit knew
From heaven descending downward like the dew;
And since that time, if aught may ease the smart
Of future anguish pillowed on the heart,
It is the transport of thy blissful hour,
When smiles the eye of beauty's sweetest flower.
Oh, when two hearts in each fond hope combine,
Who would at the award of heaven repine?
Or who would change the joys his soul that thrill,
For immortality of human ill?
Say, lives there, Earth, upon thy teeming breast,
One human thing so sordid and unblest,
As ne'er that highest boon of Heaven to know,
The source, the balm of mortal life below?
Whose heart the smiles of beauty never moved?
Who ne'er as husband nor as parent loved?
No blessed spirit e'er that face shall greet,
For angel fellowship and heaven unmeet.
One human thing so sordid and unblest,
As ne'er that highest boon of Heaven to know,
The source, the balm of mortal life below?
Whose heart the smiles of beauty never moved?
Who ne'er as husband nor as parent loved?
No blessed spirit e'er that face shall greet,
For angel fellowship and heaven unmeet.
Gem of the soul, oh be thy treasures mine!
Thy draughts of rapture from the spring divine;
The half-assenting lip, averted eye,
And moistened glowing cheek on mine to lie.
The cordial link, the soul's eternal spring,
Lightening the woes that round our nature cling,
Our present joys, our happiness to be
In earth and heaven, must emanate from thee.
Thy draughts of rapture from the spring divine;
The half-assenting lip, averted eye,
And moistened glowing cheek on mine to lie.
The cordial link, the soul's eternal spring,
Lightening the woes that round our nature cling,
Our present joys, our happiness to be
In earth and heaven, must emanate from thee.
Thou art that feeling generous and refined,
That hallowed scion grafted on the mind,
That in its blossom, though with blush repressed,
Verges to beauty or congenial breast.
But, heaven-directed, still its tendrils spread
Round nature's bourn, the living and the dead;
Till at the last, the sun and stars above,
'Tis grafted in the fields of light and love,
In that blest land from whence its being came,
To bloom through all eternity the same.
That hallowed scion grafted on the mind,
That in its blossom, though with blush repressed,
Verges to beauty or congenial breast.
But, heaven-directed, still its tendrils spread
Round nature's bourn, the living and the dead;
Till at the last, the sun and stars above,
'Tis grafted in the fields of light and love,
In that blest land from whence its being came,
To bloom through all eternity the same.
Stanzas. Recited in a party of Social Friends, met in honour of the entry into Paris by the Allies—1814.
Now, Britain, let thy cliffs o' snaw
Look prouder o'er the merled main,
The bastard Eagle bears awa',
An' ne'er will e'e thy shores again.
Look prouder o'er the merled main,
The bastard Eagle bears awa',
An' ne'er will e'e thy shores again.
Come, bang thy banners to the wain—
The struggle's past, the prize is won:
Weel may thy lion shake his mane,
And turn his gray beard to the sun!
The struggle's past, the prize is won:
Weel may thy lion shake his mane,
And turn his gray beard to the sun!
Oft hae I bragged o' thine and thee,
Even when thy back was at the wa';
Now thou my proudest sang shalt be
As lang as I hae breath to draw.
Even when thy back was at the wa';
Now thou my proudest sang shalt be
As lang as I hae breath to draw.
Where now the cuifs who boded wae,
And cauldness o'er thy efforts threw?
And where the proudest, fellest fae,
Frae hell's black porch that ever flew?
And cauldness o'er thy efforts threw?
And where the proudest, fellest fae,
Frae hell's black porch that ever flew?
Here's to the hands sae lang upbore
The Rose and Shamrock blooming still—
An' here's—the burly plant of yore,
The Thistle of the Norlan' hill.
The Rose and Shamrock blooming still—
An' here's—the burly plant of yore,
The Thistle of the Norlan' hill.
Lang may auld Britain's banners pale
Stream o'er the seas her might has won—
Lang may her lions paw the gale,
And turn their dewlaps to the sun!
Stream o'er the seas her might has won—
Lang may her lions paw the gale,
And turn their dewlaps to the sun!
391
Elegy on Lady Rosslyn.
Why sleeps the dew on that new grave,
Though all around is parched and dry,
While bending boughs incumbent wave
To shield it from the burning sky?
Though all around is parched and dry,
While bending boughs incumbent wave
To shield it from the burning sky?
That crystal drop that stands so clear
Within the dew-cup's silken eye,
Is pitying Nature's holy tear,
Shed o'er her flower laid low to lie.
Within the dew-cup's silken eye,
Is pitying Nature's holy tear,
Shed o'er her flower laid low to lie.
Here lies, within a chilly shroud,
The fairest of her works below;
Her eye, the eagle's in the cloud,
Her cheek the rose, her brow the snow.
The fairest of her works below;
Her eye, the eagle's in the cloud,
Her cheek the rose, her brow the snow.
The smile that lightened in her face
Was sweet as morning's dawn to see;
Her melting tones of love and grace
Were music by the greenwood tree.
Was sweet as morning's dawn to see;
Her melting tones of love and grace
Were music by the greenwood tree.
The tear of pity in her eye
Was brighter than that dew-drop sheen;
Soft as the morning breeze her sigh,
That breathes among the birches green.
Was brighter than that dew-drop sheen;
Soft as the morning breeze her sigh,
That breathes among the birches green.
I've seen her seek the blue hare-bell,
That bends above the silver spring;
Or brush the heath-flower from the fell,
With foot as light as fairy's wing.
That bends above the silver spring;
Or brush the heath-flower from the fell,
With foot as light as fairy's wing.
Or resting in the broom-wood dale,
Her soul on fancy's pinions borne,
In vision rapt, the welkin sail
Throned on the star that leads the morn.
Her soul on fancy's pinions borne,
In vision rapt, the welkin sail
Throned on the star that leads the morn.
Now mouldering in the earth so cold,
This lovely flower must quite decay;
That form of beauty's fairest mould
Become a mass of livid clay!
This lovely flower must quite decay;
That form of beauty's fairest mould
Become a mass of livid clay!
Yet, though I weep her early doom,
Her beauty, worth, for ever gone;
See o'er that breast the daisy bloom
Where virtue fixed her diamond throne;
Her beauty, worth, for ever gone;
See o'er that breast the daisy bloom
Where virtue fixed her diamond throne;
The vital spark of heavenly fire
That warmed it once shall ever burn,
And wake a seraph's golden lyre,
O'er fading nature's awful urn.
That warmed it once shall ever burn,
And wake a seraph's golden lyre,
O'er fading nature's awful urn.
St. Mary of the Lowes.
O lone St. Mary of the waves,
In ruin lies thine ancient aisle,
While o'er thy green and lowly graves,
The moorcocks bay, and plovers wail:
But mountain spirits on the gale
Oft o'er thee sound the requiem dread;
And warrior shades, and spectres pale,
Still linger by the quiet dead.
In ruin lies thine ancient aisle,
While o'er thy green and lowly graves,
The moorcocks bay, and plovers wail:
But mountain spirits on the gale
Oft o'er thee sound the requiem dread;
And warrior shades, and spectres pale,
Still linger by the quiet dead.
Yes, many a chief of ancient days
Sleeps in thy cold and hallow'd soil;
Hearts that would thread the forest maze,
Alike for spousal or for spoil;
That wist not, ween'd not, to recoil
Before the might of mortal foe,
But thirsted for the Border broil,
The shout, the clang, the overthrow.
Sleeps in thy cold and hallow'd soil;
Hearts that would thread the forest maze,
Alike for spousal or for spoil;
That wist not, ween'd not, to recoil
Before the might of mortal foe,
But thirsted for the Border broil,
The shout, the clang, the overthrow.
Here lie those who, o'er flood and field,
Were hunted as the osprey's brood;
Who braved the power of man, and seal'd
Their testimonies with their blood:
But long as waves that wilder'd flood,
Their sacred memory shall be dear,
And all the virtuous and the good
O'er their low graves shall drop the tear.
Were hunted as the osprey's brood;
Who braved the power of man, and seal'd
Their testimonies with their blood:
But long as waves that wilder'd flood,
Their sacred memory shall be dear,
And all the virtuous and the good
O'er their low graves shall drop the tear.
Here sleeps the last of all the race
Of these old heroes of the hill,
Stern as the storm in heart and face:
Gainsaid in faith or principle,
Then would the fire of heaven fill
The orbit of his faded eye;
Yet all within was kindness still,
Benevolence and simplicity.
Of these old heroes of the hill,
Stern as the storm in heart and face:
Gainsaid in faith or principle,
Then would the fire of heaven fill
The orbit of his faded eye;
Yet all within was kindness still,
Benevolence and simplicity.
Grieve, thou shalt hold a sacred cell
In hearts with sin and sorrow toss'd;
While thousands, with their funeral knell,
Roll down the tide of darkness, lost;
For thou wert Truth's and Honour's boast,
Firm champion of Religion's sway!
Who knew thee best revered thee most,
Thou emblem of a former day!
In hearts with sin and sorrow toss'd;
While thousands, with their funeral knell,
Roll down the tide of darkness, lost;
For thou wert Truth's and Honour's boast,
Firm champion of Religion's sway!
Who knew thee best revered thee most,
Thou emblem of a former day!
Here lie old Border bowmen good;
Ranger and stalker sleep together,
Who for the red-deer's stately brood
Watch'd, in despite of want and weather,
Beneath the hoary hills of heather;
Even Scotts, and Kerrs, and Pringles, blended
In peaceful slumbers, rest together,
Whose fathers there to death contended.
Ranger and stalker sleep together,
Who for the red-deer's stately brood
Watch'd, in despite of want and weather,
Beneath the hoary hills of heather;
Even Scotts, and Kerrs, and Pringles, blended
In peaceful slumbers, rest together,
Whose fathers there to death contended.
Here lie the peaceful, simple race,
The first old tenants of the wild,
Who stored the mountains of the chase
With flocks and herds—whose manners mild
Changed the baronial castles, piled
In every glen, into the cot,
And the rude mountaineer beguiled,
Indignant, to his peaceful lot.
The first old tenants of the wild,
Who stored the mountains of the chase
With flocks and herds—whose manners mild
Changed the baronial castles, piled
In every glen, into the cot,
And the rude mountaineer beguiled,
Indignant, to his peaceful lot.
Here rural beauty low reposes;
The blushing cheek, and beaming eye,
The dimpling smile, the lip of roses,
Attracters of the burning sigh,
And love's delicious pangs, that lie
Enswathed in pleasure's mellow mine:
Maid, lover, parent, low and high,
Are mingled in thy lonely shrine.
The blushing cheek, and beaming eye,
The dimpling smile, the lip of roses,
Attracters of the burning sigh,
And love's delicious pangs, that lie
Enswathed in pleasure's mellow mine:
Maid, lover, parent, low and high,
Are mingled in thy lonely shrine.
392
And here lies one—here I must turn
From all the noble and sublime,
And, o'er thy new but sacred urn,
Shed the heath-flower and mountain-thyme,
And floods of sorrow, while I chime
Above thy dust one requiem.
Love was thine error, not thy crime,
Thou mildest, sweetest, mortal gem!
From all the noble and sublime,
And, o'er thy new but sacred urn,
Shed the heath-flower and mountain-thyme,
And floods of sorrow, while I chime
Above thy dust one requiem.
Love was thine error, not thy crime,
Thou mildest, sweetest, mortal gem!
For ever hallow'd be thy bed,
Beneath the dark and hoary steep;
Thy breast may flowerets overspread,
And angels of the morning weep
In sighs of heaven above thy sleep,
And tear-drops of embalming dew;
Thy vesper hymn be from the deep,
Thy matin from the ether blue!
Beneath the dark and hoary steep;
Thy breast may flowerets overspread,
And angels of the morning weep
In sighs of heaven above thy sleep,
And tear-drops of embalming dew;
Thy vesper hymn be from the deep,
Thy matin from the ether blue!
I dare not of that holy shade,
That's pass'd away, one thought allow;
Not even a dream that might degrade
The mercy before which I bow:
Eternal God, what is it now?
Thus asks my heart: but the reply
I aim not, wish not, to foreknow;
'Tis veil'd within eternity.
That's pass'd away, one thought allow;
Not even a dream that might degrade
The mercy before which I bow:
Eternal God, what is it now?
Thus asks my heart: but the reply
I aim not, wish not, to foreknow;
'Tis veil'd within eternity.
But oh, this earthly flesh and heart
Still cling to the dear form beneath,
As when I saw its soul depart,
As when I saw it calm in death:
The dead rose and funereal wreath
Above the breast of virgin snow,
Far lovelier than in life and breath—
I saw it then, and see it now.
Still cling to the dear form beneath,
As when I saw its soul depart,
As when I saw it calm in death:
The dead rose and funereal wreath
Above the breast of virgin snow,
Far lovelier than in life and breath—
I saw it then, and see it now.
That her fair form shall e'er decay,
One thought I may not entertain;
As she was on her dying day,
To me she ever will remain.
When Time's last shiver o'er his reign
Shall close this scene of sin and sorrow,
How calm, how lovely, how serene,
That form shall rise upon the morrow!
One thought I may not entertain;
As she was on her dying day,
To me she ever will remain.
When Time's last shiver o'er his reign
Shall close this scene of sin and sorrow,
How calm, how lovely, how serene,
That form shall rise upon the morrow!
Frail man! of all the arrows wounding
Thy mortal heart, there is but one
Whose poison'd dart is so astounding,
That bear it, cure it, there can none.
It is the thought of beauty won,
To love in most supreme degree,
And, by the hapless flame undone,
Cut off from nature and from thee!
Thy mortal heart, there is but one
Whose poison'd dart is so astounding,
That bear it, cure it, there can none.
It is the thought of beauty won,
To love in most supreme degree,
And, by the hapless flame undone,
Cut off from nature and from thee!
Superstition.
In Caledonia's glens there once did reign
A sovereign of supreme unearthly eye;
No human power her potence could restrain,
No human soul her influence deny:
Sole empress o'er the mountain homes, that lie
Far from the busy world's unceasing stir:
But gone is her mysterious dignity,
And true Devotion wanes away with her;
While in loose garb appears Corruption's harbinger.
A sovereign of supreme unearthly eye;
No human power her potence could restrain,
No human soul her influence deny:
Sole empress o'er the mountain homes, that lie
Far from the busy world's unceasing stir:
But gone is her mysterious dignity,
And true Devotion wanes away with her;
While in loose garb appears Corruption's harbinger.
Thou sceptic reveller—ill-framed with thee
Is visionary bard a war to wage:
Joy in thy light, thou earth-born Sadducee,
That earth is all thy hope and heritage.
Already wears thy front the line of age;
Thou see'st a heaven above—a grave before;
Does that lone cell thy wishes all engage?
Say, does thy yearning soul not grasp at more?
Woe to thy grovelling creed—thy cold ungenial lore!
Is visionary bard a war to wage:
Joy in thy light, thou earth-born Sadducee,
That earth is all thy hope and heritage.
Already wears thy front the line of age;
Thou see'st a heaven above—a grave before;
Does that lone cell thy wishes all engage?
Say, does thy yearning soul not grasp at more?
Woe to thy grovelling creed—thy cold ungenial lore!
Be mine to sing of visions that have been,
And cherish hope of visions yet to be;
Of mountains clothed in everlasting green,
Of silver torrent and of shadowy tree,
Far in the ocean of eternity.
Be mine the faith that spurns the bourn of time;
The soul whose eye can future glories see;
The converse here with things of purer clime,
And hope above the stars that soars on wing sublime.
And cherish hope of visions yet to be;
Of mountains clothed in everlasting green,
Of silver torrent and of shadowy tree,
Far in the ocean of eternity.
Be mine the faith that spurns the bourn of time;
The soul whose eye can future glories see;
The converse here with things of purer clime,
And hope above the stars that soars on wing sublime.
But she is gone that thrilled the simple minds
Of those I loved and honoured to the last;
She who gave voices to the wandering winds,
And mounted spirits on the midnight blast.
At her behest the trooping fairies passed,
And wayward elves in many a glimmering band;
The mountains teemed with life, and sore aghast
Stood maid and matron 'neath her mystic wand,
When all the spirits rose and walked at her command.
Of those I loved and honoured to the last;
She who gave voices to the wandering winds,
And mounted spirits on the midnight blast.
At her behest the trooping fairies passed,
And wayward elves in many a glimmering band;
The mountains teemed with life, and sore aghast
Stood maid and matron 'neath her mystic wand,
When all the spirits rose and walked at her command.
And she could make the brown and careless boy
All breathless stand, unknowing what to fear;
Or panting deep beneath his co'erlet lie,
When midnight whisper stole upon his ear.
And she could mould the vision of the seer
To aught that rankled breast of froward wight;
Or hang the form of cerement or of bier
Within the cottage fire—O woeful sight!
That called forth many a prayer and deepened groan by night.
All breathless stand, unknowing what to fear;
Or panting deep beneath his co'erlet lie,
When midnight whisper stole upon his ear.
And she could mould the vision of the seer
To aught that rankled breast of froward wight;
Or hang the form of cerement or of bier
Within the cottage fire—O woeful sight!
That called forth many a prayer and deepened groan by night.
Oh! I have bowed to her resistless sway,
When the thin evening vapours floated nigh;
When the gray plover's wailings died away,
And the tall mountains melted into sky:
The note of gloaming bee that journeyed by
Sent through my heart a momentary knell;
And sore I feared in bush or brake might lie
Things of unearthly make—for I knew well,
That hour with danger fraught more than when midnight fell.
When the thin evening vapours floated nigh;
When the gray plover's wailings died away,
And the tall mountains melted into sky:
The note of gloaming bee that journeyed by
Sent through my heart a momentary knell;
And sore I feared in bush or brake might lie
Things of unearthly make—for I knew well,
That hour with danger fraught more than when midnight fell.
But oh! if ancient cemetery was near,
Or cairn of harper murdered long ago,
Or wandering pedlar for his hoarded gear,
Of such, what glen of Scotland doth not know?
Or grave of suicide, upon the brow
Of the bleak mountain, withered all and gray;
From these I held as from some deadly foe:
There have I quaked by night and mused by day;
But chiefly where I weened the bard or warrior lay.
Or cairn of harper murdered long ago,
Or wandering pedlar for his hoarded gear,
Of such, what glen of Scotland doth not know?
Or grave of suicide, upon the brow
393
From these I held as from some deadly foe:
There have I quaked by night and mused by day;
But chiefly where I weened the bard or warrior lay.
For many a wild heart-thrilling Scottish bard,
In lowland dale the lyre of heaven that wooed,
Sleeps 'neath some little mound or lonely sward,
Where humble dome of rapt devotion stood,
Mid heathy wastes by Mary's silent flood,
Or in the moorland glen of dark Buccleuch;
There o'er their graves the heath-fowl's mottled brood,
Track with light feathery foot the morning dew;
There plays the gamesome lamb, or bleats the yeaning ewe.
In lowland dale the lyre of heaven that wooed,
Sleeps 'neath some little mound or lonely sward,
Where humble dome of rapt devotion stood,
Mid heathy wastes by Mary's silent flood,
Or in the moorland glen of dark Buccleuch;
There o'er their graves the heath-fowl's mottled brood,
Track with light feathery foot the morning dew;
There plays the gamesome lamb, or bleats the yeaning ewe.
Yet there still meet the thoughtful shepherd's view
The marble fount-stone, and the rood so gray;
And often there he sees with changeful hue
The snow-white skull washed by the burn away;
And O! if 'tis his chance at eve to stray,
Lone by the place where his forefathers sleep;
At bittern's whoop or gor-cock's startling bay,
How heaves his simple breast with breathings deep!
He mutters vow to Heaven, and speeds along the steep.
The marble fount-stone, and the rood so gray;
And often there he sees with changeful hue
The snow-white skull washed by the burn away;
And O! if 'tis his chance at eve to stray,
Lone by the place where his forefathers sleep;
At bittern's whoop or gor-cock's startling bay,
How heaves his simple breast with breathings deep!
He mutters vow to Heaven, and speeds along the steep.
For well he knows, along that desert room,
The spirits nightly watch the sacred clay;
That, cradled on the mountain's purple bloom,
By him they lie, companions of the day,
His guardian friends, and listening to his lay:
And many a chant floats on the vacant air,
That spirit of the bard or warrior may
Hear the forgotten names perchance they bare:
For many a warrior wight, and nameless bard, lies there!
The spirits nightly watch the sacred clay;
That, cradled on the mountain's purple bloom,
By him they lie, companions of the day,
His guardian friends, and listening to his lay:
And many a chant floats on the vacant air,
That spirit of the bard or warrior may
Hear the forgotten names perchance they bare:
For many a warrior wight, and nameless bard, lies there!
Those were the times for holiness of frame;
Those were the days when fancy wandered free;
That kindled in the soul the mystic flame,
And the rapt breathings of high poesy.
Sole empress of the twilight—woe is me!
That thou and all thy spectres are outworn,
For true devotion wanes away with thee;
All thy delirious dreams are laughed to scorn,
While o'er our hills has dawned a cold saturnine morn.
Those were the days when fancy wandered free;
That kindled in the soul the mystic flame,
And the rapt breathings of high poesy.
Sole empress of the twilight—woe is me!
That thou and all thy spectres are outworn,
For true devotion wanes away with thee;
All thy delirious dreams are laughed to scorn,
While o'er our hills has dawned a cold saturnine morn.
Long did thy fairies linger in the wild,
When vale and city wholly were resigned;
Where hoary cliffs o'er little holms were piled,
And torrents sung their music to the wind;
The darksome heaven upon the hills reclined,
Save when a transient sun-beam, through the rain,
Past, like some beauteous phantom of the mind,
Leaving the hind in solitude again—
These were their last retreats, and heard their parting strain.
When vale and city wholly were resigned;
Where hoary cliffs o'er little holms were piled,
And torrents sung their music to the wind;
The darksome heaven upon the hills reclined,
Save when a transient sun-beam, through the rain,
Past, like some beauteous phantom of the mind,
Leaving the hind in solitude again—
These were their last retreats, and heard their parting strain.
But every vice effeminate has sped,
Fast as the spirits from our hills have gone;
And all these light unbodied forms are fled,
Or good or evil, save the ghost alone.
True, when the kine are lowing in the loan,
An evil eye may heinous mischief brew;
But deep enchantments to the wise are known,
That certainly the blasted herd renew,
And make the eldron crone her cantrips sorely rue.
Fast as the spirits from our hills have gone;
And all these light unbodied forms are fled,
Or good or evil, save the ghost alone.
True, when the kine are lowing in the loan,
An evil eye may heinous mischief brew;
But deep enchantments to the wise are known,
That certainly the blasted herd renew,
And make the eldron crone her cantrips sorely rue.
Oh! I have seen the door most closely barred;
The green turf fire where stuck was many a pin;
The rhymes of incantation I have heard,
And seen the black dish solemnly laid in
Amid the boiling liquid—Was it sin?
Ah! no—'twas all in fair defence of right.
With big drops hanging at her brow and chin,
Soon comes the witch in sad and woeful plight;
Is cut above the breath, and, yelling, takes her flight!
The green turf fire where stuck was many a pin;
The rhymes of incantation I have heard,
And seen the black dish solemnly laid in
Amid the boiling liquid—Was it sin?
Ah! no—'twas all in fair defence of right.
With big drops hanging at her brow and chin,
Soon comes the witch in sad and woeful plight;
Is cut above the breath, and, yelling, takes her flight!
And I have seen, in gaunt and famished guise,
The brindled mouser of the cot appear;
A haggard wildness darted from her eyes;
No marvel was it when the truth you hear,
That she is forced to carry neighbour near,
Swift through the night to countries far away;
That still her feet the marks of travel bear;
And her broad back, that erst was sleek and gray,
O, hapless beast!—all galled where the curst saddle lay.
The brindled mouser of the cot appear;
A haggard wildness darted from her eyes;
No marvel was it when the truth you hear,
That she is forced to carry neighbour near,
Swift through the night to countries far away;
That still her feet the marks of travel bear;
And her broad back, that erst was sleek and gray,
O, hapless beast!—all galled where the curst saddle lay.
If every creed has its attendant ills,
How slight were thine!—a train of airy dreams!
No holy awe the cynic's bosom thrills;
Be mine the faith diverging to extremes!
What though, upon the moon's distempered beams,
Erewhile thy matrons gallopped through the heaven,
Floated like feather on the foaming streams,
Or raised the winds by tenfold fury driven,
Till ocean blurred the sky, and hills in twain were riven.
How slight were thine!—a train of airy dreams!
No holy awe the cynic's bosom thrills;
Be mine the faith diverging to extremes!
What though, upon the moon's distempered beams,
Erewhile thy matrons gallopped through the heaven,
Floated like feather on the foaming streams,
Or raised the winds by tenfold fury driven,
Till ocean blurred the sky, and hills in twain were riven.
Where fell the scathe?—The beldames were amused,
Whom eild and poverty had sorely crazed.
What, though their feeble senses were abused
By gleesome demon in the church-aisle raised,
With lion tail, and eyes that baleful blazed,
Whose bagpipe's blare made all the roof to quake!
But ages yet unborn will stand amazed
At thy dread power, that could the wretches make
Believe these things all real, and swear them at the stake.
Whom eild and poverty had sorely crazed.
What, though their feeble senses were abused
By gleesome demon in the church-aisle raised,
With lion tail, and eyes that baleful blazed,
Whose bagpipe's blare made all the roof to quake!
But ages yet unborn will stand amazed
At thy dread power, that could the wretches make
Believe these things all real, and swear them at the stake.
But ah! thou filled'st the guilty heart with dread,
And brought the deeds of darkness to the day!
Who was it made the livid corse to bleed
At murderer's touch, and cause the gelid clay
By fancied movement all the truth betray?
Even from dry bones the drops of blood have sprung!
'Twas thou, Inquisitor!—whose mystic sway
A shade of terror over nature hung;
A feeling more sublime than poet ever sung.
And brought the deeds of darkness to the day!
Who was it made the livid corse to bleed
At murderer's touch, and cause the gelid clay
By fancied movement all the truth betray?
Even from dry bones the drops of blood have sprung!
'Twas thou, Inquisitor!—whose mystic sway
A shade of terror over nature hung;
A feeling more sublime than poet ever sung.
Fearless the shepherd faced the midnight storm,
To save his flocks deep swathed amid the snow;
Though threatening clouds the face of heaven deform,
The sailor feared not o'er the firth to row;
Dauntless the hind marched forth to meet the foe:
For why? they knew, though earth and hell combined,
In heaven were registered their days below;
That there was One well able and inclined
To save them from the sword, the wave, and stormy wind.
To save his flocks deep swathed amid the snow;
Though threatening clouds the face of heaven deform,
The sailor feared not o'er the firth to row;
Dauntless the hind marched forth to meet the foe:
394
In heaven were registered their days below;
That there was One well able and inclined
To save them from the sword, the wave, and stormy wind.
O blissful thought to poverty and age!
When troubles press and dangers sore belay,
This is their only stay, their anchorage,
“It is the will of Heaven, let us obey!
Ill it befits the creatures of a day
Beneath a Father's chastening to repine.”
This high belief in Providence's sway,
In the eye of reason wears into decline;
And soon that heavenly ray must ever cease to shine.
When troubles press and dangers sore belay,
This is their only stay, their anchorage,
“It is the will of Heaven, let us obey!
Ill it befits the creatures of a day
Beneath a Father's chastening to repine.”
This high belief in Providence's sway,
In the eye of reason wears into decline;
And soon that heavenly ray must ever cease to shine.
Yet these were days of marvel—when our king,
As chronicles and sapient sages tell,
Stood with his priests and nobles in a ring,
Searching old beldame for the mark of hell,
The test of witchcraft and of devilish spell:
And when I see a hag, the country's bane,
With rancorous heart and tongue of malice fell,
Blight youth and beauty with a burning stain,
I wish for these old times, and Stuarts back again.
As chronicles and sapient sages tell,
Stood with his priests and nobles in a ring,
Searching old beldame for the mark of hell,
The test of witchcraft and of devilish spell:
And when I see a hag, the country's bane,
With rancorous heart and tongue of malice fell,
Blight youth and beauty with a burning stain,
I wish for these old times, and Stuarts back again.
Haply 'tis weened that Scotland now is free
Of witchcraft, and of spell o'er human life;
Ah me!—ne'er since she rose out of the sea,
Were they so deep, so dangerous, and so rife:
The heart of man, unequal to the strife,
Sinks down before the lightning of their eyes.
Oh! it is meet that every maid and wife
Some keen exorcist still should scrutinize,
And bring them to the test for all their sorceries.
Of witchcraft, and of spell o'er human life;
Ah me!—ne'er since she rose out of the sea,
Were they so deep, so dangerous, and so rife:
The heart of man, unequal to the strife,
Sinks down before the lightning of their eyes.
Oh! it is meet that every maid and wife
Some keen exorcist still should scrutinize,
And bring them to the test for all their sorceries.
Much have I owed thee—much may I repine,
Great Queen! to see thy honours thus decay:
Among the mountain maids the power was thine,
On blest Saint Valentine's or Hallow Day.
Ours was the omen—theirs was to obey:
Firm their belief, or most demurely feigned!
Each maid her cheek on lover's breast would lay,
And, sighing, grant the kiss so long refrained;—
'Twas sin to counteract what Providence ordained!
Great Queen! to see thy honours thus decay:
Among the mountain maids the power was thine,
On blest Saint Valentine's or Hallow Day.
Ours was the omen—theirs was to obey:
Firm their belief, or most demurely feigned!
Each maid her cheek on lover's breast would lay,
And, sighing, grant the kiss so long refrained;—
'Twas sin to counteract what Providence ordained!
Oh! I remember, as young fancy grew,
How oft thou spokest in voice of distant rill;
What sheeted forms thy plastic finger drew,
Throned on the shadow of the moonlight hill,
Or in the glade so motionless and still,
That scarcely in this world I seemed to be;
High on the tempest sing thine anthem shrill;
Across the heaven upon the meteor flee;
Or in the thunder speak with voice of majesty!
How oft thou spokest in voice of distant rill;
What sheeted forms thy plastic finger drew,
Throned on the shadow of the moonlight hill,
Or in the glade so motionless and still,
That scarcely in this world I seemed to be;
High on the tempest sing thine anthem shrill;
Across the heaven upon the meteor flee;
Or in the thunder speak with voice of majesty!
All these are gone—the days of vision o'er;
The bard of fancy strikes a tuneless string.
Oh! if I wist to meet thee here no more,
My muse should wander, on unwearied wing,
To find thy dwelling by some lonely spring,
Where Norway opes her forests to the gale;
The dell thy home, the cloud thy covering;
The tuneful sea-maid, and the spectre pale,
Tending thy gloomy throne, amid heaven's awful veil.
The bard of fancy strikes a tuneless string.
Oh! if I wist to meet thee here no more,
My muse should wander, on unwearied wing,
To find thy dwelling by some lonely spring,
Where Norway opes her forests to the gale;
The dell thy home, the cloud thy covering;
The tuneful sea-maid, and the spectre pale,
Tending thy gloomy throne, amid heaven's awful veil.
Or shall I seek thee where the Tana rolls
Her deep blue torrent to the northern main;
Where many a shade of former huntsman prowls,
Where summer roses deck the untrodden plain,
And beauteous fays and elves, a flickering train,
Dance with the foamy spirits of the sea?
Oh! let me quake before thee once again,
And take one farewell on my bended knee,
Great ruler of the soul, which none can rule like thee!
Her deep blue torrent to the northern main;
Where many a shade of former huntsman prowls,
Where summer roses deck the untrodden plain,
And beauteous fays and elves, a flickering train,
Dance with the foamy spirits of the sea?
Oh! let me quake before thee once again,
And take one farewell on my bended knee,
Great ruler of the soul, which none can rule like thee!
Epitaph on a Living Character.
Whose headstone is this, that's so fretted and airy
In workmanship, planned by the wildest vagary?
There's the bolus, the pen, and the emblem of happiness,
With Venus, and Mars, and the sage Esculapius;
Fine gardens on arches, whose shades I remember;
The picture of May and the bust of November.
And yonder's an ox; faith, I almost could wager
'Tis the great king of Babylon, Nebuchadnezzar.
If you'll lend me a prop with your hand or your head, I shall
Read you the epitaph up from the pedestal.
In workmanship, planned by the wildest vagary?
There's the bolus, the pen, and the emblem of happiness,
With Venus, and Mars, and the sage Esculapius;
Fine gardens on arches, whose shades I remember;
The picture of May and the bust of November.
And yonder's an ox; faith, I almost could wager
'Tis the great king of Babylon, Nebuchadnezzar.
If you'll lend me a prop with your hand or your head, I shall
Read you the epitaph up from the pedestal.
“O passenger, pause o'er these sacred receptacles!
And read whom they hold, though you put on your spectacles:
Remember in season your God and your duty,
Else vain is your knowledge, your riches, or beauty;
If these had as guards stood this chilly abode upon,
Never had these two lain here to be trod upon.
And read whom they hold, though you put on your spectacles:
Remember in season your God and your duty,
Else vain is your knowledge, your riches, or beauty;
If these had as guards stood this chilly abode upon,
Never had these two lain here to be trod upon.
“Here, next to the sun, lies as bold and as rich a man,—
Ah, no, but the ashes of one that was such a man;
Of spirit decisive, of genius undoubted;
And as for his learning it ne'er was disputed.
The fire of the sky and the ray of simplicity
Were both led in train by a proud eccentricity:
Yet now, when he's gone, you may safely aver it,
His countrymen knew not one half of his merit.
Ah, no, but the ashes of one that was such a man;
Of spirit decisive, of genius undoubted;
And as for his learning it ne'er was disputed.
The fire of the sky and the ray of simplicity
Were both led in train by a proud eccentricity:
Yet now, when he's gone, you may safely aver it,
His countrymen knew not one half of his merit.
“And here by his side lies a sweet lovely creature,
A dew-sprinkled rose in the garden of nature,
Who blossomed and smiled in the richest maturity,
Then died as she lived, in submission and purity.
Yes, both are laid low here, as sure as you'd seen it,
And no man is sure of his life for a minute.
A dew-sprinkled rose in the garden of nature,
Who blossomed and smiled in the richest maturity,
Then died as she lived, in submission and purity.
Yes, both are laid low here, as sure as you'd seen it,
And no man is sure of his life for a minute.
“Go home to your book or your business, and when ye go,
Turn not aside to the tavern or bagnio;
But hold on your way with a firm resolution,
A day is approaching of fair retribution;
And when to the tomb they your carcase deliver,
For good or for evil ye're settled for ever!”
Turn not aside to the tavern or bagnio;
395
A day is approaching of fair retribution;
And when to the tomb they your carcase deliver,
For good or for evil ye're settled for ever!”
Morning.
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
Over gorse, green broom, and braken,
From her sieve of silken blue
Dawning sifts her silver dew,
Hangs the emerald on the willow,
Lights her lamp below the billow,
Bends the brier and branchy braken—
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
Over gorse, green broom, and braken,
From her sieve of silken blue
Dawning sifts her silver dew,
Hangs the emerald on the willow,
Lights her lamp below the billow,
Bends the brier and branchy braken—
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
Deep the moon her draught has taken
Of the babbling rivulet sheen,
Far beyond the Ochil green.
From her gauzy veil on high
Trills the laverock's melody;
Round and round, from glen and grove,
Pour a thousand hymns to love;
Harps the quail amid the clover,
O'er the moon-fern whews the plover;
Bat has hid, and heath-cock crowed,
Courser neighed, and cattle lowed,
Kid and lamb their lair forsaken;—
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
Deep the moon her draught has taken
Of the babbling rivulet sheen,
Far beyond the Ochil green.
From her gauzy veil on high
Trills the laverock's melody;
Round and round, from glen and grove,
Pour a thousand hymns to love;
Harps the quail amid the clover,
O'er the moon-fern whews the plover;
Bat has hid, and heath-cock crowed,
Courser neighed, and cattle lowed,
Kid and lamb their lair forsaken;—
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
See how light the wood-fly dances!
Swifter still the dawn advances;
Streaming in her eagle talon
Waves her bright and broad gonfalon;
Specks of purple, sprigs of yellow,
Roof her radiant light umbrella;
Pretty limner! see her hue
Painted on the amber dew,
On the leaf of beech and willow,
On the lake and sleepy billow;—
Rouse thee, slumberer, from thy pillow!
Swifter still the dawn advances;
Streaming in her eagle talon
Waves her bright and broad gonfalon;
Specks of purple, sprigs of yellow,
Roof her radiant light umbrella;
Pretty limner! see her hue
Painted on the amber dew,
On the leaf of beech and willow,
On the lake and sleepy billow;—
Rouse thee, slumberer, from thy pillow!
Human life is but a day;
Gay its morn, but short as gay;
Day of evil—day of sorrow!
Hope—even hope can paint no morrow.
Steeped in sloth or passions boiling,
Noon shall find thee faint and toiling:
Evening rears her mantle dreary;
Evening finds thee pale and weary.
Prospects blasted,—aims misguided,—
For the future ill provided,—
Murmuring, worn, enfeebled, shaking—
Days of sorrow, nights of waking—
Yield thy soul unto the Giver;
Bow thy head, and sleep for ever!
Rise, O rise, to work betake thee!
Wake thee, drowsy slumberer, wake thee!
Gay its morn, but short as gay;
Day of evil—day of sorrow!
Hope—even hope can paint no morrow.
Steeped in sloth or passions boiling,
Noon shall find thee faint and toiling:
Evening rears her mantle dreary;
Evening finds thee pale and weary.
Prospects blasted,—aims misguided,—
For the future ill provided,—
Murmuring, worn, enfeebled, shaking—
Days of sorrow, nights of waking—
Yield thy soul unto the Giver;
Bow thy head, and sleep for ever!
Rise, O rise, to work betake thee!
Wake thee, drowsy slumberer, wake thee!
The Fall of the Leaf.
The flush of the landscape is o'er,
The brown leaves are shed on the way,
The dye of the lone mountain flower
Is grown wan, and betokens decay.
The brown leaves are shed on the way,
The dye of the lone mountain flower
Is grown wan, and betokens decay.
The Spring in our valleys is born,
Like the bud that it fostered, to die;
Like the transient dews of the morn,
Or the vapour that melts in the sky.
Like the bud that it fostered, to die;
Like the transient dews of the morn,
Or the vapour that melts in the sky.
Thus youth, with its visions so gay,
Departs like a dream of the mind;
To pleasure and passion a prey,
It often leaves sorrow behind.
Departs like a dream of the mind;
To pleasure and passion a prey,
It often leaves sorrow behind.
Its virtues too buoyant to grow,
Its follies too latent to die;
We shall reap of the seeds we then sow,
When the stars have dissolved in the sky.
Its follies too latent to die;
We shall reap of the seeds we then sow,
When the stars have dissolved in the sky.
Our Summer now flits o'er the main,
And leaves but her mantle behind;
Short time will that mantle remain,
Expelled by the chill winter wind.
And leaves but her mantle behind;
Short time will that mantle remain,
Expelled by the chill winter wind.
All silent the song of the thrush,
Bewildered she cowers in the dale;
The black-bird sits sad on the bush;
The fall of the leaf they bewail.
Bewildered she cowers in the dale;
The black-bird sits sad on the bush;
The fall of the leaf they bewail.
Thus I may sit silent and sigh,
Before me the cold lonely urn;
My youth and my prime are gone by,
And, alas! they can never return.
Before me the cold lonely urn;
My youth and my prime are gone by,
And, alas! they can never return.
All nature thus tends to decay,
And to drop as the leaves from the tree;
And man—just the flower of a day,
How long, long his winter will be!
And to drop as the leaves from the tree;
And man—just the flower of a day,
How long, long his winter will be!
But the grain, late adorning the field,
With its soft heaving billows so pale,
More gain to its owner will yield,
Than if still waving sweet in the vale:
With its soft heaving billows so pale,
More gain to its owner will yield,
Than if still waving sweet in the vale:
So the breast where firm virtue and reason
Could every wild passion subdue;
The fall of his leaf is a season
That man may with pleasure review.
Could every wild passion subdue;
The fall of his leaf is a season
That man may with pleasure review.
At suffering he will not despond,
Nor at death when his sorrows shall cease,
While hope points his eye far beyond
To a mansion of virtue and peace.
Nor at death when his sorrows shall cease,
While hope points his eye far beyond
To a mansion of virtue and peace.
Eternity's streamers unfurled,
Time's tear o'er his tottering throne,
The last rending crash of the world,
The sky with its orbs overthrown,
Time's tear o'er his tottering throne,
The last rending crash of the world,
The sky with its orbs overthrown,
He will view with a soul all serene;
And will welcome the dawn of the day
Which in glory shall open a scene
Of perfection that cannot decay.
And will welcome the dawn of the day
Which in glory shall open a scene
Of perfection that cannot decay.
396
A Witch's Chant.
Thou art weary, weary, weary,
Thou art weary and far away!
Hear me, gentle spirit, hear me;
Come before the dawn of day.
Thou art weary and far away!
Hear me, gentle spirit, hear me;
Come before the dawn of day.
I hear a small voice from the hill,
The vapour is deadly, pale, and still—
A murmuring sough is on the wood,
And the witching star is red as blood.
The vapour is deadly, pale, and still—
A murmuring sough is on the wood,
And the witching star is red as blood.
And in the cleft of heaven I scan
The giant form of a naked man;
His eye is like the burning brand,
And he holds a sword in his right hand.
The giant form of a naked man;
His eye is like the burning brand,
And he holds a sword in his right hand.
All is not well: by dint of spell,
Somewhere between the heaven and hell
There is this night a wild deray;
The spirits have wander'd from their way.
Somewhere between the heaven and hell
There is this night a wild deray;
The spirits have wander'd from their way.
The purple drops shall tinge the moon,
As she wanders through the midnight noon;
And the dawning heaven shall all be red
With blood by guilty angels shed.
As she wanders through the midnight noon;
And the dawning heaven shall all be red
With blood by guilty angels shed.
Be as it will, I have the skill
To work by good or work by ill;
Then here's for pain, and here's for thrall,
And here's for conscience, worst of all!
To work by good or work by ill;
Then here's for pain, and here's for thrall,
And here's for conscience, worst of all!
Another chant, and then, and then,
Spirits shall come or Christian men—
Come from the earth, the air, or the sea:
Great Gil-Moules, I cry to thee!
Spirits shall come or Christian men—
Come from the earth, the air, or the sea:
Great Gil-Moules, I cry to thee!
Sleep'st thou, wakest thou, lord of the wind?
Mount thy steeds and gallop them blind;
And the long-tailed fiery dragon outfly,
The rocket of heaven, the bomb of the sky.
Mount thy steeds and gallop them blind;
And the long-tailed fiery dragon outfly,
The rocket of heaven, the bomb of the sky.
Over the dog-star, over the wain,
Over the cloud, and the rainbow's mane,
Over the mountain, and over the sea,
Haste—haste—haste to me!
Over the cloud, and the rainbow's mane,
Over the mountain, and over the sea,
Haste—haste—haste to me!
Then here's for trouble and here's for smart,
And here's for the pang that seeks the heart;
Here's for madness, and here's for thrall,
And here's for conscience, the worst of all!
And here's for the pang that seeks the heart;
Here's for madness, and here's for thrall,
And here's for conscience, the worst of all!
Regret.
What makes that lulling brook complain,
While softly round the valley sweeping?
What makes the blackbird's morning strain
Sound like the voice of woe and weeping?
While softly round the valley sweeping?
What makes the blackbird's morning strain
Sound like the voice of woe and weeping?
Alas! I fear the sylvan bower
Has lost its sweets of morn and even,
Since I have flung the sweetest flower,
That ever breathed the breeze of heaven.
Has lost its sweets of morn and even,
Since I have flung the sweetest flower,
That ever breathed the breeze of heaven.
Sing on, thou bonny bird of Spring!
Thy little heart with love is heaving;
Far hast thou wandered on the wing,
But not thy love behind thee leaving;
Thy little heart with love is heaving;
Far hast thou wandered on the wing,
But not thy love behind thee leaving;
But I have left my native glade,
The silent bower, and scented blossom;
And I have left the sweetest maid,
That ever heaved a snowy bosom.
The silent bower, and scented blossom;
And I have left the sweetest maid,
That ever heaved a snowy bosom.
I saw the round, the crystal tear,
How could my stern reproach abuse her!
I loved her—yes, I loved her dear—
How could my jealous mind accuse her!
How could my stern reproach abuse her!
I loved her—yes, I loved her dear—
How could my jealous mind accuse her!
How often from the evening fall
I've wooed her fondly till the morrow;
She gave her heart—it was her all—
And yet I left that heart to sorrow.
I've wooed her fondly till the morrow;
She gave her heart—it was her all—
And yet I left that heart to sorrow.
Sing on, thou bonny bird of morn,
Above the broom-wood waving yellow;
Thy love sits listening in the thorn,
Delighted with thy music mellow.
Above the broom-wood waving yellow;
Thy love sits listening in the thorn,
Delighted with thy music mellow.
Thou call'st the red sun from the sea,
He hastes above the wave to hear thee;
The evening star steals o'er the tree,
With simple ray of love to cheer thee.
He hastes above the wave to hear thee;
The evening star steals o'er the tree,
With simple ray of love to cheer thee.
Long may thy melody renew
The fondest hope of faithful lover;
And morning weave her mantle blue
Thy dwelling in the greenwood over!
The fondest hope of faithful lover;
And morning weave her mantle blue
Thy dwelling in the greenwood over!
Her silver sleys of fairy weft,
Of former joys alone remind me;
My bliss is fled since I have left
My dear, my injured maid behind me.
Of former joys alone remind me;
My bliss is fled since I have left
My dear, my injured maid behind me.
A Bard's Address to his Youngest Daughter.
Come to my arms, my dear wee pet,
My gleesome, gentle Harriet!
The sweetest babe art thou to me
That ever sat on parent's knee;
Thy every feature is so cheering,
And every motion so endearing.
Thou hast that eye was mine erewhile,
Thy mother's blithe and grateful smile,
And such a playful, merry mien,
That care flies off whene'er thou'rt seen.
My gleesome, gentle Harriet!
The sweetest babe art thou to me
That ever sat on parent's knee;
Thy every feature is so cheering,
And every motion so endearing.
Thou hast that eye was mine erewhile,
Thy mother's blithe and grateful smile,
And such a playful, merry mien,
That care flies off whene'er thou'rt seen.
And, if aright I read thy mind,
The child of nature thou'rt design'd;
For, even while yet upon the breast,
Thou mimick'st child, and bird, and beast;
Can'st cry like Maggie o'er her book,
And crow like cock, and caw like rook,
Boo like a bull, or blare like ram,
And bark like dog, and bleat like lamb,
And when afield in sunshine weather,
Thou minglest all these sounds together:
Then who can say, thou happy creature,
Thou'rt not the very child of nature?
The child of nature thou'rt design'd;
For, even while yet upon the breast,
Thou mimick'st child, and bird, and beast;
397
And crow like cock, and caw like rook,
Boo like a bull, or blare like ram,
And bark like dog, and bleat like lamb,
And when afield in sunshine weather,
Thou minglest all these sounds together:
Then who can say, thou happy creature,
Thou'rt not the very child of nature?
Child of my age and dearest love!
As precious gift from God above,
I take thy pure and gentle frame,
And tiny mind of mounting flame;
And hope that through life's chequer'd glade—
That weary path that all must tread—
Some credit from thy name will flow
To the old bard who loved thee so.
At least, thou shalt not want thy meed—
His blessing on thy beauteous head,
And prayers to him whose sacred breath
Lighten'd the shades of life and death—
Who said with sweet benignity,
“Let little children come to me.”
As precious gift from God above,
I take thy pure and gentle frame,
And tiny mind of mounting flame;
And hope that through life's chequer'd glade—
That weary path that all must tread—
Some credit from thy name will flow
To the old bard who loved thee so.
At least, thou shalt not want thy meed—
His blessing on thy beauteous head,
And prayers to him whose sacred breath
Lighten'd the shades of life and death—
Who said with sweet benignity,
“Let little children come to me.”
And now, sweet child, one boon I crave—
And pout not, for that boon I'll have—
One kiss I ask for grandam's sake,
Who never saw thy tiny make;
And one for her who left us late,
Laid low, but not forgotten yet;
And thy sweet mother, too, the nearest
To thee and me, the kindest, dearest—
Thou sacred, blest memorial,
When I kiss thee, I kiss them all!
And pout not, for that boon I'll have—
One kiss I ask for grandam's sake,
Who never saw thy tiny make;
And one for her who left us late,
Laid low, but not forgotten yet;
And thy sweet mother, too, the nearest
To thee and me, the kindest, dearest—
Thou sacred, blest memorial,
When I kiss thee, I kiss them all!
'Tis very strange, my little dove!
That all I ever loved, or love,
In wondrous visions still I trace
While gazing on thy guiltless face:
Thy very name brings to my mind
One, whose high birth and soul refined,
Withheld her not from naming me,
Even in life's last extremity.
Sweet babe! thou art memorial dear
Of all I honour and revere!
That all I ever loved, or love,
In wondrous visions still I trace
While gazing on thy guiltless face:
Thy very name brings to my mind
One, whose high birth and soul refined,
Withheld her not from naming me,
Even in life's last extremity.
Sweet babe! thou art memorial dear
Of all I honour and revere!
Come, look not sad: though sorrow now
Broods on thy father's thoughtful brow,
And on the reverie he would dwell—
Thy prattle soon will that expel.
—How darest thou frown, thou freakish fay!
And turn thy chubby face away,
And pout, as if thou took'st amiss
Thy partial parent's offer'd kiss?
Full well I know thy deep design;
'Tis to turn back thy face to mine,
With triple burst of joyous glee,
And fifty strains at mimicry!
Broods on thy father's thoughtful brow,
And on the reverie he would dwell—
Thy prattle soon will that expel.
—How darest thou frown, thou freakish fay!
And turn thy chubby face away,
And pout, as if thou took'st amiss
Thy partial parent's offer'd kiss?
Full well I know thy deep design;
'Tis to turn back thy face to mine,
With triple burst of joyous glee,
And fifty strains at mimicry!
Crow on, sweet child! thy wild delight
Is moved by visions heavenly bright:
What wealth from nature may'st thou gain,
With promptings high to heart and brain!
But hope is all—though yet unproved,
Thou art a shepherd's best beloved:
And now above thy brow so fair,
And flowing films of flaxen hair,
I lay my hand once more, and frame
A blessing, in the holy name
Of that supreme divinity,
Who breathed a living soul in thee.
Is moved by visions heavenly bright:
What wealth from nature may'st thou gain,
With promptings high to heart and brain!
But hope is all—though yet unproved,
Thou art a shepherd's best beloved:
And now above thy brow so fair,
And flowing films of flaxen hair,
I lay my hand once more, and frame
A blessing, in the holy name
Of that supreme divinity,
Who breathed a living soul in thee.
Elegy.
[Fair was thy blossom, tender flower]
Fair was thy blossom, tender flower,
That opened like the rose in May,
Though nursed beneath the chilly shower
Of fell regret for love's decay!
That opened like the rose in May,
Though nursed beneath the chilly shower
Of fell regret for love's decay!
How oft thy mother heaved the sigh,
O'er wreaths of honour early shorn,
Before thy sweet and guiltless eye
Had opened on the dawn of morn!
O'er wreaths of honour early shorn,
Before thy sweet and guiltless eye
Had opened on the dawn of morn!
How oft above thy lowly bed,
When all in silence slumbered low,
The fond and filial tear was shed,
Thou child of love, of shame, and woe!
When all in silence slumbered low,
The fond and filial tear was shed,
Thou child of love, of shame, and woe!
Her wronged but gentle bosom burned
With joy thy opening bloom to see,—
The only breast that o'er thee yearned,
The only heart that cared for thee.
With joy thy opening bloom to see,—
The only breast that o'er thee yearned,
The only heart that cared for thee.
Oft her young eye, with tear-drops bright,
Pleaded with Heaven for her sweet child,
When faded dreams of past delight
O'er recollection wandered wild.
Pleaded with Heaven for her sweet child,
When faded dreams of past delight
O'er recollection wandered wild.
Fair was thy blossom, bonny flower,
Fair as the softest wreath of spring,
When late I saw thee seek the bower
In peace thy morning hymn to sing!
Fair as the softest wreath of spring,
When late I saw thee seek the bower
In peace thy morning hymn to sing!
Thy little feet across the lawn
Scarce from the primrose pressed the dew;
I thought the spirit of the dawn
Before me to the greenwood flew.
Scarce from the primrose pressed the dew;
I thought the spirit of the dawn
Before me to the greenwood flew.
Even then the shaft was on the wing,
Thy spotless soul from earth to sever;
A tear of pity wet the string
That twanged, and sealed thy doom for ever.
Thy spotless soul from earth to sever;
A tear of pity wet the string
That twanged, and sealed thy doom for ever.
I saw thee late the emblem fair
Of beauty, innocence, and truth,
Start tiptoe on the verge of air,
'Twixt childhood and unstable youth;
Of beauty, innocence, and truth,
Start tiptoe on the verge of air,
'Twixt childhood and unstable youth;
But now I see thee stretched at rest,
(To break that rest shall wake no morrow;)
Pale as the grave-flower on thy breast,
Poor child of love, of shame, and sorrow!
(To break that rest shall wake no morrow;)
Pale as the grave-flower on thy breast,
Poor child of love, of shame, and sorrow!
398
May thy long sleep be soft and sweet,
Thy visions fraught with bliss to be;
And long the daisy, emblem meet,
Shall shed its earliest tear o'er thee.
Thy visions fraught with bliss to be;
And long the daisy, emblem meet,
Shall shed its earliest tear o'er thee.
Verses to the Comet of 1811.
How lovely is this wildered scene,
As twilight from her vaults so blue
Steals soft o'er Yarrow's mountains green,
To sleep embalmed in midnight dew!
As twilight from her vaults so blue
Steals soft o'er Yarrow's mountains green,
To sleep embalmed in midnight dew!
All hail, ye hills, whose towering height,
Like shadows, scoops the yielding sky!
And thou, mysterious guest of night,
Dread traveller of immensity.
Like shadows, scoops the yielding sky!
And thou, mysterious guest of night,
Dread traveller of immensity.
Stranger of heaven, I bid thee hail;
Shred from the pall of glory riven,
That flashest in celestial gale,
Broad pennon of the King of heaven!
Shred from the pall of glory riven,
That flashest in celestial gale,
Broad pennon of the King of heaven!
Art thou the flag of woe and death,
From angel's ensign-staff unfurled?
Art thou the standard of his wrath,
Waved o'er a sordid sinful world?
From angel's ensign-staff unfurled?
Art thou the standard of his wrath,
Waved o'er a sordid sinful world?
No, from that pure pellucid beam,
That erst o'er plains of Bethlehem shone,
No latent evil we can deem,
Bright herald of the eternal throne!
That erst o'er plains of Bethlehem shone,
No latent evil we can deem,
Bright herald of the eternal throne!
Whate'er portends thy front of fire,
Thy streaming locks so lovely pale;
Or peace to man, or judgments dire,
Stranger of heaven, I bid thee hail!
Thy streaming locks so lovely pale;
Or peace to man, or judgments dire,
Stranger of heaven, I bid thee hail!
Where hast thou roamed these thousand years?
Why sought these polar paths again,
From wilderness of glowing spheres,
To fling thy vesture o'er the wain?
Why sought these polar paths again,
From wilderness of glowing spheres,
To fling thy vesture o'er the wain?
And when thou scal'st the milky way,
And vanishest from human view,
A thousand worlds shall hail thy ray
Through wilds of yon empyreal blue.
And vanishest from human view,
A thousand worlds shall hail thy ray
Through wilds of yon empyreal blue.
Oh on thy rapid prow to glide!
To sail the boundless skies with thee,
And plough the twinkling stars aside,
Like foam-bells on a tranquil sea;
To sail the boundless skies with thee,
And plough the twinkling stars aside,
Like foam-bells on a tranquil sea;
To brush the embers from the sun,
The icicles from off the pole,
Then far to other systems run,
Where other moons and planets roll!
The icicles from off the pole,
Then far to other systems run,
Where other moons and planets roll!
Stranger of heaven! Oh let thine eye
Smile on a rapt enthusiast's dream;
Eccentric as thy course on high,
And airy as thine ambient beam.
Smile on a rapt enthusiast's dream;
Eccentric as thy course on high,
And airy as thine ambient beam.
And long, long may thy silver ray
Our northern arch at eve adorn;
Then, wheeling to the east away,
Light the gray portals of the morn.
Our northern arch at eve adorn;
Then, wheeling to the east away,
Light the gray portals of the morn.
1828.
Thou art gone! thou art gone with thy sceptre of mildness,
Thy smiles, and thy tears, and thy moments of wildness;
But this humble memorial to thee I dedicate,
Mild 1828.
Thy smiles, and thy tears, and thy moments of wildness;
But this humble memorial to thee I dedicate,
Mild 1828.
For thou hast dispell'd our despairing and sadness,
And industry and toil hast enlighten'd with gladness,
And bustled in our harbours with commerce and freight,
Blest 1828.
And industry and toil hast enlighten'd with gladness,
And bustled in our harbours with commerce and freight,
Blest 1828.
The reaper rejoiced as he counted his sowing,
And heap'd up his garners and barns to o'erflowing;
And thy winter has breathed with a soft autumn heat,
Kind 1828.
And heap'd up his garners and barns to o'erflowing;
And thy winter has breathed with a soft autumn heat,
Kind 1828.
No frost ever sheeted our rivers and fountains,
No drifted snow ever cover'd our mountains,
And thou leavest our flocks on an evergreen height,
Sweet 1828.
No drifted snow ever cover'd our mountains,
And thou leavest our flocks on an evergreen height,
Sweet 1828.
In the region of love thy reign has been glorious,
In the hearts of the maidens thy sceptre victorious;
And there will yet be news of great moment and weight,
Of 1828.
In the hearts of the maidens thy sceptre victorious;
And there will yet be news of great moment and weight,
Of 1828.
It is true thou hast run some extravagant rigs,
Making idiots and fools of the Catholics and Whigs;
But still thou hast left us triumphant as yet,
Strong 1828.
Making idiots and fools of the Catholics and Whigs;
But still thou hast left us triumphant as yet,
Strong 1828.
Thou hast chilled the soul of the mariner with wonder,
Thou hast howl'd in the wind, thou hast boom'd in the thunder;
But the smiles of repentance in thee were innate,
Good 1828.
Thou hast howl'd in the wind, thou hast boom'd in the thunder;
But the smiles of repentance in thee were innate,
Good 1828.
Thou hast garnish'd the fields of Greece that were gory,
(Restored to her quiet, but not to her glory!)
And humbled the pride of a vain autocrat,
Brave 1828.
(Restored to her quiet, but not to her glory!)
And humbled the pride of a vain autocrat,
Brave 1828.
Thou art gone! thou art gone, to return to us never;
In the sepulchre of Time thou art shrouded for ever;
And the shadows of oblivion shall over thee set,
Mild 1828.
In the sepulchre of Time thou art shrouded for ever;
And the shadows of oblivion shall over thee set,
Mild 1828.
399
The Monitors.
The lift looks cauldrife i' the west,
The wan leaf wavers frae the tree,
The wind touts on the mountain's breast
A dirge o' waesome note to me.
It tells me that the days o' glee,
When summer's thrilling sweets entwined,
An' love was blinkin' in the e'e,
Are a' gane by an' far behind;
The wan leaf wavers frae the tree,
The wind touts on the mountain's breast
A dirge o' waesome note to me.
It tells me that the days o' glee,
When summer's thrilling sweets entwined,
An' love was blinkin' in the e'e,
Are a' gane by an' far behind;
That winter wi' his joyless air,
An' grizzly hue, is hasting nigh,
An' that auld age, an' carkin' care,
In my last stage afore me lie.
Yon chill and cheerless winter sky,
Troth, but 'tis eerisome to see,
For ah! it points me to descry
The downfa's o' futurity.
An' grizzly hue, is hasting nigh,
An' that auld age, an' carkin' care,
In my last stage afore me lie.
Yon chill and cheerless winter sky,
Troth, but 'tis eerisome to see,
For ah! it points me to descry
The downfa's o' futurity.
I daurna look into the east,
For there my morning shone sae sweet;
An' when I turn me to the west,
The gloaming's like to gar me greet.
The deadly hues o' snaw and sleet
Tell of a dreary onward path;
Yon new moon on her cradle sheet,
Looks like the Hainault scythe of death.
For there my morning shone sae sweet;
An' when I turn me to the west,
The gloaming's like to gar me greet.
The deadly hues o' snaw and sleet
Tell of a dreary onward path;
Yon new moon on her cradle sheet,
Looks like the Hainault scythe of death.
Kind Monitors! ye tell a tale
That oft has been my daily thought,
Yet, when it came, could nought avail;
For sad experience, dearly bought,
Tells me it was not what I ought,
But what was in my power to do,
That me behoved. An' I hae fought
Against a world wi' courage true.
That oft has been my daily thought,
Yet, when it came, could nought avail;
For sad experience, dearly bought,
Tells me it was not what I ought,
But what was in my power to do,
That me behoved. An' I hae fought
Against a world wi' courage true.
Yes—I hae fought an' won the day;
Come weel, come woe, I carena by;
I am a king! My regal sway
Stretches o'er Scotia's mountains high,
And o'er the fairy vales that lie
Beneath the glimpses o' the moon,
Or round the ledges of the sky,
In twilight's everlasting noon.
Come weel, come woe, I carena by;
I am a king! My regal sway
Stretches o'er Scotia's mountains high,
And o'er the fairy vales that lie
Beneath the glimpses o' the moon,
Or round the ledges of the sky,
In twilight's everlasting noon.
Who would not choose the high renown,
'Mang Scotia's swains the chief to be,
Than be a king, an' wear a crown,
'Mid perils, pain, an' treachery?
Hurra! The day's my own—I'm free
Of statemen's guile an' flattery's train;
I'll blaw my reed of game an' glee,
The Shepherd is himself again!
'Mang Scotia's swains the chief to be,
Than be a king, an' wear a crown,
'Mid perils, pain, an' treachery?
Hurra! The day's my own—I'm free
Of statemen's guile an' flattery's train;
I'll blaw my reed of game an' glee,
The Shepherd is himself again!
“But, bard—ye dinna mind your life
Is waning down to winter snell—
That round your hearth young sprouts are rife,
An' mae to care for than yoursell.”
Yes, that I do—that hearth could tell
How aft the tear-drap blinds my e'e;
What can I do, by spur or spell,
An' by my faith it done shall be.
Is waning down to winter snell—
That round your hearth young sprouts are rife,
An' mae to care for than yoursell.”
Yes, that I do—that hearth could tell
How aft the tear-drap blinds my e'e;
What can I do, by spur or spell,
An' by my faith it done shall be.
And think—through poortith's eiry breach,
Should want approach wi' threatening brand,
I'll leave them canty sangs will reach
From John o' Groats to Solway strand.
Then what are houses, goud, or land,
To sic an heirship left in fee?
An' I think mair o' auld Scotland,
Than to be fear'd for mine or me.
Should want approach wi' threatening brand,
I'll leave them canty sangs will reach
From John o' Groats to Solway strand.
Then what are houses, goud, or land,
To sic an heirship left in fee?
An' I think mair o' auld Scotland,
Than to be fear'd for mine or me.
True, she has been a stepdame dour,
Grudging the hard-earn'd sma' propine;
On a' my efforts looking sour,
An' seem'd in secret to repine.
Blest be Buccleuch an' a' his line,
For ever blessed may they be!
A little hame I can ca' mine
He rear'd amid the wild for me.
Grudging the hard-earn'd sma' propine;
On a' my efforts looking sour,
An' seem'd in secret to repine.
Blest be Buccleuch an' a' his line,
For ever blessed may they be!
A little hame I can ca' mine
He rear'd amid the wild for me.
Goodwife—without a' sturt or strife,
Bring ben the siller bowl wi' care:
Ye are the best an' bonniest wife,
That ever fell to poet's share;
An' I'll send o'er for Frank—a pair
O right good hearted chiels are we—
We'll drink your health—an' what is mair,
We'll drink our laird's wi' three times three.
Bring ben the siller bowl wi' care:
Ye are the best an' bonniest wife,
That ever fell to poet's share;
An' I'll send o'er for Frank—a pair
O right good hearted chiels are we—
We'll drink your health—an' what is mair,
We'll drink our laird's wi' three times three.
To the young shepherd, too, we'll take
A rousing glass wi' right good-will;
An' the young ladies o' the lake,
We'll drink in ane—an awfu' swill!
Then a' the tints o' this warld's ill
Will vanish like the morning dew,
An' we'll be blithe an' blither still—
Kind winter Monitors, adieu!
A rousing glass wi' right good-will;
An' the young ladies o' the lake,
We'll drink in ane—an awfu' swill!
Then a' the tints o' this warld's ill
Will vanish like the morning dew,
An' we'll be blithe an' blither still—
Kind winter Monitors, adieu!
This warld has mony ups an' downs,
Atween the cradle an' the grave,
O' blithesome haun's an' broken crowns,
An' douks in chill misfortune's wave;
All these determined to outbrave,
O'er fancy's wilds I'll wing anew,
As lang as I can lilt a stave,—
Kind winter Monitors, adieu!
Atween the cradle an' the grave,
O' blithesome haun's an' broken crowns,
An' douks in chill misfortune's wave;
All these determined to outbrave,
O'er fancy's wilds I'll wing anew,
As lang as I can lilt a stave,—
Kind winter Monitors, adieu!
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |