The Dramatic and Poetical Works of Joanna Baillie ::

The Dramatic and Poetical Works of Joanna Baillie

Complete in One Volume

Baillie, Joanna (1762-1851)

A SERIES OF PLAYS: IN WHICH IT IS ATTEMPTED TO DELINEATE THE STRONGER PASSIONS OF THE MIND EACH PASSION BEING THE SUBJECT OF A TRAGEDY AND A COMEDY.

MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS.

MISCELLANEOUS POETRY.

METRICAL LEGENDS.

FUGITIVE VERSES.

MISCELLANEOUS POETRY

VERSES ON SACRED SUBJECTS.

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705

MISCELLANEOUS POETRY.

METRICAL LEGENDS.

710

A METRICAL LEGEND OF WILLIAM WALLACE.

I.

Insensible to high heroic deeds,
Is there a spirit clothed in mortal weeds,
Who at the Patriot's moving story,
Devoted to his country's good,
Devoted to his country's glory,
Shedding for freemen's rights his generous blood;—
List'neth not with breath heaved high,
Quiv'ring nerve, and glistening eye,
Feeling within a spark of heavenly flame,
That with the hero's worth may humble kindred claim?
If such there be, still let him plod
On the dull foggy paths of care,
Nor raise his eyes from the dank sod
To view creation fair:
What boots to him the wondrous works of God?
His soul with brutal things hath ta'en its earthy lair.

II.

Come, youths, whose eyes are forward cast,
And in the future see the past,—
The past, as winnow'd in the early mind,
With husk and prickle left behind!
Come; whether under lowland vest,
Or, by the mountain-tartan prest,
Your gen'rous bosoms heave;
Pausing a while in thoughtful rest,
My legend lay receive.
Come, aged sires, who love to tell
What fields were fought, what deeds were done;
What things in olden times befell,—
Those good old times, whose term is run!
Come ye, whose manly strength with pride
Is breasting now the present tide
Of worldly strife, and cast aside

711

A hasty glance at what hath been!
Come, courtly dames, in silken sheen,
And ye, who under thatched roofs abide;
Yea, e'en the barefoot child by cottage fire,
Who doth some shreds of northern lore acquire,
By the stirr'd embers' scanty light,—
List to my legend lay of Wallace wight.

III.

Scotland, with breast unmail'd, had sheath'd her sword,
Stifling each rising curse and hopeless prayer,
And sunk beneath the Southron's faithless lord,
In sullen, deep despair.
The holds and castles of the land
Were by her hateful foemen mann'd.
To revels in each stately hall,
Did tongues of foreign accent call,
Where her quell'd chiefs must tamely bear
From braggart pride the taunting jeer.
Her harvest-fields, by strangers reap'd.
Were in the stranger's garner heap'd.
The tenant of the poorest cot,
Seeing the spoiler from his door
Bear unreproved his hard-earn'd store,
Blush'd thus to be, and be a Scot.
The very infant at his mother's beck,
Though with writh'd lip and scowling eye,
Was taught to keep his lisping tongue in cheek,
Nor curse the Southron passing by.

IV.

Baron brave and girded knight,
The tyrant's hireling slaves could be:
Nor graced their state, nor held their right.
Alone upon his rocky height,
The eagle rear'd his unstain'd crest,
And soaring from his cloudy nest,
Turn'd to the sun his daring eye,
And wing'd at will the azure sky,
For he alone was free.

V.

Oh! who so base as not to feel
The pride of freedom once enjoy'd,
Though hostile gold or hostile steel
Have long that bliss destroy'd!
The meanest drudge will sometimes vaunt
Of independent sires, who bore
Names known to fame in days of yore,
'Spite of the smiling stranger's taunt;
But recent freedom lost—what heart
Can bear the humbling thought—the quick'ning, madd'ning smart!

VI.

Yes, Caledonian hearts did burn,
And their base chain in secret spurn;
And, bold upon some future day,
Swore to assert Old Scotland's native sway;
But 'twas in fitful thoughts that pass'd in thought away.
Though musing in lone cave or forest deep,

712

Some generous youths might all indignant weep;
Or in the vision'd hours of sleep,
Gird on their swords for Scotland's right,
And from her soil the spoiler sweep,
Yet all this bold emprise pass'd with the passing night.

VII.

But in the woods of Allerslie,
Within the walls of good Dundee,
Or by the pleasant banks of Ayr,
Wand'ring o'er heath or upland fair,
Existed worth without alloy,
In form a man, in years a boy,
Whose nightly thoughts for Scotland's weal,
Which clothed his form in mimic steel,
Which helm'd his brow, and glaved his hand
To drive the tyrant from the land,
Pass'd not away with passing sleep;
But did, as danger nearer drew,
Their purposed bent the firmer keep,
And still the bolder grew.

VIII.

'Tis pleasant in his early frolic feats,
Which fond tradition long and oft repeats,
The op'ning of some dauntless soul to trace,
Whose bright career of fame, a country's annals grace;
Yet this brief legend must forbear to tell
The bold adventures that befell
The stripling Wallace, light and strong,
The shady woods of Clyde among,
Where, roaring o'er its rocky walls,
The water's headlong torrent falls,
Full, rapid, powerful, flashing to the light,
Till sunk the boiling gulf beneath,
It mounts again like snowy wreath,
Which, scatter'd by contending blasts,
Back to the clouds their treasure casts,
A ceaseless wild turmoil, a grand and wondrous sight!
Or, climbing Cartland's Craigs, that high
O'er their pent river strike the eye,
Wall above wall, half veil'd, half seen,
The pendant folds of wood between,
With jagged breach, and rift, and scar,
Like the scorch'd wreck of ancient war,
And seem, to musing fancy's gaze,
The ruin'd holds of other days.
His native scenes, sublime and wild,
Where oft the youth his hours beguiled,
As forester with bugle horn;
As angler in the pooly wave;
As fugitive in lonely cave,
Forsaken and forlorn!

713

When still, as foemen cross'd his way,
Alone, defenceless, or at bay,
He raised his arm for freeman's right,
And on proud robbers fell the power of Wallace wight.

IX.

There is a melancholy pleasure
In tales of hapless love;—a treasure
From which the sadden'd bosom borrows
A respite short from present sorrows,
And e'en the gay delight to feel,
As down young cheeks the soft tears steal;
Yet will I not that woeful tale renew,
And in light hasty words relate
How the base Southron's arm a woman slew,
And robb'd him of his wedded mate.
The name of her who shared his noble breast,
Shall be remember'd and be blest.
A sweeter lay, a gentler song,
To those sad woes belong!

X.

As lightning from some twilight cloud,
At first but like a streaky line
In the hush'd sky, with fitful shine
Its unregarded brightness pours,
Till from its spreading, darkly volumed shroud
The bursting tempest roars;
His countrymen with faithless gaze
Beheld his valour's early blaze.

714

XI.

But rose at length with swelling fame
The honours of his deathless name;
Till to the country's farthest bound,
All gen'rous hearts stirr'd at the sound;
Then Scotland's youth with new-waked pride,
Flock'd gladly to the hero's side,
In harness braced, with burnish'd brand,
A brave and noble band!

XII.

Lenox, Douglas, Campbell, Hay,
Boyd, Scrimgeour, Ruthven, Haliday,
Gordon, Crawford, Keith were there;
Lauder, Lundy. Clealand, Kerr,
Steven, Ireland's vagrant lord;
Newbiggen, Fraser, Rutherford,
Dundas and Tinto, Currie, Scott;
Nor be in this brave list forgot
A Wallace of the hero's blood,
With many patriots staunch and good;
And first, though latest named, there came,
Within his gen'rous breast to hold
A brother's place, true war-mate bold!
The good, the gallant Grame.

XIII.

Thus grown to strength, on Bigger's well-fought field
He made on marshall'd host his first essay;
Where Edward's gather'd powers, in strong array,
Did to superior skill and valour yield,
And gain'd the glorious day.

XIV.

Then at the Forest kirk, that spot of ground
Long to be honour'd, flush'd with victory,
Crowded the Scottish worthies, bold and free,
Their noble chieftain round;
Where many a generous heart beat high
With glowing cheek and flashing eye,
And many a portly figure trode
With stately steps the trampled sod.
Banners in the wind were streaming;
In the morning light were gleaming
Sword, and spear, and burnish'd mail,
And crested helm, and avantail,
And tartan plaids, of many a hue,
In flickering sunbeams brighter grew,
While youthful warriors' weapons ring
With hopeful, wanton brandishing.

XV.

There, midmost in the warlike throng,
Stood William Wallace, tall and strong;
Towering far above the rest,
With portly mien and ample breast,
Brow and eye of high command;
Visage fair, and figure grand:
E'en to the dullest peasant standing by,
Who fasten'd still on him a wondering eye,
He seem'd the master-spirit of the land.

XVI.

O for some magie power to give
In vision'd form what then did live!

715

That group of heroes to portray,
Who from their trammell'd country broke
The hateful tyrant's galling yoke
On that eventful day!

XVII.

Behold! like changeful streamers of the North,
Which tinge at times the wintry night,
With many hues of glowing light,
Their momentary forms break forth
To Fancy's gifted sight.
Each in his warlike panoply
With sable plumage waving high,
And burnish'd sword in sinewy hand,
Appears a chieftain of command,
Whose will, by look or sign to eatch,
A thousand eager vassals watch.
What though those warriors, gleaming round,
On peaceful death-bed never lay,
But each, upon his fated day,
His end on field or scaffold found;
Oh! start not at the vision bright,
As if it were a ghastly sight!
For, 'midst their earthly coil, they knew
Feelings of joy so keen, so true,
As he who feels, with up-raised eye,
Thanks heaven for life, and cannot rue
The gift, be what it may the death that he shall die.

XVIII.

Warden of Scotland (not ashamed
A native right of rule to own
In worth and valour matchless shown)
They William Wallace there proclaim'd;
And there, exultingly, each gallant soul,
E'en proudly yielded to such high controul.
Greater than aught a tyrant ere achieved,
Was power so given, and so received.

XIX.

This truth full well King Edward knew,
And back his scatter'd host he drew,
Suing for peace with prudent guile;
And Wallace in his mind, the while,
Scanning with wary, wise debate
The various dangers of the state,
Desire of further high revenge foregoes
To give the land repose.
But smother'd hatred, in the garb of peace,
Did not, mean time, from hostile cunning cease;
But still more cruel deeds devised,
In that deceitful seeming guised.

XX.

The Southron rulers, phrasing fair
Their notice, summon'd lord, and laird, and knight,
To hold with them an ancient court of right,
At the good town, so named, their court of Ayr.
And at this general summons came
The pride and hope of many a name,
The love and anxious care of many a gentle dame.

XXI.

Ent'ring the fatal Barns, fair sight!
Went one by one the manly train,
But neither baron, laird, nor knight,
Did e'er return again.

716

A heaven-commission'd friend that day
Stopp'd Wallace, hast'ning on his way,
(Who, by some seeming chance detain'd,
Had later at his home remain'd,)
The horse's bridle sternly grasp'd,
And then for rueful utterance gasp'd.
“Oh! go not to the Barns of Ayr!
“Kindred and friends are murder'd there.
“The faithless Southrons, one by one,
“On them the hangman's task have done.
“Oh! turn thy steed, and fearful ruin shun!”
He, shudd'ring, heard, with visage pale,
Which quickly changed to wrath's terrific hue;
And then apace came sorrow's bursting wail;
The noble heart could weep that could not quail,
“My friends, my kinsmen, war-mates, bold and true!
“Met ye a villain's end! Oh is it so with you!”

XXII.

The hero turn'd his chafing steed,
And to the wild woods bent his speed.
But not to keep in hiding there,
Or give his sorrow to despair,
For the fierce tumult in his breast
To speedy, dreadful action press'd.
And there within a tangled glade,
List'ning the courser's coming tread,
With hearts that shared his ire and grief,
A faithful band received their chief.

XXIII.

In Ayr the guilty Southrons held a feast,
When that dire day its direful course had run,
And laid them down, their weary limbs to rest
Where the foul deed was done.
But ere beneath the cottage thatch
Cocks had crow'd the second watch;
When sleepers breathe in heavy plight,
Press'd with the visions of the night,
And spirits, from unhallow'd ground,
Ascend, to walk their silent round;
When trembles dell, or desert heath,
The witches' orgies-dance beneath,—
To the roused Warder's fearful gaze,
The Barns of Ayr were in a blaze.

XXIV.

The dense, dun smoke was mounting slow
And stately, from the flaming wreck below,
And mantling far aloft in many a volumed wreath;
Whilst town and woods, and ocean wide did lie,
Tinctured like glowing furnace-iron, beneath
Its awful canopy.
Red mazy sparks soon with the dense smoke blended,
And far around like fiery sleet descended.
From the scorch'd and crackling pile
Fierce burst the growing flames the while;
Through creviced wall and buttress strong,
Sweeping the rafter'd roofs along;
Which, as with sudden crash they fell,
Their raging fierceness seem'd to quell,
And for a passing instant spread
O'er land and sea a lurid shade;
Then with increasing brightness, high
In spiral form, shot to the sky
With momentary height so grand,
That chill'd beholders breathless stand.

XXV.

Thus rose and fell the flaming surgy flood,
'Till feneing round the gulphy light,
Black, jagg'd, and bare, a fearful sight!
Like ruin grim of former days,
Seen 'thwart the broad sun's setting rays,
The guilty fabric stood.

XXVI.

And dreadful are the deaths, I ween,
Which midst that fearful wreck have been.
The pike and sword, and smoke and fire,
Have minister'd to vengeful ire.
New-waked wretches stood aghast
To see the fire-flood in their rear,
Close to their breast the pointed spear,
And in wild horror yell'd their last.

XXVII.

But what dark figures now emerge
From the dread gulph and cross the light,
Appearing on its fearful verge,
Each like an armed sprite?
Whilst one above the rest doth tower,—
A form of stern gigantic power,
Whirling from his lofty stand
The smould'ring stone or burning brand?
Those are the leagued for Scotland's native right,
Whose clashing arms rang Southron's knell,
When to their fearful work they fell,—
That form is Wallace wight.

717

XXVIII.

And he like heaven's impetuous blast
Which stops not on its mission'd way,
By early morn, in strong array,
Onward to Glasgow pass'd;
Where English Piercy held the rule;
Too noble and too brave to be a tyrant's tool.
A summon'd court should there have been,
But there far other coil was seen.
With fellest rage, in lane and street,
Did harness'd Scot and Southron meet;
Well fought and bloody was the fierce affray:
But Piercy was by Wallace slain,
Who put to rout his num'rous train,
And gain'd the town by noon of day.

XXIX.

Nor paused he there, for ev'ning tide
Saw him at Bothwell's hostile gate,
Which might not long assault abide,
But yielded to its fate.
And on from thence, with growing force,
He held his rapid, glorious course;
Whilst his roused clansmen, braced and bold,
As town and castle, tower and hold,
To the resistless victor fell,
His patriot numbers swell.
Thus when with current full and strong,
The wintry river bears along
Through mountain pass, and frith, and plain;—
Streams that from many sources pour,
Answer from far its kindred roar,
And deep'ning echoes roar again.
From its hill of heathy brown,
The muirland streamlet hastens down;
The mountain torrent from its rock,
Shoots to the glen with furious shock;
E'en brooklet low, and sluggish burn,
Speed to their chief with many a mazy turn.
And in his mingled strength, roll proudly to the main.

XXX.

O'er Stirling's towers his standard plays,
Lorn owns his rule, Argyle obeys.
In Angus, Merns, and Aberdeen,
Nor English lord, nor serf is seen;
Dundee alone averts King Edward's fate,
And Scotland's warden thunders at her gate.

XXXI.

But there his eager hopes are crost,
For news are brought of English host,
Which fast approaching through the land,
At Stirling mean to make their stand.

718

Faint speaks the haggard breathless scout,
Like one escaped from bloody rout,—
“On, Cressingham and Warren lead
“The marshall'd host with stalwart speed,
“It numbers thirty thousand men,
“And thine, bold chieftain, only ten.”

XXXII.

But higher tower'd the chieftain's head,
Broad grew his breast with ampler spread;
O'er cheek and brow the deep flush pass'd,
And to high heaven his eyes he cast:
Right plainly spoke that silent prayer,
“My strength and aid are there!”
Then look'd he round with kindly cheer
On his brave war-mates standing near,
Who scann'd his face with eager eye
His secret feelings to descry.
“Come, Hearts! who, on your native soil,
“For Scotland's cause have bravely stood,
“Come, brace ye for another broil,
“And prove your generous blood.
“Let us but front the tyrant's train,
“And he who lists may count their numbers then!”

XXXIII.

Nor dull of heart, nor slow were they
Their noble leader to obey.
Cheer'd with loud shouts he gave his prompt command.
Forthwith to bound them on their way.
And straight their eager march they take
O'er hill and heath, o'er burn and brake,
Till marshall'd soon in dark array,
Upon their destined field of war they stand.

XXXIV.

Behind them lay the hardy north;
Before, the slowly winding Forth
Flow'd o'er the noiseless sand;
Its full broad tide with fossy sides,
Which east and west the land divides,
By wooden bridge was spann'd.
Beyond it, on a craggy slope,
Whose chimney'd roofs the steep ridge cope,
There smoked an ancient town;
While higher on the firm-based rock,
Which oft had braved war's thunder-shock,
Embattled turrets frown.
A frith with fields and woods, and hamlets gay,
And mazy waters, slily seen,
Glancing through shades of Alder green,
Wore eastward from the sight to distance grey;
While broomy knoll and rocky peak,
And heathy mountains, bare and bleak,
A lofty screen on either hand,
Majestic rose, and grand.

XXXV.

Such was the field on which with dauntless pride
They did their coming foe abide;
Nor waited long till from afar
Were spy'd their moving ranks of war,
Like rising storm, which, from the western main,
Bears on in seried length its cloudy train;—
Slowly approaching on the burthen'd wind,
Moves each dark mass, and still another lowers behind.
And soon upon the bridge appears,
Darkly rising on the light,
Nodding plumes and pointed spears,
And, crowding close, full many a warlike knight,
Who from its narrow gorge successive pour
To form their ranks upon the northern shore.

XXXVI.

Now, with notes of practised skill,
English trumpets, sounding shrill,
The battle's boastful prelude give,
Which answer prompt and bold receive
From Scottish drum's long rolling beat,
And,—sound to valiant clansmen sweet!—
The highland pipe, whose lengthen'd swell
Of warlike pibroch, rose and fell,
Like wailings of the midnight wind,
With voice of distant streams combined,
While mountain, rock, and dell, the martial din repeat.

XXXVII.

Then many a high-plumed gallant rear'd his head,
And proudly smote the ground with firmer tread,

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Who did ere close of ev'ning, lie
With ghastly face turn'd to the sky,
No more again the rouse of war to hear.
And many for the combat burn'd,
Who never from its broil return'd,
Kindred or home to cheer.
How short the term that shall divide
The firm-nerved youth's exerted force,—
The warrior, glowing in his pride,
From the cold stiffen'd corse!
A little term pass'd with such speed,
As would in courtly revel scarce suffice,
Mated with lady fair in silken guise,
The measured dance to lead.

XXXVIII.

His soldiers firm as living rock,
Now braced them for the battle's shock;
And watch'd their chieftain's keen looks glancing
From marshall'd clans to foes advancing;
Smiled with the smile his eye that lighten'd,
Glow'd with the glow his brow that brighten'd:
But when his burnish'd brand he drew,
His towering form terrific grew,
And every Scotchman, at the sight,
Felt through his nerves a giant's might,
And drew his patriot sword with Wallace wight.

XXXIX.

For what of thrilling sympathy,
Did e'er in human bosom vie
With that which stirs the soldier's breast,
When, high in god-like worth confest,
Some noble leader gives command,
To combat for his native land?
No; friendship's freely-flowing tide,
The soul expanding; filial pride,
That hears with craving, fond desire
The bearings of a gallant sire;
The yearnings of domestic bliss,
E'en love itself will yield to this.

XL.

Few words the lofty hero utter'd,
But deep response was widely mutter'd,
Like echo'd echoes, circling round
Some mountain lake's steep rocky bound.

XLI.

Then rush'd they fiercely on their foes,
And loud o'er drum and war-pipe rose
The battle's mingled roar.
The eager shout, the weapon's clash;
The adverse ranks' first closing crash,
The sullen hum of striving life,
The busy beat of trampling strife,
From castle, rocks, and mountains round,
Down the long firth, a grand and awful sound,
A thousand echoes bore.

XLII.

Spears cross'd spears, a bending grove,
As front to front the warriors strove.
Through the dust-clouds, rising dun,
Their burnish'd brands flash'd to the sun
With quickly changing, shiv'ring light,
Like streamers on the northern night,
While arrow-showers came hurtling past,
Like splinter'd wreck driven by the blast,
What time fierce winter is contending
With Norway's pines, their branches rending.

XLIII.

Long pennants, flags, and banners move
The fearful strife of arms above,
Not as display'd in colours fair,
They floated on the morning air;
But with a quick, ungentle motion,
As sheeted sails, torn by the blast,
Flap round some vessel's rocking mast
Upon a stormy ocean.

XLIV.

Opposing ranks that onward bore,
In tumult mix'd are ranks no more;
Nor aught discern'd of skill or form;—
All a wild, bick'ring, steely storm!

720

While oft around some fav'rite chieftain's crest,
The turmoil thick'ning, darkly rose,
As on rough seas the billow grows,
O'er lesser waves high-heaved, but soon depress'd.
So gallant Grame, thou noble Scot!
Around thee rose the fearful fray,
And other brave compeers of bold essay,
Who did not spare their mothers' sons that day,
And ne'er shall be forgot.

XLV.

But where the mighty Wallace fought,
Like spirit quick, like giant strong,
Plunging the foe's thick ranks among,
Wide room in little time was hew'd,
And grizly sights around were strew'd;
Recoil'd aghast the helmed throng,
And every hostile thing to earth was brought.
Full strong and hardy was the foe
To whom he gave a second blow.
Many a knight and lord
Fell victims to his sword,
And Cressingham's proud crest lay low.

XLVI.

And yet, all Southrons as they were,
Their ranks dispersed, their leader slain,
Passing the bridge with dauntless air,
They still came pouring on the plain;
But weaken'd of its rafter'd strength,
'Tis said by warlike craft, and trod
By such successive crowds, at length
The fabric fell with all its living load.
Loud was the shriek the sinking Southrons gave,
Thus dash'd into the deep and booming wave.
For there a fearful death had they,
Clutching each floating thing in vain,
And struggling rose and sank again,
Who, 'midst the battle's loud affray,
Had the fair meed of honour sought,
And on the field like lions fought.

XLVII.

And there, upon that field—a bloody field,
Where many a wounded youth was lying,
And many dead and many dying,
Did England's arms to Scotland's heroes yield.
The close confusion opening round,
The wild pursuit's receding sound,
Is ringing in their ears, who low
On clotted earth are laid, nor know,
When those who chase, and those who fly,
With hasty feet come clatt'ring by,
Or who hath won or who hath lost;
Save when some dying Scotchman lifts his head,
And, asking faintly how the day hath sped,
At the glad news, half from the ground
Starts up, and gives a cheering sound,
And waves his hand and yields the ghost.
A smile is on the corse's cheek,
Stretch'd by the heather bush, on death-bed bare and bleak.

XLVIII.

With rueful eyes the wreck of that dire hour,
The Southron's yet unbroken power,
As on the river's adverse shore they stood,
Silent beheld, till, like a mountain flood,
Rush'd Stirling's castled warriors to the plain;
Attack'd their now desponding force,
And fiercely press'd their hasty course
Back to their boasted native soil again.

XLIX.

Of foes so long detested,—fear'd,
Were towns and castles quickly clear'd;
Through all the land at will might free men range:
Nor slave nor tyrant there appear'd;
It was a blessed change!

L.

The peasant's cot and homely farm,
Hall-house and tower, secure from harm
Or lawless spoil, again became
The cheerful charge of wife or dame.
'Neath humble roofs, from rafter slung
The harmless spear, on which was hung
The flaxen yarn in spindles coil'd,
And leathern pouch and hosen soil'd,
And rush or osier creel, that held
Both field and household gear; whilst swell'd
With store of Scotland's fav'rite food,
The seemly sack in corner stood;
Remains of what the foe had left;
Glad sight to folks so long bereft!
And look'd at oft and wisely spared,
Though still with poorer neighbours shared.
The wooden quaigh and trencher placed
On the shelved wall, its rudeness graced.
Beneath the pot red fagots glanced,
And on the hearth the spindle danced,
As housewife's slight, so finely true,
The lengthen'd thread from distaff drew,
While she, belike, sang ditty shrill
Of Southron loons with lengthen'd trill.

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LI.

In castle hall with open gate,
The noble lady kept her state,
With girdle clasp'd by gem of price,
Buckle or hasp of rare device,
Which held, constrain'd o'er bodice tight,
Her woollen robe of colours bright;
And with bent head and tranquil eye,
And gesture of fair courtesy,
The stranger guest bade to her board
Though far a-field her warlike lord.
A board where smoked on dishes clear
Of massy pewter, sav'ry cheer,
And potent ale was foaming seen
O'er tankards bright of silver sheen,
Which erst, when foemen bore the sway,
Beneath the sod deep buried lay.
For household goods, from many a hoard,
Were now to household use restored.

LII.

Neighbours with neighbours join'd, begin
Their cheerful toil, whilst mingled din
Of saw or hammer cleave the air,
The roofless bigging to repair,
The woodman fells the gnarled tree,
The ploughman whistles on the lea;
The falc'ner keen his bird lets fly,
As lordlings gaze with upcast eye;
The arrow'd sportsman strays at will,
And fearless roams o'er moor and hill;
The traveller pricks along the plain;
The herdboys shout and children play;
Scotland is Scotland once again,
And all are boon and gay.

LIII.

Thus, freedom from a grievous yoke,
Like gleam of sunshine o'er them broke;
And souls, when joy and peace were new,
Of every nature, kindlier grew.
It was a term of liberal dealing,
And active hope and friendly feeling,
Through all the land might freemen range,
It was a blessed change!

LIV.

So, when through forest wild hath pass'd
The mingled fray of shower and blast,
Tissue of threaded gems is worn
By flower and fern and briar and thorn,
While the scourged oak and shaken pine,
Aloft in brighten'd verdure shine.
Then Wallace to St. Johnston went,
And through the country quickly sent
Summons to burgher, knight, and lord,
Who, there convened, with one accord,
Took solemn oath with short debate,
Of fealty to the state,
Until a king's acknowledged, rightful sway,—
A native king, they should with loyal hearts obey.
And he with foresight wise, to spare
Poor Scotland, scourged, exhausted, bare,
Whose fields unplough'd, and pastures scant,
Had brought her hardy sons to want,
His conquering army southward led,
Which was on England's plenty fed:
And there, I trow, for many months they took
Spoil of the land which ill that hateful change could brook.

LV.

Edward, meantime, ashamed and wroth
At such unseemly foil, and loath
So to be bearded, sent defiance
To Scotland's chief, in sure reliance
That he, with all which he may southward bring,
Of warlike force, dare not encounter England's king.

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LVI.

But Wallace, on the day appointed,
Before this scepter'd and anointed,
Who, strengthen'd with a numerous host,
There halted, to maintain his boast,
On Stanmore's height, their battle ground,
With all his valiant Scots was found.
A narrow space of stony moor,
With heath and lichens mottled o'er,
And cross'd with dew-webs wiry sheen,
The adverse armies lay between.
When upland mists had worn away,
And blue sky over-head was clearing,
And things of distant ken appearing,
Fair on the vision burst that martial grand array.
The force on haughty Edward's side,
Spearmen and archers were descry'd,
Line beyond line, spread far and wide,
Receding from the eye;
While bristling pikes distinct and dark,
As traced aloft with edgy mark,
Seem'd graven on the sky;
And armed knights arm'd steeds bestriding,
Their morions glancing bright,
And to and fro their gay squires riding
In warlike gear bedight.
O'er all the royal standard flew,
With crimson folds of gorgeous hne,
And near it, ranged, in colours gay,
Inferior flags and banners play,
As broad-wing'd hawk keeps soaring high,
Circled by lesser birds, that wheeling round him fly.
Huge waggon, sledded car, and wain,
With dark, piled loads, a heavy train,
Store-place of arms and yeoman's cheer,
Frown'd in the further rear.

LVII.

And marshall'd on the northern side,
The northern ranks the charge abide,
In numbers few, but stout of heart,
Their nation's honour to assert.

LVIII.

Thus on the field with clans and liegemen good,
England's great King, and Scotland's Warden stood.
That Monarch proud did rightly claim
'Mongst Europe's lords the fairest fame,
And had, in cause of Christentie,
Fought with bold Saracens right gallantly.
That Warden was the noblest man
That e'er graced nation, race, or clan,
And grasp'd within his brave right hand
A sword, which from the dust had raised his native land.

LIX.

Who had not cried, that look'd upon
So brave and grand a sight,
“What stalwart deeds shall here be done
“Before the close of night!”
But Edward mark'd with falt'ring will,
The Scottish battle ranged with skill,
Which spoke the Leader's powerful mind.
On England's host that number'd twice their foes,
But newly raised, nor yet enured to blows,
He rueful look'd, his purpose fail'd,
He look'd again, his spirit quail'd,
And battle-gage declined.

LX.

And thus did he to Wallace yield,
The bloodless honours of the field.
But as the Southron ranks withdraw,
Scarcely believing what he saw,
The wary Chief might not expose
His soldiers to returning foes,
Or ambush'd snare, and gave the order,
With beat of drum and trumpet sounding,
The air with joyous shouts resounding,
To cross with homeward steps the English border.

LXI.

Scotland thus, from foes secure,
Her prudent Chieftain, to enure
His nobles still to martial toil,
Sought contest on a distant soil:
And many a young and valiant knight,
For foreign wars were with their leader dight.
And soon upon the seas careering
In gallant ship, whose pennants play,
Waving and curling in the air,
With changeful hues of colour fair,
Themselves as gallant, boon, and gay,
Their course with fav'ring breezes steering,
To friendly France they held their way.

LXII.

And they upon the ocean met
With warlike fleet, and sails full set,
De Longueville, that bold outlaw,
Whose name kept mariners in awe.

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This man, with all his desp'rate crew
Did Wallace on the waves subdue.
One Scottish ship the pirate thought
As on her boarded deck he fought,
Cheer'd by his sea-mates' warlike cries,
A sure and easy prize.
But Wallace' mighty arm he felt:
Yea, at his conqueror's feet he knelt;
And there disdained not to crave
And take the merey of the brave;
For still, as thing by nature fit,
The brave unto the brave are knit.
Thus natives of one parent land,
In crowded mart, on foreign strand,
With quick glance recognize each other;
“That mien! that step! it is a brother!
“Though mingled with a meaner race,
“In foreign garb, I know that face,
“His features beam like those I love,
“His limbs with mountain-vigour move,
“And though so strange and alien grown,
“The kindred tie my soul will own.”
De Longueville, e'en from that hour, a knight,
True to his native King, true to the right,
Fought with the Scottish hero to the end,
In many a bloody field, his tried and valiant friend.

LXIII.

And nobly in the lists of France,
Those noble Scots with brand and lance,
'Midst foreign knights and warriors blended,
In generous rivalry contended,
Whilst their brave Chieftain taught them still
The soldier's dext'rous art and leader's nobler skill.

LXIV.

But English Edward, tired the while
Of life inert and covert guile,
Most faithless to the peace so lately made,
Was northward bound again, poor Scotland to invade.
Then Wallace, with his valiant band,
By Scotland's faithful sons recall'd,
Whom foreign yoke full sorely gall'd,
Must raise again his glaved hand
To smite the shackles from his native land.

LXV.

Brave hearts, who had in secret burn'd,
To see their country bear the yoke,
Hearing their Warden was return'd
Forth from their secret hidings broke,
Wood, cave, or mountain-cliff, and ran
To join the wondrous man.

LXVI.

It was a sight to chase despair,
His standard floating on the air,
Which, curling oft with courteous wave,
Still seem'd to beckon to the brave.
And when approach'd within short space,
They saw his form and knew his face,—
That brow of hope, that step of power,
Which stateliest strode in danger's hour,—
How glow'd each heart!—“Himself we see!
“What, though but few and spent we be!
“The valiant heart despaireth never;
“The rightful cause is strongest ever;
“While Wallace lives, the land is free.”

LXVII.

And he this flatt'ring hope pursued,
And war with England's King renew'd.
By martial stratagem he took
St. Johnston's stubborn town, a hold
So oft to faithless tyrants sold;
And cautious patriots then forsook
Ignoble shelter, kept so long,
And join'd in arms the ardent throng,
Who with the Warden southward pass'd,
Like clouds increasing on the blast.

LXVIII.

Fife from the enemy he won,
And in his prosp'rous course held on,
Till Edward's strength, borne quickly down,
Held scarcely castle, tower, or town,
In all the southern shires; and then
He turn'd him to the north again;
Where from each wall'd defence, the foe expell'd,
Fled fast, Dundee alone still for King Edward held.

LXIX.

But the oppressor, blushing on his throne
To see the Scotch his warriors homeward chase,
And those, so lately crush'd, so powerful grown,
But ill could brook this sudden foul disgrace.
And he a base, unprincely compact made
With the Red Comyn, traitor, black of heart!
Who to their wicked plot, in secret laid,
Some other chieftains gain'd with wily art.
And he hath dared again to send
A noble army, all too brave
For such unmanly, hateful end,
A land of freedom to enslave.
At Falkirk soon was England's proudest boast
Marshall'd in grand array, a brave and powerful host.

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LXX.

But there with valiant foe to cope,
Soon on the field stood Scotland's hope,
E'en thirty thousand warriors, led
By noble Wallace; each, that day,
Had cheerfully his heart's blood shed
The land to free from Southron's sway.
Alas! had all her high-born chieftains been
But as their leader and their clansmen true,
She on that field a glorious day had seen,
And made, though match'd with them, in number few,
King Edward's vaunted host that fatal day to rue.

LXXI.

But envy of a hero's fame,
Which so obscured each lofty name,
Was meanly harbour'd in the breast
Of those who bore an honour'd crest.
But most of all Red Comyn nursed
In his dark breast this bane accursed,
That, with the lust of power combined,
O'er-master'd all his wretched mind.
Then to Lord Stewart, secretly,
Spoke with smooth words the traitor sly,
Advising that, to grace his name,
Being by right confess'd the man,
Who ought to lead the Scottish van,
He should the proud distinction claim.
And thus, as one of low estate,
With lip of scorn, and brow elate,
Did he, by traitors back'd, the godlike Wallace bate.

LXXII.

“Must noble chiefs of high degree,
“Scotland's best blood, be led by thee?
“Thou, who art great but as the owl,
“Who plumed her wing from every fowl,
“And, hooting on her blasted tree,
“Would greater than the eagle be.”

LXXIII.

“I stood,” said Wallace, “for the right,
“When ye in holes shrank from the light;
“My plumes spread to the blazing sun
“Which coweringly ye sought to shun.
“Ye are the owls, who from the gloom
“Of cleft and cranny boasting come;
“Yet, hoot and chatter as ye may,
“I'll not to living man this day
“Resign the baton of command,
“Which Scotland's will gave to my hand,
“When spoil'd, divided, conquer'd, maim'd,
“None the dangerous honour claim'd;
“Nor. till my head lie in the dust,
“Will it betray her sacred trust.”

LXXIV.

With flashing eye, and dark red brow,
He utter'd then a hasty vow,
Seeing the snare by treason laid,
So strongly wov'n, so widely spread,

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And slowly from the field withdrew;
While, slow and silent at his back,
March'd on his wayward, cheerless track,
Ten thousand Scotchmen staunch and true,
Who would, let good or ill betide,
By noble Wallace still abide.

LXXV.

To them it was a strange and irksome sight,
As on a gentle hill apart they stood,
To see arm'd squadrons closing in the fight,
And the fierce onset to their work of blood.
To see their well-known banners as they moved
When dark opposing ranks with ranks are blending,
To see the lofty plumes of those they loved
Wave to and fro, with the brave foe contending.

LXXVI.

It hath been said that gifted seer,
On the dark mountain's cloudy screen,
Forms of departed chiefs hath seen,
In seeming armour braced with sword and spear,
O'erlooking some dire field of death,
Where warriors, warm with vital breath,
Of kindred lineage, urge the glorious strife;
They grasp their shadowy spears, and forward bend
In eager sympathy, as if to lend
Their aid to those, with whom in mortal life,
They did such rousing, noble conflict share,—
As if their phantom-forms of empty air
Still own'd a kindred sense of what on earth they were.

LXXVII.

So Wallace and his faithful band survey'd
The fatal fight, when Scotland was betray'd
By the false Comyn, who most basely fled,
And from the field a thousand warriors led.
O how his noble spirit burn'd,
When from his post the traitor turn'd,
Leaving the Stewart sorely prest!
Who with his hardy Scots the wave
Of hostile strength did stoutly breast,
Like clansmeu true and brave.
His visage flush'd with angry glow,
He clench'd his hand, and struck his brow.
His heart within his bosom beat
As it would break from mortal seat.
And when at last they yielded space,
And ye beheld their piteous case,
Big scalding tears coursed down his manly face.

LXXVIII.

But, ah! that fatal vow, that pride
Which doth in mortal breast reside,
Of noble minds the earthly bane,
His gen'rous impulse to restrain,
Had power in that dark moment! still
It struggled with his better will.
And who, superior to this tempter's power,
Hath ever braved it in the trying hour?
Oh! only he, who, strong in heavenly grace,
Taking from wretched thralls, of woman born,
Their wicked mockery, their stripes, their scorn,
Gave his devoted life for all the human race.
He viewed the dire disastrous fight,
Like a fall'n cherub of the light,
Whose tossing form now tow'rs, now bends,
And with its darken'd self contends,
Till many a brave and honour'd head
Lay still'd upon a bloody bed,
And Stewart, midst his clans, was number'd with the dead.

LXXIX.

Then rose he, like a rushing wind,
Which strath or cavern hath confin'd,
And straight through England's dark array,
With his bold mates, hew'd out his bloody way:
A perilous daring way, and dear the cost!
For there the good, the gallant Grame he lost.
The gallant Grame, whose name shall long
Remember'd be in Scottish song.
And second still to Wallace wight
In lowland tale of winter's night,
Who loved him as he never loved another.
Low to the dust he bent his head,
Deep was his anguish o'er the dead.—
“That daring hand, that gentle heart!
“That lofty mind! and must we part?
“My brother, oh, my brother!”

LXXX.

But how shall verse feign'd accents borrow,
To speak with words their speechless sorrow,
Who, on the trampled, blood-stain'd green
Of battle-field, must leave behind
What to their souls hath dearest been,
To stiffen in the wind?
The soldier there, or kern or chief,
Short parley holds with shrewdest grief;
Passing to noisy strife from what, alas!
Shall from his sadden'd fancy never pass,—
The look that e'en through writhing pain,
Says, “Shall we never meet again?”
The grasping hand or sign but known,
Of tenderness, to one alone:
The lip convulsed, the life's last shiver;
The new-closed eye, yet closed for ever,
The brave must quit;—but, from the ground,
They, like th' enchafed lion bound.

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Rage is their sorrow, grimly fed,
And blood the tears they shed.

LXXXI.

Too bold it were for me to tell,
How Wallace fought; how on the brave
The ruin of his anguish fell,
Ere from the field, his bands to save,
He broke away, and sternly bore
Along the stony Carron's shore.
The dark brown water, hurrying past,
O'er stone and rocky fragment cast
The white churn'd foam with angry bray,
And wheel'd and bubbled on its way,
And lash'd the margin's flinty guard,
By him unheeded and unheard!
Albeit, his mind, dark with despair,
And grief, and rage, was imaged there.

LXXXII.

And there, 'tis said, the Bruce descried
Him marching on the rival side.
The Bruce, whose right the country own'd,
(Had he possess'd a princely soul.
Disdaining Edward's base controul,)
To be upon her chair of power enthron'd.

LXXXIII.

“Ho, chieftain!” said the princely slave,
“Thou who pretendst the land to save
“With rebel sword, opposed to me,
“Who should of right thy sovereign be;
“Thinkst thou the Scottish crown to wear,
“Opposed by foreign power so great,
“By those at home of high estate?
“Cast the vain thought to empty air,
“Thy fatal mad ambition to despair.”

LXXXIV.

“No!” Wallace answer'd; “I have shown
“This sword to gain or power or throne
“Was never drawn; no act of mine
“Did e'er with selfish thought combine.
“Courage to dare, when others lay
“In brutish sloth, beneath the sway
“Of foreign tyranny; to save
“From thraldom, hateful to the brave,
“My friends, my countrymen; to stand
“For right and honour of the land,
“When nobler arms shrank from the task,
“In a vile tyrant's smiles to bask,
“Hath been my simple warrant of command.
“And Scotland hath confirm'd it.—No;
“Nor shall this hand her charge forego,
“While Southron in the land is found
“To lord it o'er one rood of Scottish ground,
“Or till my head be low.”

LXXXV.

Deep blush'd the Bruce, shame's conscious glow!
And own'd the hero's words were true;
Then with his followers, sad and slow,
To Edward's camp withdrew.

LXXXVI.

But fleeting was the mighty tyrant's boast,
(So says the learned clerk of old,
Who first our hero's story told,)
Fleeting the triumph of his numerous host.
For with the morning's early dawn
The Scottish soldiers, scatter'd wide,
Hath Wallace round his standard drawn,
Hath cheer'd their spirits, roused their pride,
And led them, where their foes they found,
All listless, scatter'd on the ground.
On whom with furious charge they set;
And many a valiant Southron met
A bloody death, waked from the gleam
And inward vision of a morning's dream;
Where Fancy in his native home
Led him through well-known fields to roam,
Where orchard, cot, and copse appear,
And moving forms of kindred dear;—
For in the rugged soldier's brain
She oft will fairy court maintain

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Full gently, as beneath the dusk
Of hard-ribb'd shell, the fair pearl lies,
Or silken bud in prickly husk;—
He from her visions sweet unseals his eyes
To see the stern foe o'er him darkly bending,
To feel the deep-thrust blade his bosom rending.

LXXXVII.

So many Southrons there were slain,
So fatal was the vengeance ta'en,
That Edward, with enfeebled force,
Check'd mad ambition's unbless'd course,
And to his own fair land return'd again.

LXXXVIII.

Then Wallace thought from tower and town
And castled hold, as heretofore,
To pull each English banner down
And free the land once more.
But ah! the generous hope he must forego!
Envy and pride have Scotland's cause betray'd;
All now are backward, listless, cold, and slow
His patriot arm to aid.

LXXXIX.

Then to St. Johnston, at his call,
Met burghers, knights, and nobles all,
Who on the pressing summons wait,
A full assembly of the state.
There he resign'd his ensigns of command,
Which erst had kept the proudest Thanes in awe;
Retaining in that potent hand
Which thrice redeem'd its native land,
His simple sword alone, with which he stood
'Midst all her haughty peers of princely blood,
The noblest man e'er Scotland saw.

XC.

And thus did Scottish lords requite
Him, who, in many a bloody fight,
The country's champion stood; her people's Wallace wight.
O black ingratitude! thy seemly place
Is in the brutish, mean, and envious heart;
How is it, then, thou dost so oft disgrace
The learn'd, the wise, the highly born, and art
Like cank'ring blights, the oak that scathe,
While fern and brushwood thrive beneath;
Like dank mould on the marble tomb,
While graves of turf with violets bloom.
Selfish ambition makes the lordliest Thane
A meaner man than he, who drives the loaded wain.

XCI.

And he with heavy heart his native shore
Forsook to join his old ally once more.
And in Guienne right valiant deeds he wrought;
Till under iron yoke oppress'd,
From north to south, from east to west,
His most unhappy groaning country sought
The generous aid she never sought in vain;
And with a son's unwearied love,
Which fortune, time, nor wrongs could move,
He to maintain her cause again repass'd the main.
The which right bravely he maintain'd;
And divers castles soon regain'd.
The sound e'en of his whisper'd name
Revived in faithful hearts the smother'd flame,
And many secretly to join his standard came.
St. Johnston's leaguer'd walls at length
Were yielded to his growing strength;
And on, with still increasing force,
He southward held his glorious course.

XCII.

Then Edward thought the chief to gain,
And win him to his princely side
With treasured gold and honours vain,
And English manors fair and wide.

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But with flush'd brow and angry eye
And words that shrewdly from him broke,
Stately and stern, he thus bespoke
The secret embassy.
“These kingly proffers made to me!
“Return and say it may not be.
“Lions shall troop with herdsmen's droves,
“And eagles roost with household doves,
“Ere William Wallace draw his blade
“With those who Scotland's rights invade.
“Yea, e'en the touch of bondsman's chain,
“Would in my thrilling members wake
“A loathful sense of rankling pain
“Like coiling of a venom'd snake.”
The King abash'd, in courtly hold,
Received this answer sooth and bold.

XCIII.

But ah! the fated hour drew near
That stopp'd him in his bold career.
Menteith, a name which from that day, I ween,
Hateful to ever Scottish ear hath been,
Which highland kern and lowland hind
Have still with treacherous guile combined,—
The false Menteith, who under show
Of friendship, sold him to the foe,
Stole on a weary secret hour,
As sleeping and disarm'd he lay,
And to King Edward's vengeful power
Gave up the mighty prey.

XCIV.

At sight of noble Wallace bound,
The Southrons raised a vaunting sound,
As if the bands which round his limbs they drew,
Had fetter'd Scotland too.
They gazed and wonder'd at their mighty thrall;
Then nearer drew with movements slow,
And spoke in whispers deep and low.—
“This is the man to whom did yield
“The doughtiest knight in banner'd field,
“Whose threat'ning frown the boldest did appal!”
And, as his clanging fetters shook,
Cast on him oft a fearful look,
As doubting if in verity
Such limbs with iron might holden be.
While boldest spearmen by the pris'ner's side
With beating heart and haggard visage ride.

XCV.

Thus on to London they have pass'd
And in the Tower's dark dungeons cast
The hero; where, in silent gloom,
He must abide his fatal doom.
There pent, from earthly strife apart,
Scotland still rested on his heart.
Ay; every son that breathed her air
On cultured plain, on mountain bare,
From chief in princely castle bred
To herdsman in his sheeling shed,
From war-dight youth to barefoot child,
Who picks in brake the berry wild;—
Her gleamy lakes and torrents clear,
Her towns, her towers, her forests green,
Her fields where warlike coil hath been,
Are to his soul most dear.

XCVI.

His fetter'd hands support a head,
Whose nodding plume had terror spread
O'er many a face, e'en seen from far,
When moving in the ranks of war.
Lonely and dark, unseen of man,
But in that Presence, whose keen eye
Can darkest breast of mortal scan,
The bitter thought and heavy sigh
Have way uncheck'd, and utter'd grief
Gave to his burthen'd heart a soothing, sad relief.

XCVII.

“It hath not to this arm been given
“From the fell tyrant's grinding hand
“To set thee free, my native land!
“I bow me to the will of Heaven!
“But have I run my course in vain?
“Shalt thou in bondage still remain?
“The spoiler o'er thee still have sway,
“Till virtue, strength, and pride decay?
“O no! still panting to be free,
“Thy noblest hearts will think of me.
“Some brave, devoted, happier son
“Will do the work I would have done;
“And blest be he, who nobly draws
“His sword in Scotland's cause!”

XCVIII.

Perhaps his vision'd eye might turn
To him who fought at Bannockburn.

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Or is it wildness to believe
A dying patriot may receive,
(Who sees his mortal span diminish'd
To nought, his generous task unfinish'd,)
A seeming fruitless end to cheer,
Some glimpses of the gifted seer?
O no! 'tis to his closing sight
A beacon on a distant height,—
The moon's new crescent, seen in cloudy kirtled noght.

XCIX.

And much he strove with Christian grace,
Of those who Scotland's foes had been,
His soul's strong hatred to efface,
A work of grace, I ween!
Meekly he bow'd o'er bead and book,
And every worldly thought forsook.

C.

But when he on the scaffold stood,
And cast aside his mantling hood,
He eyed the crowd, whose sullen hum,
Did from ten thousand upcast faces come,
And armed guardsmen standing round,
As he was wont on battle-ground,
Where still with calm and portly air,
He faced the foe with visage bare;
As if with baton of command
And vassal chiefs on either hand,
Towering her marshall'd files between,
He Scotland's warden still had been.
This flash of mortal feeling past,—
This gleam of pride, it was the last.
As on the cloud's dense skirt will play,
While the dark tempest rolls away,
One parting blaze; then thunders cease,
The sky is clear, and all is peace.
And he with ready will a nobler head
Than e'er was circled with a kingly crown,
Upon the block to headsman's stroke laid down,
And for his native land a generous victim bled.

CI.

What though that head o'er gate or tower,
Like felons on the cursed tree,
Visited by sun and shower,
A ghastly spectacle may be!
A fair renown, as years wear on,
Shall Scotland give her noblest son.
The course of ages shall not dim
The love that she shall bear to him.

CII.

In many a castle, town, and plain,
Mountain and forest, still remain
Fondly cherish'd spots, which claim
The proud distinction of his honour'd name.

CIII.

Swells the huge ruin's massy heap
In castled court, 'tis Wallace' keep.
What stateliest o'er the rest may lower
Of time-worn wall, where rook and daw,
With wheeling flight and ceaseless caw,
Keep busy stir, is Wallace' tower.
If through the green wood's hanging screen,
High o'er the deeply-bedded wave,
The mouth of arching cleft is seen
Dark yawning, it is Wallace' cave.
If o'er its jutting barrier grey,
Tinted by time, with furious din,
The rude crags silver'd with its spray,
Shoots the wild flood, 'tis Wallace' lin.
And many a wood remains, and hill, and glen
Haunted, 'tis said, of old by Wallace and his men.

CIV.

There schoolboy still doth haunt the sacred ground,
And musing oft its pleasing influence own,
As starting at his footsteps' echo'd sound,
He feels himself alone.

CV.

Yea, e'en the cottage matron, at her wheel,
Although with daily care and labour crost,
Will o'er her heart the soothing magic feel,
And of her country's ancient prowess boast;

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While on the little shelf of treasured books,
For what can most of all her soul delight,
Beyond or ballad, tale, or jest, she looks,—
The history renown'd of Wallace wight.

CVI.

But chiefly to the soldier's breast
A thought of him will kindling come,
As waving high his bonnet's crest,
He listens to the rolling drum,
And trumpet's call and thrilling fife,
And bagpipe's loud and stormy strain,
Meet prelude to tumultuous strife
On the embattled plain.

CVII.

Whether in highland garb array'd,
With kirtle short and highland plaid,
Or button'd close in lowland vest,
Within his doughty grasp, broad sword, or gun be press'd,—
Rememb'ring him, he still maintains
His country's cause on foreign plains,
To grace her name and earn her praise,
Led by the brave of modern days.

CVIII.

Such, Abercrombie, fought with thee
On Egypt's dark embattled shore,
And near Corunna's bark-clad sea
With great and gallant Moore;
With Baird, with Ferguson, and Grame,
A leader worthy of the name,
And fought in pride of Scotland's ancient fame
With firmer nerve and warmer will:
And wheresoe'er on hostile ground,
Or Scot or hardy Celt are found,
Thy spirit, noble Wallace, fighteth still!

CXIX.

O Scotland! proud may be thy boast!
Since Time his course through circling years hath run,
There hath not shone, in Fame's bright host,
A nobler hero than thy patriot son.

CX.

Manly and most devoted was the love
With which for thee unweariedly he strove;
No selfish lust of power, not e'en of fame,
Gave ardour to the pure and generous flame.
Rapid in action, terrible in fight,
In counsel wise, inflexible in right,
Was he, who did so oft, in olden days,
Thy humbled head from base oppression raise.
Then be it by thy generous spirit known,
Ready in freedom's cause to bleed,
Spurning corruption's worthless meed,
That in thy heart thou feelst this hero was thine own!

731

THE LEGEND OF CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS.

Is there a man, that, from some lofty steep,
Views in his wide survey the boundless deep,
When its vast waters, lined with sun and shade,
Wave beyond wave, in serried distance, fade
To the pale sky;—or views it, dimly seen,
The shifting skreens of drifted mist between,
As the huge cloud dilates its sable form,
When grandly curtain'd by th' approaching storm,—
Who feels not his awed soul with wonder rise
To Him whose power created sea and skies,
Mountains and deserts, giving to the sight
The wonders of the day and of the night?
But let some fleet be seen in warlike pride,
Whose stately ships the restless billows ride,
While each, with lofty masts and bright'ning sheen,
Of fair spread sails, moves like a vested queen;—
Or rather, be some distant bark, astray,
Seen like a pilgrim on his lonely way,
Holding its steady course from port and shore,
A form distinct, a speck, and seen no more,—
How doth the pride, the sympathy, the flame,
Of human feeling stir his thrilling frame!
“O Thou! whose mandate dust inert obey'd!
“What is this creature man whom Thou hast made?”

I.

On Palos' shore, whose crowded strand
Bore priests and nobles of the land,
And rustic hinds and townsmen trim,
And harness'd soldiers stern and grim,
And lowly maids and dames of pride,
And infants by their mothers' side,—
The boldest seaman stood that e'er
Did bark or ship through tempest steer;
And wise as bold, and good as wise;
The magnet of a thousand eyes,
That on his form and features cast,
His noble mien and simple guise,
In wonder seem'd to look their last:
A form which conscious worth is gracing,
A face where hope, the lines effacing
Of thought and care, bestow'd, in truth,
To the quick eyes' imperfect tracing
The look and air of youth.

II.

Who, in his lofty gait, and high
Expression of th' enlighten'd eye,
Had recognised in that bright hour
The disappointed suppliant of dull power,
Who had in vain of states and kings desired
The pittance for his vast emprise required?—
The patient sage, who, by his lamp's faint light,
O'er chart and map spent the long silent night?—
The man who meekly fortune's buffets bore,
Trusting in One alone, whom heaven and earth adore?

III.

Another world is in his mind,
Peopled with creatures of his kind,
With hearts to feel, with minds to soar,
Thoughts to consider and explore;
Souls, who might find, from trespass shriven,
Virtue on earth and joy in heaven.
That Power divine, whom storms obey,
(Whisper'd his heart,) a leading star,
Will guide him on his blessed way;
Brothers to join, by fate divided far.
Vain thoughts! which heaven doth but ordain
In part to be, the rest, alas! how vain!

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IV.

But hath there lived of mortal mould,
Whose fortunes with his thoughts could hold
An even race? Earth's greatest son
That e'er earn'd fame, or empire won,
Hath but fulfill'd, within a narrow scope,
A stinted portion of his ample hope.
With heavy sigh and look depress'd,
The greatest men will sometimes hear
The story of their acts address'd
To the young stranger's wond'ring ear,
And check the half-swoln tear.
Is it or modesty or pride
Which may not open praise abide?
No; read his inward thoughts: they tell,
His deeds of fame he prizes well.
But, ah! they in his fancy stand,
As relies of a blighted band,
Who, lost to man's approving sight,
Have perish'd in the gloom of night;
Ere yet the glorious light of day
Had glitter'd on their bright array.
His mightiest feat had once another,
Of high Imagination born,—
A loftier and a nobler brother,
From dear existence torn;
And she for those, who are not, steeps
Her soul in woe,—like Rachel, weeps.

V.

The signal given, with hasty strides
The sailors climb'd their ships' dark sides;
Their anchors weigh'd; and from the shore
Each stately vessel slowly bore.
High o'er the deeply shadow'd flood,
Upon his deck their leader stood,
And turn'd him to the parted land,
And bow'd his head and waved his hand.
And then, along the crowded strand,
A sound of many sounds combined,
That wax'd and waned upon the wind,
Burst like heaven's thunder, deep and grand;
A lengthen'd peal, which paused, and then
Renew'd, like that which loathly parts,
Oft on the ear return'd again,
The impulse of a thousand hearts;
But as the lengthen'd shouts subside,
Distincter accents strike the ear,
Wafting across the current wide,
Heart-utter'd words of parting cheer:
“Oh! shall we ever see again
“Those gallant souls re-cross the main?
“God keep the brave! God be their guide!
“God bear them safe through storm and tide!
“Their sails with fav'ring breezes swell!
“O brave Columbus! fare thee well!”

VI.

From shore and strait, and gulph and bay,
The vessels held their daring way,
Left far behind, in distance thrown,
All land to Moor or Christian known,
Left far behind the misty isle,
Whose fitful shroud, withdrawn the while,
Shows wood and hill and headland bright
To later seamen's wond'ring sight,
And tide and sea left far behind
That e'er bore freight of human kind;
Where ship or bark to shifting gales
E'er tack'd their course or spread their sails.
Around them lay a boundless main
In which to hold their silent reign;
But for the passing current's flow,
And cleft waves, brawling round the prow,
They might have thought some magic spell
Had bound them, weary fate! for ever there to dwell.

VII.

What did this trackless waste supply
To soothe the mind or please the eye?
The rising morn through dim mist breaking,
The flicker'd east with purple streaking;
The mid-day cloud through thin air flying,
With deeper blue the blue sea dying;
Long ridgy waves their white manes rearing,
And in the broad gleam disappearing;
The broaden'd blazing sun declining,
And western waves like fire-flood shining;
The sky's vast dome to darkness given,
And all the glorious host of heaven.

VIII.

Full oft upon the deck, while others slept,
To mark the bearing of each well-known star
That shone aloft, or on th' horizon far,
The anxious Chief his lonely vigil kept;
The mournful wind, the hoarse wave breaking near,
The breathing groans of sleep, the plunging lead,
The steersman's call, and his own stilly tread,
Are all the sounds of night that reach his ear.
His darker form stalk'd through the sable gloom
With gestures discomposed and features keen,
That might not in the face of day be seen,
Like some unblessed spirit from the tomb.
Night after night, and day succeeding day,
So pass'd their dull, unvaried time away;
Till Hope, the seaman's worship'd queen, had flown
From every valiant heart but his alone;
Where still, by day, enthroned, she held her state
With sunny look and brow elate.

733

IX.

But soon his dauntless soul, which nought could bend,
Nor hope delay'd, nor adverse fate subdue,
With more redoubled danger must contend
Than storm or wave—a fierce and angry crew.
“Dearly,” say they, “may we those visions rue
“Which lured us from our native land,
“A wretched, lost, devoted band,
“Led on by hope's delusive gleam,
“The victims of a madman's dream;
“Nor gold shall e'er be ours, nor fame;
“Not e'en the remnant of a name,
“On some rude-letter'd stone to tell
“On what strange coast our wreck befell.
“For us no requiem shall be sung,
“Nor prayer be said, nor passing knell
“In holy church be rung.”

X.

To thoughts like these, all forms give way
Of duty to a leader's sway;
All habits of respect, that bind
With easy tie the human mind.
E'en love and admiration throw
Their nobler bands aside, nor show
A gentler mien; relations, friends,
Glare on him now like angry fiends;
And, as he moves, ah, wretched cheer!
Their mutter'd curses reach his ear,
But all undaunted, firm and sage,
He scorns their threats, yet thus he soothes their rage:
“I brought you from your native shore
“An unknown ocean to explore.
“I brought you, partners, by my side,
“Want, toil, and danger, to abide.
“Yet weary stillness hath so soon subdued
“The buoyant soul, the heart of pride,
“Men who in battle's brunt full oft have firmly stood.
“That to some nearing coast we bear,
“How many cheering signs declare!
“Way-faring birds the blue air ranging,
“Their shadowy line to blue air changing,
“Pass o'er our heads in frequent flocks;
“While sea-weed from the parent rocks
“With fibry roots, but newly torn,
“In tressy lengthen'd wreaths are on the clear wave borne.
“Nay, has not e'en the drifting current brought
“Things of rude art,—of human cunning wrought?
“Be yet two days your patience tried,
“And if no shore be then descried,
“E'en turn your dastard prows again,
“And cast your leader to the main.”

XI.

And thus awhile with steady hand
He kept in check a wayward band,
Who but with half-express'd disdain
Their rebel spirit could restrain.
The vet'ran rough as war-worn steel,
Oft spurn'd the deck with grating heel;
The seaman, bending o'er the flood,
With stony gaze all listless stood;
The sturdy bandit, wildly rude,
Sang, as he strode, some garbled strain,
Expressive of each fitful mood.
Timed by his sabre's jangling chain
The proud Castilian, boasted name!
Child of an ancient race
Which proudly prized its spotless fame,
And deem'd all fear disgrace,
Felt quench'd within him honour's generous flame,
And in his gather'd mantle wrapp'd his face.

XII.

So pass'd the day, the night, the second day
With its red setting sun's extinguish'd ray.
Dark, solemn midnight coped the ocean wide,
When from his watchful stand Columbus cried,
“A light, a light!”—blest sounds that rang
In every ear.—At once they sprang
With haste aloft, and, peering bright,
Descried afar the blessed sight.
“It moves, it slowly moves, like ray
“Of torch that guides some wand'rer's way!

734

“And other lights more distant, seeming
“As if from town or hamlet streaming!
“'Tis land, 'tis peopled land; man dwelleth there,
“And thou, O God of Heaven! hast heard thy servant's prayer!”

XIII.

Returning day gave to their view
The distant shore and headlands blue
Of long-sought land. Then rose on air
Loud shouts of joy, mix'd wildly strange
With voice of weeping and of prayer,
Expressive of their blessed change
From death to life, from fierce to kind,
From all that sinks, to all that elevates the mind.
Those who by faithless fear ensnared,
Had their brave chief so rudely dared,
Now, with keen self-upbraiding stung,
With every manly feeling wrung,
Repentant tears, looks that entreat,
Are kneeling at his worship'd feet.
“O pardon blinded, stubborn guilt!
“O henceforth make us what thou wilt!
“Our hands, our hearts, our lives are thine,
“Thou wondrous man! led on by power divine!”

XIV.

Ah! would some magie could arrest
The generous feelings of the breast,
Which 'thwart the common baser mass
Of sordid thoughts, so fleetly pass,—
A sun glimpse through the storm!
The rent cloud closes, tempests swell,
And its late path we cannot tell;
Lost is its trace and form.
No; not on earth such fugitives are bound;
In some veil'd future state will the bless'd charm be found.

XV.

Columbus led them to the shore,
Which ship had never touch'd before;
And there he knelt upon the strand
To thank the God of sea and land;
And there, with mien and look elate,
Gave welcome to each toil-worn mate.
And lured with courteous signs of cheer,
The dusky natives gath'ring near;
Who on them gazed with wond'ring eyes,
As mission'd spirits from the skies.
And there did he possession claim,
In Isabella's royal name.

XVI.

It was a land, unmarr'd by art,
To please the eye and cheer the heart:
The natives' simple huts were seen
Peeping their palmy groves between,—
Groves, where each dome of sweepy leaves
In air of morning gently heaves,
And, as the deep vans fall and rise,
Changes its richly verdant dies;
A land whose simple sons till now
Had scarcely seen a careful brow;
They spent at will each passing day
In lightsome toil or active play.
Some their light canoes were guiding,
Along the shore's sweet margin gliding.
Some in the sunny sea were swimming,
The bright waves o'er their dark forms gleaming;
Some on the beach for shell-fish stooping
Or on the smooth sand gaily trooping;
Or in link'd circles featly dancing
With golden braid and bracelet glancing.
By shelter'd door were infants creeping,
Or on the shaded herbage sleeping;
Gay feather'd birds the air were winging,
And parrots on their high perch swinging,
While humming-birds, like sparks of light,
Twinkled and vanish'd from the sight.

XVII.

They eyed the wondrous strangers o'er and o'er,—
Those beings of the ocean and the air,
With humble, timid rev'rence; all their store
Of gather'd wealth inviting them to share;

735

To share whate'er their lowly cabins hold;
Their feather'd crowns, their fruits, their arms, their gold.
Their gold, that fatal gift!—O foul disgrace!
Repaid with cruel wreck of all their harmless race.

XVIII.

There some short, pleasing days with them he dwelt,
And all their simple kindness dearly felt,
But they of other countries told,
Not distant, where the sun declines,
Where reign Caziques o'er warriors bold,
Rich with the gold of countless mines.
And he to other islands sail'd,
And was by other natives hail'd.
Then on Hispaniola's shore,
Where bays and harbours to explore
Much time he spent, a simple tower
Of wood he built, the seat to be
And shelter of Spain's infant power;
Hoping the nurseling fair to see,
Amidst those harmless people shoot
Its stately stem from slender root.
There nine and thirty chosen men he placed,
Gave parting words of counsel and of cheer;
One after one his nobler friends embraced,
And to the Indian chieftain, standing near,
“Befriend my friends, and give them aid,
“When I am gone,” he kindly said,
Bless'd them, and left them there his homeward course to steer.

XIX.

His prayer to heaven for them preferr'd
Was not, alas! with favour heard.
Oft, as his ship the land forsook,
He landward turn'd his farewell look,
And cheer'd his Spaniards cross the wave,
Who distant answer faintly gave;
Distant but cheerful. On the strand
He saw their clothed figures stand
With naked forms link'd hand in hand;—
Saw thus caress'd, assured, and bold,
Those he should never more behold.
Some simple Indians, gently won,
To visit land, where sets the sun
In clouds of amber, and behold,
The wonders oft by Spaniards told;
Stood silent by themselves apart,
With nature's yearnings at their heart,
And saw the coast of fading blue
Wear soft and sadly from their view.
But soon by their new comrades cheer'd,
As o'er the waves the ship career'd,
Their wond'ring eyes aloft were cast
On white swoln sails and stately mast,
And check'ring shrouds, depicted fair,
On azure sea and azure air;
And felt, as feels the truant boy,
Who, having climb'd some crumbling mound
Or ruin'd tower, looks wildly round,—
A thrilling, fearful joy.

XX.

Then with his two small barks again
The dauntless Chief traversed the main;
But not with fair and fav'ring gales
That erst had fill'd his western sails:
Fierce winds with adverse winds contended;
Rose the dark deep,—dark heaven descended,
And threaten'd, in the furious strife,
The ships to sink with all their freight of precious life.

XXI.

In this dread case, well may be guess'd
What dismal thoughts his soul depress'd:
“And must I in th' o'erwhelming deep,
“Our bold achievement all unknown,
“With these my brave adventurers sleep,—
“What we have done to dark oblivion thrown?
“Sink, body! to thy wat'ry grave,
“If so God will; but let me save
“This noble fruitage of my mind,
“And leave my name and decds behind!”

XXII.

Upon a scroll, with hasty pen,
His wondrous tale he traced,
View'd it with tearful eyes, and then
Within a casket placed.

736

“Perhaps,” said he, “by vessel bound
“On western cruize thou wilt be found;
“Or make, sped by the current swift,
“To Christian shore thy happy drift.
“Thy story may by friendly eyes be read;
“O'er our untimely fate warm tears be shed;
“Our deeds rehearsed by many an eager tongue,
“And requiems for our parted souls be sung.”
This casket to the sea he gave;
Quick sank and rose the freightage light,—
Appear'd on many a booming wave,
Then floated far away from his still gazing sight.
Yet after many a peril braved,—
Of many an adverse wind the sport,
He, by his Great Preserver saved,
Anchor'd again in Palos' port.

XXIII.

O, who can tell the acclamation loud
That, bursting, rose from the assembled crowd,
To hail the Hero and his gallant train,
From such adventure bold return'd again!—
The warm embrace, the oft-repeated cheer,
And many a wistful smile and many a tear!
How, pressing close, they stood;
Look'd on Columbus with amaze,—
“Is he,” so spake their wond'ring gaze,
“A man of flesh and blood?”
While cannon far along the shore
His welcome gave with deaf'ning roar.

XXIV.

And then with measured steps, sedate and slow,
They to the Christian's sacred temple go.
Soon as the chief within the house of God
Upon the hallow'd pavement trode,
He bow'd with holy fear:—
“The God of wisdom, merey, might,
“Creator of the day and night,
“This sea-girt globe, and every star of light,
“Is worship'd here.”
Then on the altar's steps he knelt,
And what his inward spirit felt,
Was said unheard within that cell
Where saintly thoughts and feelings dwell;
But as the choral chaunters raise
Through dome and aisle the hymn of praise,
To heaven his glist'ning eyes were turn'd,
With sacred love his bosom burn'd.
On all the motley crowd
The gen'rous impulse seized; high Dons of pride
Wept like the meekest beadsman by their side,
And women sobb'd aloud.

XXV.

Nor statesmen met in high debate
Deciding on a country's fate,
Nor saintly chiefs with fearless zeal
Contending for their churches' weal,
Nor warriors, 'midst the battle's roar,
Who fiercely guard their native shore;—
No power by earthly coil possest
To agitate the human breast,
Shows, from its native source diverted,
Man's nature noble, though perverted,
So strongly as the transient power
Of link'd devotion's sympathetic hour.
It clothes with soft unwonted grace
The traits of many a rugged face,
As bend the knees unused to kneel,
And glow the hearts unused to feel;
While every soul, with holy passion moved,
Claims one Almighty Sire, fear'd, and adored, and loved.

XXVI.

With western treasures, borne in fair display,
To Barcelona's walls, in grand array,
Columbus slowly held his inland way.
And still where'er he pass'd along,
In eager crowds the people throng.
The wildest way o'er desert drear
Did like a city's mart appear.
The shepherd swain forsook his sheep;
The goat-herd from his craggy steep
Shot like an arrow to the plain;
Mechanics, housewives, left amain
Their broken tasks, and press'd beside
The truant youth they meant to chide:
The dull Hidalgo left his tower,
The donna fair her latticed bower;
Together press'd, fair and uncouth,
All motley forms of age and youth.
And, still along the dark-ranged pile
Of clust'ring life, was heard the while
Mix'd brawling joy, and shouts that rung
From many a loud and deaf'ning tongue.
Ah! little thought the gazing throng,

737

As pass'd that pageant show along,
How Spain should rue, in future times,
With desert plains and fields untill'd,
And towns with listless loit'rers fill'd,
The with'ring spoil received from foreign climes!
Columbus gave thee, thankless Spain!
A new-found world o'er which to reign;
But could not with the gift impart
A portion of his liberal heart
And manly mind, to bid thee soar
Above a robber's lust of ore,
Which hath a curse entail'd on all thy countless store.

XXVII.

To Barcelona come, with honours meet
Such glorious deeds to grace, his sov'reigns greet
Their mariner's return. Or hall,
Or room of state was deem'd too small
For such reception. Pageant rare!
Beneath heaven's dome, in open square,
Their gorgeous thrones were placed;
And near them on a humbler seat,
While on each hand the titled great,
Standing in dizen'd rows, were seen,
Priests, guards, and crowds, a living screen,—
Columbus sat, with noble mien,
With princely honours graced.
There to the royal pair his tale he told:
A wondrous tale, that did not want
Or studied words or braggart's vaunt;
When at their royal feet were laid
Gems, pearls, and plumes of many a shade,
And stores of virgin gold,
Whilst, in their feather'd guise array'd,
The Indians low obeisance paid.
And at that wondrous story's close
The royal pair with rev'rence rose,
And kneeling on the ground, aloud
Gave thanks to heaven. Then all the crowd,
Joining from impulse of the heart
The banded priests' ecstatic art,
With mingled voice Te Deum sang;
With the grand choral burst, walls, towers, and welkin rang.

XXVIII.

This was his brightest hour, too bright
For human weal;—a glaring light,
Like sunbeam through the rent cloud pouring
On the broad lake, when storms are roaring;
Bright centre of a wild and sombre scene;
More keenly bright than Summer's settled sheen.

XXIX.

With kingly favour brighten'd, all
His favour court, obey his call.
At princely boards, above the rest,
He took his place, admired, caress'd:
Proud was the don of high degree,
Whose honour'd guest he deign'd to be.
Whate'er his purposed service wanted
With ready courtesy was granted:
No envious foe durst cross his will.
While eager shipwrights ply their skill,
To busy dock-yard, quay, or port,
Priests, lords, and citizens resort:
There wains the heavy planks are bringing,
And hammers on the anvil ringing,

738

The far-toss'd boards on boards are falling,
And brawny mate to work-mate calling:
The cable strong on windlass winding;
On wheel of stone the edge-tool grinding;
Red fire beneath the caldron gleaming,
And pitchy fumes from caldron steaming.
To sea and land's men too, I ween,
It was a gay, attractive scene;
Beheld, enjoy'd, day after day,
Till all his ships, in fair array,
Were bounden for their course at last;
And amply stored and bravely mann'd
Bore far from blue, receding land.
Thus soon again, th' Atlantic vast
With gallant fleet he past.

XXX.

By peaceful natives hail'd with kindly smiles,
He shortly touch'd at various pleasant isles;
And when at length her well-known shore appear'd,
And he to fair Hispaniola near'd,
Upon the deck, with eager eye,
Some friendly signal to descry,
He stood; then fired his signal shot,
But answ'ring fire received not.
“What may this dismal silence mean?
“No floating flag in air is seen,
“Nor e'en the tower itself, though well
“Its lofty site those landmarks tell.
“Ha! have they so regardless proved
“Of my command?—their station moved!”
As closer to the shore they drew,
To hail them came no light canoe;
The beach was silent and forsaken:
Nor clothed nor naked forms appear'd,
Nor sound of human voice was heard;
Nought but the sea-birds from the rock
With busy stir that flutt'ring broke;
Sad signs, which in his mind portentous fears awaken.

XXXI.

Then eagerly on shore he went,
His scouts abroad for tidings sent;
But to his own loud echo'd cry
An Indian came with fearful eye,
Who guess'd his questions' hurried sound,
And pointed to a little mound,
Not distant far. With eager haste
The loosen'd mould aside was cast.
Bodies, alas! within that grave were found,
Which had not long been laid to rest,
Though so by changeful death defaced,
Nor form, nor visage could be traced,—
In Spanish garments dress'd.
Back from each living Spaniard's cheek the blood
Ran chill, as round their noble chief they stood,
Who sternly spoke to check the rising tear.
“Eight of my valiant men are buried here;
“Where are the rest?” the timid Indian shook
In every limb, and slow and faintly spoke.
“Some are dead, some sick, some flown;
“The rest are up the country gone,
“Far, far away.” A heavy groan
Utters the chief; his blanch'd lips quiver;
He knows that they are gone for ever.

XXXII.

But here 'twere tedious and unmeet
A dismal story to repeat,
Which was from mild Cazique received,
Their former friend, and half believed.
Him, in his cabin far apart.
Wounded they found, by Carib dart;
Received, said he, from savage foe
Spaniards defending. Then with accents low
He spoke, and ruefully began to tell,
What to those hapless mariners befell.
How that from lust of pleasure and of gold,
And mutual strife and war on Caribs made,
Their strength divided was, and burnt their hold,
And their unhappy heads beneath the still earth laid.

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XXXIII.

Yet, spite of adverse fate, he in those climes
Spain's infant power establish'd; after-times
Have seen it flourish, and her sway maintain
In either world, o'er many a fair domain.
But wayward was his irksome lot the while,
Striving with malice, mutiny, and guile;
Yet vainly striving: that which most
His generous bosom sought to shun,
Each wise and lib'ral purpose cross'd,
Must now at Mammon's ruthless call be done.
Upon their native soil,
They who were wont in harmless play
To frolic out the passing day,
Must pine with hateful toil.

XXXIV.

Yea; this he did against his better will;
For who may stern ambition serve, and still
His nobler nature trust?
May on unshaken strength rely,
Cast Fortune as she will her die,
And say “I will be just?”

XXXV.

Envy mean, that in the dark
Strikes surely at its noble mark,
Against him rose with hatred fell,
Which he could brave, but could not quell.
Then he to Spain indignant went,
And to his sov'reigns made complaint,
With manly freedom, of their trust,
Placed, to his cost, in men unjust,
And turbulent. They graciously
His plaint and plea received; and hoisting high
His famed and gallant flag upon the main,
He to his western world return'd again.
Where he, the sea's unwearied, dauntless rover,
Through many a gulph and strait, did first discover
That continent, whose mighty reach
From th' utmost frozen north doth stretch
E'en to the frozen south; a land
Of surface fair and structure grand.

XXXVI.

There, through vast regions rivers pour,
Whose midway skiff scarce sees the shore;
Which, rolling on in lordly pride,
Give to the main their ample tide;
And dauntless then, with current strong,
Impetuous, roaring, bear along,
And still their separate honours keep,
In bold contention with the mighty deep.

XXXVII.

There broad-based mountains from the sight
Conceal in clouds their vasty height,
Whose frozen peaks, a vision rare,
Above the girdling clouds rear'd far in upper air,
At times appear, and soothly seem
To the far distant, upcast eye,
Like snowy watch-towers of the sky,—
Like passing visions of a dream.

XXXVIII.

There forests grand of olden birth
O'er-canopy the darken'd earth,
Whose trees, growth of unreckon'd time,
Rear o'er whole regions far and wide
A checker'd dome of lofty pride,
Silent, solemn, and sublime.—
A pillar'd lab'rinth, in whose trackless gloom
Unguided feet might stray till close of mortal doom.

XXXIX.

There grassy plains of verdant green
Spread far beyond man's ken are seen,
Whose darker bushy spots that lie
Strew'd o'er the level vast, descry
Admiring strangers, from the brow
Of hill or upland steep, and show,
Like a calm ocean's peaceful isles,
When morning light through rising vapours smiles.

XL.

O'er this, his last—his proudest fame,
He did assert his mission'd claim.
Yet dark ambitious envy, more
Incensed and violent than before,

740

With crafty machinations gain'd
His royal master's ear, who stain'd
His princely faith, and gave it power
To triumph, in a shameful hour.
A mission'd gownsman o'er the sea
Was sent his rights to supersede,
And all his noble schemes impede,—
His tyrant, spy, and judge to be.
With parchment scrolls and deeds he came
To kindle fierce and wasteful flame.
Columbus' firm and dauntless soul
Submitted not to base control.
For who that hath high deeds achieved,
Whose mind hath mighty plans conceived,
Can of learn'd ignorance and pride
The petty vexing rule abide?
The lion trampled by an ass!—
No; this all-school'd forbearance would surpass.
Insulted with a felon's chain,
This noble man must cross the main,
And answer his foul charge to cold, ungrateful Spain.

XLI.

By India's gentle race alone
Was pity to his suff'rings shown.
They on his parting wait,
And looks of kindness on him cast,
Or touch'd his mantle as he pass'd,
And mourn'd his alter'd state.
“May the Great Spirit smooth the tide
“With gentle gales, and be thy guide!”
And when his vessel wore from land,
With meaning nods and gestures kind,
He saw them still upon the strand
Tossing their dark arms on the wind.
He saw them like a helpless flock
Who soon must bear the cruel shock
Of savage wolves, yet reckless still,
Feel but the pain of present ill.
He saw the fate he could not now control.
And groan'd in bitter agony of soul.

XLII.

He trode the narrow deck with pain,
And oft survey'd his rankling chain.
The ship's brave captain grieved to see
Base irons his noble pris'ner gall,
And kindly sued to set him free;
But proudly spoke the lofty thrall,
“Until the King whom I have served,
“Who thinks this recompense deserved,
“Himself command th' unclasping stroke,
“These gyved limbs will wear their yoke.
“Yea, when my head lies in the dust,
“These chains shall in my coffin rust.
“Better than lesson'd saw, though rude,
“As token, long preserved, of black ingratitude!”

XLIII.

Thus pent, his manly fortitude gave way
To brooding passion's dark tumultuous sway.
Dark was the gloom within, and darker grew
Th' impending gloom without, as onward drew
Th' embattled storm that, deep'ning on its way,
With all its marshall'd host obscured the day.
Volume o'er volume, roll'd the heavy clouds,
And oft in dark dim masses, sinking slow,
Hung in the nether air, like misty shrouds,
Veiling the sombre, silent deep below;
Like eddying snow-flakes from a lowering sky,
Athwart the dismal gloom the frighten'd sea-fowl fly.
Then from the solemn stillness round
Utters the storm its awful sound.
It groans upon the distant waves;
O'er the mid-ocean wildly raves;
Recedes afar with dying strain,
That sadly through the troubled air
Comes like the wailings of despair,
And with redoubled strength returns again:
Through shrouds and rigging, boards and mast,
Whistles and howls, and roars th' outrageous blast.

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XLIV.

From its vast bed profound with heaving throes
The mighty waste of welt'ring waters rose.
O'er countless waves, now mounting, now deprest,
The ridgy surges swell with foaming crest,
Like Alpine barriers of some distant shore,
Now seen, now lost amidst the deaf'ning roar;
While, higher still, on broad and sweepy base,
Their growing bulk the mountain billows raise,
Each far aloft in lordly grandeur rides,
With many a vassal wave rough'ning his furrow'd sides,
Heaved to its height, the dizzy skiff
Shoots like an eagle from his cliff
Down to the fearful gulf, and then
On the swoln waters mounts again,—
A fearful way! a fearful state
For vessel charged with living freight!

XLV.

Within, without the tossing tempests rage
This was, of all his earthly pilgrimage,
The injured Hero's fellest, darkest hour.
Yet swiftly pass'd its gloomy power;
For as the wild winds louder blew,
His troubled breast the calmer grew;
And, long before the mighty hand,
That rules the ocean and the land,
Had calm'd the sea, with pious rev'rence fill'd,
The warring passions of his soul were still'd.
Through softly parting clouds the blue sky peer'd,
And heavenward turn'd his eye with better feelings cheer'd.
Meek are the wise, the great, the good;—
He sigh'd, and thought of Him, who died on holy rood.

XLVI.

No more the angry tempest's sport,
The vessel reach'd its destined port.
A town of Christendom he greets.
And treads again its well-known streets;
A sight of wonder, grief, and shame
To those who on his landing came,
And on his state in silence gazed.
“This is the man whose dauntless soul”—
So spoke their looks—“Spain's power hath raised,
“To hold o'er worlds her proud controul!
“His honour'd brows with laurel crown'd,
“His hands with felon fetters bound!”

XLVII.

And he before his Sov'reign Dame
And her stern Lord, indignant came;
And bold in conscious honour, broke
The silence of his smother'd flame,
In words that all his inward anguish spoke.
The gentle Queen's more noble breast
Its generous sympathy express'd;
And as his varied story show'd
What wrongs from guileful malice flowed,
Th' indignant eye and flushing cheek
Did oft her mind's emotion speak.
The sordid King, with brow severe,
Could, all unmoved, his pleadings hear;
Save that, in spite of royal pride,
Which self-reproach can ill abide,
His crimson'd face did meanly show
Of conscious shame th' unworthy glow.
Baffled, disgraced, his enemies remain'd,
And base ambition for a time restrain'd.

XLVIII.

With four small vessels, small supply
I trow! yet granted tardily,
For such high service, he once more
The western ocean to explore
Directs his course. On many an isle
He touch'd, where cheerly, for a while,
His mariners their cares beguile
Upon the busy shore.
And there what wiles of barter keen
Spaniard and native pass between;
As feather'd crowns, whose colours change
To every hue, with vizards strange,
And gold and pearls are giv'n away,
For bead, or bell, or bauble gay!
Full oft the mutt'ring Indian eyes
With conscious smile his wondrous prize,
Beneath the shady plaintain seated,
And thinks he hath the stranger cheated;
Or foots the ground like vaunting child,
Snapping his thumbs with anties wild.

XLIX.

But if, at length, tired of their guests,
Consuming like those hateful pests,

742

Locusts or ants, provisions stored
For many days. they will afford
No more, withholding fresh supplies,
And strife and threat'ning clamours rise,—
Columbus gentle craft pursues,
And soon their noisy wrath subdues.
Thus speaks the chief,—“Refuse us aid
“From stores which heaven for all hath made!
“The moon, your mistress, will this night
“From you withhold her blessed light,
“Her ire to show; take ye the risk.”
Then, as half-frighten'd, half in jest,
They turn'd their faces to the east,
From ocean rose her broaden'd disk;
But when the deep eclipse came on,
By science sure to him foreknown,
How cower'd each savage at his feet,
Like spaniel couching to his lord,
Awed by the whip or angry word,
His pardon to entreat!
“Take all we have, thou heavenly man!
“And let our mistress smile again!”

L.

Or, should the ship, above, below,
Be fill'd with crowds, who will not go;
Again, to spare more hurtful force,
To harmless guile he has recourse.
“Ho! Gunner! let these scramblers know
“The power we do not use;” when, lo!
From cannon's mouth the silv'ry cloud
Breaks forth, soft curling on the air,
Through which appears the lightning's glare,
And bellowing roars the thunder loud.
Quickly from bowsprit, shroud, or mast,
Or vessel's side, the Indians cast
Their naked forms, the water dashing
O'er their dark heads, as stoutly lashing
The briny waves with arms outspread,
They gain the shore with terror's speed.

LI.

Thus checker'd still with shade and sheen
Pass'd in the West his latter scene,
As through the oak's toss'd branches pass
Soft moon-beams, flickering on the grass;
As on the lake's dark surface pour
Broad flashing drops of summer-shower;—
As the rude cavern's sparry sides
When past the miner's taper glides.
So roam'd the Chief, and many a sea
Fathom'd and search'd unweariedly,
Hoping a western way to gain
To eastern climes,—an effort vain;
For mighty thoughts, with error uncombined,
Were never yet the meed of mortal mind.

LII.

At length, by wayward fortune cross'd,
And oft-renew'd and irksome strife
Of sordid men,—by tempests tost,
And tired with turmoil of a wand'rer's life,
He sail'd again for Europe's ancient shore,
So will'd high heav'n! to cross the seas no more.
His anchor fix'd, his sails for ever furl'd,—
A toil-worn pilgrim in a weary world.

LIII.

And thus the Hero's sun went down,
Closing his day of bright renown.
Eight times through breeze and storm he pass'd
O'er surge and wave th' Atlantic vast;
And left on many an island fair
Foundations, which the after-care
Of meaner chieftains shortly rear'd
To seats of power, served, envied, fear'd.
No kingly conqueror, since time began
The long career of ages, hath to man
A scope so ample given for trade's bold range,
Or caused on earth's wide stage such rapid mighty change.

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LIV.

He, on the bed of sickness laid,
Saw, unappall'd, death's closing shade!
And there, in charity and love
To man on earth and God above,
Meekly to heaven his soul resign'd,
His body to the earth consign'd.
'Twas in Valladolid he breathed his last,
And to a better, heavenly city past;
But St. Domingo, in her sacred fane.
Doth his blest spot of rest and sculptured tomb contain.

LV.

There burghers, knights, adventurers brave
Stood round in fun'ral weeds bedight;
And bow'd them to the closing grave,
And wish'd his soul good night.

LVI.

Now all the bold companions of his toil,
Tenants of many a clime, who wont to come,
(So fancy trows) when vex'd with worldly coil,
And linger sadly by his narrow home;—
Repentant enemies, and friends that grieve
In self-upbraiding tenderness, and say,
“Cold was the love he did from us receive,”—
The fleeting restless spirits of a day,
All to their dread account are pass'd away.

LVII.

Silence, solemn, awful, deep,
Doth in that hall of death her empire keep;
Save when at times the hollow pavement, smote
By solitary wand'rer's foot, amain
From lofty dome and arch and aisle remote
A circling loud response receives again.
The stranger starts to hear the growing sound,
And sees the blazon'd trophies waving near;—
“Ha! tread my feet so near that sacred ground!”
He stops and bows his head:—“Columbus resteth here!”

LVIII.

Some ardent youth, perhaps, ere from his home
He launch his venturous bark, will hither come,
Read fondly o'er and o'er his graven name
With feelings keenly touch'd,—with heart of flame;
Till wrapp'd in fancy's wild delusive dream,
Times past and long forgotten, present seem.
To his charm'd ear, the east wind rising shrill
Seems through the Hero's shroud to whistle still.
The clock's deep pendulum swinging, through the blast,
Sounds like the rocking of his lofty mast;
While fitful gusts rave like his clam'rous band,
Mix'd with the accents of his high command.
Slowly the stripling quits the pensive scene,
And burns, and sighs, and weeps to be what he has been.

LIX.

O! who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name?
Whilst in that sound there is a charm
The nerves to brace, the heart to warm,

744

As, thinking of the mighty dead,
The young, from slothful couch will start,
And vow, with lifted hands outspread,
Like them to act a noble part!

LX.

O! who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name?
When, but for those, our mighty dead,
All ages past, a blank would be,
Sunk in oblivion's murky bed,—
A desert bare, a shipless sea!
They are the distant objects seen,—
The lofty marks of what hath been.

LXI.

O! who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name?
When records of the mighty dead
To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye
The brightest rays of cheering shed,
That point to immortality!

LXII.

A twinkling speck, but fix'd and bright,
To guide us through the dreary night,
Each hero shines, and lures the soul
To gain the distant happy goal.
For is there one who, musing o'er the grave
Where lies interr'd the good, the wise, the brave,
Can poorly think, beneath the mould'ring heap,
That noble being shall for ever sleep?
No; saith the gen'rous heart, and proudly swells,—
“Though his cered corse lies here, with God his spirit dwells.”

748

THE LEGEND OF LADY GRISELD BAILLIE.

When sapient, dauntless, strong, heroic man!
Our busy thoughts thy noble nature scan,
Whose active mind, its hidden cell within,
Frames that from which the mightiest works begin,
Whose secret thoughts are light to ages lending,
Whose potent arm is right and life defending,
For helpless thousands, all on one high soul depending:—
We pause, delighted with the fair survey,
And haply in our wistful musings say,
What mate, to match this noble work of heaven,
Hath the all-wise and mighty Master given?
One gifted like himself, whose head devises
High things, whose soul at sound of battle rises,
Who with glaved hand will through arm'd squadrons ride,
And, death confronting, combat by his side;
Will share with equal wisdom grave debate,
And all the cares of chieftain, kingly state?
Ay, such, I trow, in female form hath been
Of olden times, and may again be seen,
When cares of empire or strong impulse swell
The generous breast, and to high deeds impel;
For who can these as meaner times upbraid,
Who think of Saragossa's valiant maid?

But she of gentler nature, softer, dearer,
Of daily life the active, kindly cheerer;
With generous bosom, age or childhood shielding,
And in the storms of life, though moved, unyielding;
Strength in her gentleness, hope in her sorrow,
Whose darkest hours some ray of brightness borrow
From better days to come, whose meek devotion
Calms every wayward passion's wild commotion;
In want and suff'ring, soothing, useful, sprightly,
Bearing the press of evil hap so lightly,
Till evil's self seems its strong hold betraying
To the sweet witch'ry of such winsome playing;
Bold from affection, if by nature fearful,
With varying brow, sad, tender, anxious, cheerful,—
This is meet partner for the loftiest mind,
With crown or helmet graced,—yea, this is womankind!

Come ye, whose grateful memory retains
Dear recollection of her tender pains,
To whom your oft-conn'd lesson, daily said,
With kiss and cheering praises was repaid;
To gain whose smile, to shun whose mild rebuke,
Your irksome task was learnt in silent nook,
Though truant thoughts the while, your lot exchanging
With freer elves, were wood and meadow ranging;—
And ye, who best the faithful virtues know
Of a link'd partner, tried in weal and woe,
Like the slight willow, now aloft, now bending,
But still unbroken, with the blast contending,
Whose very look call'd virtuous vigour forth,
Compelling you to match her noble worth;—
And ye, who in a sister's modest praise
Feel manly pride, and think of other days,
Pleased that the playmate of your native home
Hath in her prime an honour'd name become;—
And ye, who in a duteous child have known
A daughter, helpmate, sister, blent in one,

749

From whose dear hand, which to no hireling leaves
Its task of love, your age sweet aid receives,
Who reckless marks youth's waning faded hue,
And thinks her bloom well spent, when spent for you;—
Come all, whose thoughts such dear remembrance bear,
And to my short and faithful lay give ear!

I.

Within a prison's hateful cell,
Where, from the lofty window fell,
Through grated bars, the sloping beam,
Defined, but faint, on couch of stone,
There sat a pris'ner sad and lone,
Like the dim tenant of a dismal dream.
Deep in the shade, by low-arch'd door,
With iron nails thick studded o'er,
Whose threshold black is cross'd by those
Who here their earthly being close,
Or issue to the light again
A scaffold with their blood to stain,—
Moved something softly. Wistful ears
Are quick of sense, and from his book
The pris'ner raised his eyes with eager look,—
“Is it a real form that through the gloom appears?”

II.

It was indeed of flesh and blood,
The form that quickly by him stood;
Of stature low, of figure light,
In motion like some happy sprite;
Yet meaning eyes and varying cheek,
Now red, now pale, seem'd to bespeak
Of riper years the cares and feeling
Which with a gentle heart were dealing.
“Such sense in eyes so simply mild!
“Is it a woman or a child?
“Who art thou, damsel sweet? are not mine eyes beguiled?”

III.

“No; from the Redbraes' tower I come;
“My father is Sir Patrick Hume;
“And he has sent me for thy good,
“His dearly honour'd Jerviswood.
“Long have I round these walls been straying,
“As if with other children playing;
“Long near the gate have kept my watch
“The sentry's changing time to catch.
“With stealthy steps I gain'd the shade
“By the close-winding staircase made,
“And when the surly turnkey enter'd,
“But little dreaming in his mind
“Who follow'd him so close behind,
“Into this darken'd cell, with beating heart, I ventur'd.”

IV.

Then from the simple vest that braced
Her gentle breast, a letter traced
With well-known characters, she took,
And with an eager, joyful look,
Her eyes up to his visage cast,
His changing countenance to scan,
As o'er the lines his keen glance past.
She saw a faint glow tinge the sickly wan;
She saw his eyes through tear-drops raise
To heaven their look of silent praise,
And hope's fresh touch undoing lines of care
Which stress of evil times had deeply graven there.
Meanwhile, the joy of sympathy to trace
Upon her innocent and lovely face,
Had to the sternest, darkest sceptic given
Some love of human kind, some faith in righteous heaven.

V.

What blessings on her youthful head
Were by the grateful patriot shed,
(For such he was, good and devoted,
And had at risk of life promoted
His country's freedom and her faith,
Nor reck'ning made of worldly scath)
How warm, confiding, and sincere,
He gave to her attentive ear
The answer which her cautious sire
Did to his secret note require;—
How after this with queries kind,
He ask'd for all she left behind
In Redbraes' tower, her native dwelling,
And set her artless tongue a-telling,
Which urchin dear had tallest grown,
And which the greatest learning shown,
Of lesson, sermon, psalm, and note,
And sabbath questions learnt by rote,
And merry tricks and gambols play'd
By ev'ning fire, and forfeits paid,—
I will not here rehearse, nor will I say,
How, on that bless'd and long-remember'd day,
The pris'ner's son, deserving such a sire,
First saw the tiny maid, and did admire,
That one so young and wise and good and fair
Should be an earthly thing that breathed this nether air.

750

VI.

E'en let my reader courteously suppose,
That from this visit happier days arose;
Suppose the pris'ner from his thraldom freed,
And with our lay proceed.

VII.

The damsel, glad her mission'd task was done,
Back to her home long since had blithely gone;
And there remain'd, a meek and duteous child,
Where useful toil, with play between,
And pastime on the sunny green,
The weeks and months of passing years beguil'd.

VIII.

Scotland the while convulsive lay
Beneath a hateful tyrant's sway;
For James's bigot mind th' ascendant gain'd,
And fiercely raged blind ruthless power;
While men, who true to conscience' voice remain'd,
Were forced in caves and dens to cower:
Bereft of home or hold or worldly wealth
Upon the bleak and blasted heath,
They sang their glorious Maker's praise by stealth,
Th' inclement sky beneath.
And some were forced to flee their native land,
Or in the grated prison's gloom,
Dealt to them by corruption's hateful hand,
Abide their fatal doom.

IX.

And there our former thrall, the good,
The firm, the gentle Jerviswood
Again was pent, with sickness worn,
Watching each pulse's feebler beat,
Which promised, ere the fated morn,
The scaffold of its prey to cheat.

X.

And now that patriot's ancient, faithful friend,
Our maiden's sire, must to the tempest bend.
He too must quit his social hearth,
The place where cheerful friends resort,
And trav'llers rest and children sport,
To lay him on the mould'ring earth;
Through days of lonely gloom to rest his head
With them, who, in those times unblest,
Alone had sure and fearless rest,
The still, the envied dead.

XI.

Sad was his hiding-place, I ween,
A fearful place, where sights had been,
Full oft, by the benighted rustic seen;
Ay, elrich forms in sheeted white,
Which, in the waning moonlight blast,
Pass by, nor shadow onward cast,
Like any earthly wight:
A place, where midnight lights had shone
Through charnel windows, and the glancing
Of wand'ring flame, on church-path lone,
Betray'd the hour when fiends and hags were dancing,
Or to their vigil foul with trooping haste advancing:
A place, whose gate with weeds o'ergrown,
Hemlock and dock of deep dull green,
That climbing rank the lintels screen,
What time the moon is riding high,
The very hounds went cowering by,
Or watch'd afar with howling moan;
For brutes, 'tis said, will see what meets no human eye.

XII.

You well may guess his faithful wife
A heart of heavy cheer had then,
List'ning her household's hum of life,
And thinking of his silent den.
“Oh! who will to that vault of death,
“At night's still watch repair,
“The dark and chilly sky beneath,
“And needful succour bear?
“Many his wants, who bideth lonely there!”

XIII.

Pleased had you been to have beheld,
Like fire-sparks from the stricken stone,
Like sun-beams on the rain-drop thrown,
The kindling eye of sweet Griseld,
When thus her mother spoke, for known
Was his retreat to her alone.

751

The wary dame to none beside
The dangerous secret might confide.
“O fear not, mother! I will go,
“Betide me good or ill:
“Nor quick nor dead shall daunt me; no;
“Nor witch-fires, dancing in the dark,
“Nor owlet's shriek, nor watch-dog's bark,
“For I shall think, the while, I do God's blessed will.
“I'll be his active Brownie sprite,
“To bring him needful food, and share his lonely night.”

XIV.

And she, ere stroke of midnight bell,
Did bound her for that dismal cell;
And took that haunted, fearful way,
Which, till that hour, in twilight grey,
She never by herself had past,
Or e'en athwart its copse-wood cast
A hasty glance, for dread of seeing
The form of some unearthly being.
But now, far other forms of fear
To her scared sight appear,
And, like a sudden fit of ague move her;
The stump of some old, blasted tree,
Or upright stone, or colt broke free
To range at will the dewy lea,
Seem lurking spy or rustic lover,
Who may, e'en through the dark, her secret drift discover.

XV.

She pauses oft.—“What whispers near?—
“The babbling bourn sounds in mine ear.
“Some hasty form the pathway crosses:—
“'Tis but a branch the light wind tosses.
“What thing is that by church-yard gate,
“That seems like spearman tall to wait?
“'Tis but the martyr's slender stone
“Which stands so stately and alone:
“Why should I shrink? why should I fear?
“The vault's black door is near.”
And she with icy fingers knock'd,
And heard with joy the door unlock'd,
And felt the yawning fence give way
As deep and harsh the sounding hinges bray.

XVI.

But to describe their tender meeting,
Tears shed unseen, affection utter'd
In broken words, and blessings mutter'd,
With many a kiss and kindly greeting,
I know not; would my feeble skill
Were meeter yoke-mate to my will!

XVII.

Then from the struck flint flew the spark,
And lighted taper, faint and small,
Gave out its dun-rays through the dark,
On vaulted roof and crusted wall;
On stones reversed in crumbling mould,
And blacken'd poles of bier decay'd
That lumb'ring on the ground were laid;
On sculptured wrecks, defaced and old,
And shreds of painted 'scutcheons torn,
Which once, in pointed lozenge spread,
The pillar'd church aloft had worn;
While new-swept nook and lowly bed,
Strange sight in such a place!
Betray'd a piteous case,—
Man from man's converse torn, the living with the dead.

XVIII.

The basket's store of viands and bread,
Produced with looks of kind inviting,
Her hands with busy kindness spread;
And he her kindly care requiting,
Fell to with thanks and relish keen,
Nodded and quaff'd her health between,
While she his glee return'd, her smiles with tears uniting.
No lordling at his banquet rare
E'er tasted such delicious fare;
No beauty on her silken seat,
With lover kneeling at her feet,
E'er wept and smiled by turns with smiles so fondly sweet.

XIX.

But soon youth's buoyant gladsome nature
Spreads joy unmix'd o'er every feature,
As she her tale is archly telling
Of feuds within their busy dwelling,
While, round the sav'ry table sitting,
She gleans his meal, the rest unwitting,

752

How she, their open eyes deceiving,
So dext'rous has become in thieving.
She tells, how, of some trifle prating,
She stirs them all to keen debating,
While into napkin'd lap she's sliding
Her portion, oft renew'd, and hiding,
Beneath the board, her store; amazing
Her jealous Frere, oft on her gazing.
Then with his voice and eager eye,
She speaks in harmless mimicry.
“Mother! was e'er the like beheld?
“Some wolf possesses our Griseld;
“She clears her dish, as I'm a sinner!
“Like ploughman at his new-year's dinner.”

XX.

And what each urchin, one by one,
Had best in sport or lesson done,
She fail'd not to repeat:
Though sorry tales they might appear
To a fastidious critic's ear,
They were to him most sweet.

XXI.

But they must part till o'er the sky
Night cast again her sable dye;
For ah! her term is almost over!
How fleetly hath it flown!
As fleetly as with trysted lover
The stealthy hour is gone.
And could there be in lovers' meeting
More powerful chords to move the mind,
Fond heart to heart responsive beating,
Than in that tender hour, pure, pious love entwined?

XXII.

Thus, night succeeding night, her love
Did its unwearied nature prove,
Tender and fearless; till, obscured by crimes,
Again so darkly lower'd the changeful times,
That her good sire, though shut from light of day,
Might in that lowly den no longer stay.

XXIII.

From Edinburgh town a courier came,
And round him flock'd the castle's dame,
Children and servants, young and old.
“What news? what news? thy visage sad
“Betrays too plainly tidings bad.”
And so it did; alas! sad was the tale he told.
“From the oppressor's deadly hate
“Good Jerviswood has met his fate
“Upon the lofty scaffold, where
“He bore himself with dauntless air;
“Albeit, with mortal sickness spent,
“Upon a woman's arm he leant.
“From earth to heaven at yestere'en he went.”

XXIV.

In silence deep the list'ners stood,
An instant horror chill'd their blood.
The lady groan'd, and turn'd aside
Her fears and troubled thoughts to hide.
The children wept, then went to play;
The servants cried “Ah! well a day!”
But oh! what inward sights, which borrow
The forms that are not, changing still,
Like shadows on a broken rill,
Were blended with our damsel's sorrow!
Those lips, those eyes so sweetly mild,
That bless'd her as a humble child;
The block in sable, deadly trim,
The kneeling form, the headsman grim,
The sever'd head with life-blood streaming,—
Were ever 'thwart her fancy gleaming.
Her father, too, in perilous state,
He may be seiz'd, and like his friend
Upon the fatal scaffold bend.
May heaven preserve him still from such a dreadful end!
And then she thought, if this must be,
Who, honour'd sire, will wait on thee,
And serve thy wants with decent pride,
Like Baillie's kinswoman, subduing fear
With fearless love, thy last sad scene to cheer,
E'en on the scaffold standing by thy side?
A friend like his, dear father, thou shalt have,
To serve thee to the last, and linger round thy grave.

XXV.

Her father then, who narrowly
With life escaped, was forced to fly

753

His dangerous home, a home no more,
And cross the sea. A friendly shore
Received the fugitive, and there,
Like prey brok'n from the spoiler's snare,
To join her hapless lord, the dame
Ere long with all her children came;
And found asylum, where th' opprest
Of Scotland's patriot sons had rest,
Like sea-fowl clust'ring in the rock
To shun some rising tempest's shock.

XXVI.

But said I all the children? no:
Word incorrect! it was not so:
For one, the youngest child, confin'd
With fell disease, was left behind;
While certain things, as thus by stealth
They fled, regarding worldly wealth
Of much import, were left undone;
And who will now that peril run,
Again to visit Scotland's shore,
From whence they did in fear depart,
And to each parent's yearning heart
The darling child restore?

XXVII.

And who did for affection's sake
This task of peril undertake?
O! who but she, whose bosom swell'd
With feelings high, whose self-devotion
Follow'd each gen'rous, strong emotion,
The young, the sweet, the good, the brave Griseld!

XXVIII.

Yes; she again cross'd o'er the main,
And things of moment left undone,
Though o'er her head had scarcely run
Her nineteenth year, no whit deluded
By wily fraud, she there concluded,
And bore the youngling to its own again.

XXIX.

But when she reach'd the Belgian strand,
Hard was her lot. Fast fell the rain,
And there lay many miles of land,
A stranger's land, ere she might gain
The nearest town. With hardship cross'd,
The wayward child its shoes had lost;
Their coin was spent, their garments light,
And dark and dreary was the night,
Then like some gypsy girl on desert moor,
Her helpless charge upon her back she bore.
Who then had guess'd that figure slight,
So bending in such humble plight,
Was one of proud and gentle race;
Possessing all that well became
Th' accomplish'd maid or high-born dame,
Befitting princely hall or monarch's court to grace?

XXX.

Their minds from many racking cares relieved,
The gladsome parents to their arms received
Her and the infant dear, caressing
The twain by turns; while many a blessing,
Which sweetly all her toil repaid,
Was shed upon their gen'rous maid:
And though the inmates of a humble home,
To which they had as wretched outlaws come,
Though hard their alter'd lot might be,
In crowded city pent,
They lived with mind and body free
In grateful, quiet content.

XXXI.

And well, with ready hand and heart,
Each task of toilsome duty taking,
Did one dear inmate play her part,
The last asleep, the earliest waking.
Her hands each nightly couch prepared,
And frugal meal on which they fared;
Unfolding spread the servet white,
And deck'd the board with tankard bright.
Through fretted hose and garment rent,
Her tiny needle deftly went,
Till hateful penury, so graced,
Was scarcely in their dwelling traced.
With rev'rence to the old she clung,
With sweet affection to the young.
To her was crabbed lesson said,
To her the sly petition made.
To her was told each petty care:
To her was lisp'd the tardy prayer,
What time the urchin, half undrest
And half asleep, was put to rest.

XXXII.

There is a sight all hearts beguiling,—
A youthful mother to her infant smiling,
Who, with spread arms and dancing feet,
And cooing voice, returns its answer sweet.
Who does not love to see the grandame mild,
Lesson with yearning looks the list'ning child?
But 'tis a thing of saintlier nature,
Amidst her friends of pigmy stature,
To see the maid in youth's fair bloom,
A guardian sister's charge assume,

754

And, like a touch of angel's bliss,
Receive from each its grateful kiss;—
To see them, when their hour of lore is past,
Aside their grave demeanour cast.
With her in mimic war they wrestle;
Beneath her twisted robe they nestle;
Upon her glowing cheek they revel,
Low bended to their tiny level;
While oft, her lovely neck bestriding,
Crows some arch imp, like huntsman riding.
This is a sight the coldest heart may feel;
To make down rugged cheeks the kindly tear to steal.

XXXIII.

But when the toilsome sun was set,
And ev'ning groups together met,
(For other strangers shelter'd there
Would seek with them to lighten care,)
Her feet still in the dance moved lightest,
Her eye with merry glance beam'd brightest,
Her braided locks were coil'd the neatest,
Her carol song was trill'd the sweetest;
And round the fire, in winter cold,
No archer tale than hers was told.

XXXIV.

O! spirits gay, and kindly heart!
Precious the blessings ye impart!
Though all unwittingly the while,
Ye make the pining exile smile,
And transient gladness charm his pain,
Who ne'er shall see his home again.
Ye make the stern misanthrope's brow
With tint of passing kindness glow,
And age spring from his elbow-chair
The sport of lightsome glee to share.
Thus did our joyous maid bestow
Her beamy soul on want and woe;
While proud, poor men, in threadbare suit,
Frisk'd on the floor with lightsome foot,
And from her magic circle chase
The fiends that vex the human race.

XXXV.

And do not, gentle reader, chide,
If I record her harmless pride,
Who sacrificed the hours of sleep,
Some show of better times to keep;
That, though as humble soldier dight,
A stripling brother might more trimly stand
With pointed cuff and collar white,
Like one of gentle race mix'd with a homelier band.
And in that band of low degree
Another youth of gentle blood
Was found, who late had cross'd the sea,
The son of virtuous Jerviswood,
Who did as common sentry wait
Before a foreign prince's gate.
And if his eye oft on the watch,
One look of sweet Griseld might catch,
It was to him no dull nor irksome state.

XXXVI.

And thus some happy years stole by;
Adversity with Virtue mated
Her state of low obscurity
Set forth but as deep shadows, fated
By Heaven's high will to make the light
Of future skies appear more bright.
And thus, at lowest ebb, man's thoughts are oft elated.
He deems not that the very struggle
Of active virtue, in the war
She bravely holds with present ill,
Sustain'd by hope, does by the skill
Of some conceal'd and happy juggle,
Become itself the good which yet seems distant far.
So, when their lamp of fortune burn'd
With brightest ray, our worthies turn'd
A recollection, fondly bent,
On these, their happiest years, in humble dwelling spent.

XXXVII.

At length the sky, so long with clouds o'ercast,
Unveil'd its cope of azure hue,
And gave its fair expanse to view;—
The pelting storm of tyranny was past.

XXXVIII.

For he, the Prince of glorious memory,
The Prince, who shall, as passing ages fly,
Be blest; whose wise, enlighten'd, manly mind,
E'en when but with a stripling's years combined,
Had with unyielding courage oft contended
For Europe's freedom,—for religion, blended
With just, forbearing charity, and all
To man most dear;—now, at the honour'd call
Of Britain's patriot sons, the ocean plough'd
With gallant fleet, encompass'd by a crowd
Of soldiers, statesmen, souls of proof, who vow'd
Firm by his side to stand, let good or ill befall.
And with those worthies, 'twas a happy doom,
Right fairly earn'd, embark'd Sir Patrick Hume.

755

Their fleet, though long at sea, and tempest-toss'd,
In happy hour at last arrived on England's coast.

XXXIX.

Meantime his Dame and our fair Maid
Still on the coast of Holland stay'd,
With anxious and misgiving minds,
List'ning the sound of warring winds:
The ocean rose with deaf'ning roar,
And beat upon the trembling shore,
Whilst breakers dash'd their whit'ning spray
O'er mound and dyke with angry bray,
As if it would engulf again
The land once rescued from its wild domain.

XL.

Oft on the beach our damsel stood
'Midst groups of many a fearful wight,
Who view'd, like her, the billowy flood,
Silent and sad, with visage shrunk and white,
While bloated corse and splinter'd mast,
And bale and cask on shore were cast,—
A sad and rueful sight!
But when, at the Almighty will,
The tempest ceased, and sea was still,
From Britain's isle glad tidings came,
Received with loud and long acclaim.

XLI.

But joy appears with shrouded head
To those who sorrow o'er the dead;
For, struck with sore disease, while there
They tarried pent in noisome air,
The sister of her heart, whom she
Had watch'd and tended lovingly,
Like blighted branch whose blossoms fade,
That day was in her coffin laid.
She heard the chim'd bells loudly ringing,
She heard the carol'd triumph singing,
And clam'rous throng, and shouting boys,
And thought how vain are human joys!

XLII.

Howbeit, her grief at length gives way
To happier thoughts, as dawns the day
When her kind parent and herself depart,
In royal Mary's gentle train,
To join, ere long, the dearest to her heart,
In their own native land again.
They soon their own fair island hail'd,
As on the rippling sea they sail'd.
Ye well may guess their joyful cry,
With up-raised hands and glist'ning eye,
When, rising from the ocean blue,
Her chalky cliffs first met their view,
Whose white verge on th' horizon rear'd,
Like wall of noon-day clouds appear'd.

XLIII.

These ye may guess, for well the show
And outward signs of joy we know.
But cease we on this theme to dwell,
For pen or pencil cannot tell
The thrill of keen delight from which they flow.
Such moments of ecstatic pleasure
Are fancy's fairest, brightest treasure,
Gilding the scope of duller days
With oft-recurring retrospect,
With which right happily she plays.
E'en as a moving mirror will reflect
Its glancing rays on shady side
Of holme or glen, when school-boys guide
With skilful hands their mimic sun
To heaven's bright sun opposed; we see
Its borrow'd sheen on fallow dun,
On meadow green, on rock and tree,
On broomy steep, on rippling spring,
On cottage thatch, and every thing.

XLIV.

And Britain's virtuous Queen admired
Our gentle Maid, and in her train
Of ladies will'd her to remain;
What more could young ambition have desired?
But, like the blossom to the bough,
Or wall-flower to the ruin's brow,
Or tendril to the fost'ring stock,
Or sea-weed to the briny rock,
Or mistletoe to sacred tree,
Or daisy to the swarded lea

756

So truly to her own she clung;—
Nor cared for honours vain, from courtly favour sprung.

XLV.

Nor would she in her native North,
When woo'd by one of wealth and worth,
The neighbour of her happy home,
Though by her gentle parents press'd,
And flatter'd, courted and caress'd,
A splendid bride become.
“I may not,” said her gentle heart,
“The very thought endure,
“That those so kind should feel the smart
“A daughter's wants might oft impart,
“For Jerviswood is poor.
“But yet, though poor, why should I smother
“This dear regard? he'll be my brother,
“And thus through life we'll love each other.
“What though, as changing years flit by,
“Grey grow my head, and dim his eye!
“We'll meekly bear our way ward fate,
“And scorn their petty spite who rate,
“With senseless gibes, the single state,
“Till we are join'd, at last, in heavenly bliss on high.”

XLVI.

But heaven for them decreed a happier lot:
The father of the virtuous youth,
Who died devoted for the truth,
Was not, when better times return'd, forgot:
To the right heir was given his father's land,
And with his lady's love, he won her hand.

XLVII.

Their long-tried faith in honour plighted,
They were a pair by heaven united,
Whose wedded love, through lengthen'd years,
The trace of early fondness wears.
Her heart first guess'd his doubtful choice,
Her ear first caught his distant voice,
And from afar, her wistful eye
Would first his graceful form descry.
E'en when he hied him forth to meet
The open air in lawn or street,
She to her casement went,
And after him, with smile so sweet,
Her look of blessing sent.
The heart's affection,—secret thing!
Is like the cleft rock's ceaseless spring,
Which free and independent flows
Of summer rains or winter snows.
The fox-glove from its side may fall,
The heath-bloom fade or moss-flower white,
But still its streamlet, bright though small,
Will issue sweetly to the light.

XLVIII.

How long an honour'd and a happy pair,
They held their seemly state in mansion fair,
I will not here in chiming verses say,
To tire my reader with a lengthen'd lay;
For tranquil bliss is as a summer day
O'er broad Savannah shining; fair it lies,
And rich the trackless scene, but soon our eyes,
In search of meaner things, turn heavily away.

XLIX.

But no new ties of wedded life,
That bind the mother and the wife,
Her tender, filial heart could change,
Or from its earliest friends estrange.
The child, by strong affection led,
Who braved her terror of the dead
To save an outlaw'd parent, still
In age was subject to his will.
She then was seen with matron air,
A dame of years, with count'nance fair,
Though faded, sitting by his easy chair:
A sight that might the heart's best feelings move!
Behold her seated at her task of love!
Books, papers, pencil, pen, and slate,
And column'd scrolls of ancient date,
Before her lie, on which she looks
With searching glance, and gladly brooks
An irksome task, that else might vex
His temper, or his brain perplex;
While, haply, on the matted floor,
Close nestling at her kirtled feet,
Its lap enrich'd with childish store,
Sits, hush'd and still, a grandchild sweet,
Who looks at times with eye intent,
Full on its grandame's parent bent,
Viewing his deeply furrow'd brow,
And sunken lip and locks of snow,
In serious wonderment.

757

Well said that grateful sire, I ween!
Still through life's many a varied scene,
Griseld our dear and helpful child hath been.

L.

Though ever cheerfully possessing
In its full zest the present blessing,
Her grateful heart remembrance cherish'd
Of all to former happiness allied,
Nor in her fost'ring fancy perish'd
E'en things inanimate that had supplied
Means of enjoyment once. Maternal love,
Active and warm, which nothing might restrain,
Led her once more, in years advanced, to rove
To distant southern climes, and once again
Her footsteps press'd the Belgian shore,
The town, the very street that was her home of yore.

LI.

Fondly that homely house she eyed,
The door, the windows, every thing
Which to her back-cast thoughts could bring
The scenes of other days.—Then she applied
To knocker bright her thrilling hand,
And begg'd, as strangers in the land,
Admittance from the household dame,
And thus preferr'd her gentle claim:
“This house was once my happy home,
“Its rooms, its stair, I fain would see;
“Its meanest nook is dear to me,
“Let me and mine within its threshold come.”
But no; this might not be!
Their feet might soil her polish'd floor,
The dame held fast the hostile door,
A Belgian housewife she.
“Fear not such harm! we'll doff our shoes:
“Do not our earnest suit refuse!
“We'll give thee thanks, we'll give thee gold;
“Do not kind courtesy withhold!”
But still it might not be;
The dull unpliant dame refused her gentle plea.

LII.

With her and her good lord, who still
Sweet union held of mated will,
Years pass'd away with lightsome speed;
But ah! their bands of bliss at length were riven;
And she was clothed in widow's sable weed,
Submitting to the will of heaven.
And then a prosp'rous race of children good
And tender, round their noble mother stood.
And she the while, cheer'd with their pious love,
Waited her welcome summons from above.

LIII.

But whatsoe'er the weal or woe
That heaven across her lot might throw,
Full well her Christian spirit knew
Its path of virtue, straight and true.
When came the shock of evil times, menacing
The peaceful land—when blood and lineage tracing
As the sole claim to Britain's throne, in spite
Of Britain's weal or will, chiefs of the North,
In warlike muster, led their clansmen forth,
Brave, faithful, strong and toughly nerved,
Would they a better cause had served!
For Stuart's dynasty to fight,
Distress to many a family came,
Who dreaded more th' approaching shame
Of penury's ill-favour'd mien,
Than e'en the pang of hunger keen.
How softly then her pity flow'd!
How freely then her hand bestow'd!
She did not question their opinion
Of party, kingship, or dominion:
She would not e'en their folly chide,
But like the sun and showers of heaven,
Which to the false and true are given,
Want and distress relieved on either side.

LIV.

But soon, from fear of future change,
The evil took a wider range.

758

The Northern farmers, spoil'd and bare,
No more could rent or produce spare
To the soil's lords. All were distress'd,
And on our noble dame this evil sorely press'd.
Her household numerous, her means withheld;
Shall she her helpless servants now dismiss
To rob or starve, in such a time as this,
Or wrong to others do? But nothing quell'd
Her calm and upright mind.—“Go, summon here
Those who have served me many a year.”
The summons went; each lowly name
Full swiftly to her presence came,
And thus she spoke: “Ye've served me long,
“Pure, as I think, from fraud or wrong,
“And now, my friendly neighbours, true
“And simply I will deal with you.
“The times are shrewd, my treasures spent,
“My farms have ceased to yield me rent;
“And it may chance that rent or grain
“I never shall receive again.
“The dainties which my table fed
“Will now be changed for daily bread,
“Dealt sparely, and for this I must
“Be debtor to your patient trust,
“If ye consent.”—Swift through the hall,
With eager haste, spoke one and all.
“No, noble dame! this must not be!
“With heart as warm and hand as free,
“Still thee and thine we'll serve with pride,
“As when fair fortune graced your side.
“The best of all our stores afford
“Shall daily smoke upon thy board;
“And shouldst thou never clear the score,
“Heav'n for thy sake will bless our store.”
She bent her head with courtesy,
The big tear swelling in her eye,
And thank'd them all. Yet plain and spare,
She order'd still her household fare,
Till fortune's better die we cast,
And adverse times were past.

LV.

Good, tender, gen'rous, firm, and sage,
Through grief and gladness, shade and sheen,
As fortune changed life's motley scene,
Thus pass'd she on to rev'rend age.
And when the heavenly summons came,
Her spirit from its mortal frame
And weight of mortal cares to free,
It was a blessed sight to see,
The parting saint her state of honour keeping
In gifted dauntless faith, whilst round her, weeping,
Her children's children mourn'd on bended knee.

LVI.

In London's fair imperial town
She laid her earthly burthen down.
In Mellerstain, her northern home,
Was raised for her a graven tomb
Which gives to other days her modest, just renown.

And now, ye polish'd fair of modern times,
If such indeed will listen to my rhymes,
What think ye of her simple, modest worth,
Whom I have faintly tried to shadow forth?
How vain the thought! as if ye stood in need
Of pattern ladies in dull books to read.
Will she such antiquated virtues prize,
Who with superb Signoras proudly vies;
Trilling before the dear admiring crowd,
With out-stretch'd straining throat, bravuras loud,
Her high heaved breast press'd hard, as if to boast
The inward pain such mighty efforts cost?
Or who on white-chalk'd floor, at midnight hour,
Her head with many a flaunting full-blown flower
And bartizan of braided locks enlarged,
Her flimsy gown with twenty flounces charged,
Wheels gaily round the room on pointed toe,
Softly supported by some dandy beau:—
Will she, forsooth! or any belle of spirit,
Regard such old, forgotten, homely merit?

Or she, whose cultured, high-strain'd talents soar
Through all th' ambitious range of letter'd lore
With soul enthusiastic, fondly smitten
With all that e'er in classic page was written,
And whilst her wit in critic task engages,
The echoed praise of all praised things outrages;
Whose finger, white and small, with ink-stain tipt,
Still scorns with vulgar thimble to be clipt;
Who doth with proud pretence her claims advance
To philosophic, honour'd ignorance
Of all, that, in divided occupation,
Gives the base stamp of female degradation;

759

Protests she knows not colour, stripe, nor shade,
Nor of what stuff her flowing robe is made,
But wears, from petty, frivolous fancies free,
Whatever careful Betty may decree;
As certes, well she may, for Betty's skill
Leaves her in purfle, furbelow, or frill,
No whit behind the very costliest fair
That wooes with daily pains the public stare;
Who seems almost ashamed to be a woman,
And yet the palm of parts will yield to no man,
But holds on battle-ground eternal wrangling,
The plainest case in mazy words entangling:—
Will she, I trow, or any kirtled sage,
Admire the subject of my artless page?
And yet there be of British fair, I know,
Who to this legend will some favour show
From kindred sympathy; whose life proceeds
In one unwearied course of gentle deeds,
Who pass untainted through the earthly throng,
Like souls that to some better world belong.
Nor will I think, as sullen cynics do,
Still libelling present times, their number few.
Yea, leagued for good they act, a virtuous band,
The young, the rich, the loveliest of the land,
Who clothe the naked, and each passing week,
The wretched poor in their sad dwellings seek,
Who, cheer'd and grateful, feebly press and bless
The hands which princes might be proud to kiss—
Such will regard my tale, and give to fame
A generous helpful Maid,—a good and noble Dame.

761

LORD JOHN OF THE EAST:

A BALLAD.

The fires blazed bright till deep midnight,
And the guests sat in the hall,
And the lord of the feast, Lord John of the East,
Was the merriest of them all.

His dark-grey eye, that wont so sly
Beneath his helm to scowl,
Flash'd keenly bright, like a new-waked sprite,
As pass'd the circling bowl.

In laughter light, or jocund lay,
That voice was heard, whose sound,
Stern, loud, and deep, in battle-fray
Did foe-men fierce astound;

And stretch'd, as balm, like lady's palm,
To every jester near,
That hand which through a prostrate foe
Oft thrust the ruthless spear.

The gallants sang, and the goblets rang,
And they revell'd in careless state,
Till a thund'ring sound, that shook the ground,
Was heard at the castle gate.

“Who knocks without, so loud and stout?
“Some wand'ring knight, I ween,
“Who from afar, like a guiding star,
“Our blazing hall hath seen.

“If a stranger it be of high degree,
“(No churl durst make such din,)
“Step forth amain, my pages twain,
“And soothly ask him in.

“Tell him our cheer is the forest deer,
“Our bowl is mantling high,
“And the lord of the feast is John of the East,
“Who welcomes him courteously.”

The pages twain return'd again,
And a wild, scared look had they;
“Why look ye so?—is it friend or foe?”
Did the angry baron say.

“A stately knight without doth wait,
“But further he will not hie,
“Till the baron himself shall come to the gate,
“And ask him courteously.”—

“By my mother's shroud, he is full proud!
“What earthly man is he?”
“I know not, in truth,” quoth the trembling youth,
“If earthly-man it be.

“In reveller's plight, he is bedight,
“With a vest of cramoisie meet;
“But his mantle behind, that streams on the wind,
“Is a corse's bloody sheet.”

“Out, paltry child! thy wits are wild,
“Thy comrade will tell me true:
“Say plainly, then, what hast thou seen?
“Or dearly shalt thou rue.”

Faint spoke the second page with fear,
And bent him on his knee,
“Were I on your father's sword to swear,
“The same it appear'd to me.”

762

Then dark, dark lower'd the baron's eye,
And his red cheek changed to wan;
For again at the gate more furiously,
The thund'ring din began.

“And is there ne'er of my vassals here,
“Of high or low degree,
“That will unto this stranger go,—
“Will go for the love of me?”

Then spoke and said, fierce Donald the Red,—
(A fearless man was he,)
“Yes; I will straight to the castle gate,
“Lord John, for the love of thee.”

With heart full stout, he hied him out,
Whilst silent all remain:
Nor moved a tongue those gallants among,
Till Donald return'd again.

“O speak,” said his lord, “by thy hopes of grace,
“What stranger must we hail?”
But the haggard look of Donald's face
Made his falt'ring words to fail.

“It is a knight in some foreign guise,
“His like did I never behold;
“For the stony look of his beamless eyes
“Made my very life-blood cold.

“I did him greet in fashion meet,
“And bade him your feast partake,
“But the voice that spoke, when he silence broke,
“Made the earth beneath me quake.

“O such a tone did tongue ne'er own
“That dwelt in mortal head;—
“It is like a sound from the hollow ground,—
“Like the voice of the coffin'd dead.

“I bade him to your social board,
“But in he will not hie,
“Until at the gate this castle's lord
“Shall entreat him courteously.

“And he stretch'd him the while with a ghastly smile,
“And sternly bade me say,
“'Twas no depute's task your guest to ask
“To the feast of the woody bay.”

Pale grew the baron, and faintly said,
As he heaved his breath with pain,
“From such a feast as there was spread,
“Do any return again?

“I bade my guest to a bloody feast,
“Where the death's wound was his fare,
“And the isle's bright maid, who my love betray'd,
“She tore her raven hair.

“The sea-fowl screams, and the watch-tower gleams,
“And the deaf'ning billows roar,
“Where he unblest was put to rest,
“On a wild and distant shore.

“Do the hollow grave and the whelming wave
“Give up their dead again?
“Doth the surgy waste waft o'er its breast
“The spirits of the slain?”

But his loosen'd limbs shook fast, and pour'd
The big drops from his brow,
As louder still the third time roar'd
The thund'ring gate below.

“O rouse thee, baron, for manhood's worth!
“Let good or ill befall,
“Thou must to the stranger knight go forth,
“And ask him to your hall.”

“Rouse thy bold breast,” said each eager guest,
“What boots it shrinking so?
“Be it fiend or sprite, or murder'd knight,
“In heaven's name thou must go.

“Why shouldst thou fear? dost thou not wear
“A gift from the great Glendower,
“Sandals blest by a holy priest,
“O'er which nought ill hath power?”

All ghastly pale did the baron quail,
As he turn'd him to the door,
And his sandals blest by a holy priest
Sound feebly on the floor.

Then back to the hall and his merry mates all,
He cast his parting eye.
“God send thee amain, safe back again!”
He heaved a heavy sigh.

Then listen'd they, on the lengthen'd way,
To his faint and less'ning tread,
And, when that was past, to the wailing blast,
That wail'd as for the dead.

But wilder it grew, and stronger it blew,
And it rose with an elrich sound,
Till the lofty keep on its rocky steep,
Fell hurtling to the ground.

Each fearful eye then glanced on high,
To the lofty-window'd wall,
When a fiery trace of the baron's face
Through the casements shone on all.

But the vision'd glare pass'd through the air,
And the raging tempest ceased,
And never more, on sea or shore,
Was seen Lord John of the East.

The sandals, blest by a holy priest,
Lay unscathed on the swarded green,
But never again, on land or main,
Lord John of the East was seen.

763

MALCOLM'S HEIR:

A TALE OF WONDER.

O go not by Duntorloch's Walls
When the moon is in the wane,
And cross not o'er Duntorloch's Bridge,
The farther bank to gain.

For there the Lady of the Stream
In dripping robes you'll spy,
A-singing to her pale wan babe,
An elrich lullaby.

And stop not at the house of Merne,
On the eve of good Saint John,
For then the Swathed Knight walks his rounds
With many a heavy moan.

All swathed is he in coffin weeds,
And a wound is in his breast,
And he points still to the gloomy vault,
Where they say his corse doth rest.

But pass not near Glencromar's Tower,
Though the sun shine e'er so bright;
More dreaded is this in the noon of day,
Than those in the noon of night.

The night-shade rank grows in the court,
And snakes coil in the wall,
And bats lodge in the rifted spire,
And owls in the murky hall.

On it there shines no cheerful light,
But the deep-red setting sun
Gleams bloody red on its battlements
When day's fair course is run.

And fearfully in night's pale beams,
When the moon peers o'er the wood,
Its shadow grim stretch'd o'er the ground
Lies blackening many a rood.

No sweet bird's chirping there is heard,
No herd-boy's horn doth blow;
But the owlet hoots and the pent blast sobs,
And loud croaks the carrion-crow.

No marvel! for within its walls
Was done the deed unblest,
And in its noisome vaults the bones
Of a father's murderer rest.

He laid his father in the tomb
With deep and solemn woe,
As rumour tells, but righteous heaven
Would not be mocked so.

There rest his bones in the mouldering earth,
By lord and by carle forgot;
But the foul, fell spirit that in them dwelt,
Rest hath it none, I wot!

“Another night,” quoth Malcolm's heir,
As he turn'd him fiercely round,
And closely clench'd his ireful hand,
And stamp'd upon the ground:

“Another night within your walls
“I will not lay my head,
“Though the clouds of heaven my roof should be,
“And the cold dank earth my bed.

“Your younger son has now your love,
“And my stepdame false your ear;
“And his are your hawks and his are your hounds,
“And his your dark-brown deer.

“To him you have given your noble steed,
“As fleet as the passing wind;
“But me have you shamed before my friends,
“Like the son of a base-born hind:”

Then answer'd him the white-hair'd chief,
Dim was his tearful eye,
“Proud son, thy anger is all too keen,
“Thy spirit is all too high.

“Yet rest this night beneath my roof,
“The wind blows cold and shrill,
“With to-morrow's dawn, if so it must be,
“E'en follow thy wayward will.”

Yet nothing moved was Malcolm's heir,
And never a word did he say,
But cursed his father in his heart,
And sternly strode away.

And his coal-black steed he mounted straight,
As twilight gather'd round,
And at his feet with eager speed
Ran Swain, his faithful hound.

Loud rose the blast, yet ne'ertheless
With furious speed rode he,
Till night, like the gloom of a cavern'd mine,
Had closed o'er tower and tree.

764

Loud rose the blast, thick fell the rain,
Keen flash'd the light'ning red,
And loud the awful thunder roar'd
O'er his unshelter'd head.

At length full close before him shot
A flash of sheeted light,
And the high-arch'd gate of Glencromar's tower,
Glared on his dazzled sight.

His steed stood still, nor step would move,
Up look'd his wistful Swain,
And wagg'd his tail, and feebly whined;
He lighted down amain.

Through porch and court he pass'd, and still
His list'ning ear he bow'd,
Till beneath the hoofs of his trampling steed
The paved hall echo'd loud.

And other echoes answer gave
From arches far and grand;
Close to his horse and his faithful dog
He took his fearful stand.

The night-birds shriek'd from the creviced roof,
And the fitful blast sang shrill,
Yet ere the mid-watch of the night,
Were all things hush'd and still.

But in the mid-watch of the night,
When hush'd was every sound,
Faint, doleful music struck his ear,
As if waked from the hollow ground.

And loud and louder still it grew,
And upward still it wore,
Till it seem'd at the end of the farthest aisle
To enter the eastern door.

O! never did music of mortal make
Such dismal sounds contain;
A horrid elrich dirge it seem'd—
A wild unearthly strain.

The yell of pain, and the wail of woe,
And the short shrill shriek of fear,
Through the winnowing sound of a furnace flame,
Confusedly struck his ear.

And the serpent's hiss, and the tiger's growl,
And the famish'd vulture's cry,
Were mix'd at times, as with measured skill,
In this horrid harmony.

Up bristled the locks of Malcolm's heir,
And his heart it quickly beat,
And his trembling steed shook under his hand,
And Swain cower'd close to his feet.

When lo! a faint light through the porch
Still strong and stronger grew,
And shed o'er the walls and the lofty roof
Its wan and dismal hue.

And slowly ent'ring then appear'd,
Approaching with soundless tread,
A funeral band in dark array,
As in honour of the dead.

The first that walk'd were torchmen ten,
To lighten their gloomy road,
And each wore the face of an angry fiend,
And on cloven goats' feet trode.

And the next that walk'd as mourners meet,
Were murderers twain and twain,
With bloody hands and surtout red,
Befoul'd with many a stain.

Each with a cut-cord round his neck,
And red-strain'd, starting een,
Show'd that upon the gibbet tree,
His earthly end had been.

And after these, in solemn state,
There came an open bier,
Borne on black, shapeless rampant forms,
That did but half appear.

And on that bier a corse was laid,
As corse could never lie,
That did by decent hands composed
In nature's struggles die.

Nor stretch'd, nor swathed, but every limb
In strong distortion lay,
As in the throes of a violent death
Is fix'd the lifeless clay.

765

And in its breast was a broken knife,
With the black blood bolter'd round;
And its face was the face of an aged man,
With the filleted locks unbound.

Its features were fix'd in horrid strength,
And the glaze of its half-closed eye,
A last dread parting look express'd,
Of woe and agony.

But, oh! the horrid form to trace,
That follow'd it close behind,
In fashion of the chief-mourner,
What words shall minstrel find?

In his lifted hand, with straining grasp,
A broken knife he press'd,
The other half of the cursed blade
Was that in the corse's breast.

And in his blasted, horrid face,
Full strongly mark'd, I ween,
The features of the aged corse
In life's full prime were seen.

Ay, gnash thy teeth and tear thy hair,
And roll thine eye-balls wild,
Thou horrible accursed son,
With a father's blood defiled!

Back from the bier with strong recoil,
Still onward as they go,
Doth he in vain his harrow'd head,
And writhing body throw.

For, closing round, a band of fiends
Full fiercely with him deal,
And force him o'er the bier to bend,
With their fangs of red-hot steel.

Still on they moved, and stopp'd at length,
In the midst of the trembling hall,
When the dismal dirge, from its loudest pitch,
Sank to a dying fall.

But what of horror next ensued,
No mortal tongue can tell,
For the thrill'd life paused in Malcolm's heir,
In a death-like trance he fell.

The morning rose with cheerful light,
On the country far and near,
But neither in country, tower, nor town,
Could they find Sir Malcolm's heir.

They sought him east, they sought him west,
O'er hill and vale they ran,
And met him at last on the blasted heath,
A crazed and wretched man.

He will to no one utter his tale,
But the priest of St. Cuthbert's cell,
And aye, when the midnight warning sounds,
He hastens his beads to tell.

THE ELDEN TREE:

AN ANCIENT BALLAD.

A feast was spread in the baron's hall,
And loud was the merry sound,
As minstrels played at lady's call,
And the cup went sparkling round.

For gentle dames sat there, I trow,
By men of mickle might,
And many a chief with dark red-brow,
And many a burly knight.

Each had fought in war's grim ranks,
And some on the surgy sea,
And some on Jordan's sacred banks,
For the cause of Christentie.

But who thinks now of blood or strife,
Or Moorish or Paynim foe?
Their eyes beam bright with social life,
And their hearts with kindness glow.

“Gramercie Chieftain, on thy tale!
“It smacks of thy merry mood.”—
“Ay, monks are sly, and women frail,
“Since rock and mountain stood.”

“Fy, fy! sir knight, thy tongue is keen,
“'Tis sharper than thy steel.”—
“So, gentle lady, are thine eyen,
“As we poor lovers feel.”

766

“Come, pledge me well, my lady gay,
“Come, pledge me, noble frere;
“Each cheerful mate on such a day,
“Is friend or mistress dear.”

And louder still comes jeer and boast,
As the flagons faster pour,
Till song, and tale, and laugh are lost,
In a wildly mingled roar.

Ay, certes, 'tis an hour of glee,
For the baron himself doth smile,
And nods his head right cheerily,
And quaffs his cup the while.

What recks he now of midnight fear,
Or the night wind's dismal moan?
As it tosses the boughs of that Elden Tree,
Which he thinketh so oft upon?

Long years have past since a deed was done,
By its doer only seen,
And there lives not a man beneath the sun,
Who wotteth that deed hath been.

So gay was he, so gay were all,
They mark'd not the growing gloom;
Nor wist they how the dark'ning hall,
Lower'd like the close of doom.

Dull grew the goblet's sheen, and grim
The features of every guest,
And colourless banners aloft hung dim,
Like the clouds of the drizzly west.

Hath time pass'd then so swift of pace?
Is this the twilight grey?
A flash of light pass'd through the place,
Like the glaring noon of day.

Fierce glanced the momentary blaze
O'er all the gallant train,
And each visage pale, with dazzled gaze,
Was seen and lost again.

And the thunder's rolling peal, from far,
Then on and onward drew,
And varied its sound like the broil of war,
And loud and louder grew.

Still glares the lightning blue and pale,
And roars th' astounding din;
And rattle the windows with bickering hail,
And the rafters ring within.

And cowering hounds the board beneath
Are howling with piteous moan,
While lords and dames sit still as death,
And words are utter'd none.

At length in the waning tempest's fall,
As light from the welkin broke,
A frighten'd man rush'd through the hall,
And words to the baron spoke.

“The thunder hath stricken your tree so fair,
“Its roots on green-sward lie,”—
“What tree?”—“The Elden planted there
“Some thirty years gone by.”

“And wherefore starest thou on me so,
“With a face so ghastly wild?”—
“White bones are found in the mould below,
“Like the bones of a stripling child.”

Pale he became as the shrouded dead,
And his eye-balls fix'd as stone;
And down on his bosom dropp'd his head,
And he utter'd a stifled groan.

Then from the board, each guest amazed,
Sprang up, and curiously
Upon his sudden misery gazed,
And wonder'd what might be.

Out spoke the ancient seneschal,
“I pray you stand apart,
“Both gentle dames and nobles all,
“This grief is at his heart.

“Go, call St. Cuthbert's monk with speed,
“And let him be quickly shriven,
“And fetch ye a leech for his body's need,
“To dight him for earth or heaven.”

“No, fetch me a priest,” the baron said,
In a voice that seem'd utter'd with pain;
And he shudder'd and shrank as he faintly bade
His noble guests remain.

“Heaven's eye each secret deed doth scan,
“Heaven's justice all should fear:
“What I confess to the holy man,
“Both heaven and you shall hear.”

And soon St. Cuthbert's monk stood by
With visage sad, but sweet,
And cast on the baron a piteous eye,
And the baron knelt low at his feet.

“O Father! I have done a deed
“Which God alone did know;
“A brother's blood these hands have shed,
“With many a fiend-like blow:

“For fiends lent strength like a powerful charm,
“And my youthful breast impell'd,
“And I laugh'd to see beneath my arm
“The sickly stripling quell'd.

767

“A mattock from its pit I took,
“Dug deep for the Elden Tree,
“And I tempted the youth therein to look
“Some curious sight to see.

“The woodmen to their meal were gone,
“And ere they return'd again,
“I had planted that tree with my strength alone,
“O'er the body of the slain.

“Ah! gladly smiled my father then,
“And seldom he smiled on me,
“When he heard that my skill, like the skill of men,
“Had planted the Elden Tree.

“But where was his eldest son so dear,
“Who nearest his heart had been?
“They sought him far, they sought him near,
“But the boy no more was seen.

“And thus his life and lands he lost,
“And his father's love beside;
“The thought that ever rankled most
“In this heart of secret pride.

“Ah! could the partial parent wot
“The cruel pang he gives,
“To the child neglected and forgot,
“Who under his cold eye lives!

“His elder rights did my envy move,
“These lands and their princely hall;
“But it was our father's partial love,
“I envied him most of all.

“Now thirty years have o'er me past,
“And, to the eye of man,
“My lot was with the happy cast,
“My heart it could not scan.

“Oh! I have heard in the dead of night,
“My murther'd brother's groan,
“And shudder'd, as the pale moon-light
“On the mangled body shone.

“My very miners pent in gloom,
“Whose toil my coffers stored,
“Who cursed belike their cheerless doom,
“Were happier than their lord.

“O holy man! my tale is told
“With pain, with tears, with shame;
“May penance hard, may alms of gold,
“Some ghostly favour claim?

“The knotted scourge shall drink my blood,
“The earth my bed shall be,
“And bitter tears my daily food,
“To earn heaven's grace for me.”

Now, where that rueful deed was done
Endow'd with rights and lands,
Its sharp spires bright'ning in the sun,
A stately abbey stands.

And the meekest monk, whose life is there
Still spent on bended knee,
Is he who built that abbey fair,
And planted the Elden Tree.

THE GHOST OF FADON.

On Gask's deserted ancient hall
Was twilight closing fast,
And, in its dismal shadows, all
Seem'd lofty, void, and vast.

All sounds of life, now reft and bare,
From its walls had pass'd away,
But the stir of small birds shelter'd there,
Dull owl, or clatt'ring jay.

Loop-hole and window, dimly seen,
With faint light passing through,
Grew dimmer still, and the dreary scene
Was fading from the view;

When the trampling sound of banded men
Came from the court without;
Words of debate and call, and then
A loud and angry shout.

But mingled echoes from within
A mimic mock'ry made,
And the bursting door with furious din,
On jarring hinges bray'd.

An eager band, press'd rear on van,
Rush'd in with clam'rous sound,
And their chief, the goodliest, bravest man,
That e'er trode Scottish ground.

768

Then spoke forthwith that leader bold,
“We war with wayward fate;
“These walls are bare, the hearth is cold,
“And all is desolate.

“With fast unbroken and thirst unslaked
“Must we on the hard ground sleep?
“Or, like ghosts from vaulted charnel waked
“Our cheerless vigil keep?

“Hard hap this day in bloody field,
“Ye bravely have sustain'd,
“And for your pains this dismal bield,
“And empty board have gain'd.

“Hie, Malcolm, to that varlet's steed,
“And search if yet remain
“Some homely store, but good at need,
“Spent nature to sustain.

“Cheer up, my friends! still, heart in hand,
“Though few and spent we be,
“We are the pith of our native land,
“And she shall still be free.

“Cheer up! though scant and coarse our meal,
“In this our sad retreat,
“We'll fill our horn to Scotland's weal,
“And that will make it sweet.”

Then all, full cheerly, as they could,
Their willing service lent,
Some broke the boughs, some heap'd the wood,
Some struck the sparkling flint.

And a fire they kindled speedily,
Where the hall's last fire had been,
And pavement, walls, and rafters high,
In the rising blaze were seen.

Red gleam on each tall buttress pour'd,
The lengthen'd hall along,
And tall and black behind them lower'd,
Their shadows deep and strong.

The ceiling, ribb'd with massy oak,
From bick'ring flames below,
As light and shadow o'er it broke,
Seem'd wav'ring to and fro.

Their scanty meal was on the ground,
Spread by the friendly light,
And they made the brown-horn circle round,
As cheerly as they might.

Some talk of horses, weapons, mail,
Some of their late defeat,
By treach'ry caused, and many a tale
Of Southron spy's retreat.

“Ay, well,” says one, “my sinking heart
“Did some disaster bode,
“When faithless Fadon's wily art
“Beguiled us from the road.

“But well repaid by Providence
“Are such false deeds we see;
“He's had his rightful recompence,
“And cursed let him be.”

“Oh! curse him not! I needs must rue
“That stroke so rashly given:
“If he to us were false or true,
“Is known to righteous heaven.”

So spoke their chief, then silent all
Remain'd in sombre mood,
Till they heard a bugle's larum call
Sound distant through the wood.

“Rouse ye, my friends!” the chieftain said,
“That blast, from friend or foe,
“Comes from the west; through forest shade
“With wary caution go.

“And bring me tidings. Speed ye well!”
Forth three bold warriors pass'd:
Then from the east with fuller swell
Was heard the bugle blast.

Out pass'd three warriors more: then shrill
The horn blew from the north,
And other eager warriors still,
As banded scouts, went forth.

Till from their chief each war-mate good
Had to the forest gone,
And he, who feared not flesh and blood,
Stood by the fire alone.

He stood, wrapp'd in a musing dream,
Nor raised his drooping head,
Till a sudden, alter'd, paly gleam
On all around was spread.

Such dull, diminish'd, sombre sheen
From moon eclipsed, by swain
Belated, or lone herd is seen,
O'er-mantling hill and plain.

Then to the fitful fire he turn'd,
Which higher and brighter grew,
Till the flame like a baleful meteor burn'd,
Of clear sulphureous blue.

Then wist the chief, some soul unblest,
Or spirit of power was near;
And his eyes adown the hall he cast,
Yet nought did there appear.

769

But he felt a strange unearthly breath
Upon the chill air borne,
And he heard at the gate, like a blast of wrath,
The sound of Fadon's horn.

Owls, bats, and swallows, flutt'ring, out
From hole and crevice flew,
Circling the lofty roof about,
As loud and long it blew.

His noble hound sprang from his lair,
The midnight rouse to greet,
Then, like a timid trembling hare,
Crouch'd at his master's feet.

Between his legs his drooping tail,
Like dog of vulgar race,
He hid, and with strange piteous wail,
Look'd in his master's face.

The porch seem'd void, but vapour dim
Soon fill'd the lowering room,
Then was he aware of a figure grim
Approaching through the gloom.

And striding as it onward came,
The vapour wore away,
Till it stood distinctly by the flame,
Like a form in the noon of day.

Well Wallace knew that form, that head,
That throat unbraced and bare,
Mark'd deep with streaming circlet red,
And he utter'd a rapid prayer.

But when the spectre raised its arm,
And brandish'd its glitt'ring blade,
That moment broke fear's chilly charm
On noble Wallace laid.

The threaten'd combat was to him
Relief; with weapon bare,
He rush'd upon the warrior grim,
But his sword shore empty air

Then the spectre smiled with a ghastly grin,
And its warrior-semblance fled,
And its features grew stony, fix'd, and thin,
Like the face of the stiffen'd dead.

The head a further moment crown'd
The body's stately wreck,
Shook hideously, and to the ground
Dropp'd from the bolter'd neck.

Back shrank the noble chief aghast,
And longer tarried not,
Then quickly to the portal pass'd,
To shun the horrid spot.

But in the portal, stiff and tall,
The apparition stood,
And Wallace turn'd and cross'd the hall,
Where entrance to the wood

By other door he hoped to snatch,
Whose pent arch darkly lower'd,
But there, like sentry on his watch,
The dreadful phantom tower'd.

Then up the ruin'd stairs so steep,
He ran with panting breath,
And from a window—desp'rate leap!
Sprang to the court beneath.

O'er wall and ditch he quickly got,
Through brake and bushy stream,
When suddenly through darkness shot
A red and lurid gleam.

He look'd behind, and that lurid light
Forth from the castle came;
Within its circuit through the night
Appear'd an elrich flame.

Red glow'd each window, slit, and door,
Like mouths of furnace hot,
And tint of deepest blackness wore
The walls and steepy moat.

But soon it rose with bright'ning power,
Till bush and ivy green,
And wall-flower, fringing breach and tower,
Distinctly might be seen.

A spreading blaze, with eddying sweep,
Its spiral surges rear'd;
Aloft then on the stately keep,
Lo! Fadon's Ghost appear'd.

A burning rafter, blazing bright,
It wielded in its hand;
And its warrior-form of human height,
Dilated grew, and grand.

Coped by a curling tawny cloud,
With tints sulphureous blent,
It rose with burst of thunder loud,
And up the welkin went.

High, high it rose with wid'ning glare,
Sent far o'er land and main,
And shot into the lofty air,
And all was dark again.

A spell of horror lapp'd him round,
Chill'd, motionless, amazed,
His very pulse of life was bound
As on black night he gazed.

770

Till harness'd warriors' heavy tread,
From echoing dell arose;
“Thank God!” with utter'd voice, he said,
“For here come living foes.”

With kindling soul that brand he drew
Which boldest Southron fears,
But soon the friendly call he knew,
Of his gallant brave compeers.

With haste each wondrous tale was told,
How still, in vain pursuit,
They follow'd the horn through wood and wold,
And Wallace alone was mute.

Day rose; but silent, sad, and pale,
Stood the bravest of Scottish race;
And each warrior's heart began to quail,
When he look'd in his leader's face.

771

FUGITIVE VERSES.

TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ., THIS BOOK IS GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR.

772

A WINTER'S DAY.

The cock, warm roosting 'mid his feather'd mates,
Now lifts his beak and snuffs the morning air,
Stretches his neck and claps his heavy wings,
Gives three hoarse crows, and glad his task is done,
Low chuckling turns himself upon the roost,
Then nestles down again into his place.
The labouring hind, who, on his bed of straw

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Beneath his home-made coverings, coarse but warm,
Lock'd in the kindly arms of her who spun them,
Dreams of the gain that next year's crop should bring;
Or at some fair, disposing of his wool,
Or by some lucky and unlook'd-for bargain,
Fills his skin purse with store of tempting gold;
Now wakes from sleep at the unwelcome call,
And finds himself but just the same poor man
As when he went to rest.
He hears the blast against his window beat,
And wishes to himself he were a laird,
That he might lie a-bed. It may not be:
He rubs his eyes and stretches out his arms;
Heigh oh! heigh oh! he drawls with gaping mouth,
Then, most unwillingly creeps from his lair,
And without looking-glass puts on his clothes.
With rueful face he blows the smother'd fire,
And lights his candle at the reddening coal;
First sees that all be right among his cattle,
Then hies him to the barn with heavy tread,
Printing his footsteps on the new-fall'n snow.
From out the heap'd-up now he draws his sheaves,
Dislodging the poor red-breast from his shelter
Where all the live-long night he slept secure;
But now, affrighted, with uncertain flight,
Flutters round walls, and roof, to find some hole
Through which he may escape.
Then whirling o'er his head, the heavy flail
Descends with force upon the jumping sheaves,
While every rugged wall and neighbouring cot
The noise re-echoes of his sturdy strokes.

The family cares call next upon the wife
To quit her mean but comfortable bed.
And first she stirs the fire and fans the flame,
Then from her heap of sticks for winter stored
An armful brings; loud crackling as they burn,
Thick fly the red sparks upward to the roof,
While slowly mounts the smoke in wreathy clouds.
On goes the seething pot with morning cheer,
For which some little wistful folk await,
Who, peeping from the bed-clothes, spy well pleased
The cheery light that blazes on the wall,
And bawl for leave to rise.
Their busy mother knows not where to turn,
Her morning's work comes now so thick upon her.
One she must help to tie his little coat,
Unpin another's cap, or seek his shoe
Or hosen lost, confusion soon o'er-master'd!
When all is o'er, out to the door they run
With new-comb'd sleeky hair and glistening faces,
Each with some little project in his head.
His new-soled shoes one on the ice must try;
To view his well-set trap another hies,
In hopes to find some poor unwary bird
(No worthless prize) entangled in his snare;
While one, less active, with round rosy cheeks,
Spreads out his purple fingers to the fire,
And peeps most wistfully into the pot.

But let us leave the warm and cheerful house
To view the bleak and dreary scene without,
And mark the dawning of a Winter day.
The morning vapour rests upon the heights,
Lurid and red, while growing gradual shades
Of pale and sickly light spread o'er the sky.
Then slowly from behind the southern hills
Enlarged and ruddy comes the rising sun,
Shooting athwart the hoary waste his beams
That gild the brow of every ridgy bank,
And deepen every valley with a shade,
The crusted window of each scatter'd cot,
The icicles that fringe the thatched roof,
The new-swept slide upon the frozen pool,
All keenly glance, new kindled with his rays;
And e'en the rugged face of scowling Winter
Looks somewhat gay. But only for a time
He shows his glory to the brightening earth,
Then hides his face behind a sullen cloud.

The birds now quit their holes and lurking sheds,
Most mute and melancholy, where through night,
All nestling close to keep each other warm,
In downy sleep they had forgot their hardships;
But not to chant and carol in the air,
Or lightly swing upon some waving bough,
And merrily return each other's notes;
No; silently they hop from bush to bush,
Can find no seeds to stop their craving want,
Then bend their flight to the low smoking cot,
Chirp on the roof, or at the window peck,
To tell their wants to those who lodge within.
The poor lank hare flies homeward to his den,
But little burthen'd with his nightly meal
Of wither'd coleworts from the farmer's garden;
A wretched scanty portion, snatch'd in fear;
And fearful creatures, forced abroad by hunger,
Are now to every enemy a prey.

The husbandman lays by his heavy flail,
And to the house returns, where for him wait
His smoking breakfast and impatient children,
Who, spoon in hand, and ready to begin,
Toward the door cast many an eager look
To see their dad come in.
Then round they sit, a cheerful company;
All quickly set to work, and with heap'd spoons
From ear to ear besmear their rosy cheeks.
The faithful dog stands by his master's side
Wagging his tail and looking in his face;
While humble puss pays court to all around,
And purs and rubs them with her furry sides,
Nor goes this little flattery unrewarded.
But the laborious sit not long at table;
The grateful father lifts his eyes to heaven
To bless his God, whose ever bounteous hand

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Him and his little ones doth daily feed,
Then rises satisfied to work again.

The varied rousing sounds of industry
Are heard through all the village.
The humming wheel, the thrifty housewife's tongue,
Who scolds to keep her maidens to their work,
The wool-card's grating, most unmusical!
Issue from every house.
But hark! the sportsman from the neighbouring hedge
His thunder sends! loud bark the village curs;
Up from her cards or wheel the maiden starts
And hastens to the door; the housewife chides,
Yet runs herself to look, in spite of thrift,
And all the little town is in a stir.

Strutting before, the cock leads forth his train,
And chuckling near the barn-door 'mid the straw,
Reminds the farmer of his morning's service.
His grateful master throws a liberal handful;
They flock about it, while the hungry sparrows
Perch'd on the roof, look down with envious eye,
Then, aiming well, amidst the feeders light,
And seize upon the feast with greedy bill,
Till angry partlets peck them off the field.
But at a distance, on the leafless tree,
All woe-begone, the lonely blackbird sits;
The cold north wind ruffles his glossy feathers;
Full oft he looks, but dares not make approach,
Then turns his yellow beak to peck his side
And claps his wings close to his sharpen'd breast.
The wandering fowler from behind the hedge,
Fastens his eye upon him, points his gun,
And firing wantonly, as at a mark,
Of life bereaves him in the cheerful spot
That oft hath echo'd to his summer's song.

The mid-day hour is near, the pent-up kine
Are driven from their stalls to take the air.
How stupidly they stare! and feel how strange!
They open wide their smoking mouths to low,
But scarcely can their feeble sound be heard,
Then turn and lick themselves, and step by step,
Move, dull and heavy, to their stalls again.

In scatter'd groups the little idle boys,
With purple fingers moulding in the snow
Their icy ammunition, pant for war;
And drawing up in opposite array,
Send forth a mighty shower of well-aim'd balls.
Each tiny hero tries his growing strength,
And burns to beat the foe-men off the field.
Or on the well-worn ice in eager throngs,
After short race, shoot rapidly along,
Trip up each other's heels, and on the surface
With studded shoes draw many a chalky line.
Untired and glowing with the healthful sport
They cease not till the sun hath run his course,
And threatening clouds, slow rising from the north,
Spread leaden darkness o'er the face of heaven;
Then by degrees they scatter to their homes,
Some with a broken head or bloody nose,
To claim their mother's pity, who, most skilful!
Cures all their troubles with a bit of bread.

The night comes on apace—
Chill blows the blast and drives the snow in wreaths;
Now every creature looks around for shelter,
And whether man or beast, all move alike
Towards their homes, and happy they who have
A house to screen them from the piercing cold!
Lo, o'er the frost a reverend form advances!
His hair white as the snow on which he treads,
His forehead mark'd with many a care-worn furrow,
Whose feeble body bending o'er a staff,
Shows still that once it was the seat of strength,
Though now it shakes like some old ruin'd tower.
Clothed indeed, but not disgraced with rags,
He still maintains that decent dignity
Which well becomes those who have served their country.
With tottering steps he gains the cottage door;
The wife within, who hears his hollow cough,
And pattering of his stick upon the threshold,
Sends out her little boy to see who's there.
The child looks up to mark the stranger's face,
And, seeing it enlighten'd with a smile,
Holds out his tiny hand to lead him in.
Round from her work the mother turns her head,
And views them, not ill pleased.
The stranger whines not with a piteous tale,
But only asks a little to relieve
A poor old soldier's wants.
The gentle matron brings the ready chair
And bids him sit to rest his weary limbs,
And warm himself before her blazing fire.
The children, full of curiosity,
Flock round, and with their fingers in their mouths
Stand staring at him, while the stranger, pleased,
Takes up the youngest urchin on his knee.
Proud of its seat, it wags its little feet,
And prates and laughs and plays with his white locks.
But soon a change comes o'er the soldier's face;
His thoughtful mind is turn'd on other days,
When his own boys were wont to play around him,
Who now lie distant from their native land
In honourable but untimely graves:
He feels how helpless and forlorn he is,
And big, round tears course down his wither'd cheeks.
His toilsome daily labour at an end,
In comes the wearied master of the house,
And marks with satisfaction his old guest,
In the chief seat, with all the children round him.
His honest heart is fill'd with manly kindness,

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He bids him stay and share their homely meal,
And take with them his quarters for the night,
The aged wanderer thankfully accepts,
And by the simple hospitable board,
Forgets the by-past hardships of the day.

When all are satisfied, about the fire
They draw their seats and form a cheerful ring,
The thrifty housewife turns her spinning-wheel;
The husband, useful even in his hour
Of ease and rest, a stocking knits, belike,
Or plaits stored rushes, which with after skill
Into a basket form'd may do good service,
With eggs or butter fill'd at fair or market.

Some idle neighbours now come dropping in,
Draw round their chairs and widen out the circle;
And every one in his own native way
Does what he can to cheer the social group.
Each tells some little story of himself,
That constant subject upon which mankind,
Whether in court or country, love to dwell.
How at a fair he saved a simple clown
From being trick'd in buying of a cow;
Or laid a bet on his own horse's head
Against his neighbour's bought at twice his cost,
Which fail'd not to repay his better skill;
Or on a harvest day bound in an hour
More sheaves of corn than any of his fellows,
Though ere so stark, could do in twice the time;
Or won the bridal race with savoury broose
And first kiss of the bonny bride, though all
The fleetest youngsters of the parish strove
In rivalry against him.
But chiefly the good man, by his own fire,
Hath privilege of being listen'd to,
Nor dares a little prattling tongue presume
Though but in play, to break upon his story.
The children sit and listen with the rest;
And should the youngest raise its lisping voice,
The careful mother, ever on the watch,
And ever pleased with what her husband says,
Gives it a gentle tap upon the fingers,
Or stops its ill-timed prattle with a kiss.
The soldier next, but not unask'd, begins
His tale of war and blood. They gaze upon him,
And almost weep to see the man so poor,
So bent and feeble, helpless and forlorn,
Who has undaunted stood the battle's brunt
While roaring cannons shook the quaking earth,
And bullets hiss'd round his defenceless head.
Thus passes quickly on the evening hour,
Till sober folks must needs retire to rest;
Then all break up, and, by their several paths,
Hie homeward, with the evening pastime cheer'd
Far more, belike, than those who issue forth
From city theatre's gay scenic show,
Or crowded ball-room's splendid moving maze.
But where the song and story, joke and gibe,
So lately circled, what a solemn change
In little time takes place!
The sound of psalms, by mingled voices raised
Of young and old, upon the night air borne,
Haply to some benighted traveller,
Or the late parted neighbours on their way,
A pleasing notice gives, that those whose sires
In former days on the bare mountain's side,
In deserts, heaths, and caverns, praise and prayer,
At peril of their lives, in their own form
Of covenanted worship offered up,
In peace and safety in their own quiet home
Are—(as in quaint and modest phrase is termed)
Engaged now in evening exercise.

But long accustom'd to observe the weather,
The farmer cannot lay him down in peace
Till he has look'd to mark what bodes the night.
He lifts the latch, and moves the heavy door,
Sees wreaths of snow heap'd up on every side,
And black and dismal all above his head.
Anon the northern blast begins to rise,
He hears its hollow growling from afar,
Which, gathering strength, rolls on with doubled might,
And raves and bellows o'er his head. The trees
Like pithless saplings bend. He shuts his door,
And, thankful for the roof that covers him,
Hies him to bed.

A SUMMER'S DAY.

The dark-blue clouds of night, in dusky lines
Drawn wide and streaky o'er the purer sky,
Wear faintly morning purple on their skirts.
The stars, that full and bright shone in the west,
But dimly twinkle to the steadfast eye,
And seen and vanishing and seen again,
Like dying tapers winking in the socket,
Are by degrees shut from the face of heaven;
The fitful lightning of the summer cloud,
And every lesser flame that shone by night;
The wandering fire that seems, across the marsh,
A beaming candle in a lonely cot,
Cheering the hopes of the benighted hind,
Till, swifter than the very change of thought,
It shifts from place to place, eludes his sight,
And makes him wondering rub his faithless eyes;
The humble glow-worm and the silver moth,

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That cast a doubtful glimmering o'er the green,—
All die away.
For now the sun, slow moving in his glory,
Above the eastern mountains lifts his head;
The webs of dew spread o'er the hoary lawn,
The smooth, clear bosom of the settled pool,
The polish'd ploughshare on the distant field,
Catch fire from him, and dart their new-gain'd beams
Upon the gazing rustic's dazzled sight.

The waken'd birds upon the branches hop,
Peck their soft down, and bristle out their feathers,
Then stretch their throats and trill their morning song;
While dusky crows, high swinging over head,
Upon the topmost boughs, in lordly pride,
Mix their hoarse croaking with the linnet's note,
Till in a gather'd band of close array,
They take their flight to seek their daily food.
The villager wakes with the early light,
That through the window of his cot appears,
And quits his easy bed; then o'er the fields
With lengthen'd active strides betakes his way,
Bearing his spade or hoe across his shoulder,
Seen glancing as he moves, and with good will
His daily work begins.
The sturdy sun-burnt boy drives forth the cattle,
And, pleased with power, bawls to the lagging kine
With stern authority, who fain would stop
To crop the tempting bushes as they pass.
At every open door, in lawn or lane,
Half naked children half awake are seen,
Scratching their heads and blinking to the light,
Till, rousing by degrees, they run about,
Roll on the sward and in some sandy nook
Dig caves, and houses build, full oft defaced
And oft begun again, a daily pastime.
The housewife, up by times, her morning cares
Tends busily; from tubs of curdled milk
With skilful patience draws the clear green whey
From the press'd bosom of the snowy curd,
While her brown comely maid, with tuck'd-up sleeves
And swelling arm, assists her. Work proceeds,
Pots smoke, pails rattle, and the warm confusion
Still more confused becomes, till in the mould
With heavy hands the well-squeezed curd is placed.

So goes the morning till the powerful sun,
High in the heavens, sends down his strengthen'd beams,
And all the freshness of the morn is fled.
The idle horse upon the grassy field
Rolls on his back; the swain leaves off his toil,
And to his house with heavy steps returns,
Where on the board his ready breakfast placed
Looks most invitingly, and his good mate
Serves him with cheerful kindness.
Upon the grass no longer hangs the dew;
Forth hies the mower with his glittering seythe,
In snowy shirt bedight and all unbraced,
He moves athwart the mead with sideling bend,
And lays the grass in many a swathey line;
In every field, in every lawn and meadow
The rousing voice of industry is heard;
The hay-cock rises, and the frequent rake
Sweeps on the fragrant hay in heavy wreaths.
The old and young, the weak and strong are there,
And, as they can, help on the cheerful work.
The father jeers his awkward half-grown lad,
Who trails his tawdry armful o'er the field,
Nor does he fear the jeering to repay.
The village oracle and simple maid
Jest in their turns and raise the ready laugh;
All are companions in the general glee;
Authority, hard favour'd, frowns not there.
Some, more advanced, raise up the lofty rick,
Whilst on its top doth stand the parish toast
In loose attire, with swelling ruddy cheek.
With taunts and harmless mockery she receives
The toss'd-up heaps from fork of simple youth,
Who, staring on her, takes his aim awry,
While half the load falls back upon himself.
Loud is her laugh, her voice is heard afar;
The mower busied on the distant lawn,
The carter trudging on his dusty way,
The shrill sound know, their bonnets toss in the air,
And roar across the field to catch her notice:
She waves her arm to them, and shakes her head,
And then renews her work with double spirit.
Thus do they jest and laugh away their toil
Till the bright sun, now past his middle course,
Shoots down his fiercest beams which none may brave.
The stoutest arm feels listless, and the swart
And brawny-shoulder'd clown begins to fail.
But to the weary, lo—there comes relief!
A troop of welcome children o'er the lawn
With slow and wary steps approach, some bear
In baskets oaten cakes or barley scones,
And gusty cheese and stoups of milk or whey.
Beneath the branches of a spreading tree,
Or by the shady side of the tall rick,
They spread their homely fare, and seated round,
Taste every pleasure that a feast can give.

A drowsy indolence now hangs on all;
Each creature seeks some place of rest, some shelter
From the oppressive heat; silence prevails;
Nor low nor bark nor chirping bird are heard.
In shady nooks the sheep and kine convene;
Within the narrow shadow of the cot
The sleepy dog lies stretch'd upon his side,
Nor heeds the footsteps of the passer-by,
Or at the sound but raises half an eye-lid,
Then gives a feeble growl and sleeps again;
While puss composed and grave on threshold stone

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Sits winking in the light.
No sound is heard but humming of the bee,
For she alone retires not from her labour,
Nor leaves a meadow flower unsought for gain.

Heavy and slow, so pass the sultry hours,
Till gently bending on the ridge's top
The drooping seedy grass begins to wave,
And the high branches of the aspen tree
Shiver the leaves and gentle rustling make.
Cool breathes the rising breeze, and with it wakes
The languid spirit from its state of stupor.
The lazy boy springs from his mossy lair
To chase the gaudy butterfly, which oft
Lights at his feet as if within his reach,
Spreading upon the ground its mealy wings,
Yet still eludes his grasp, and high in air
Takes many a circling flight, tempting his eye
And tiring his young limbs.
The drowsy dog, who feels the kindly air
That passing o'er him lifts his shaggy ear,
Begins to stretch him, on his legs half-raised,
Till fully waked, with bristling cock'd-up tail,
He makes the village echo to his bark.

But let us not forget the busy maid,
Who by the side of the clear pebbly stream
Spreads out her snowy linens to the sun,
And sheds with liberal hand the crystal shower
O'er many a favourite piece of fair attire,
Revolving in her mind her gay appearance,
So nicely trick'd, at some approaching fair.
The dimpling half-check'd smile and muttering lip
Her secret thoughts betray. With shiny feet,
There, little active bands of truant boys
Sport in the stream and dash the water round,
Or try with wily art to catch the trout,
Or with their fingers grasp the slippery eel.
The shepherd-lad sits singing on the bank
To while away the weary lonely hours,
Weaving with art his pointed crown of rushes,
A guiltless easy crown, which, having made,
He places on his head, and skips about,
A chaunted rhyme repeats, or calls full loud
To some companion lonely as himself,
Far on the distant bank; or else delighted
To hear the echo'd sound of his own voice,
Returning answer from some neighbouring rock,
Or roofless barn, holds converse with himself.

Now weary labourers perceive well pleased
The shadows lengthen, and the oppressive day
With all its toil fast wearing to an end.
The sun, far in the west, with level beam
Gleams on the cocks of hay, on bush or ridge,
And fields are checker'd with fantastic shapes,
Or tree or shrub or gate or human form,
All lengthen'd out in antic disproportion
Upon the darken'd ground. Their task is finish'd,
Their rakes and scatter'd garments gather'd up,
And all right gladly to their homes return.

The village, lone and silent through the day,
Receiving from the fields its merry bands,
Sends forth its evening sound, confused but cheerful;
Yelping of curs, and voices stern and shrill,
And true-love ballads in no plaintive strain,
By household maid at open window sung;
And lowing of the home-returning kine,
And herd's dull droning trump and tinkling bell,
Tied to the collar of the master-sheep,
Make no contemptible variety
To ears not over nice.
With careless lounging gait the favour'd youth
Upon his sweetheart's open window leans,
Diverting her with joke and harmless taunt.
Close by the cottage door, with placid mien,
The old man sits upon his seat of turf,
His staff with crooked head laid by his side,
Which oft some tricky youngling steals away,
And straddling o'er it shows his horsemanship
By raising clouds of sand; he smiles thereat,
But seems to chide him sharply:
His silver locks upon his shoulders fall,
And not ungraceful is his stoop of age.
No stranger passes him without regard,
And neighbours stop to wish him a good e'en,
And ask him his opinion of the weather.
They fret not at the length of his remarks
Upon the various seasons he remembers;
For well he knows the many divers signs
That do foretell high winds, or rain, or drought,
Or aught that may affect the rising crops.
The silken-clad, who courtly breeding boast,
Their own discourse still sweetest to their ear,
May at the old man's lengthen'd story fret,
Impatiently, but here it is not so.

From every chimney mounts the curling smoke,
Muddy and grey, of the new evening fire;
On every window smokes the family supper,
Set out to cool by the attentive housewife,
While cheerful groups, at every door convened,
Bawl 'cross the narrow lane the parish news,
And oft the bursting laugh disturbs the air.
But see who comes to set them all agape;
The weary-footed pedlar with his pack;
Stiffly he bends beneath his bulky load,
Cover'd with dust, slip-shod and out at elbows;
His greasy hat set backwards on his head;
His thin straight hair, divided on his brow,
Hangs lank on either side his glist'ning cheeks,
And woe-begone yet vacant is his face.
His box he opens and displays his ware.
Full many a varied row of precious stones
Cast forth their dazzling lustre to the light
And ruby rings and china buttons, stamp'd

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With love devices, the desiring maid
And simple youth attract; while streaming garters,
Of many colours, fasten'd to a pole,
Aloft in air their gaudy stripes display,
And from afar the distant stragglers lure.
The children leave their play and round him flock;
Even sober, aged grandame quits her seat,
Where by the door she twines her lengthen'd threads,
Her spindle stops, and lays her distaff by,
Then joins with step sedate the curious throng.
She praises much the fashions of her youth,
And scorns each useless nonsense of the day;
Yet not ill-pleased the glossy riband views,
Unroll'd and changing hues with every fold,
Just measured out to deck her grandchild's head.

Now red but languid the last beams appear
Of the departed sun, across the lawn,
Gilding each sweepy ridge on many a field,
And from the openings of the distant hills
A level brightness pouring, sad though bright;
Like farewell smiles from some dear friend they seem,
And only serve to deepen the low vale,
And make the shadows of the night more gloomy.
The varied noises of the cheerful village
By slow degrees now faintly die away,
And more distinctly distant sounds are heard
That gently steal adown the river's bed,
Or through the wood come on the ruffing breeze.
The white mist rises from the meads, and from
The dappled skirting of the sober sky
Looks out with steady gleam the evening star.
The lover, skulking in some neighbouring copse,
(Whose half-seen form, shown through the dusky air
Large and majestic, makes the traveller start,
And spreads the story of a haunted grove,)
Curses the owl, whose loud ill-omen'd hoot
With ceaseless spite takes from his listening ear
The well-known footsteps of his darling maid,
And fretful chases from his face the night-fly,
That, buzzing round his head, doth often skim
With fluttering wings across his glowing cheek
For all but him in quiet balmy sleep
Forget the toils of the oppressive day;
Shut is the door of every scatter'd cot.
And silence dwells within.

NIGHT SCENES OF OTHER TIMES.

A POEM, IN THREE PARTS.

PART I.

“The night winds bellow o'er my head,
Dim grows the fading light;
Where shall I find some friendly shed
To screen me from the night?

“Ah! round me lies a desert vast,
No habitation near;
And dark and pathless is the waste,
And fills my mind with fear.

“Thou distant tree, whose lonely top
Has bent to many a storm,
No more canst thou deceive my hope
And take my lover's form;

“For o'er thy head the dark cloud rolls,
Dark as thy blasted pride;
How deep the angry tempest growls
Along the mountain's side!

“Safely within the shaggy brake
Are crouch'd the mountain deer;
A sound unbroken sleep they take;
No haunts of men are near.

“Beneath the fern the moorcock sleeps
And twisted adders lie;
Back to his rock the night-bird creeps,
Nor gives his wonted cry.

“For angry spirits of the night
Ride on the troubled air,
And to their dens in strange affright
The beasts of prey repair.

“But thou, my love! where dost thou rest?
What shelter covers thee?
O may this cold and wintry blast
But only beat on me!

“Some friendly dwelling mayst thou find,
Where sleep may banish care,
And thou feel not the chilly wind
That scatters Margaret's hair.

“Ah no! for thou didst give thy word
To meet me on the way:
Nor friendly roof nor social board
Will tempt a lover's stay.

“O raise thy voice if thou art near!
Its weakest sound were bliss;
What other sound my heart can cheer
In such a gloom as this?

“But from the hills with deafening roar
The dashing torrents fall,
And heavy beats the drifted shower,
And mocks a lover's call.

“Ha! see across the dreary waste,
A moving form appears,
It is my love, my cares are past;
How vain were all my fears!”

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The form advanced, but sad and slow,
Not with a lover's tread;
And from his cheek the youthful glow
And greeting smile were fled.

Dim sadness sat upon his brow;
Fix'd was his beamless eye;
His face was like a moonlight bow
Upon a wintry sky.

And fix'd and ghastly to the sight
His strengthen'd features rose,
And bended was his graceful height,
And bloody were his clothes.

“My Margaret, calm thy troubled breast;
Thy sorrow now is vain!
Thy Edward from his peaceful rest
Shall ne'er return again.

“A treacherous friend has laid me low,
Has fix'd my early doom,
And laid my corse with feigned woe
Beneath a vaulted tomb.

“To take thee to my home I sware,
And here we were to meet;
Wilt thou a narrow coffin share,
And part my winding-sheet?

“But late the lord of many lands.
And now a grave is all:
My blood is warm upon his hands
Who revels in my hall.

“Yet think, thy father's hoary hair
Is water'd with his tears;
He has but thee to soothe his care,
And drop his load of years.

“Remember Edward when he's gone!
He only lived for thee;
And when thou art pensive and alone,
Dear Margaret, call on me!

“Though deep beneath the mouldering clod
I rest my wounded head,
And terrible that call and loud
Which shall awake the dead!”

“No, Edward; I will follow thee,
And share thy hapless doom;
Companions shall our spirits be,
Though distant is thy tomb.

“Oh! never to my father's tower
Will I return again;
A bleeding heart has little power
To ease another's pain.

“Upon the wing my spirit flies,
I feel my course is run;
Nor shall these dim and weary eyes
Behold to-morrow's sun.”

Like early dew, or hoary frost
Spent with the beaming day,
So shrank the pale and watery ghost,
And dimly wore away.

No longer Margaret felt the storm,
She bow'd her lovely head,
And, with her lover's fleeting form,
Her gentle spirit fled.

PART II.

“Loud roars the wind that shakes the wall,
It is no common blast:
Deep hollow sounds pass through my hall:
O would the night were past!

“Methinks the demons of the air
Upon the turrets growl,
While down the empty winding stair
Their deep'ning murmurs roll.

“The glimmering fire cheers not the gloom,
Blue burns the quivering ray,
And, like a taper in a tomb,
But spreads the more dismay.

“Athwart its melancholy light
The lengthen'd shadow falls;
My grandsires to my troubled sight
Lower on me from these walls.

“Methinks yon angry warrior's head
Doth in its panel frown,
And dart a look, as if it said,
‘Where hast thou laid my son?’

“But will these fancies never cease?
O would the night were run!
My troubled soul can find no peace
But with the morning sun.

“Vain hope! the guilty never rest:
Dismay is always near;
There is a midnight in the breast
No morn shall ever cheer.

“Now soundly sleeps the weary hind,
Though lowly lies his head;
An easy lair the guiltless find
Upon the hardest bed.

780

“The beggar, in his wretched haunt,
May now a monarch be;
Forget his woe, forget his want,
For all can sleep but me.

“I've dared whate'er the boldest can,
Then why this childish dread?
I never fear'd a living man,
And shall I fear the dead?

“No; whistling blasts may shake my tower,
And passing spirits scream:
Their shadowy arms are void of power,
And but a gloomy dream.

“But lo! a form advancing slow
Across the dusky hall,
Art thou a friend?—art thou a foe?
O answer to my call!”

Still nearer to the glimmering light
The stately figure strode,
Till full, and horrid to the sight,
The murther'd Edward stood.

A broken shaft his right hand sway'd,
Like Time's dark threat'ning dart,
And pointed to a rugged blade
That quiver'd in his heart.

The blood still trickled from his head,
And clotted was his hair:
His severed vesture stain'd and red;
His mangled breast was bare.

His face was like a muddy sky
Before the coming snow;
And dark and dreadful was his eye,
And cloudy was his brow.

Pale Conrad shrank, but drew his sword—
Fear thrill'd in every vein;
His quivering lips gave out no word;
He paused, and shrank again.

Then utterance came—“At this dread hour
Why dost thou haunt the night?
Has the deep gloomy vault no power
To keep thee from my sight?

“Why dost thou glare and slowly wave
That fatal shaft of strife?
The deed is done, and from the grave
Who can recall to life?

“Why roll thine eyes beneath thy brow
Dark as the midnight storm?
What dost thou want? O let me know,
But hide thy dreadful form.

“I'd give the life-blood from my heart
To wash my crime away:
If thou a spirit be, depart,
Nor haunt a wretch of clay!

“Say, dost thou with the blessed dwell?—
Return and blessed be!
Or com'st thou from the lowest hell?—
I am more cursed than thee.”

The form advanced with solemn steps
As if it meant to speak,
And seem'd to move its pallid lips,
But silence did not break.

Then sternly stalk'd with heavy pace
Which shook the floor and wall,
And turn'd away its fearful face,
And vanish'd from the hall.

Transfix'd and powerless, Conrad stood;
Ears ring, and eyeballs swell;
Back to his heart runs the cold blood;
Into a trance he fell.

Night fled, and through the windows 'gan
The early light to play;
But on a more unhappy man
Ne'er shone the dawning day.

The gladsome sun all nature cheers,
But cannot charm his cares;
Still dwells his mind with gloomy fears,
And murder'd Edward glares.

PART III.

“No rest nor comfort can I find:
I watch the midnight hour;
I sit and listen to the wind
That beats upon my tower.

“Methinks low voices from the ground
Break mournful on my ear,
And through these empty chambers sound,
So dismal and so drear!

“The ghost of some departed friend
Doth in my sorrows share;
Or is it but the rushing wind
That mocketh my despair?

“Sad through the hall the pale lamp gleams
Upon my father's arms;
My soul is filled with gloomy dreams,
I fear unknown alarms.

781

“O, I have known this lonely place
With every blessing stored,
And many a friend with cheerful face
Sit smiling at my board!

“While round the hearth, in early bloom,
My harmless children play'd,
Who now within the narrow tomb
Are with their mother laid.

“Now sadly bends my wretched head,
And those I loved are gone:
My friends, my family, all are fled,
And I am left alone.

“Oft as the cheerless fire declines,
In it I sadly trace,
As lone I sit, the half-form'd lines
Of many a much-loved face.

“But chiefly, Margaret, to my mind,
Thy lovely features rise;
I strive to think thee less unkind,
And wipe my streaming eyes.

“For only thee I had to vaunt,
Thou wast thy mother's pride;
She left thee like a shooting plant,
To screen my widow'd side.

“But thou forsakest me, weak, forlorn,
And chill'd with age's frost,
To count my weary days and mourn
The comforts I have lost.

“Unkindly child! why didst thou go?
O, had I known the truth!
Though Edward's father was my foe,
I would have bless'd the youth.

“Could I but see that face again,
Whose smile calm'd every strife,
And hear that voice which soothed my pain
And made me wish for life!

“Thy harp hangs silent by the wall:
My nights are sad and long,
And thou art in a distant hall,
Where strangers raise the song.

“Ha! some delusion of the mind
My senses doth confound!
It was the harp, and not the wind,
That did so sweetly sound.”

Old Arno rose all wan as death,
And turn'd his eager ear,
And check'd the while his quicken'd breath
The sound again to hear.

When, like a full, but distant choir,
The swelling notes return'd;
And with the softly trembling wire
Surrounding echoes mourn'd;

Then softly whisper'd o'er the song
That Margaret loved to play;
Its well-known measure linger'd long,
And faintly died away.

His dim-worn eyes to heaven he cast,
Where all his griefs were known,
And smote upon his troubled breast,
And heaved a heavy groan.

“I know it is my daughter's hand,
But 'tis no hand of clay;
And here a lonely wretch I stand,
All childless, bent, and gray.

“And art thou low, my lovely child,
And hast thou met thy doom,
And has thy flattering morning smiled
To lead but to the tomb?

“O let me see thee ere we part,
For souls like thine are blest;
O let me fold thee to my heart,
If aught of form thou hast!

“This passing mist conceals thy shape,
But it is shrunk or flown;
Why dost thou from mine arms escape,
Art thou not still mine own?

“Thou'rt fled like the low evening breath,
That sighs upon the hill:
O stay! though in thy weeds of death,—
Thou art my daughter still.”

Loud waked the sound, then fainter grew,
And long and sadly mourn'd,
And softly sigh'd a long adieu,
And never more return'd.

Old Arno stretch'd him on the ground;
Thick as the gloom of night,
Death's misty shadows gather'd round,
And swam before his sight.

He heaved a deep and deadly groan,
That rent his labouring breast,
And long before the morning shone,
His spirit was at rest.

782

ADDRESS TO THE MUSES.

Ye tuneful sisters of the lyre,
Who dreams and fantasies inspire,
Who over poesy preside,
And on a lofty hill abide
Above the ken of mortal sight,
Fain would I sing of you, could I address you right.

Thus known, your power of old was sung.
And temples with your praises rung;
And when the song of battle rose,
Or kindling wine or lover's woes,
The Poet's spirit inly burn'd,
And still to you his upcast eyes were turn'd.

The youth, all wrapp'd in vision bright,
Beheld your robes of flowing white;
And knew your forms benignly grand,—
An awful but a lovely band;
And felt your inspiration strong,
And warmly pour'd his rapid lay along.

The aged bard all heavenward glow'd,
And hail'd you daughters of a God.
Though by his dimmer eyes were seen
Nor graceful form nor heavenly mien,
Full well he felt that ye were near,
And heard you in the breeze that raised his hoary hair.

Ye lighten'd up the valley's bloom,
And gave the forest deeper gloom;
The mountain peak sublimer stood,
And grander rose the mighty flood;
For then Religion lent her aid,
And o'er the mind of man your sacred empire spread.

Though rolling ages now are past,
And altars low and temples waste;
Though rites and oracles are o'er,
And Gods and heroes rule no more,
Your fading honours still remain,
And still your votaries call, a long and motley train.

They seek you not on hill or plain,
Nor court you in the sacred fane;
Nor meet you in the mid-day dream,
Upon the bank of hallow'd stream;
Yet still for inspiration sue,
And still each lifts his fervent prayer to you.

He woos you not in woodland gloom,
But in the close and shelfed room,
And seeks you in the dusty nook,
And meets you in the letter'd book:
Full well he knows you by your names,
And still with poet's faith your presence claims.

Now youthful Poet, pen in hand,
All by the side of blotted stand,
In reverie deep which none may break,
Sits rubbing of his beardless cheek,
And well his inspiration knows,
E'en by the dewy drops that trickle o'er his nose.

The tuneful sage, of riper fame,
Perceives you not in heated frame;
But at conclusion of his verse,
Which still his muttering lips rehearse,
Oft waves his hand in grateful pride,
And owns the heavenly power that did his fancy guide.

O lovely Sisters! is it true
That they are all inspired by you,
And write by inward magic charm'd,
And high enthusiasm warm'd?
We dare not question heavenly lays,
And well, I wot, they give you all the praise.

O lovely Sisters! well it shows
How wide and far your bounty flows.
Then why from me withhold your beams?
Unvisited of vision'd dreams,
Whene'er I aim at heights sublime,
Still downward am I call'd to seek some stubborn rhyme.

No hasty lightning breaks my gloom,
Nor flashing thoughts unsought for come,
Nor fancies wake in time of need:
I labour much with little speed,
And when my studied task is done,
Too well, alas! I mark it for my own.

Yet should you never smile on me,
And rugged still my verses be,
Unpleasing to the tuneful train,
Who only prize a flowing strain,
And still the learned scorn my lays,
I'll lift my heart to you and sing your praise.

Your varied ministry of grace,
Your honour'd names and godlike race,
Your sacred caves where fountains flow
They will rehearse, who better know;
I praise you not with Grecian lyre,
Nor hail you daughters of a heathen sire.

Ye are the spirits who preside
In earth and air and ocean wide,
In rushing flood and crackling fire,
In horror dread and tumult dire,
In stilly calm and stormy wind,
And rule the answering changes in the human mind!

783

High on the tempest-beaten hill,
Your misty shapes ye shift at will;
The wild fantastic clouds ye form;
Your voice is in the midnight storm;
While in the dark and lonely hour
Oft starts the boldest heart, and owns your secret power.

When lightning ceases on the waste,
And when the battle's broil is past,
When scenes of strife and blood are o'er,
And groans of death are heard no more.
Ye then renew each sound and form,
Like after echoing of the o'erpassed storm.

The shining day and nightly shade,
The cheerful plain and sunny glade;
The homeward kine, the children's play,
The busy hamlet's closing day,
Give pleasure to the peasant's heart,
Who lacks the gift his feelings to impart.

Oft when the moon looks from on high,
And black around the shadows lie,
And bright the sparkling waters gleam,
And rushes rustle by the stream,
Voices and fairy forms are known
By simple folk who wander late alone.

Ye kindle up the inward glow,
Ye strengthen every outward show,
Ye overleap the strongest bar
And join what nature sunders far,
And visit oft, in fancies wild,
The breast of learned sage and simple child.

From him who wears a monarch's crown
To the unletter'd simple clown,
All in some fitful, lonely hour
Have felt, unsought, your secret power,
And loved your inward visions well;
You add but to the bard the art to tell.

Ye mighty spirits of the song,
To whom the poet's prayers belong,
My lowly bosom to inspire
And kindle with your sacred fire,
Your wild and dizzy heights to brave,
Is boon, alas! too great for me to crave.

But O, such sense of nature bring!
As they who feel, and never sing,
Wear on their hearts; it will avail
With simple words to tell my tale;
And still contented will I be,
Though greater inspiration never fall to me.

A MELANCHOLY LOVER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MISTRESS.

Dear Phillis, all my hopes are o'er,
And I shall see thy face no more.
Since every secret wish is vain,
I will not stay to give thee pain.
Then do not drop thy lowering brow,
But let me bless thee ere I go;
Oh! do not scorn my last adieu!
I've loved thee long, and loved thee true

The prospects of my youth are crost,
My health is flown, my vigour lost;
My soothing friends augment my pain,
And cheerless is my native plain;
Dark o'er my spirit hangs the gloom,
And thy disdain has fix'd my doom.
But light waves ripple o'er the sea
That soon shall bear me far from thee;
And, wheresoe'er our course be cast,
I know 'twill bear me to my rest.
Full deep beneath the briny wave,
Where lie the venturous and brave,
A place may be for me decreed;
But, should the winds my passage speed,
Far hence upon a foreign land,
Whose sons perhaps with friendly hand
The stranger's lowly tomb may raise,
A broken heart will end my days.

But heaven's blessing on thee rest!
And may no troubles vex thy breast!
Perhaps, when pensive and alone,
You'll think of me when I am gone,
And gentle tears of pity shed,
When I am in my narrow bed.
But softly will thy sorrows flow,
And greater mayst thou never know!
Free from all worldly care and strife,
Long mayst thou live a happy life!
And every earthly blessing find,
Thou loveliest of woman kind:
Yea, blest thy secret wishes be,
Though cruel thou hast proved to me!

And dost thou then thine arm extend?
And may I take thy lovely hand?
And do thine eyes thus gently look,
As though some kindly wish they spoke?
My gentle Phillis, though severe,
I do not grudge the ills I bear;
But still my greatest grief will be
To think my love has troubled thee.
Oh do not scorn this swelling grief!
The laden bosom seeks relief;
Nor yet this infant weakness blame,
For thou hast made me what I am.

784

Hark now! the sailors call away,
No longer may I lingering stay.
May peace within thy mansion dwell!
O gentle Phillis, fare thee well!

A CHEERFUL-TEMPERED LOVER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MISTRESS

The light winds on the streamers play
That soon shall bear me far away;
My comrades give the parting cheer,
And I alone have linger'd here.
Now, dearest Phill, since it will be,
And I must bid farewell to thee—
Since every cherish'd hope is flown,
Send me not from thee with a frown,
But kindly let me take thy hand,
And bid God bless me in a foreign land.
No more I'll loiter by thy side,
Well pleased thy gamesome taunts to bide;
Nor lover's gambols lightly try
To make me graceful in thine eye;
Nor sing a merry roundelay
To cheer thee at the close of day.
Yet ne'ertheless, though we must part,
I'll have thee still within my heart;
Still to thy health my glass I'll fill,
And drink it with a right good-will.
Far hence upon a foreign shore,
There will I keep an open door,
And there my little fortune share
With all who ever breathed my native air.
And he who once thy face hath seen,
Or ever near thy dwelling been,
Shall freely push the flowing bowl
And be the master of the whole.
And every woman, for thy sake,
Shall of my slender store partake,
Shall in my home protection find,
Thou fairest of a fickle kind!
O dearly, dearly have I paid,
Thou little, haughty, cruel maid!
To give that inward peace to thee,
Which thou hast ta'en away from me.
Soft hast thou slept with bosom light,
While I have watch'd the weary night;
And now I cross the surgy deep
That thou mayst still untroubled sleep.
But in thine eyes what do I see
That looks as though they pitied me?
I thank thee, Phillis; be not sad,
I leave no blame upon thy head.
To gain thy gentle heart I strove,
But ne'er was worthy of thy love.
And yet, perhaps, when I shall dwell
Far hence, thou'lt sometimes think how well—
I dare not stay, since we must part,
To expose a fond and foolish heart;
Where'er it goes, it beats for you,
God bless you, Phill, adieu! adieu!

A PROUD LOVER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MISTRESS.

Farewell, thou haughty, cruel fair!
Upon thy brow no longer wear
That sombre look of cold disdain;
I ne'er shall see thy face again.
Now every foolish wish is o'er,
And fears and doubtings are no more.

All cruel as thou art to me,
Long has my heart been fix'd on thee.
I've track'd thy footsteps o'er the green,
And shared thy rambles oft unseen;
I've linger'd near thee night and day,
When thou hast thought me far away!
I've watch'd the changes of thy face,
And fondly mark'd thy moving grace;
I've wept with joy thy smiles to see;
I've been a fool for love of thee.
Yet do not think I stay the while
Thy feeble pity to beguile:
Let favour forced still fruitless prove!
The pity cursed that brings not love!

No woman e'er shall give me pain,
Or ever break my rest again:
Nor aught that comes of womankind
Again have power to move my mind.
Far on a foreign shore I'll seek
Some lonely island bare and bleak;
There find some wild and rocky cell,
And with the untamed creatures dwell.
To hear their cries is now my choice,
Rather than man's deceitful voice;
To hear the tempest's boisterous song,
Than woman's softly witching tongue;
They wear no guise, nor promise good,
But rugged seem as they are rude.

O Phillis! thou hast wreck'd a heart
That proudly bears, but feels the smart.
Adieu, adieu! shouldst thou e'er prove
The pangs of ill requited love,
Thou'lt know what I have borne for thee,
And then thou wilt remember me.

785

A POETICAL OR SOUND-HEARTED LOVER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MISTRESS.

Fair Nymph, who dost my fate controul,
And reignest Mistress of my soul,
Where thou all bright in beauty's ray
Hast held a long tyrannic sway!
They who the hardest rule maintain,
In their commands do still refrain
From what impossible must prove,
Yet thou hast bid me cease to love.
Ah! when the magnet's power is o'er,
The needle then will point no more,
And when no verdure clothes the spring,
The tuneful birds forget to sing;
But thou, all sweet and heavenly fair,
Wouldst have thy swain from love forbear.
In pity let thine own dear hand
A death's-wound to this bosom send:
This tender heart of purest faith
May then resign thee with its breath;
And in the sun-beam of thine eye
A proud and willing victim die.

But since thou wilt not have it so,
Far from thy presence will I go;
Far from my heart's dear bliss I'll stray,
Since I no longer can obey.
In foreign climes I'll henceforth roam,
No more to hail my native home:
To foreign swains I'll pour my woe,
In foreign plains my tears shall flow;
By murmuring stream and shady grove
Shall other echoes tell my love;
And richer flowers of vivid hue
Upon my grave shall other maidens strew.

Adieu, dear Phillis! shouldst thou e'er
Some soft and plaintive story hear
Of hapless youth who vainly strove
With wayward fate, and died for love,
O think of me! nor then deny
The gentle tribute of a sigh!

A REVERIE.

Beside a spreading elm, from whose high boughs
Like knotted tufts the crow's light dwelling shows,
Screen'd from the northern blast and winter-proof,
Snug stands the parson's barn with thatched roof.
At chaff-strew'd door where in the morning ray
The gilded motes in mazy circles play,
And sleepy Comrade in the sun is laid,
More grateful to the cur than neighb'ring shade:
In snowy shirt, unbraced, brown Robin stood,
And leant upon his flail in thoughtful mood.
His ruddy cheeks that wear their deepest hue,
His forehead brown that glist'ning drops bedew,
His neck-band loose and hosen rumpled low,
A careful lad, nor slack at labour, show.
Nor scraping chickens chirping in the straw,
Nor croaking rook o'er-head, nor chattering daw,
Loud-breathing cow among the juicy weeds,
Nor grunting sow that in the furrow feeds,
Nor sudden breeze that stirs the quaking leaves
And makes disturbance 'mong the scatter'd sheaves,
Nor floating straw that skims athwart his nose,
The deeply musing youth may discompose.
For Nelly fair, and blithest village maid,
Whose tuneful voice beneath the hedge-row shade,
At early milking o'er the meadow borne,
E'er cheer'd the ploughman's toil at rising morn;
The neatest maid that e'er in linen gown
Bore cream and butter to the market town;
The tightest lass that e'er at wake or fair
Footed the ale-house floor with lightsome air,
Since Easter last had Robin's heart possess'd,
And many a time disturb'd his nightly rest.
Full oft returning from the loosen'd plough,
He slack'd his pace, and knit his careful brow;
And oft, ere half his thresher's task was o'er,
Would muse with arms across at cooling door.
His mind thus bent, with downcast eyes he stood,
And leant upon his flail in thoughtful mood.
His soul o'er many a soft remembrance ran,
And muttering to himself the youth began.

“Ah! happy is the man whose early lot
Hath made him master of a furnish'd cot;
Who trains the vine that round his window grows,
And after setting sun his garden hoes;
Whose wattled pales his own enclosure shield,
Who toils not daily in another's field.
Where'er he goes, to church or market town,
With more respect he and his dog are known,
With brisker face at pedlar's booth he stands,
And takes each tempting gew-gaw in his hands,
And buys at will or ribands, gloves, or beads,
And willing partners to the green he leads:
And oh! secure from toils that cumber life,
He makes the maid he loves an easy wife.
Ah! Nelly! canst thou with contented mind
Become the help-mate of a labouring hind,
And share his lot, whate'er the chances be,
Who hath no dower but love to fix on thee?
Yes; gayest maid may meekest matron prove,
And things of little note betoken love.
When from the church thou cam'st at eventide,
And I and red-hair'd Susan by thy side,
I pull'd the blossoms from the bending tree,
And some to Susan gave and some to thee;
Thine were the fairest, and thy smiling eye
The difference mark'd, and guess'd the reason why.

786

When on that holiday we rambling stray'd,
And passed Old Hodge's cottage in the glade;
Neat was the garden dress'd, sweet humm'd the bee,
I wish'd the Cot and Nelly made for me;
And well, methought, thy very eyes reveal'd
The self-same wish within thy breast conceal'd;
When artful, once, I sought my love to tell,
And spoke to thee of one who loved thee well,
You saw the cheat, and jeering homeward hied,
Yet secret pleasure in thy looks I spied.
Ay, gayest maid may meekest matron prove,
And smaller signs than these betoken love.”

Now at a distance on the neighb'ring plain,
With creaking wheels slow comes the harvest wain,
High on its shaking load a maid appears,
And Nelly's voice sounds shrill in Robin's ears.
Quick from his hand he throws the cumbrous flail,
And leaps with lightsome limbs the enclosing pale.
O'er field and fence he scours, and furrow wide,
With waken'd Comrade barking by his side;
While tracks of trodden grain and tangled hay,
And broken hedge-flowers sweet, mark his impetuous way.

A DISAPPOINTMENT.

On village green whose smooth and well-worn sod,
Cross path'd, with many a gossip's foot is trod;
By cottage door where playful children run,
And cats and curs sit basking in the sun;
Where o'er an earthen seat the thorn is bent,
Cross-arm'd and back to wall poor William leant.
His bonnet all awry, his gather'd brow,
His hanging lip and lengthen'd visage show
A mind but ill at ease. With motions strange
His listless limbs their wayward postures change;
While many a crooked line and curious maze
With clouted shoon he on the sand pourtrays.
At length the half-chew'd straw fell from his mouth,
And to himself low spoke the moody youth.

“How simple is the lad, and reft of skill,
Who thinks with love to fix a woman's will!
Who every Sunday morn to please her sight,
Knots up his neckcloth gay and hosen white;
Who for her pleasure keeps his pockets bare,
And half his wages spends on pedlar's ware;
When every niggard clown or dotard old,
Who hides in secret nooks his oft-told gold,
Whose field or orchard tempts, with all her pride,
At little cost may win her for his bride!
While all the meed her silly lover gains,
Is but the neighbours' jeering for his pains.
On Sunday last, when Susan's banns were read,
And I astonish'd sat with hanging head,
Cold grew my shrinking frame, and loose my knee,
While every neighbour's eye was fix'd on me.
Ah Sue! when last we work'd at Hodge's hay,
And still at me you mock'd in wanton play—
When last at fair, well pleased by chapman's stand,
You took the new-bought fairing from my hand—
When at old Hobb's you sang that song so gay,
‘Sweet William,’ still the burthen of the lay,—
I little thought, alas! the lots were cast,
That thou shouldst be another's bride at last:
And had, when last we tripp'd it on the green,
And laugh'd at stiff-back'd Rob, small thoughts I ween,
Ere yet another scanty month was flown
To see thee wedded to the hateful clown;
Ay, lucky churl! more gold thy pockets line;
But did these shapely limbs resemble thine,
I'd stay at home and tend the household gear,
Nor on the green with other lads appear.
Ay, lucky churl! no store thy cottage lacks,
And round thy barn thick stand the shelter'd stacks,
But did such features coarse my visage grace,
I'd never budge the bonnet from my face.
Yet let it be; it shall not break my ease;
He best deserves who doth the maiden please.
Such silly cause no more shall give me pain,
Nor ever maiden cross my rest again.
Such grizzled suitors with their taste agree,
And the black fiend may have them all for me!”

Now through the village rise confused sounds,
Hoarse lads, and children shrill, and yelping hounds.
Straight every housewife at her door is seen,
And pausing hedgers on their mattocks lean.
At every narrow lane and alley's mouth,
Loud-laughing lasses stand, and joking youth.
A bridal band trick'd out in colours gay,
With minstrels blithe before to cheer the way,
From clouds of curling dust that onward fly,
In rural splendour breaks upon the eye.
As in their way they hold so gaily on,
Caps, beads, and buttons, glancing to the sun,
Each village wag with eye of roguish cast
Some maiden jogs, and vents the ready jest;
While village toasts the passing belles deride,
And sober matrons marvel at their pride.
But William, head erect with settled brow,
In sullen silence view'd the passing show;
And oft he scratch'd his pate with careless grace,
And scorn'd to pull the bonnet o'er his face;
But did with steady look unalter'd wait,
Till hindmost man had pass'd the churchyard gate,
Then turn'd him to his cot with visage flat,
Where honest Lightfoot on the threshold sat.
Up leap'd the kindly beast his hand to lick,
And for his pains received an angry kick.
Loud shuts the door with harsh and thundering din;
The echoes round their circling course begin.

787

From cot to cot, church tower, and rocky dell,
It grows amain with wide progressive swell,
And Lightfoot joins the coil with loud and piteous yell.

A LAMENTATION.

Where ancient broken wall encloses round,
From tread of lawless feet, the hallow'd ground,
And sombre yews their dewy branches wave,
O'er many a graven stone and mounded grave;
Where parish church, confusedly to the sight,
With deeper darkness prints the shades of night,
In garb deranged and loose, with scatter'd hair,
His bosom open to the nightly air,
Lone, o'er a new-heap'd grave poor Basil bent,
And to himself began his simple plaint.

“Alas, how cold thy home, how low thou art,
Who wast the pride and mistress of my heart!
The fallen leaves now rustling o'er thee pass,
And o'er thee waves the dank and dewy grass,
The new laid sods and twisted osier tell,
How narrow is the space where thou must dwell.
Now rough and wintry winds may on thee beat,
Chill rain, and drifting snow, and summer's heat;
Each passing season's rub, for woe is me!
Or gloom or sunshine is the same to thee.
Ah Mary! lovely was thy slender form,
And bright thy cheerful brow that knew no storm.
Thy steps were graceful on the village green,
As though thou hadst some courtly lady been.
At church or market still the gayest lass,
Each youngster slack'd his speed to see thee pass.
At early milking tuneful was thy lay,
And sweet thy homeward song at close of day;
But sweeter far, and every youth's desire,
Thy cheerful converse by the evening fire.
Alas! no more thou'lt foot the village sward,
No song of thine shall ever more be heard,
And they full soon will trip it on the green,
As blithe and gay as thou hadst never been.
Around the evening fire with little care
Will neighbours sit, and scarcely miss thee there;
And when the sober parting hour comes round,
Will to their rest retire, and slumber sound,
But Basil cannot rest; his days are sad,
And long his nights upon the weary bed.
Yet still in broken dreams thy form appears,
And still my bosom proves a lover's fears.
I guide thy footsteps through the tangled wood;
I catch thee sinking in the boisterous flood;
I shield thy bosom from the threaten'd stroke;
I clasp thee falling from the headlong rock;
But ere we reach the dark and dreadful deep,
High heaves my troubled breast, I wake and weep.
At every wailing of the midnight wind,
Thy lowly dwelling comes into my mind.
When rain beats on my roof, wild storms abroad,
I think upon thy bare and beaten sod;
I hate the comfort of a shelter'd home,
And hie me forth, o'er pathless fields to roam.
“O Mary! loss of thee hath fix'd my doom,
This world around me is a weary gloom,
Dull heavy musings lead my mind astray,
I cannot sleep by night nor work by day.
Or wealth or pleasure dullest hinds inspire,
But cheerless is their toil who nought desire;
Let happier friends divide my farmer's stock,
Cut down my grain, and shear my little flock;
For now my only care on earth will be
Here every Sunday morn to visit thee,
And in the holy church with heart sincere
And humble mind our worthy curate hear;
He best can tell, when earthly woes are past,
The surest way to meet with thee at last.
I'll thus awhile a weary life abide,
Till wasting time hath laid me by thy side;
For now on earth there is no place for me,
Nor peace nor slumber till I rest with thee.”

Loud from the lofty spire, with piercing knell,
Solemn and awful, toll'd the parish bell,
A later hour than rustics deem it meet
That churchyard ground be trod by mortal feet.
The wailing lover started at the sound,
And raised his head and cast his eyes around.
The gloomy pile in strengthen'd horror lower'd,
Large and majestic every object tower'd;
Dun through the gloom, they show'd like forms unknown,
And tall and ghastly rose each whiten'd stone;
Aloft the dismal screech-owl 'gan to sing,
And past him skimm'd the bat with flapping wing.
The fears of nature woke within his breast,
He left the hallow'd spot of Mary's rest,
And sped his way the churchyard wall to gain,
Then check'd his fear and stopp'd and would remain.
But shadows round a deeper horror wear;
A deeper silence falls upon his ear;
An awful stillness broods upon the scene,
His fluttering heart recoils, he turns again.
With hasty steps he measures back the ground,
And leaps with summon'd force the churchyard bound;
Then home, with shaking limbs and quicken'd breath,
His footsteps urges from the place of death.

788

A MOTHER TO HER WAKING INFANT.

Now in thy dazzled half-oped eye,
Thy curled nose and lip awry,
Up-hoisted arms and noddling head,
And little chin with crystal spread,
Poor helpless thing! what do I see,
That I should sing of thee?

From thy poor tongue no accents come,
Which can but rub thy toothless gum:
Small understanding boasts thy face,
Thy shapeless limbs nor step nor grace:
A few short words thy feats may tell,
And yet I love thee well.

When wakes the sudden bitter shriek,
And redder swells thy little cheek;
When rattled keys thy woes beguile,
And through thine eyelids gleams the smile,
Still for thy weakly self is spent
Thy little silly plaint.

But when thy friends are in distress,
Thou'lt laugh and chuckle ne'ertheless,
Nor with kind sympathy be smitten,
Though all are sad but thee and kitten;
Yet puny varlet that thou art,
Thou twitchest at the heart.

Thy smooth round cheek so soft and warm;
Thy pinky hand and dimpled arm;
Thy silken locks that scantly peep,
With gold tipp'd ends, where circles deep,
Around thy neck in harmless grace,
So soft and sleekly hold their place,
Might harder hearts with kindness fill,
And gain our right goodwill.

Each passing clown bestows his blessing,
Thy mouth is worn with old wives' kissing;
E'en lighter looks the gloomy eye
Of surly sense when thou art by;
And yet, I think, whoe'er they be,
They love thee not like me.

Perhaps when time shall add a few
Short months to thee, thou'lt love me too;
And after that, through life's long way,
Become my sure and cheering stay;
Wilt care for me and be my hold,
When I am weak and old.

Thou'lt listen to my lengthen'd tale,
And pity me when I am frail—
But see, the sweepy spinning fly
Upon the window takes thine eye.
Go to thy little senseless play;
Thou dost not heed my lay.

A CHILD TO HIS SICK GRANDFATHER.

Grand-dad, they say you're old and frail,
Your stiffen'd legs begin to fail:
Your staff, no more my pony now,
Supports your body bending low,
While back to wall you lean so sad,
I'm vex'd to see you, Dad.

You used to smile and stroke my head,
And tell me how good children did;
But now, I wot not how it be,
You take me seldom on your knee:
Yet ne'ertheless I am right glad,
To sit beside you, Dad.

How lank and thin your beard hangs down!
Scant are the white hairs on your crown:
How wan and hollow are your cheeks!
Your brow is cross'd with many streaks;
But yet although his strength be fled,
I love my own old Dad.

The housewives round their potions brew,
And gossips come to ask for you;
And for your weal each neighbour cares;
And good men kneel and say their prayers;
And every body looks so sad,
When you are ailing, Dad.

You will not die and leave us, then?
Rouse up and be our Dad again.
When you are quiet and laid in bed,
We'll doff our shoes and softly tread;
And when you wake we'll still be near,
To fill old Dad his cheer.

When through the house you change your stand,
I'll lead you kindly by the hand:
When dinner's set I'll with you bide,
And aye be serving by your side;
And when the weary fire burns blue,
I'll sit and talk with you.

I have a tale both long and good,
About a partlet and her brood,
And greedy cunning fox that stole
By dead of midnight through a hole,
Which slily to the hen-roost led,—
You love a story, Dad?

And then I have a wondrous tale
Of men all clad in coats of mail,
With glittering swords,—you nod,—I think
Your heavy eyes begin to wink;—
Down on your bosom sinks your head:—
You do not hear me, Dad.

789

THUNDER

Spirit of strength! to whom in wrath 'tis given,
To mar the earth and shake its vasty dome,
Behold the sombre robes whose gathering folds
Thy secret majesty conceal. Their skirts
Spread on mid air move slow and silently,
O'er noon-day's beam thy sultry shroud is cast,
Advancing clouds from every point of heaven,
Like hosts of gathering foes in pitchy volumes,
Grandly dilated, clothe the fields of air,
And brood aloft o'er the empurpled earth.
Spirit of strength! it is thy awful hour;
The wind of every hill is laid to rest,
And far o'er sea and land deep silence reigns.

Wild creatures of the forest homeward hie,
And in their dens with fear unwonted cower;
Pride in the lordly palace is put down,
While in his humble cot the poor man sits
With all his family round him hush'd and still,
In awful expectation. On his way
The traveller stands aghast and looks to heaven.
On the horizon's verge thy lightning gleams,
And the first utterance of thy deep voice
Is heard in reverence and holy fear.

From nearer clouds bright burst more vivid gleams,
As instantly in closing darkness lost;
Pale sheeted flashes cross the wide expanse,
While over boggy moor, or swampy plain,
A streaming cataract of flame appears,
To meet a nether fire from earth cast up,
Commingling terribly; appalling gloom
Succeeds, and lo! the rifted centre pours
A general blaze, and from the war of clouds,
Red, writhing, falls the embodied bolt of heaven.
Then swells the rolling peal, full, deep'ning, grand,
And in its strength lifts the tremendous roar,
With mingled discord, rattling, hissing, growling:
Crashing like rocky fragments downward hurl'd,
Like the upbreaking of a ruin'd world,
In awful majesty the explosion bursts
Wide and astounding o'er the trembling land.
Mountain, and cliff, repeat the dread turmoil,
And all, to man's distinctive senses known,
Is lost in the immensity of sound.
Peal after peal succeeds with waning strength,
And hush'd and deep each solemn pause between.

Upon the lofty mountain's side
The kindled forest blazes wide;
Huge fragments of the rugged steep
Are tumbled to the lashing deep;
Firm rooted in his cloven rock,
Crashing falls the stubborn oak.
The lightning keen in wasteful ire
Darts fiercely on the pointed spire,
Rending in twain the iron-knit stone,
And stately towers to earth are thrown.
No human strength may brave the storm,
Nor shelter screen the shrinking form,
Nor castle wall its fury stay,
Nor massy gate impede its way:
It visits those of low estate,
It shakes the dwellings of the great,
It looks athwart the vaulted tomb,
And glares upon the prison's gloom.
Then dungeons black in unknown light
Flash hideous on the wretches' sight,
And strangely groans the downward cell,
Where silence deep is wont to dwell.

Now eyes, to heaven up-cast, adore,
Knees bend that never bent before,
The stoutest hearts begin to fail,
And many a manly face is pale;
Benumbing fear awhile up-binds
The palsied action of their minds,
Till waked to dreadful sense they lift their eyes,
And round the stricken corse shrill shrieks of horror rise.

Now rattling hailstones, bounding as they fall
To earth, spread motley winter o'er the plain;
Receding peals sound fainter on the ear,
And roll their distant grumbling far away:
The lightning doth in paler flashes gleam,
And through the rent cloud, silver'd with his rays,
The sun on all this wild affray looks down,
As, high enthroned above all mortal ken,
A higher Power beholds the strife of men.

THE HORSE AND HIS RIDER.

Braced in the sinewy vigour of thy breed,
In pride of generous strength, thou stately steed;
Thy broad chest to the battle's front is given,
Thy mane fair floating to the winds of heaven;
Thy stamping hoofs the flinty pebbles break;
Graceful the rising of thine arched neck;
Thy bridle-bits white flakes of foam enlock;
From thy moved nostrils bursts the curling smoke;
Thy kindling eye-balls brave the glaring south,
And dreadful is the thunder of thy mouth:
Whilst low to earth thy curving haunches bend,
Thy sweepy tail involved in clouds of sand,
Erect in air thou rearst thy front of pride,
And ringst the plated harness on thy side!

But lo! what creature, goodly to the sight,
Dares thus bestride thee, chafing in thy might;

790

Of portly stature and determined mien,
Whose dark eye dwells beneath a brow serene,
And forward looks unmoved to scenes of death,
Who smiling, gently strokes thee in thy wrath:
Whose right hand doth its flashing falchion wield?
A British soldier girded for the field!

FRAGMENT OF A POEM

Gloomy and still was the broad solemn deep,
Whose rolling tides for twice a hundred years
Had lash'd the rugged walls of Tora's Towers,
The strong abode of Curdmore's haughty kings.
Its frowning battlements o'erhung the sea,
Where in the fair serene of summer days,
Each answering Tower a nether heaven did meet,
And cast its pictured shadow on the waves.
But now, no mild blue sky in gentle grandeur
Did lend its azure covering to the main,
Softening the most majestic work of nature,
Nor even a sunbeam through the rifted cloud
Glanced on the distant wave.
Dull heavy clouds hung in the lower air,
Misty and shapeless, like the humid chaos,
Ere God divided it, and called it water.
The creatures of the deep forgot their prey,
Leaving the upper waves to seek the bottom;
The flocking sea-fowl homeward bent their flight,
In dusky bands, to cavern'd rock or cliff.
A deadly calm reign'd in the stately woods,
That hung aloft upon the hardy shore;
The mingled music of the forest ceased
Before the day had run its wonted term,
Yet birds of night forgot their twilight song,
And every creature, whether fierce or tame,
Skulk'd in its hole, seized with unwonted fear.

Nor was that creature styled the lord of earth
Without his fear; that secret worst of fears,
The mind unknowing what it has to dread.
Fenced in the seeming safety of his home,
Man's sometime-haughty spirit sank within him,
And dark uncertainty of ill unseen
Increased the sombre gloom of Tora's Halls.
The sullen watch did lean upon their arms,
With quicken'd breath half-check'd and listening ear,
In expectation of some unknown thing.
Each smother'd in his breast his untold fears
And wish'd within himself the hours might speed,
But that the night with tenfold horror came,
To close the frightful day.
No cheerful converse graced the evening board,
Slow went the goblet round, each face was grave:
And ere the first dark watch fulfill'd its term,
All were retired to rest in Tora's Halls.

Sleep came, and closed full many a weary eye,
But not that gentle kindly visitor,
That ofttimes bringeth to the poor man's cot
More wealth than e'er enjoy'd his haughty lord;
Or to the couch of the dejected lover
Brings true love-knots, and kind remembrances,
And cheering glances, making him by night
The favour'd man he fain would be by day;
Nor yet that haggard tyrant of the night,
Who comes ofttimes to shake the ill man's bed,
Tearing him from his heaps of silk and down
To hang his quivering carcass o'er the gulf,
Or through the air by foul fiends goaded on
Bears him with dizzy, furious speed along;
But she, stiff shrouded in her blackest weed,
And swathed with leaden bands, awful and still,
Who by the couch of the condemned wretch,
Harass'd and spent, before the morning breaks,
Whose setting sun he never shall behold,
Oft takes her stand, and scarce is known from death.

But still the red lamp, pendent from the roof,
Did cast its trembling and unjoyous light
Athwart the lofty chamber of the king;
For he alone felt not her weighty power.
A load of cares lay heavy at his heart;
His thoughtful eyes were bent upon the ground;
And the unsuiting gravity of age
Had sadly sober'd o'er his cheek of youth,
That newly blush'd beneath a galling crown.

Long had his warlike father ruled the land,
Whose vengeful bloody sword no scabbard knew.
Wild was his fury in the field of battle,
And dreadful was his wrath to nations round,
But kind and glowing yearn'd his manly heart
To the brave hardy sons of his blue hills.
He own'd a friend and brother of the field
In each broad-chested brawny warrior,
Who follow'd to the fight his daring steps.
One deed of fame, done by a son of Curdmore,
He prized more than the wealth of peaceful realms,
And dealt them death and ruin in his love.
Unshaped and rude the state, and knew no law,
Save that plain sense, which nature gives to all,
Of right and wrong within the monarch's breast;
And when no storm of passion shook his soul,
It was a court of mildest equity.

One distant nation only in the field
Could meet his boasted arms with equal strength.
Impetuous, rushing from their mountains rude,
Oft had they striven like two adverse winds,
That bursting from their spent and narrow glens,
On the wide desert meet,—in wild contention
Tossing aloft in air dun clouds of sand,
Tearing the blasted herbage from its bed,
And bloating the clear face of beauteous heaven

791

With the dissever'd fragments of the earth,
Till spent their force, low growling they retire,
And for a time within their caverns keep,
Gathering new force with which they issue forth
To rage and roar again.—So held they strife.
But e'en while Corvan gloried in his might,
Death came and laid him low.

His spear was hung high in the sombre hall,
Whose lofty walls with darkening armour clad
Spoke to the valiant of departed heroes,
A fellow now to those which rest ungrasp'd,
Unburnished, and know no master's hand.
A hardy people, scatter'd o'er the hills,
And wild uncultivated plains of Curdmore,
Depending more upon to-morrow's chace,
Than on the scanty produce of their fields,
Where the proud warrior, as debased by toil,
Throws down unwillingly his boasted weapons,
To mar the mossy earth with his rude tillage,
Bedding his dwarfish grain in tracks less deep
Than he would plough the bosom of a foe;
A people rude but generous now look'd up,
With wistful and expecting eyes, to Allener,
The son of their beloved, their only hope.
The general burthen, though but new to care,
Was laid on him. His heart within him whisper'd
That he was left in rough and perilous times,
Like elder brother of a needy race,
To watch and care for all, and it was thoughtful;
Sombre and thoughtful as unjoyous age.
But never had he felt his mind so dark,
As in this heavy and mysterious hour.

With drooping head and arms cross'd o'er his breast,
His spirit all collected in itself,
As it had ceased to animate the body,
He sat, when, like pent air from a dank cave,
He felt a cold and shivering wind pass o'er him,
And from his sinking bosom raised his head.
A thick and mazy mist had fill'd the chamber,
Through which the feeble lamp its blue flame show'd
With a pale moony circlet compass'd round,
As when the stars through dank unwholesome air
Show through the night their blunted heads, enlarged,
Foretelling plagues to some affrighted land.
When, lo! a strange light, breaking through the gloom,
Struck his astonish'd mind with awe and wonder.
It rose before him in a streamy column,
As, seen upon the dim benighted ocean,
By partial moon-beams through some sever'd cloud,
The towering, wan, majestic waterspout
Delights and awes the wondering mariner.

Soul-awed within himself shrank Curdmore's king;
Thick beat his fluttering heart against his breast,
As towards him the moving light approach'd,
While opening by degrees its beamy sides
A mighty phantom show'd his awful form,
Gigantic, far above the sons of men.
A robe of watery blue in wreathy folds
Did lightly float o'er his majestic limbs:
Firm in their strength more than was ever pictured
Of fabled heroes in their fields of war.
One hand was wide outstretch'd in threaten'd act,
As if to draw down vengeance from the skies;
The other, spread upon his ample breast,
Seem'd to betoken what restrain'd its fellow.
Thus far to mortal eye he stood reveal'd,
But misty vapour shrouded all above,
Save that a ruddy glow did oft break through
With hasty flash, according with the vehemence
And agitation of the form beneath,
Speaking the terrors of that countenance
The friendly darkness veil'd.
Commotions strange disturb'd the heaving earth.
A hollow muffled rumbling from beneath
Roll'd deeply in its dark and secret course.
The castle trembled on its rocky base;
And loosen'd fragments from the nodding towers
Fell on the flinty ground with hideous crash.
The bursting gates against the portal rang,
And windows clatter'd in their trembling walls;
While as the phantom trode, far echoing loud,
The smitten pavement gave a fearful sound.
He stopp'd, the trembling walls their motions ceased,
The earth was still; he raised his awful voice.

“Thou creature, set o'er creatures like thyself,
To bear the rule for an appointed season,
Bethink thee well, and commune with thy heart.
If one man's blood can mark the unblest front,
And visit with extreme of inward pangs
The dark breast of the secret murderer,
Canst thou have strength all singly in thyself
To bear the blood of thousands on thy head,
And wrongs which cry to heaven and shall be heard?
Kings to the slaughter lead their people forth,
And home return again with thinned bands,
Bearing to every house its share of mourning,
Whilst high in air they hang their trophied spoils,
And call themselves the heroes of the earth.

“Thy race is stain'd with blood: such were thy fathers:
But they are pass'd away and have their place,
And thou still breathest in thy weeds of clay;
Therefore to thee their doom is veil'd in night.
Yet mayst thou be assured, that mighty Power
Who gave to thee thy form of breathing flesh,
Of such like creatures as thyself endow'd,
Although innumerable on this earth,
Doth knowledge take, and careth for the least,
And will prepare His vengeance for the man

792

Whose wasteful pride uproots what he hath sown.
And now he sets two paths before thy choice,
Which are permitted thee: even thou thyself
Mayst fix thy doom,—a doom which cannot change.
Wilt thou draw out securely on thy throne
A life of such content and happiness
As thy wild country and rude people yield,
Laying thee late to rest in peaceful age,
Where thy forefathers sleep; thy name respected,
Thy children after thee to fill thy seat?
Or wilt thou, as thy secret thoughts incline,
Across the untried deep conduct thy bands,
Attack the foe on their unguarded coast,
O'ercome their strength at little cost of blood,
And raise thy trophies on a distant shore,
Where none of all thy race have footing gain'd,—
Gaining for Curdmore wealth, and power, and fame,
But not that better gain, content and happiness?
Wealth, power, renown, thou mayst for Curdmore earn,
But mayst not live to see her rising state:
For far from hence, upon that hostile shore,
A sepulchre which owns no kindred bone,
Gapes to receive thee in the pride of youth.
This is the will of heaven: then choose thy fate;
Weak son of earth, I leave thee to thy troubles;
A little while shall make us more alike,
A spirit shalt thou be when next we meet.”

It vanish'd. Black mist thicken'd where it stood,
A hollow sounding wind rush'd through the chamber,
And rent in twain the deep embodied darkness
Which, curling round in many a pitchy volume,
On either side, did slowly roll away,
Like two huge waves of death.

And now the waving banners of the castle
In early breath of morn began to play,
And faintly through the lofty windows look'd
The doubtful grey-light on the silent chambers.
Sleep's deadly heaviness fled with the night,
And lighter airy fancies of the dawn
Confusedly floated in the half-waked mind,
Till roused with fuller beams of powerful light,
Up sprang the dreamers from their easy beds,
And saw with a relieved and thankful heart
The fair blue sky, the uncapp'd distant hills,
The woods, and streams, and valleys brightening gladly
In the blest light of heaven.

But neither hill, nor vale, nor wood, nor stream,
Nor yet the sun high riding in his strength,
That beauty gave to all, cheer'd Allener,
Who wist not when it rose, nor when it set.
Silent but troubled in his lofty chamber
Two days he sat and shunn'd the searching eyes,
The sidelong looks of many a friendly chief.
Oft in his downcast eye the round tear hung,
Whilst by his side he clench'd his trembling hand,
As if to rouse the ardour of his soul.
His seat beneath him shook,—high heaved his breast,
And burst the bracings of its tighten'd vestment.
The changing passions of his troubled soul
Pass'd with dark speed across his varied face;
Each passing shadow follow'd by a brother,
Like clouds across the moon in a wild storm:
So warr'd his doubtful mind, till by degrees
The storm subsided, calmer thoughts prevail'd;
Slow wore the gloom away like morning mist;
A gleam of joy spread o'er his lighten'd visage,
And from his eye-balls shot that vivid fire
Which kindles in the bosoms of the brave,
When the loud trumpet calls them forth to battle.
“Gird on mine armour,” said the rising youth,
“I am the son of Corvan!”

MISCELLANEOUS POETRY

WRITTEN SINCE THE YEAR 1790.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Thou pleasant noble Bard, of fame far spread,
Now art thou gather'd to the mighty dead,
And the dark coffin and the girdling mould
All that of thee is perishable, hold.
Mourners and mutes and weeping friends are gone;
The pageant's closed, and thou art left alone;
The cover'd treasure of a sacred spot,
That in the course of time shall never be forgot.

Soon those who loved, admired, and honoured thee,
In death's still garner-house will gathered be;
And great their number is, who have with pride
Look'd in thy manly face, sat by thy side,
And heard thy social converse,—words of cheer,
And words of power to charm the listening ear!

793

At death's despotic summons will they come,
Each in his turn from many a different home:
From town and muirland, cot and mansion warm,
The regal palace, and the homely farm.
Soldier and lawyer, merchant, priest and peer,
The squire, the laird of forty pounds a-year,
The crowned monarch and the simple hind,
Did all in thee a meet companion find.

For thee the peasant's wife her elbow chair,
Smiling a weicome, kindly set, and there
With fair exchange of story, saw and jest,
Thou wast to her a free and pleasant guest;
While nature, undisguised, repaid thee well
For time so spent. She and her mate could tell
Unawed, to such a man, their inmost mind;
They claim'd thee as their own, their kin, their kind.
From nature's book thou couldst extract a store,
More precious than the scholar's classic lore.

And how felt he, whose early rhymes had been
To perilous inspection given, and seen
By one whose brows were graced from every land,
With chaplets twined by many a skilful hand?
How beat his heart, as with the morning ray,
To Abbotsford he took his anxious way,
Imagining what shortly he must see,
Him in whose presence he so soon will be?
And how felt he, thy study's threshold pass'd,
When on thy real face his eyes were cast?
Thine open brow with glow of fancy heated;
Thy purring cat upon the table seated;
Thy sleeping hound that hath his easy lair
Close on the precincts of his master's chair;
The honest welcome of that sudden smile,
And outstretch'd hand, misgiving thoughts beguile.
But when thy cheerful greeting met his ear,
“Fie on thee! foolish heart, a man like this to fear!”
Thou wast to him, when blush'd the eastern sky,
A sage of awful mien and lofty eye;
When noon-day heat called forth th' industrious bee,
Thou wast the monitor both kind and free;
But when the changeful day was at an end,
Thou wast his easy cheerful host,—his friend.

When all whose eyes have e'er beheld thy face,
Departed are to their long resting-place,
Thou wilt exist in all thy magic then,
The cherish'd, speaking friend of living men.
In torrid climes, in regions cold and bleak,
In every land and language wilt thou speak.
Within the sick man's curtain'd couch thou'lt dwell;
Within the languid prisoner's cheerless cell;
Within the seaman's cabin, where the sound
Of many leagues of water murmurs round.
The buoyant school-boy will forego his play,
In secret nook alone with thee to stray;
The sober sage wise tomes will cast aside,
An hour with thee—a pleasant hour to bide.

Men of all nations, of all creeds, all ranks,
Will owe to thee an endless meed of thanks,
Which more than in thy passing, checker'd day
Of mortal life, they will delight to pay.
For who shall virtuous sympathies resign,
Or feed foul fancies from a page of thine?
No, none! thy writings as thy life are pure,
And their fair fame and influence will endure.

Not so with those where perverse skill pourtrays
Distorted, blighting passions; and displays,
Wild, maniac, selfish fiends to be admired,
As heroes with sublimest ardour fired.
Such are, to what thy faithful pen hath traced,
With all the shades of varied nature graced,
Like grim cartoons, for Flemish looms prepared,
To Titian's or Murillo's forms compared;
Stately or mean, theirs still are forms of truth,
Charming unlearn'd and learned—age and youth:
Not ecstasies express'd in critic phrase,
But silent smiles of pleasure speak their praise.

When those, who now thy recent death deplore,
Lie in the dust, thought of and known no more,
As poet and romancer, thy great name
Will brightly shine with undiminish'd fame;
And future sons of fancy fondly strive
To their compatriots works like thine to give.
But of the many who on her wide sea
Shall boldly spread their sails to follow thee,
More as romancers on thy track will gain,
Than those who emulate the poet's strain.
A tale like Waverley we yet may con,
But shall we read a lay like Marmion?
And fearlessly I say it, though I know
The voice of public favour says not so:
For story-telling is an art, I ween,
Which hath of old most fascinating been,
And will be ever,—strong in ready power,
To combat languor and the present hour;
And o'er these common foes will oft prevail,
When Homer's theme and Milton's song would fail.
But strong in both, there is in sooth no need
Against thy left hand for thy right to plead:
Think as we list, one truth, alas! is plain,
We ne'er shall look upon thy like again.

Thy country, bounded by her subject sea,
Adds to her fame by giving birth to thee;
In distant lands yon fancied group behold,
Where busy traders meet in quest of gold;
Motley and keen, all gather'd round a youth,
Who simply stands unconscious of the truth,
Look at him wistfully, and hark, they speak—
The Turk and Jew, Armenian and Greek,
Their rapid lips the whisper'd words betraying—
“He's from the land of Walter Scott,” they're saying.
That Caledonian, too, with more good will
They greet as of thy closer kindred still:

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But who is he, who, standing by their side,
Raises his head with quickly-kindled pride,
As if he meant to look the others down?
Ay; he is from thine own romantic town.

Thou art in time's long course a land-mark high,
A beacon blazing to the nether sky,
To which, as far and wide it shoots its rays,
Landsmen and mariners, with wistful gaze,
From ship, and shore, and mountain turn their sight,
And hail the glorious signal of the night.

Oh Dryburgh! often trod by pilgrim feet
Shall be thy hallow'd turf; solemn and sweet,
Will be the gentle sorrow utter'd there,
The whisper'd blessing and the quiet prayer.
Flower, herb, or leaf by children yet unborn
Will often from thy verdant turf be torn,
And kept in dear memorial of the place
Where thou art laid with a departed race;
Where every thing around, tower, turret, tree,
River, and glen, and mountain, wood and lea,
And ancient ruin, by the moonlight made
More stately with alternate light and shade,
Thy once beloved Melrose,—all speak of thee,
With mingled voices through the gale of morn,
Of evening, noon, and night, most sadly borne,
A dirge-like wailing, a mysterious moan,
That sadly seems to utter “He is gone!”

To God's forgiving mercy and his love—
To fellowship with blessed souls above—
Bright hosts redeem'd by Him whose voice of hope
Revealed th' immortal spirit's boundless scope—
We leave thee, though within its narrow cell,
Thy honour'd dust must for a season dwell—
Our friend, our bard, our brother,—fare thee well!

Hampstead, November, 1832.

EPILOGUE

TO THE THEATRICAL REPRESENTATION AT STRAWBERRY HILL.

[_]

WRITTEN BY JOANNA BAILLIE, AND SPOKEN BY THE HON. ANNE S. DAMER, NOVEMBER, 1800.

While fogs along the Thames' damp margin creep,
And cold winds through his leafless willows sweep;
While fairy elves, whose summer sport had been
To foot it lightly on the moonlight green,
Now, hooded close, in many a cowering form,
Troop with the surly spirits of the storm;
While by the blazing fire, with saddled nose,
The sage turns o'er his leaves of tedious prose,
And o'er their new-dealt cards, with eager eye,
Good dowagers exult, or inly sigh,
And blooming maids from silken work-bags pour
(Like tangled sea-weed on the vexed shore)
Of patchwork, netting, fringe, a strange and motley store;
While all, attempting many a different mode,
Would from their shoulders hitch time's heavy load,
This is our choice, in comic sock bedight,
To wrestle with a long November night.—
“In comic sock!” methinks indignant cries
Some grave fastidious friend with angry eyes,
Scowling severe, “No more the phrase abuse;
So shod, indeed there had been some excuse;
But in these walls, a once well-known retreat,
Where taste and learning kept a favourite seat,
Where Gothic arches with a solemn shade
Should o'er the thoughtful mind their influence spread;
Where pictures, vases, busts, and precious things
Still speak of sages, poets, heroes, kings,
On which the stranger looks with pensive gaze,
And thinks upon the worth of other days:
Like foolish children, in their mimic play,
Confined at grandame's in a rainy day,
With paltry farce and all its bastard train,
Grotesque and broad, such precincts to profane!
It is a shame!—But no, I will not speak,
I feel the blood rise mantling to my cheek.”
Indeed, wise sir!—
But he who o'er our heads those arches bent,
And stored these relies dear to sentiment,
More mild than you with grave pedantic pride,
Would not have ranged him on your surly side.

But now to you, who on our frolic scene,
Have look'd well pleased, and gentle critics been;
Nor would our homely humour proudly spurn,
To you the good, the gay, the fair, I turn,
And thank you all. If here our feeble powers
Have lightly wing'd for you some wintry hours;
Should these remember'd scenes in fancy live,
And to some future minutes pleasure give,
To right good end we've worn our mumming guise,
And we're repaid and happy—ay, and wise.
Who says we are not, on his sombre birth
Gay fancy smiled not, nor heart-light'ning mirth:
Home let him hie to his unsocial rest,
And heavy sit the nightmare on his breast!

THE BANISHED MAN.

ON A DISTANT VIEW OF HIS COUNTRY, WHICH HE IS QUITTING FOR EVER.

Dear distant land, whose mountains blue
Still bound this wild and watery view,—
Dear distant land, where fate has thrown
All that my heart delights to own!

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Blest be yon gleam of partial light,
Which gives thee to my parting sight!

Those well-known cliffs, whose shadows throw
Soft coolness o'er the beach below,
Where I so oft, a happy child,
Picking or shell or weed, beguiled
Light reckless hours, that pass'd away,
Like night-sparks on the briny spray,—
Dear pleasant shore, thy sandy bed,
These feet unblest no more shall tread!

Still thy rich vales with autumn's store,
And cheerful hamlets mottled o'er;
Thy up-land peaks whose stately forms
Are mantled oft in gathering storms;
Thy blue streams widening on their way,
Thy broad lakes gleaming to the day;
Thy smoking towns, whose towers of war
And dusky spires are seen afar,
Thy children's boastful pride will raise,
And fix the admiring stranger's gaze,—
But now, for ever lost to me,
These eyes unblest no more shall see.

Thy wild pipe, touch'd with rustic hands,
Thy reapers' song from merry bands,
Thy boatman's call and dashing oar,
Thy falling torrent's deafening roar,
Thy busy city's humming sound,
With all its sweet bells chiming round,
Far, on a strange and cheerless shore,
These ears unblest shall hear no more.

Happy is he, beyond all gain,
Who holds in thee his free domain,
And roves with careless feet at will
O'er his paternal mead and hill,
And stores the fruit his harvests yield
From his own orchard and his field!
Happy is he who leads at dawn
His harness'd steers across thy lawn!
Yea, happy he, bent down with toil,
Whose glistening brow bedews thy soil!

How gently heaves the evening sea,
As all things homeward tend to thee!
Borne lightly on the gentle gale,
Now homeward points each little sail;
Far, screaming from their airy height,
The sea-fowl homeward take their flight;
The floating plank and spreading weed.
Upon the setting current speed;
The light cloud passes on the wind,
While I alone am left behind.

Ah, woe is me! where shall I stray,
And whither bend my reckless way?
A waste of world before me lies,
But in the thought my spirit dies.
There is no home nor joy for me,
My native land, removed from thee.
For me the sun of heaven doth shine
Upon no hills, no plains, but thine;
For me the voice of kindness sounds
Only within thy cheerful bounds.

Rise, surgy deep; ye wild winds, blow,
And whelm my bark these waves below!
Then bear me to my native land,
A breathless corse upon her strand:
Some hand, in pity of the dead,
Will lay her greensward on my head,
And there for ever let me rest,
As sleeps the froward child, still'd on his mother's breast!

TO A CHILD.

Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,
And curly pate, and merry eye,
And arm and shoulder round and sleek,
And soft and fair?—thou urchin sly!

What boots it who with sweet caresses
First call'd thee his,—or squire or hind?
Since thou in every wight that passes,
Dost now a friendly play-mate find.

Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning,
As fringed eye-lids rise and fall;
Thy shyness, swiftly from me running,
Is infantine coquetry all.

But far a-field thou hast not flown;
With mocks and threats, half lisp'd, half spoken,
I feel thee pulling at my gown,
Of right good will thy simple token.

And thou must laugh and wrestle too,
A mimic warfare with me waging;
To make, as wily lovers do,
Thy after-kindness more engaging.

The wilding rose, sweet as thyself,
And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure:
I'd gladly part with worldly pelf
To taste again thy youthful pleasure.

But yet, for all thy merry look,
Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming,
When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,
The weary spell or horn-book thumbing.

796

Well; let it be!—through weal and wo,
Thou knowst not now thy future range;
Life is a motley, shifting show,
And thou a thing of hope and change!

SONG

[_]

(TO THE SCOTCH AIR OF “MY NANNY O.”)

Wi' lang-legg'd Tam the broose I tried,
Though best o' foot, what wan he O?
The first kiss of the blowzy bride,
But I the heart of Nanny O.

Like swallow wheeling round her tower,
Like rock-bird round her cranny O,
Sinsyne I hover near her bower,
And list and look for Nanny O.

I'm nearly wild, I'm nearly daft,
Wad fain be douce, but canna' O;
There's ne'er a laird of muir or craft,
Sae blithe as I wi' Nanny O.

She's sweet, she's young, she's fair, she's good,
The brightest maid of many O,
Though a' the world our love withstood,
I'd woo and win my Nanny O.

Her angry mither scaulds sae loud,
And darkly glooms her granny O;
But think they he can e'er be cow'd,
Wha loves and lives for Nanny O?

The spae-wife on my loof that blink't
Is but a leeing ranny O,
For weel kens she my fate is link't
In spite of a' to Nanny O.

LONDON.

It is a goodly sight through the clear air,
From Hampstead's heathy height to see at once
England's vast capital in fair expanse,
Towers, belfries, lengthen'd streets, and structures fair.
St. Paul's high dome amidst the vassal bands
Of neighb'ring spires, a regal chieftain stands,
And over fields of ridgy roofs appear,
With distance softly tinted, side by side,
In kindred grace, like twain of sisters dear,
The Towers of Westminster, her Abbey's pride;
While, far beyond, the hills of Surrey shine
Through thin soft haze, and show their wavy line.
View'd thus, a goodly sight! but when survey'd
Through denser air when moisten'd winds prevail,
In her grand panoply of smoke array'd,
While clouds aloft in heavy volumes sail,
She is sublime.—She seems a curtain'd gloom
Connecting heaven and earth,—a threat'ning sign of doom.
With more than natural height, rear'd in the sky
'Tis then St. Paul's arrests the wondering eye;
The lower parts in swathing mist conceal'd,
The higher through some half spent shower reveal'd,
So far from earth removed, that well, I trow,
Did not its form man's artful structure show,
It might some lofty alpine peak be deem'd,
The eagle's haunt, with cave and crevice seam'd.
Stretch'd wide on either hand, a rugged screen,
In lurid dimness, nearer streets are seen
Like shoreward billows of a troubled main,
Arrested in their rage. Through drizzly rain,
Cataracts of tawny sheen pour from the skies,
Of furnace smoke black curling columns rise,
And many tinted vapours, slowly pass
O'er the wide draping of that pictured mass.

So shows by day this grand imperial town,
And, when o'er all the night's black stole is thrown,
The distant traveller doth with wonder mark
Her luminous canopy athwart the dark,
Cast up, from myriads of lamps that shine
Along her streets in many a starry line:—
He wondering looks from his yet distant road,
And thinks the northern streamers are abroad.
“What hollow sound is that?” approaching near,
The roar of many wheels breaks on his ear.
It is the flood of human life in motion!
It is the voice of a tempestuous ocean!
With sad but pleasing awe his soul is fill'd,
Scarce heaves his breast, and all within is still'd,
As many thoughts and feelings cross his mind,—
Thoughts, mingled, melancholy, undefined,
Of restless, reckless man, and years gone by,
And Time fast wending to Eternity.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM SOTHEBY, ESQ.

Learning and fancy were combined
To stimulate his manly mind;
Open, generous, and acute,
Steady of purpose, in pursuit
Ardent and hopeful; all the while
In child-like ignorance of guile.
There are who say that envy lurks conceal'd
Where genius strives, by slightest traits reveal'd,
A truth, if truth it be, by him forgot,
He turn'd his eyes away and saw it not.

797

Success in others, frank and free,
He hail'd with words of friendly glee.
Praise given to them he could not feel
Did aught from his own portion steal;
And when offence, design'd and rude,
Did on his peaceful path obtrude,
He soon forgave the paltry pain,
Nor could resentment in his breast retain.
His was the charity of right goodwill,
That loves, confides, believes and thinks no ill.
He, by his Saviour's noble precepts led,
Still follow'd what was right with heart and head.
Religion did with lofty honour dwell
Within his bosom's sacred cell.

But said I learning did in him agree
With fancy, union rare! how could it be?
His eighteenth year beheld him fondly cheering
His warlike steed and on its back careering;
A gay dragoon with spur on heel,
And brandish'd blade of flashing steel;
With wealth at will, the world before him,
To go where whim or fashion bore him;
No friendly tutor by his side,
His academic course to guide;
No classic honours to invite,
No emulation to excite.
But, in default of these, his soul
With native fire supplied the whole;
And neither Hall nor College claim
Honour from him, whose honour'd name
Shall henceforth with the highest stand,
The most efficient scholars of our land.
To him what meed of thanks th' unlearned owe!
And e'en the learned, who best his merits know.
With Homer, Virgil, Wieland, all converse
Like true compatriots in his pliant verse.
Pliant, but elevated, graceful, bold,
And worthy of the Bards of old.

Nor will we thanklessly peruse
The beauties of his native muse,
Where lofty thoughts and feelings sweet,
And moral truths commingling meet,
Where fancy spreads her absent scene,
The flowery mead, the forest green;
The plains, the mountain peaks, the fanes sublime,
The ruins long revered of Italy's fair clime.
Yea, thanks be his, heart-given and kind,
For all his pen has left behind!

Though bitters in his cup were mix'd,
And in his heart sharp arrows fix'd,
The current of his life ran clear;
With virtuous love and duteous children blest,
He journey'd onward to the Christian's rest,
And happy was his long career.
Social and joyous to the end,
Around him gather'd many a friend,
Whose minds his dear remembrance hold,
Though seventy years and more
His head had silver'd o'er,
As one who ne'er was old.
Rejoicing in his well-earn'd fame,
They oft repeat his honour'd name,
And as their thoughts on all his virtues dwell,
With sorrow, cheer'd and sweet, bid him a last farewell.

VERSES TO OUR OWN FLOWERY KIRTLED SPRING.

Welcome, sweet time of buds and bloom, renewing
The earliest objects of delight, and wooing
The notice of the grateful heart! for then
Long hidden, beauteous friends are seen again;
From the cleft soil, like babes from cradle peeping,
At the glad light, where soundly they've been sleeping;
Like chickens in their downy coats, just freeing
From the chipp'd shell, their new-found active being;
Like spotted butterfly, its wings up-rearing,
Half from the bursting chrysalis appearing.
Sweet season, so bedight, so gay, so kind,
Right welcome to the sight and to the mind!

Now many a “thing that pretty is” delays
The wanderer's steps beneath the sun's soft rays;
Gay daffodils, bent o'er the watery gleam,
Doubling their flicker'd image in the stream;
The woody nook where bells of brighter blue
Have clothed the ground in heaven's ethereal hue;
The lane's high sloping bank, where pale primrose
With hundreds of its gentle kindred blows;
And speckled daisies that on uplands bare
Their round eyes opening, scatter gladness there.
Man looks on Nature with a grateful smile,
And thinks of Nature's bounteous Lord the while.

Now urchins range the brake in joyous bands,
With new-cull'd nosegays in their dimpled hands.
The cottage maid her household task-work cheats
In mead or glen to pick the choicest sweets,
With skilful care preserved for Sunday morn,
Her bosom's simple kerchief to adorn.
And e'en the beldame, as with sober tread,
She takes her sunning in the grassy mead,
Stoops down with eager look and finds, well pleased,
Such herbs, as in a chest or Bible squeezed,
In former days were deem'd, by folks of sense,
A fragrant wholesome virtue to dispense,
And oft on rafter'd roof, in bunches strung,
With other winter stores were duly hung.

798

But not alone in simple scenes like these,
Thy beauteous offspring our soothed senses please;
I' the city's busy streets, by rich men's doors,
On whose white steps the flower-girl sets her stores,
In wicker basket group'd to lure the sight,
They stop and tempt full many a wistful wight.
Flowers though they be by artful culture bred,
Upon the suburb seedsman's crowded bed,
By fetid manure cherish'd, gorgeous, bright,
Like civic madams dress'd for festive night,
Anemonies of crimson, purple, yellow,
And tulips streak'd with colours rich and mellow,
Brown wallflowers and jonquils of golden glare,
In dapper posies tied like shop-man's ware,
Yet still they whisper something to the heart,
Which feelings kind and gentle thoughts impart.

Gay sight! that oft a touch of pleasure gives
E'en to the saddest, rudest soul that lives—
Gay sight! the passing carman grins thereat,
And sticks a purchased posie in his hat,
And cracks his whip and treads the rugged streets
With waggish air, and jokes with all he meets:
The sickly child from nursery window spies
The tempting show and for a nosegay cries,
Which placed in china mug, by linnet's cage,
Will for a time his listless mind engage:
The dame precise moves at the flower-girl's cry,
Laying her patch-work or her netting by,
And from the parlour window casts her eye,
Then sends across the way her tiny maid;
And presently on mantelpiece display'd,
Between fair ornaments of china ware,
Small busts and lacker'd parrots station'd there,
Tulips, anemonies, and wallflowers shine,
And strangely with their new compeers combine
Each visitor with wonder to excite,
Who looks and smiles and lauds the motley sight:
That even to the prison's wretched thrall,
Those simple gems of nature will recall.
What soothes the sadness of his dreary state,
Yon narrow windows, through whose iron grate
A squalid countenance is dimly traced,
Gazing on flowers in broken pitcher placed
Upon the sooty sill, and withering there,
Sad emblems of himself! most piteously declare.

Of what in gentle lady's curtain'd room,
On storied stands and gilded tripods bloom,
The richest, rarest flowers of every clime,
Whose learned names suit not my simple rhyme,
I speak not! lovely as they are, we find
They visit more the senses than the mind.
Their nurture comes not from the clouds of heaven,
But from a painted watering-pot is given;
And, in return for daily care, with faint
And sickly sweetness hall and chamber taint.
I will not speak of those; we feel and see
They have no kindred, our own Spring, with thee!

Welcome, sweet season! though with rapid pace
Thy course is run, and we can scarcely grace
Thy joyous coming with a grateful cheer,
Ere loose-leaved flowers and leaflets shrunk and sere,
And flaccid bending stems, sad bodings! tell
We soon must bid our fleeting friend farewell.

LINES TO A PARROT.

In these our days of sentiment
When youthful poets all lament
Some dear lost joy, some cruel maid;
Old friendship changed and faith betray'd;
The world's cold frown and every ill
That tender hearts with anguish fill;
Loathing this world and all its folly,
In lays most musical and melancholy,—
Touching a low and homely string,
May poet of a Parrot sing
With dignity uninjured? say!—
No; but a simple rhymester may.
Well then, I see thee calm and sage,
Perch'd on the summit of thy cage,
With broad, hook'd beak, and plumage green,
Changing to azure in the light,
Gay pinions tipp'd with scarlet bright
And, strong for mischief, use or play,
Thick talons, crisp'd with silver gray,—
A gallant bird, I ween!

What courtly dame, for ball-room drest—
What garter'd lord in silken vest—
On wedding morn what country bride
With groom bedizen'd by her side—
What youngsters in their fair-day gear,
Did ever half so fine appear?
Alas! at ball, or church, or fair,
Were ne'er assembled visions rare
Of moving creatures all so gay
As in thy native woods, where day
In blazing torrid brightness play'd
Through checker'd boughs, and gently made
A ceaseless morris-dance of sheen and shade!
In those blest woods, removed from man,
Thy early being first began,
'Mid gay compeers, who, blest as thou,
Hopp'd busily from bough to bough,
Robbing each loaded branch at pleasure
Of berries, buds, and kernel'd treasure.
Then rose aloft with outspread wing,
Then stoop'd on flexile twig to swing,
Then coursed and circled through the air,
Mate chasing mate, full many a pair.
It would have set one's heart a-dancing
To've seen their varied feathers glancing,

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And thought how many happy things
Creative Goodness into being brings.

But now how changed! it is thy doom
Within a wall'd and window'd room
To hold thy home, and (all forgot
The traces of thy former lot),
Clutching the wires with progress slow,
Still round and round thy cage to go;
Or cross the carpet:—alter'd case!
This now is all thy daily travel's space.

Yet here thou art a cherish'd droll,
Known by the name of Pretty Poll;
Oft fed by lady's gentle hand
With sops and sugar at command,
And sometimes too a nut or cherry,
Which in thy claws to beak and eye
Thou seemst to raise right daintily,
Turning it oft, as if thou still
Wert scanning it with cautious skill,
Provoking urchins near to laughter loud and merry.
See, gather'd round, a rosy band,
With eager upcast eyes they stand,
Marking thy motions and withal
Delighting on thy name to call;
And hear, like human speech, reply
Come from thy beak most curiously.
They shout, they mow, they grin, they giggle,
Clap hands, hoist arms, and shoulders wriggle;
O here, well may we say or sing,
That learning is a charming thing!
For thou, 'neath thy wire-woven dome,
A learned creature hast become;
And hast, by dint of oft repeating,
Got words by rote, the vulgar cheating,
Which, once in ten times well applied,
Are to the skies with praises cried.
So letter'd dunces oft impose
On simple fools their studied prose.
Ay; o'er thy round though unwigg'd head,
Full many a circling year has sped,
Since thou kept terms within thy college,
From many tutors, short and tall,
In braid or bonnet, cap or caul,
Imbibing wondrous stores of seeming knowledge.
And rarely Bachelor of Arts
Or Master (dare we say it?) imparts
To others such undoubted pleasure
From all his stores of classic treasure:
And ladies sage, whose learned saws
To cognoscenti friends give laws,
Rarely, I trow, can so excite
A listening circle with delight,
And rarely their acquirements shine
Through such a lengthen'd course as thine.

The grannams of this group so gay,
Who round thee now their homage pay,
Belike have in such youthful glee
With admiration gazed on thee;
And yet no wrinkled line betrays
The long course of thy lengthen'd days.
Thy bark of life has kept afloat
As on a shoreless sea, where not
Or change or progress may be traced;
Time hath with thee been leaden-paced.

But ah! proud beauty, on whose head
Some three-score years no blight have shed,
Untoward days will come at length,
When thou, of spirit reft and strength,
Wilt mope and pine, year after year,
Which all one moulting-time appear,
And this bright plumage, dull and rusty,
Will seem neglected, shrunk and dusty,
And scarce a feather's rugged stump
Be left to grace thy fretted rump.
Mew'd in a corner of thy home,
Having but little heart to roam,
Thou'lt wink and peer—a wayward elf,
And croon and clutter to thyself,
Screaming at visitors with spite,
And opening wide thy beak to bite.

Yet in old age still wilt thou find
Some constant friend thy wants to mind,
Whose voice thou'lt know, whose hand thou'lt seek,
Turning to it thy feather'd cheek;
Grateful to her, though cross and froward
To all beside, and it will go hard
But she will love thee, e'en when life's last goal
Thou'st reach'd, and call thee still her Pretty Poll.

Now from these lines, young friends, I know
A lesson might be drawn to show,
How, like our bird, on life's vain stage,
Pass human childhood, prime, and age:
But conn'd comparisons, I doubt,
Might put your patience to the rout,
And all my pains small thanks receive;
So this to wiser folks I leave.

LINES TO A TEAPOT.

On thy carved sides, where many a vivid dye
In easy progress leads the wandering eye,
A distant nation's manners we behold,
To the quick fancy whimsically told.

The small-eyed beauty and her Mandarin,
Who o'er the rail of garden arbour lean,

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In listless ease; and rocks of arid brown,
On whose sharp crags, in gay profusion blown,
The ample loose-leaved rose appears to grace
The skilful culture of the wondrous place;
The little verdant plat, where with his mate
The golden pheasant holds his gorgeous state,
With gaily crested pate and twisted neck,
Turn'd jauntily his glossy wings to peck;
The smooth-streak'd water of a paly gray,
O'er which the checker'd bridge lends ready way,
While, by its margin moor'd, the little boat
Doth with its oars and netted awning float;
A scene present all soft delights to take in,
A paradise for grave Grandee of Pekin.
With straight small spout, that from thy body fair
Diverges with a smart vivacious air,
And round, arch'd handle with gold tracery bound,
And dome-shaped lid with bud or button crown'd,
Thou standst complete, fair subject of my rhymes,
A goodly vessel of the olden times!

But far less pleasure yields this fair display
Than that enjoy'd upon thy natal day,
When round the potter's wheel their chins upraising,
An urchin group in silent wonder gazing,
Stood and beheld, as, touch'd with magic skill,
The whirling clay was fashion'd to his will,—
Saw mazy motion stopp'd, and then the toy
Complete before their eyes, and grinn'd for joy;
Clapping their naked sides with blythe halloo,
And curtail'd words of praise, like ting, tung, too!
The brown-skinn'd artist, with his unclothed waist
And girded loins, who, slow and patient, traced,
Beneath his humble shed, this fair array
Of pictured forms upon thy surface gay,
I will not stop in fancy's sight to place,
But speed me on my way with quicken'd pace.
Pack'd in a chest with others of thy kind,
The sport of waves and every shifting wind,
The Ocean thou hast cross'd, and thou mayst claim
The passing of the Line to swell thy fame,
With as good observation of the thing
As some of those who in a hammock swing.

And now thou'rt seen in Britain's polish'd land,
Held up to public view in waving hand
Of boastful auctioneer, whilst dames of pride
In morning farthingals, scarce two yards wide,
With collar'd lap-dogs snarling in their arms,
Contend in rival keenness for thy charms.
And certes well they might, for there they found thee
With all thy train of vassal cups around thee,
A prize which thoughts by day, and dreams by night,
Could dwell on for a week with fresh delight.

Our pleased imagination now pourtrays
The glory of thy high official days,
When thou on board of rich japan wast set,
Round whose supporting table gaily met
At close of eve, the young, the learn'd, the fair,
And e'en philosophy and wit were there.
'Midst basons, cream-pots, cups and saucers small,
Thou stoodst the ruling chieftain of them all;
And e'en the kettle of Potosi's ore,
Whose ample cell supplied thy liquid store,
Beneath whose base the sapphire flame was burning,
Above whose lid the wreathy smoke was turning,
Though richly chased and burnish'd it might be,
Was yet, confess'd, subordinate to thee.
But O! when beauty's hand thy weight sustain'd,
The climax of thy glory was attain'd!
Back from her elevated elbow fell
Its three-tired ruffle, and display'd the swell
And gentle rounding of her lily arm,
The eyes of wistful sage or beau to charm—
A sight at other times but dimly seen
Through veiling folds of point or colberteen.
With pleasing toil, red glow'd her dimpled cheek,
Bright glanced her eyes beneath her forehead sleek,
And as she pour'd the beverage, through the room
Was spread its fleeting, delicate perfume.
Then did bright wit and cheerful fancy play
With all the passing topics of the day.
So delicate, so varied, and so free
Was the heart's pastime, then inspired by thee,
That goblet, bowl, or flask could boast no power
Of high excitement, in their reigning hour,
Compared to thine;—red wildfire of the fen,
To summer moonshine of some fairy glen.

But now the honours of thy course are past,
For what of earthly happiness may last!
Although in modern drawing-room, a board
May fragrant tea from menial hands afford,
Which, pour'd in dull obscurity hath been,
From pot of vulgar ware, in nook unseen,
And pass'd in hasty rounds our eyes before,
Thou in thy graceful state art seen no more.
And what the changeful fleeting crowd, who sip
The unhonour'd beverage with contemptuous lip,
Enjoy amidst the tangled, giddy maze,
Their languid eye—their listless air betrays.
What though at times we see a youthful fair
By white clothed board her watery drug prepare,
At further corner of a noisy room,
Where only casual stragglers deign to come,
Like tavern's busy bar-maid; still I say,
The honours of thy course are pass'd away.

Again hath auctioneer thy value praised,
Again have rival bidders on thee gazed,
But not the gay, the young, the fair, I trow!
No; sober connoisseurs, with wrinkled brow

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And spectacles on nose, thy parts inspect,
And by grave rules approve thee or reject.
For all the bliss which china charms afford,
My lady now has ceded to her lord.
And wisely too does she forego the prize,
Since modern pin-money will scarce suffice
For all the trimmings, flounces, beads and lace,
The thousand needful things that needs must grace
Her daily changed attire.—And now on shelf
Of china closet placed, a cheerless elf,
Like moody statesman in his rural den,
From power dismiss'd—like prosperous citizen,
From shop or change set free—untoward bliss!
Thou rest'st in most ignoble uselessness.

THE MOODY SEER:

A BALLAD.

“The sun shines in a cloudless sky,
The lake is blue and still;
Up, Flora! on thine errand hie,
And climb the eyrie hill;

“And tell my ancient kinsman there
To leave his lonely tower,
And at our yearly feast to share
The merry social hour.”

“Oh mother! do not bid me go;
I scarce can draw my breath,
When I see his eyes move to and fro,
His lowering brows beneath;

“His moving lips, that give no sound,
My very spirits quell,
When he stares upon the harmless ground
As 'twere the mouth of hell.”

“Fy, foolish child!—on such a day
Aught ill thou needst not fear,
And thy cousin Malcolm will the way
With tale or ballad cheer.”

The maiden blush'd and turn'd her head,
And saw young Malcolm near,
And she thought no more of scath or dread,
Or the looks of the moody Seer.

And now, bound for the mountain hold,
The youthful pair are seen,
He like a stripling frank and bold,
She like a fairy queen.

With merry songs and merry talk
The long way cheated he,
And pluck'd her blue-bells from the stalk,
And blossoms from the tree.

Time (how they wist not) swiftly ran,
Till scarcely half a rood
From the opening gate of the gifted man,
With beating hearts they stood.

Then issued from that creaking gate
A figure bent and spare,
In checker'd garb of ancient state,
With grizzled, shaggy hair.

By motion, look, and mien, he seem'd
Of gentle pedigree,
Well struck with years, you might have deem'd,
But more with misery.

He raised his face to the youthful pair,
Gramercy! can it be?
There passeth a glance of pleasure there,
And a smile of courtesy.

“My cousin's daughter near my hold!
Some message kind, I trow.
But no, fair maid, I am too old
To mix in revels now.

“And who is this so gay and young?—
No, no! thou needst not tell;
His mother is from Garelace sprung,
His sire from bold Glenfell.

“His mother's smile is on his face,
His father's form I see,
Those well-knit limbs of active grace,
Those feet—it cannot be!

“Out, out! mine eyes see falsely! toss'd
And drifted by the wind,
Some beldame's kerchief hath been lost,
And round his brogues hath twined.”

Thus muttering low, with voice unsweet,
He turn'd his face aside,
And hastily snatch'd at Malcolm's feet,
But the close-clutch'd palm was void.

“Why gropest thou with thy trembling hand?
Thinkst thou my feet are bound?
Let loose thy house-guard, famous Brand,
And I'll out-run the hound.”

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“Ah! swiftest race is soonest o'er,
Like stream of the mountain brook:
Go home, and con some sober lore,
Betake thee to bead and book.”

“Yes, I will pray to Mary mild,
And my first request shall be,
That from all fancies grim and wild,
Thou mayst deliver'd be.”

Then anger tinged the maid's round check—
“Come, Malcolm, come away!
When Hallow-e'en blows chill and bleak,
Macvorely will join our play.”

“When Hallow-e'en blows bleak and chill
An old man's seat prepare,
For if life and strength be in him still,
Macvorely will be there.”

The old man sigh'd, as down the hill
They took their homeward way,
And he heard afar so loud and shrill
Young Malcolm's joyous lay.

'Tis Hallow-e'en in Flora's home,
Bright shines the fir-wood flame;
From distant halls and holds are come
Maid, youngster, laird, and dame.

Their friets are tried true love to prove—
Friets taught by warlock lore,
And mingled lovers gladly move
Upon the crowded floor.

And flaming nuts are keenly watch'd
By many a youthful eye,
And coleworts, from the dark mould snatch'd,
Are borne triumphantly.

Then gay strathspeys are featly danced
To the pibroch's gallant sound,
While the sighted man like one intranced,
In the honour'd chair is found.

But who comes now so buoyantly,
In flaunting kirtle dress'd,
Who snaps her fingers, capers high,
And foots it with the best?

She leaps and crosses, wheels and turns,
Like mawkin on the lea,
Till every kindred bosom burns
Such joyous sight to see.

Her dark eyes gleam'd, and her ribands stream'd,
And bells and bracelets rung,
And the charm'd rout raised a joyous shout
As her arms aloft she flung.

Out spoke a bachelor, Glenore,
Of threescore years and ten,
And well respected heretofore
By prudent, wary men:

“O were I now as I have been
(Vain wish! alas how vain!)
I would plight my faith to that winsome queen,
And with my freedom twain.”

But nought cared she for laugh, or shout,
Or cheers from every tongue;
She circled in, and she circled out,
Through all the yielding throng,

Until before the honour'd chair
With sliding step she came,
And dropp'd a sober curtsey there
To the Seer of elrich fame.

But ah! how different is his face
From those so blithe and boon!
Tears down his cheeks the big tears chase,
Like thunder-drops in June.

“Nay, weep not, kind though hapless Seer;
Forgive my foolish glee,
That, flaunting thus in woman's gear,
Thought to deceive e'en thee.

“I've danced before thee, vain and proud,
In crimson kirtle drest.”
“Thou'st danced before me in a shroud,
Raised mid-way to thy breast.”

Dull grew the sound of the crowded hall,
Yet Malcolm danced again,
And did for rousing pibrochs call,
But pipers piped in vain.

Before the early cock had crow'd,
Withdrawn was every guest;
Ere on high Ben a sun-beam glow'd,
All were retired to rest.

A goodly ship at anchor rides,
With freight of British store,
And a little boat from her shadow glides,
Swift nearing to the shore.

And, on that shore, kind hearts and true,
Small groups of kinsfolk stand,
To bid a much-loved youth adieu,
Who quits his native land.

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There Flora and her mother dear
Heave many a heavy sigh,
And by them is the moody Seer,
With red and lowering eye.

“Weep not, dear aunt!” says the parting wight,
“Weep not, my play-mate sweet!
Hope beckons me to fortune bright,
And we again shall meet.

“And, good Macvorely, send me hence
With thy blessing; on me pour
Some mutter'd spell of sure defence,
When wild waves round me roar.

“This band that round my neck is tied,
Is the gift of a maiden dear,
Fenced with thy potent spell beside,
What danger need I fear?”

“I see no band around thy neck,
But the white shroud gather'd high:
Yon breakers rage, and a stranded wreck
Doth on the dark rocks lie.

“A solemn requiem for the dead
Is the gift I will give to thee;
O that, to save thee, in thy stead,
The same were sung for me!”

Yet still the youth, with parting cheer,
Extends to all his hand;
Embraces those who are most dear,
And hastens from the land.

His form reflected on the wave,
As the lessening boat withdrew,
Of that joyous youth, so boon and brave,
Was their last heart-moving view.

In Flora's home the midnight blast
Rose with a wailing moan,
And all had to their chambers past,
And the maiden sat alone.

She thought of the seaman's perilous case
As the loud gust went and came,
And she gazed on the fire with a woeful face,
And watch'd the flickering flame.

The flickering flame burnt dull and blue,
And the icy chill of fear
Pass'd o'er her head; then well she knew
Some ghastly thing was near.

She turn'd her head the room to scan,
To wot if aught was there;
And she saw a figure wet and wan
Three paces from her chair.

Fix'd were the eyes of its pallid face,
Like those who walk in sleep,
And she started up and pray'd for grace
With a voice suppress'd and deep.

Then gazing on that face, at length,
She knew the features dear;
She spoke,—affection lent her strength,
“Malcolm, how cam'st thou here?”

“How spirits travel, dear, dear maid!
No living wight may know,
But far from hence my corse is laid,
The deep green waves below.”

“O Malcolm say, in this world of care
Is there aught I can do for thee?”
“When thou bendest thy knees in humble prayer,
My Flora, pray for me;

“And let my kinsfolk know the fate
Of one so young and vain.
And now farewell, till time's last date,
When we shall meet again.”

The figure faded from her sight,
And the angry tempest fell,
And she heard through the stilly air of night
A distant passing bell.

THE MERRY BACHELOR

[_]

(FOUNDED ON THE OLD SCOTCH SONG OF “WILLIE WAS A WANTON WAG.”)

Willie was a wanton wag,
The blithest lad that e'er I saw;
Of field and floor he was the brag,
And carried a' the gree awa'.

And was na' Willie stark and keen,
When he gaed to the wappen-schaw;
He won the prizes on the green,
And cheer'd the feasters in the ha'.

His head was wise, his heart was leal,
His truth was fair without a flaw;
And aye by every honest chiel
His word was holden as a law.

And was na' Willie still our pride
When, in his gallant gear array'd,
He wan the broose and kiss'd the bride,
While pipes the wedding welcome play'd.

804

And aye he led the foremost dance,
Wi' winsome maidens buskit braw,
And gave to each a merry glance
That stole, awhile, her heart awa'.

The bride forgot her simple groom,
And every lass her trysted Jo;
Yet nae man's brow on Will could gloom,
They liked his rousing blitheness so.

Our good Mess John laugh'd wi' the lave;
The dominie for a' his lere
Could scarcely like himsell behave,
While a' was glee and revel there.

A joyous sight was Willie's face,
Baith far and near in ilka spot;
In ha' received wi' kindly grace,
And welcomed to the lowly cot.

The carline left her housewife's wark,
The bairnies shouted Willie's name;
The colley too would fidge and bark
And wag his tail when Willie came.

But Willie now has cross'd the main,
And he has been sae lang awa'!
Oh! would he were return'd again
To drive the dowffness frae us a'!

TWO SONGS.

I.

Come rouse thee, lady fair,
The sun is shining brightly,
High through the cloadless air
The sea-bird roving lightly.

Come, from thy lattice look;
With many an oar in motion,
Boats have the creek forsook,
And course the azure ocean.

See on the dim waves borne,
White distant sails are gliding;
Good, on so fair a morn,
Is every heart abiding.

II. (FOR FISHERMEN.)

The waves are rippling on the sand,
The winds are still, the air is clear;
Then gather round, my merry band,
We'll hold on shore an hour of cheer!

The lord keeps vigil in his hall,
The dame in bower or turret high;
But meet the merriest mates of all
Beneath the summer's starlight sky!

SONG

[_]

WRITTEN FOR THE STRAWBERRY HILL FOUNDING PLAY, AND SUNG BY MRS. JORDAN

With the rough blast heaves the billow,
In the light air waves the willow,
Every thing of moving kind
Varies with the veering wind;
What have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous Constancy?

After fretted, pouting sorrow,
Sweet will be thy smile to-morrow
Changing still, each passing thing
Fairest is upon the wing:
What have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous Constancy?

Song of love and satire witty,
Sprightly glee and doleful ditty;
Every mood and every lay,
Welcome all, but do not stay;
For what have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous Constancy?

TO SOPHIA J.BAILLIE.

AN INFANT.

Sweet bud of promise, fresh and fair,
Just moving in the morning air.
The morn of life but just begun,
The sands of time just set to run!
Sweet babe with cheek of pinky hue,
With eyes of soft ethereal blue,
With raven hair like finest down
Of unfledged bird, and scantly shown
Beneath the cap of cumbrous lace,
That circles round thy placid face!
Ah, baby! little dost thou know
How many yearning bosoms glow,
How many lips in blessings move,
How many eyes beam looks of love
At sight of thee!

Some future day,
And grant it, Heaven! thou wilt repay

805

The early love of loving friends
With oft renew'd and dear amends.
Affection true, as with a spell,
Hath many ways her tale to tell:
And thou, with lightsome laughing eye,
Thy artless love wilt testify
By proffer'd kisses oft repeated,
And words at will, when thou art seated
On the paternal knee, in glory,
Rehearsing there thy mimic story—
By little errands, run so fleetly
For dear mamma; and when so featly
Thou dost for her the Dunsbourne heather,
The primrose and the daisy gather,
The daisy fresh with unbruised stem,
Like thee a “bright and bonny gem”—
All this, and more than I can say,
Will show thy love some future day;
Sweet bud of hope, beloved, carest,
Upon thy head heaven's blessing rest!

THE KITTEN.

Wanton droll, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustic's closing day,
When, drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting until his supper cool,
And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose,
As bright the blazing fagot glows,
Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight;
Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces,
Thus circled round with merry faces!

Backward coil'd and crouching low,
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,
The housewife's spindle whirling round,
Or thread or straw that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then stealing onward, fiercely spring
Upon the tempting faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round with bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As still beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till from thy centre starting far,
Thou sidelong veerst with rump in air
Erected stiff, and gait awry,
Like madam in her tantrums high;
Though ne'er a madam of them all,
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.

Doth power in measured verses dwell,
All thy vagaries wild to tell?
Ah no! the start, the jet, the bound,
The giddy scamper round and round,
With leap and toss and high curvet,
And many a whirling somerset,
(Permitted by the modern muse
Expression technical to use)
These mock the deftest rhymester's skill,
But poor in art, though rich in will.

The featest tumbler, stage bedight,
To thee is but a clumsy wight,
Who every limb and sinew strains
To do what costs thee little pains;
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd
Requite him oft with plaudits loud.

But, stopp'd the while thy wanton play,
Applauses too thy pains repay:
For then, beneath some urchin's hand
With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand,
While many a stroke of kindness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides.
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And loudly croons thy busy purr,
As, timing well the equal sound,
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,
And all their harmless claws disclose
Like prickles of an early rose,
While softly from thy whisker'd cheek
Thy half-closed eyes peer, mild and meek.

But not alone by cottage fire
Do rustics rude thy feats admire.
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore
The widest range of human lore,
Or with unfetter'd fancy fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
Pausing smiles with alter'd air
To see thee climb his elbow-chair,
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe.
The widow'd dame or lonely maid,
Who, in the still but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turns a letter'd page,
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork or paper ball,
Nor childes thee on thy wicked watch,
The ends of ravell'd skein to catch,
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her better skill.

E'en he, whose mind of gloomy bent,
In lonely tower or prison pent,
Reviews the coil of former days,
And loathes the world and all its ways,

806

What time the lamp's unsteady gleam
Hath roused him from his moody dream,
Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat,
His heart of pride less fiercely beat,
And smiles, a link in thee to find,
That joins it still to living kind.

Whence hast thou then, thou witless puss!
The magic power to charm us thus?
Is it that in thy glaring eye
And rapid movements, we descry—
Whilst we at ease, secure from ill,
The chimney corner snugly fill—
A lion darting on his prey,
A tiger at his ruthless play?
Or is it that in thee we trace,
With all thy varied wanton grace,
An emblem, view'd with kindred eye,
Of tricky, restless infancy?
Ah! many a lightly sportive child,
Who hath like thee our wits beguiled,
To dull and sober manhood grown,
With strange recoil our hearts disown.

And so, poor kit! must thou endure,
When thou becom'st a cat demure,
Full many a cuff and angry word,
Chased roughly from the tempting board.
But yet, for that thou hast, I ween,
So oft our favour'd play-mate been,
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove!
When time hath spoil'd thee of our love,
Still be thou deem'd by housewife fat
A comely, careful, mousing cat,
Whose dish is, for the public good,
Replenish'd oft with savoury food,
Nor, when thy span of life is past,
Be thou to pond or dung-hill cast,
But, gently borne on goodman's spade,
Beneath the decent sod be laid;
And children show with glistening eyes
The place where poor old pussy lies.

SCHOOL RHYMES FOR NEGRO CHILDREN.

How happy are we in that hour we love,
When shadows grow longer and branches move;
Blithe urchins then we be!
From the school's low porch, with a joyous shout,
We rush and we run and we gambol about,
So careless, light, and free!

And the good child merrily plays his part,
For all is well in his guileless heart,
The glance of his eye is bright.
We hop and we leap and we toss the ball;
Some dance to their shadows upon the wall,
And spread out their hands with delight.

The parrot that sits on her bough a-swinging,
The bird and the butterfly, light air winging,
Are scarcely more happy, I trow.
Then hey for the meadow, the glade, and the grove,
For evening is coming and branches move,
We'll have merry pastime now!

RHYMES.

Busy work brings after ease;
Ease brings sport and sport brings rest;
For young and old, of all degrees,
The mingled lot is best.

And pain brings pity; then I hear
My mother's sweet and gentle voice,
She strokes my cheek, the touch is dear,
And makes my heart rejoice.

Then welcome work and pain and play;
When all is o'er, like bird in nest,
We soundly sleep;—well says our lay
The mingled lot is best.

RHYMES FOR CHANTING.

Butterfly, butterfly, speed through the air,
The ring-bird follows thee fast,
And the monkey looks up with a greedy stare;
Speed on till the peril be past!

O, wert thou but safe in my garden bower.
And wouldst thou no further stray.
Thou shouldst feed on the rose and the gilliflower,
And be my play-mate gay.

DEVOTIONAL SONG FOR A NEGRO CHILD.

When at rising morn we lave
Our dark limbs in the shiny wave,
When beneath the palm-tree shade
We rest awhile in freshness laid,
And, when our early task is done,
Whom should we love to think upon?

When we noonday slumber take,
In grassy glade or bowery brake,
Where humming birds come glancing by,
And stingless snakes untwisted lie,

807

And quietly sounds the beetle's drone,
Whom should we love to think upon?

When, all awake, we shout and sing,
And dance and gambol in a ring,
Or, healthful hunger to relieve,
Our stated wholesome meals receive,—
When this is past and day is done,
Whom should we love to think upon?

On God, the giver of all good,
Who gives us life, and rest, and food,
And cheerful pastime, late and early,
And parents kind who love us dearly;—
God hath our hearts with goodness won,
Him will we love to think upon!

SECOND DEVOTIONAL SONG.

Our heavenly Father sent His Son
From hateful sin to save us,
And precious blessings many a one,
Health, friends, and freedom gave us.

And all we see, each beauteous sight,
The woods, the fields, the ocean,
The sun by day, the moon by night,
Should fill us with devotion.

Then let our praises be express'd
In light and lively measure,
He loves the grateful homage best
That is bestow'd with pleasure!

THIRD DEVOTIONAL SONG.

Our Father and Almighty Lord,
By angels and by saints ador'd,
With starry brightness circled round,
Gleam beyond gleam, which hath no bound,
Though He is high and we are low,
Accepts the grateful thanks that flow
From infant lips, and to the skies,
Like morning's early vapour rise:—
The simplest child who lisps a prayer
His mercy and His love will share.

A NURSERY LESSON (DEVOTIONAL).

Say, little child, who gives to thee
Thy life and limbs, so light and free?
Thy moving eyes to look around,
Thy ears to catch the softest sound?
Thy food and clothing, friends and home?
'Tis God from whom those blessings come;
And what shouldst thou do? canst thou guess?
To prove to Him thy thankfulness
For life and friends, for clothes and food?—
“Be good.”

And tell me, little-one, I pray,
Who gives thee pleasure in thy play?
Who makes the happy girl and boy
To run, and leap, and shout for joy,
When looking on the clear blue sky;
The clouds that float, the birds that fly;
Trees, flowers, and every pretty thing?
'Tis God from whom those blessings spring;
And in return what shouldst thou do?
“Be good, and love Him too.”

SECOND NURSERY LESSON

(ADMONITORY).

Fat Tommy on the carpet lay,
And held with sprightly kit his play.
To her the twisted cord he flung,
At which with teeth and claws she sprung;
His worsted ball then past her roll'd,
Which soon within her clutching hold
She whirl'd, and check'd, and tugg'd, and tore,
Then sent it rolling as before.
Tommy—his blue eyes glancing bright,
View'd all these antics with delight;
Then fondly stroked her tabby fur,
And smiled to see her wink and purr;
And then her ears began to touch,
Which she endured, but liked not much;
Then did her hinder parts assail,
And pinch'd and pull'd her by the tail.
On this her sudden anger rose,
She turn'd and growl'd, and scratch'd his nose.
Then Tommy roar'd like any bull
And said—his eyes with tears brim full—
“Mamma, beat kit.”—“And why?” quoth she.
“Beat naughty kit for scratching me,
And teach her not to scratch again.”
“No child, such teaching were in vain.
She can feel pain, but lacks the wit
To learn a lesson; but we'll hit
Upon a plan more plain and easy.
Tommy has sense to learn, so, please ye,
Let him be taught this simple lore,
To pull his play-mate's tail no more.”

808

HYMN.

Father and Lord! Almighty and all-wise!
How ardently devout affections rise,
When rushing thoughts, unsought for, swift and free,
Crowd on th' expanded heart, and speak of Thee!
All mingling, soaring, brightening, how they shine
In truth's strong light, and say that we are Thine!

This world a temple is, where man descries
Signs visible, where'er he turns his eyes,
That Thou art good as wise and mighty; love
The active power that doth through all things move.
A vasty temple, paved with sea and land,
Adorn'd with forests, hills and mountains grand,
And coped aloft with beauty, ever changing
As white clouds o'er cerulean blue are ranging,
As rosy splendour glows, line after line,
At day's glad waking, or at day's decline;
As full or crescent moons shine softly bright
Through the air-floated awnings of the night;
As stars from deepen'd darkness, fiercely burning,
Keep round their northern guide for ever turning!

Such thoughts do visit us like friends indeed,
Who help and comfort in the hour of need;
And sacred lore repeat, e'en that bless'd line,
“living and dying, we are Thine.”

The dying soldier stretch'd on battle ground,
While swells amain the deep and ghastly wound,
Amidst his fallen comrades laid,
The maim'd, the dying, and the dead;
Thinks of his home, the distant and the dear,
Then in his heart repeats these words of cheer.
She, too, whose little flock of love are led
To stand once more around her dying bed,
Blesses them one by one, and when the last
Hath from her fondly lingering vision past,
Raises her eyes to worship and adore,
And feels the bitterness of death is o'er;
Casting behind her mortal love and fear,
She feels that she is Thine, and Thou art near.

The man who in this mingled world of woe,
Dire warfare holds with many a galling foe;
With poverty, disgrace, disease, and pain,
And bravely fronting all, can still maintain,
Like gallant liegeman, his appointed post,
Hath succour still at hand when wanted most.—
“Let all these foes to work my woe combine,
Living and dying, Father, I am Thine.”

But oh! to trace what forms of mortal ill
This thought hath conquer'd, baffles human skill.
Yes, we are Thine, Almighty Lord and Sire,
With souls endow'd to reason and aspire:
Reason, Thy gifted spark of heavenly flame,
The noblest inmate of the human frame;
By which, in all Thy works, Thyself we see,
And love, obey, adore, and worship Thee!

RECOLLECTIONS OF A DEAR AND STEADY FRIEND.

When life's long pilgrimage draws to a close,
A backward glance the weary traveller throws
On many a league traversed, and views the road,
Distant and near, in long perspective trod
By him and by companions on his way,
Who still hold onward, whether grave or gay,
Through gloom and gleam; a cheeker'd path, I ween,
Where forms within the memory's ken are seen,
Forms faint or vivid, varying oft, that seem
Like moving objects in a seried dream:
Till one right dearly on the mind impress'd
Bears for a time his thoughts from all the rest.
And, undisturb'd upon his peaceful station.
His busy mind enjoys its mournful occupation.

There she appears, as when in virgin grace
I first beheld her laughing, lovely face,
Intelligent withal, in which combined
Seem'd every hopeful quality of mind,
Solace, and cheer, and counsel, to impart,
All that should win and hold a manly, generous heart.

I see her mated with a moody lord,
Whose fame she prized, whose genius she adored.
There by his side she stands, pale, grave, and sad;
The brightness of her greeting smile is fled.
Like some fair flower ta'en from its genial mould
To deck a garden-border, loose and cold,
Its former kindred fences all destroy'd,
Shook by the breeze and by the rake annoy'd.
She seem'd, alas!—I look'd, and look'd again,
Tracing the sweet but alter'd face in vain.

I see her next in agony of soul:
Her surcharged feelings broke from all control.
The hand upon her forehead closely press'd,
The trembling frame and quivering lips express'd,
Though scarcely audible the feeble mutter,
Far more than full articulate sounds could utter.

I see her when by pure religion taught
Her heart is lighten'd of its heavy fraught.
Her canopy of murky clouds hath pass'd,
In air dissolved, and sunshine gleams at last.

809

Her heart, with Christian charity imbued,
Hath every hard vindictive thought subdued.
Oh, then how fair a sight it was to trace
That blessed state upon her placid face!
And yet, when weary of the gossip sound
From morning visitors convening round,
She would at times unusual silence hold,
Some, ah how erringly! believed her stiff and cold.

I see her from the world retired caressing
Her infant daughter, her assured blessing;
Teaching the comely creature, in despite
Of froward freaks, to feel and act aright;
Well suiting to the task her voice and look
With fondling playfulness or grave rebuke.
Now, with expression changed, but sweet, she cheers
Her widow'd father's weary weight of years.
How slily does her gentle hint recall
Some half forgotten tale of cot or hall,
To raise his hearty laugh, as by the fire
In easy chair he sits! old tales that never tire.

To early friends her love was firm and fast;
Beneath her roof they gather'd oft and cast
A faint reflected gleam of days gone by,
And kindly smiled on them her soft blue eye.
One dearly prized may special notice claim,
Mary Montgomery! nobly sounding name,
And worthy she to bear it. Oft would come
Their youthful kindred; to an easy home,
Where they might still their fairy gambols hold,
Nor in her presence fear to be too bold.
Though tired and languid, laid awhile to rest,
Around her still the active urchins press'd,
Would o'er the tumbled covering strive and wrestle,
And e'en at times behind her snugly nestle.
At hide and seek where did they lurk and crouch?
Ay, where forsooth but in my lady's couch!
Mock frowns from her but small impression made,
They gambol'd on, and would not be afraid.

Books were her solace, whether grave or gay,
But most she loved the poet's plaintive lay;
And e'en at times with knit considerate brow
Would with her pen a native talent show.
When fancy, link'd with feelings kind and dear,
Was found in lines that did not please the ear,
Oh then, with what a countenance she met
Her certain fate, by critics sore beset!
She met it all with simple kindly air,
The first to own and then the fault repair.

Mistress at length of wealth and large domain,
Behold her now a modest state maintain,
With generous heart and liberal hand bestowing,—
A spring of friendly kindness, ever flowing.
She did with such a gentle ease relieve,
From her it was a pleasure to receive.
With the consideration of a friend,
All was arranged to serve a useful end,
And no humiliation could ensue
To make the wounded heart her bounty rue.
Nay, rather its condition seem'd to rise,
Knit to her then as if by kindred ties.
For worth distress'd there was in sooth no need
In earnest pitcous words with her to plead,
Nor feel, because of some slight boons obtain'd,
But recently perhaps, shy and restrain'd:
Her cheerful eye gave answer short and plain,
“Think not of that, but come and come again.”

The humming of her school, its morning sound,
With all her youthful scholars gather'd round;
Their shout, when issuing forth at mid-day hour,
Each active lad exerting all his pow'r
To do the sturdy labour of a man,
As through the groups quick emulation ran,
Was music to her ear; warm thrill'd her blood;
She felt she was promoting public good.
And have I seen her proud or heard her boast?
Yes, once I did; when, counting use and cost,
She gravely added, that her boys thus train'd,
Employment afterwards more surely gain'd
From farmer, or from village artisan,
Who trusted each would prove a steady man.
In truth, her school had in its humble station
Acquired an honest fame and reputation.

I've seen, when in a daughter's happy lot
Her own was brighten'd, woes and cares forgot.
While with a roguish grandchild few could quell,
A sturdy imp that loved his grandame well,
She lowly sate upon the carpet playing,
The former frolics of her youth betraying,—
A pleasing sight, that led to deep reflection;
To pain and pleasure link'd in close connection.

And now within her chamber-walls confined
She sadly dwells and strives to be resign'd.
Her span of life, yet short, though rough the past,
May still through further years of languor last,
Or health to other years may yet be given
To do her Master's will—the will of heaven.
But should her lot be pain and sickness still,
She hath her task of duty to fulfill—
Her task of love, cheer'd by her noble trust,
The Christian's lofty faith, that from the dust
Lifts up the Christian's head, gleams in his eye,
Bracing his wasted strength to live or die.
Ay, 'tis a noble faith, not fenced and bound
By orthodoxy's narrow plot of ground.
The Bible, not the Church, directs her way,
Nor does she through entangled labyrinths stray.
Before her stands a prospect fair and wide,
To endless distance stretch'd on either side;
A gen'rous Saviour, beckoning us to come
Where mercy has prepared our peaceful home;
Where God, His God, supreme all powers above,
Receives us in the realms of sanctity and love.

810

If late or early from her house of clay,
The lease expired, her soul be turn'd away,
What boots it? ready for her Master's call,
Death's gloomy pass no longer can appal.
The covering o'er a pallid face is thrown,
The coffin closed, and all the rest unknown—
“No, not unknown,” a conscious spirit cries,
Stirring within us quickly; we shall rise
To nobler being waked; heaven's glorious show,
The varied wonders of the earth below,
And He who spake as never man did speak,
All tell of future happiness to break
On the departed just, whilst Nature's voice
Of many tones doth in that mighty sound rejoice.

But in what order we shall leave this scene,
Where all our joys, affections, cares have been,
Ah! who can say? the young and strong may stand
Close to the hidden confines of that land
From which no traveller returns again,
Whose sights and sounds in mystery remain:
But there full surely do the aged wait
An hourly summons to the unknown state.
Report perhaps of my decease may find
Her on a weary couch of pain reclined,
And some dear silent watcher then may see
Her soft eye glistening with a tear for me—
But cease we here—o'er fancy's sight is thrown
A closing veil—my vision'd thoughts are gone.

TWO BROTHERS.

Who presses on my knee this kindly pat,
And with a merry archness in my face
Looks up?—a youngling of my own leal race:
Com'st thou to woo my notice, little Matt?
I think thou dost, and thou shalt have it too,
For, whatsoe'er thou dost or dost not do,
Thou hast upon my heart a potent claim,—
Matthew Baillie is thy name;
And worn by thee, O never may
The light transmitted fade away!
The virtues of thy grandsire's manly breast,
May they within thy bosom ever rest!
Far be from thee, dear child, e'en in thy play,
A crooked cunning trick or selfish way,—
All greedy grasping, or of cake or toy!
Thou must be generous, kind, and true, my boy!
And if, in after days, thou needst must fight
With angry schoolmates, wrestle for the right.
Whate'er the poor or wealthy do, thou must
Frank and straightforward be, faithful and just.
No seeking favour with fair glozing words!
No dangling after little patron lords!
In thee, or man or boy, still let us see
Traces of him whose name now honours thee.
He pass'd through life with conscience for his guide,
Nor hesitated, wink'd, nor turn'd aside.
He lived in courts, all courtly failings near,
And knew not feigning, flattery, or fear.
Be thou a Matthew then from right unswerving.
And of thy name deserving.

Ah, little man! thy roguish eye
When those thou lov'st are standing by,
Thy scowling brow and stormy voice,
When thwarted of thy will or choice,
Show thou wilt have no easy play
Old aunty's precepts to obey.
Ay! and wee Willie too is near,
His gladsome, cooing voice, I hear;
And there he comes in all his charms,
Set perching in his nurse's arms.
In his sweet face beam smiles of love
That o'er cheeks, chin, and forehead move;
Fat dimpled arms, and shoulders bare,
The same emotion seem to share;
Yea, could we see thee all, we should discover
Thou art one living smile all over.
Thy small foot too, tinged like the rose,
With all its spread and stirring toes,
Its tiny heel and ankle stout,
From muslin coaties peeping out—
What part of thee can we behold
That is not worth a mine of gold?
Thy open mouth that offers kisses
So winningly, and seldom misses
A kind return, full twenty-fold,
From stern or gentle, young or old;
Come sweet temptation! near—more near,
And let me feel its pressure dear!
Thou little, loving, harmless baby,
Ah! what progressive changes may be;
When, with thy youth and manbood, future years
Have dealt, and on thy countenance appears
The mark'd expression of thy inward worth,
By joy, and grief, and love, and generous ire drawn forth!
Could we e'en now thy future fortunes know,
Thy character and thy endowments!—No;
Why look through onward time to see
What thou, dear baby, then mayst be?
I will not from the present part,
Loving so dearly what thou art.

Matthew and William, brothers twain,
God's blessing on your heads remain!
Soft pretty signs and tokens tell
That now ye love each other well,
And nature's self and parents kind
Will round your hearts this blessing bind.
In sacred words to each dear brother,
A grand-aunt's say concludes,—“love one another.”

811

LINES TO AGNES BAILLIE ON HER BIRTHDAY.

Dear Agnes, gleam'd with joy and dash'd with tears,
O'er us have glided almost sixty years
Since we on Bothwell's bonny braes were seen,
By those whose eyes long closed in death have been,
Two tiny imps, who scarcely stoop'd to gather
The slender harebell, or the purple heather;
No taller than the foxglove's spiky stem,
That dew of morning studs with silvery gem.
Then every butterfly that cross'd our view
With joyful shout was greeted as it flew,
And moth and lady-bird and beetle bright
In sheeny gold were each a wondrous sight.
Then as we paddled barefoot, side by side,
Among the sunny shallows of the Clyde,
Minnows or spotted par with twinkling fin,
Swimming in mazy rings the pool within,
A thrill of gladness through our bosoms sent,
Seen in the power of early wonderment.

A long perspective to my mind appears,
Looking behind me to that line of years,
And yet through every stage I still can trace
Thy vision'd form, from childhood's morning grace
To woman's early bloom, changing how soon!
To the expressive glow of woman's noon;
And now to what thou art, in comely age,
Active and ardent. Let what will engage
Thy present moment, whether hopeful seeds
In garden-plat thou sow, or noxious weeds
From the fair flower remove, or ancient lore
In chronicle or legend rare explore,
Or on the parlour hearth with kitten play,
Stroking its tabby sides, or take thy way
To gain with hasty steps some cottage door,
On helpful errand to the neighbouring poor,
Active and ardent, to my fancy's eye
Thou still art young in spite of time gone by.
Though oft of patience brief and temper keen,
Well may it please me, in life's latter scene,
To think what now thou art, and long to me hast been.

'Twas thou who woo'dst me first to look
Upon the page of printed book,
That thing by me abhorr'd, and with address
Didst win me from my thoughtless idleness,
When all too old become with bootless haste
In fitful sports the precious time to waste.
Thy love of tale and story was the stroke
At which my dormant fancy first awoke,
And ghosts and witches in my busy brain
Arose in sombre show, a motley train.
This new-found path attempting, proud was I,
Lurking approval on thy face to spy,
Or hear thee say, as grew thy roused attention,
“What! is this story all thine own invention?”

Then, as advancing through this mortal span,
Our intercourse with the mix'd world began,
Thy fairer face and sprightlier courtesy
(A truth that from my youthful vanity
Lay not conceal'd) did for the sisters twain,
Where'er we went, the greater favour gain;
While, but for thee, vex'd with its tossing tide,
I from the busy world had shrunk aside.
And now in later years, with better grace
Thou helpst me still to hold a welcome place
With those, whom nearer neighbourhood has made
The friendly cheerers of our evening shade.

With thee my humours, whether grave or gay,
Or gracious or untoward, have their way.
Silent if dull—O precious privilege!
I sit by thee; or if, cull'd from the page
Of some huge, ponderous tome, which, but thyself,
None e'er had taken from its dusty shelf,
Thou read me curious passages to speed
The winter night, I take but little heed
And thankless say “I cannot listen now,”
'Tis no offence; albeit, much do I owe
To these, thy nightly offerings of affection,
Drawn from thy ready talent for selection;
For still it seem'd in thee a natural gift
The letter'd grain from letter'd chaff to sift.

By daily use and circumstance endear'd,
Things are of value now that once appear'd
Of no account, and without notice past,
Which o'er dull life a simple cheering cast;
To hear thy morning steps the stair descending,
Thy voice with other sounds domestic blending;
After each stated nightly absence, met
To see thee by the morning table set,
Pouring from smoky spout the amber stream
Which sends from saucer'd cup its fragrant steam;
To see thee cheerly on thethreshold stand,
On summer morn, with trowel in thy hand
For garden-work prepared; in winter's gloom
From thy cold noonday walk to see thee come,
In furry garment lapp'd, with spatter'd feet,
And by the fire resume thy wonted seat;
Ay, e'en o'er things like these, soothed age has thrown
A sober charm they did not always own:
As winter-hoarfrost makes minutest spray
Of bush or hedge-weed sparkle to the day,
In magnitude and beauty, which bereaved
Of such investment, eye had ne'er perceived.

The change of good and evil to abide,
As partners link'd, long have we side by side

812

Our earthly journey held, and who can say
How near the end of our united way?
By nature's course not distant; sad and 'reft
Will she remain,—the lonely pilgrim left.
If thou be taken first, who can to me
Like sister, friend, and home-companion be?
Or who, of wonted daily kindness shorn,
Shall feel such loss, or mourn as I shall mourn?
And if I should be fated first to leave
This earthly house, though gentle friends may grieve,
And he above them all, so truly proved
A friend and brother, long and justly loved,
There is no living wight, of woman born,
Who then shall mourn for me as thou wilt mourn.

Thou ardent, liberal spirit! quickly feeling
The touch of sympathy and kindly dealing
With sorrow or distress, for ever sharing
The unhoarded mite, nor for to-morrow caring,—
Accept, dear Agnes, on thy natal day,
An unadorn'd but not a careless lay.
Nor think this tribute to thy virtues paid
From tardy love proceeds, though long delay'd.
Words of affection, howsoe'er express'd,
The latest spoken still are deem'd the best:
Few are the measured rhymes I now may write;
These are, perhaps, the last I shall endite.

VERSES SENT TO MRS. BAILLIE ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1813.

A judgment clear, a pensive mind
With feelings tender and refined;
A generous heart in kindness glowing,
An open hand on all bestowing;
A temper sweet, and calm, and even
Through petty provocations given;
A soul benign, whose cheerful leisure
Considers still of others' pleasure,
Or, in its lonely, graver mood,
Considers still of others' good;
And join'd to these the vision'd eye,
And tuneful ear of poesy;
Blest wight, in whom those gifts combine,
Our dear Sophia, sister mine!
How comes it that, from year to year,
This day hath pass'd without its cheer,—
No token passing time to trace,
No rhymester's lay to do it grace?

Love was not wanting, but the muse,
Reserved, unpliant, and recluse,
Sat in her unreal kingdom, dreaming
Through baseless scenes of airy seeming,
And could not turn her 'wilder'd eye
On plain, unfancied verity.

Yet be it so! once in my life
I'll hold with her a generous strife;
With or without her aid, my lay
Shall hail with grateful lines this happy day:
The day when first thy infant heart
Did from inactive being start,
And in thy baby bosom beat,
Its doubtful, dangerous, fragile seat,—
A heavenly spark that downward came
To mount again a brighter flame.
Meantime, a warm and fostering blessing.
More precious felt in long possessing,
'Tis lent to those who daily prove
Its gentle offices of love.
Ah! for their sake, long be the date
Of this its more ignoble state!
I who, so near its influence set,
Owe it a long and pleasing debt,
In course of being launch'd before
From mortal nature's foggy shore,
Would fain behind me leave some token
Of friendly kindred love unbroken.
Which in some hour, retired and lone.
Thine eyes may sometimes look upon,
While in thy sadden'd tender breast,—
Ah, no! I may not think the rest,
Lest, both bereft of words and strain
My silent thoughts alone remain:
This token then do thou receive.
I will not tell thee to believe
How in my heart its spirit glows,
How soothly from my pen it flows.

Through years unmark'd by woe or pain,
Oft may this day return again,
Blessed by him whose rough career
Of toil and care thy love doth cheer,
Whose manly worth by heaven was fated
To be through life thus fitly mated;
Blessed by those thy youthful twain,
Who by thy side their place maintain,
Still nestling closer to thy bosom
As the fair flowers of reason blossom;
By all who thy dear kindred claim,
And love to see thy face, and love to hear thy name.

And so I end my simple writing.
The muse in fault, but love enditing
That which, but for this love alone,
I thought not ever to have done,—
A birth-day lay. Then sister mine,
Keep thou in kindness this propine,
And through life's yet untrodden scene
Still be to me what thou hast been!

813

VERSES WRITTEN IN FEBRUARY, 1827.

Like gleam of sunshine on the mountain's side,
Fair, bright, and beautiful, while all beside,
Slope, cliff, and pinnacle, in shadow lie
Beneath the awning of a wintry sky,
Through loop-hole in its cloudy texture beaming
A cataract of light so softly streaming,—
Shines one blest deed of ruth when war's grim form
O'er a scourged nation guides his passing storm.

Like verdant islet-spots, that softly peer
Through the dull mist, as morning breezes clear
The brooding vapour from the wide-stretch'd vale,
So in a land where Mammon's cares prevail,
Do frequent deeds of gentle charity
Refresh the moral gazer's mental eye.

Britain, thou art in arms and commerce graced
With many generous acts, that, fairly traced
On thy long annals, give a lustre far
Exceeding those of wealth or trophied war;
And may we not say truthfully of thee,
Thou art a land of mercy?—May it be!

What forms are those with lean gall'd sides? In vain
Their lax'd and ropy sinews sorely strain
Heap'd loads to draw, with lash and goad urged on.
They were in other days, but lately gone,
The useful servants, dearly prized, of those
Who to their failing age give no repose,—
Of thankless, heartless owners. Then full oft
Their arched graceful necks so sleek and soft
Beneath a master's stroking hand would rear
Right proudly, as they neigh'd his well-known voice to hear.
But now how changed!—And what marr'd things are these,
Starved, hooted, scarr'd, denied or food or ease;
Whose humbled looks their bitter thraldom show,
Familiar with the kick, the pinch, the blow?
Alas! in this sad fellowship are found
The playful kitten and the faithful hound,
The gallant cock that hailed the morning light,
All now hard-fated mates in woeful plight.

Ah no! a land of mercy is a name
Which thou in all thy glory mayst not claim!

But yet there dwell in thee the good, the bold,
Who in thy streets, courts, senates, bravely hold
Contention with thy wayward cruelty,
And shall subdue it ere this age glide by.
Meantime, as they their manly power exert,
“God speed you well!” bursts from each kindly heart.
And they will speed; for this foul blot of shame
Must be wash'd out from Britain's honour'd name,
And she among enlighten'd nations stand,
A brave, a merciful, and generous land.

THE TRAVELLER BY NIGHT IN NOVEMBER.

He, who with journey well begun,
Beneath the morning's cheerful sun
Stretches his view o'er hill and dale,
And distant city, (through its veil
Of smoke, dark spires and chimneys seen,)
O'er harvest-lands and meadows green,
What time the roused and busy, meeting
On king's high-way exchange their greeting,
Feels his cheer'd heart with pleasure beat,
As on his way he holds. And great
Delight hath he who travels late
When the fair moon doth hold her state
In the clear sky, while down and dale
Repose in light so pure and pale!
While lake and pool and stream are seen
Weaving their maze of silvery sheen,
And cot and mansion, rock and glade,
And tower and street in light and shade
Strongly contrasted are. I trow,
Better than noonday seems his show,
Soothing the pensive mind.

And yet,
When moon is dark and sun is set,
Not reft of pleasure is the wight,
Who, in snug chaise, at close of night,
Begins his journey in the dark,
With crack of whip and ban-dogs' bark,
And jarring wheels and children bawling,
And voice of surly ostler, calling
To post-boy, through the mingled din,
Some message to a neighbouring inn.
All sounds confusedly in his ear;
The lonely way's commencing cheer.

With dull November's starless sky
O'er head, his fancy soars not high.
The carriage lamps a white light throw
Along the road, and strangely show
Familiar things that cheat the eyes,
Like friends in motley masker's guise.
“What's that? or dame, or mantled maid,
Or herd-boy gather'd in his plaid,
Who leans against yon wall his back?”
“No 'tis in sooth a tiny stack
Of peat, or turf, or cloven wood—
For cottage fire the winter's food.”
“Ha! yonder shady nook discovers
A gentle pair of rustic lovers.”
“Out on't! a pair of harmless calves,
Through ragged bushes seen by halves.”

814

“What thing of strange, unshapely height,
Approaches slowly on the light,
That like a hunch-back'd giant seems,
And now is whitening in its beams?”
“'Tis but a hind, whose burly back
Is bearing home a well-fill'd sack.”
“What's that like spots of flecker'd snow
On the road's margin cluster'd so?”
“'Tis linen left to bleach by night.”—
“Gramercy on us! see I right?
Some witch is casting cantraps there,
The linen hovers in the air!”
“Pooh! soon or late all wonders cease
We have but scared a flock of geese.”

Thus oft through life we do misdeem
Of things that are not what they seem.
Ah! could we there with as slight scath
Divest us of our cheated faith!

And then, belike, when chiming bells
The near approach of waggon tells,
He wistful looks to see it come,
Its bulk emerging from the gloom,
With dun tarpauling o'er it thrown,
Like a huge Mammoth moving on.

But still more pleased, through murky air
He spies the distant bonfire's glare;
And, nearer to the spot advancing,
Black imps and goblins round it dancing;
And nearer still, distinctly traces
The featured disks of happy faces,
Grinning and roaring in their glory,
Like Bacchants wild of ancient story,
Making wild gestures to the flame
As it were play-mate in the game.
Full well, I trow, could modern stage
Such acting for the nonce engage,
A crowded audience, every night,
Would press to see the jovial sight;
And this, from cost and squeezing free,
November's nightly travellers see.

Through village, lane, or hamlet going,
The light from cottage window, showing
Its inmates at their evening fare,
By rousing fire, where earthenware
With pewter trenchers, on the shelf,
Give some display of worldly pelf,
Is transient vision to the eye
Of him our hasty passer by;
Yet much of pleasing import tells,
And cherish'd in his fancy dwells,
Where simple innocence and mirth
Encircle still the cottage hearth.
Across the road a fiery glare
Doth now the blacksmith's forge declare,
Where fnrnace-blast, and measured dim
Of heavy hammers, and within
The brawny mates their labour plying,
From heated bar the red sparks flying,
Some idle neighbours standing by
With open mouth and dazzled eye;
The rough and sooty walls with store
Of chains and horse shoes studded o'er,
And rusty blades and bars between,
All momently are heard and seen.

Nor does he often fail to meet,
In market town's dark, narrow street,
(E'en when the night with onward wings
The sober hour of bed-time brings,)
Amusement. From the alehouse door,
Having full bravely paid his score,
Issues the tipsy artizan,
With some sworn brother of the can,
While each to keep his footing tries,
And utters words solemn and wise.

The dame demure, from visit late,
Her lantern borne before in state
By sloven footboy, paces slow
With patten'd feet and hooded brow.

Where the seam'd window-board betrays
Interior light, right closely lays
The caves-dropper his curious ear,
Some neighbour's fire-side talk to hear;
While, from an upper casement bending,
A household maid, perhaps, is sending
From jug or pot, a sloppy shower
That makes him homeward fleetly scour.
From lower rooms few gleams are sent
Through shorten'd shutter-hole or rent;
But from the loftier chambers peer
(Where damsels doff their gentle gear
For rest preparing) tapers bright,
That give a momentary sight
Of some fair form with visage glowing,
With loosen'd braids and tresses flowing,
Which busied by the mirror stands
With bending head and upraised hands,
Whose moving shadow strangely falls
With size enlarged on roof and walls.
Ah! lovely are the things, I ween,
By speed's light passing glam'rie seen!
Fancy so touch'd will oft restore
Things once beheld and seen no more.

But now he spies the flaring door
Of bridled Swan or gilded Boar,
At which the bowing waiter stands
To know the alighting guest's commands.
A place of bustle, dirt and din,
Swearing without, scolding within;

815

Of narrow means and ample boast,
The traveller's stated halting post,
Where trunks are missing or deranged,
And parcels lost and horses changed.

Yet this short scene of noisy coil
But serves our traveller as a foil,
Enhancing what succeeds, and lending
A charm to pensive quiet, sending
To home and friends, left far behind,
The kindliest musings of his mind;
Or, should they stray to thoughts of pain,
A dimness o'er the haggard train
A mood and hour like this will throw,
As vex'd and burthen'd spirits know.
Night, loneliness, and motion are
Agents of power to distance care;
To distance, not discard; for then,
Withdrawn from busy haunts of men,
Necessity to act suspended,
The present, past, and future blended,
Like figures of a mazy dance,
Weave round the soul a dreamy trance,
Till jolting stone or turnpike gate
Arouse him from the soothing state.

And when the midnight hour is past,
If through the night his journey last,
When still and lonely is the road,
Nor living creature moves abroad,
Then most of all, like fabled wizard,
Night slily dons her cloak and vizard,
His eyes at every corner meeting
With some new sleight of dexterous cheating,
And cunningly his sight betrays
E'en with his own lamp's partial rays.

The road, that in fair, honest day,
Through pasture-land or corn-fields lay,
A broken hedge-row's ragged screen
Skirting its margin rank and green,
With boughs projecting, interlaced
With thorn and briar, distinctly traced
On the deep shadows at their back,
That deeper sink to pitchy black,
Appearing soothly to the eye
Like woven boughs of tapestrie,—
Seems now to wind through tangled wood,
Or forest wild, where Robin Hood
With all his outlaws stout and bold
In olden days his reign might hold.
Yea, roofless barn and ruin'd walls,
As passing light upon them falls,
When favour'd by surrounding gloom,
The castle's stately form assume.

The steaming vapour that proceeds
From moisten'd hide of weary steeds,
And high on either side will rise,
Like clouds storm-drifted, past him flies;
While mire cast up by their hoof'd feet
Adds curious magic to deceit,
Glancing presumptuously before him,
Like yellow diamonds of Cairngorum.

How many are the sultle ways
By which sly night the eye betrays,
When in her wild fantastic mood,
By lone and wakeful traveller woo'd!
Shall I proceed? O no! for now
Upon the black horizon's brow
Appears a line of tawny light;
Thy reign is ended, witching night!
And soon thy place a wizard elf,
(But only second to thyself
In glam'rie's art) will quietly take,
And spread o'er meadow, vale, and brake,
Her misty shroud of pearly white;
A modest though deceitful wight,
Who in a softer, gentler way
Will with the wakeful fancy play,
When woody knolls, their bases losing,
Are islands on a lake reposing,
And streeted town of high pretence,
As rolls away the vapour dense
With all its wavy, curling billows,
Is but a row of pollard willows.
O no! our traveller, still and lone,
A far, fatiguing way hath gone;
His eyes are dim, he stoops his crest,
And folds his arms and goes to rest.

LINES FOR A FRIEND'S ALBUM.

Lines, in addition to the treasure
Of poesy, cull'd for the pleasure
Of beau, and belle, and gentle dame,
When seated round the evening flame,
What time the social hour is waning,
And tardy coachman guests detaining,—
A courteous friend hath bid me write
Upon her Album's pages white.

But age the casy grace hath lost
That would become such pages most,
While of a quondam rhymester's skill,
Scarce aught is extant but the will;
And sober, stinted age must use
The school-girl's worn and stale excuse,
When, long her correspondent's debtor,
The apology becomes the letter.

Apologies for those who need'em!
An Album is a thing of freedom,
Receiving all with right good will
That fortune sends from many a quill,

816

And then displays like scaly store
Which fisher's net brings to the shore:
The herring sheath'd in silvery green,
The whiting in its pearly sheen,
The lithe and wavy eel that glides
Athwart the mackerel's tabbied sides;
John Dory with his dolphin head,
Where amber fins like horns are spread,
And flounder, sole, and thornback, all
In turn on some observer call,
To mark each varied form and tint;
And from this simile a hint
Of some encouragement I take,
And humbly this my offering make,
Which if received with favour, truly
Will show that I have reckon'd duly
On what might homelier things commend,—
On the good nature of a friend.

ADDRESS TO A STEAMVESSEL.

Freighted with passengers of every sort,
A motley throng, thou leav'st the busy port:
Thy long and ample deck,—where scatter'd lie
Baskets and cloaks and shawls of crimson dye;
Where dogs and children through the crowd are straying,
And on his bench apart the fiddler playing,
While matron dames to tressel'd seats repair,—
Seems, on the glassy waves, a floating fair.

Its dark form on the sky's pale azure cast,
Towers from this clustering group thy pillar'd mast;
The dense smoke, issuing from its narrow vent,
Is to the air in curly volumes sent,
Which coiling and uncoiling on the wind,
Trail, like a writhing serpent, far behind.
Beneath, as each merged wheel its motion plies,
On either side the white-churn'd waters rise,
And newly parted from the noisy fray,
Track with light ridgy foam thy recent way,
Then far diverged, in many a lustrous line
On the still-moving distant surface shine.

Thou holdst thy course in independent pride;
No leave ask'st thou of either wind or tide.
To whate'er point the breeze inconstant veer,
Still doth thy careless helmsman onward steer;
As if the stroke of some magician's wand
Had lent thee power the ocean to command.
What is this power which thus within thee lurk
And all unseen, like a mask'd giant works?
E'en that which gentle dames at morning tea,
From silver urn ascending, daily see
With tressy wreathings borne upon the air
Like loosen'd ringlets of a lady's hair;
Or rising from th' enamell'd cup beneath,
With the soft fragrance of an infant's breath:
That which within the peasant's humble cot
Comes from the uncover'd mouth of savoury pot,
As his kind mate prepares his noonday fare,
Which cur and cat and rosy urchins share;
That which, all silver'd by the moon's pale beam
Precedes the mighty Geyser's up-cast stream,
What time, with bellowing din, exploded forth,
It decks the midnight of the frozen north,
While travellers from their skin-spread couches rise
To gaze upon the sight with wondering eyes.

Thou hast to those “in populous city pent”
Glimpses of wild and beauteous nature lent,
A bright remembrance ne'er to be destroy'd,
That proves to them a treasure long enjoy'd,
And for this scope to beings erst confined,
I fain would hail thee with a grateful mind.
They who had nought of verdant freshness seen,
But suburb orchards choked with coleworts green,
Now, seated at their ease, may glide along.
Loch Lomond's fair and fairy isles among;
Where bushy promontories fondly peep
At their own beauty in the nether deep,
O'er drooping birch and rowan red that lave
Their fragrant branches in the glassy wave:
They who on higher objects scarce have counted
Than church-spire with its gilded vane surmounted,
May view within their near, distinctive ken
The rocky summits of the lofty Ben;
Or see his purple shoulders darkly lower
Through the dim drapery of a summer shower.
Where, spread in broad and fair expanse, the Clyde
Mingles his waters with the briny tide,
Along the lesser Cumbray's rocky shore,
With moss and crusted lichens flecker'd o'er,
He who but warfare held with thievish cat,
Or from his cupboard chaced a hungry rat,
The city cobbler,—scares the wild sea-mew
In its mid-flight with loud and shrill halloo;
Or valiantly with fearful threatening shakes
His lank and greasy head at Kittywakes.”
The eyes that have no fairer outline seen,
Than chimney'd walls with slated roofs between,
Which hard and harshly edge the smoky sky,
May Arran's softly-vision'd peaks descry,
Coping with graceful state her steepy sides
O'er which the cloud's broad shadow swiftly glides,
And interlacing slopes that gently merge
Into the pearly mist of ocean's verge.
Eyes which admired that work of sordid skill,
The storied structure of a cotton mill,
May wondering now behold the unnumber'd host
Of marshall'd pillars on fair Ireland's coast,
Phalanx on phalanx ranged with sidelong bend,
Or broken ranks that to the main descend,

817

Like Pharaoh's army on the Red Sea shore,
Which deep and deeper sank, to rise no more.

Yet ne'ertheless, whate'er we owe to thee,
Rover at will on river, lake, and sea,
As profit's bait or pleasure's lure engage,
Offspring of Watt, that philosophic sage,
Who in the heraldry of science ranks
With those to whom men owe high meed of thanks
For genius usefully employ'd, whose fame
Shall still be link'd with Davy's splendid name;
Dearer to fancy, to the eye more fair
Are the light skiffs, that to the breezy air
Unfurl their swelling sails of snowy hue
Upon the moving lap of ocean blue:
As the proud swan on summer lake displays,
With plumage brightening in the morning rays,
Her fair pavilion of erected wings,
They change, and veer, and turn like living things.

With ample store of shrouding, sails, and mast,
To brave with manly skill the winter blast
Of every clime,—in vessels rigg'd like these
Did great Columbus cross the western seas,
And to the stinted thoughts of man reveal'd
What yet the course of ages had conceal'd:
In such as these, on high adventure bent,
Round the vast world Magellan's comrades went.
To such as these are hardy seamen found
As with the ties of kindred feeling bound,
Boasting, while cans of cheering grog they sip,
The varied fortunes of “our gallant ship:”
The offspring these of bold sagacious man,
Ere yet the reign of letter'd lore began.

In very truth, compared to these, thou art
A daily labourer, a mechanic swart,
In working weeds array'd of homely gray,
Opposed to gentle nymph or lady gay,
To whose free robes the graceful right is given
To play and dally with the winds of heaven.
Beholding thee, the great of other days
And modern men with all their alter'd ways,
Across my mind with hasty transit gleam,
Like fleeting shadows of a feverish dream:
Fitful I gaze, with adverse humours teased,
Half sad, half proud, half angry, and half pleased.

SONG,

WOO'D AND MARRIED AND A',

[_]

(VERSION TAKEN FROM AN OLD SONG OF THAT NAME.)

The bride she is winsome and bonny,
Her hair it is snooded sae sleek,
And faithfu' and kind is her Johnny,
Yet fast fa' the tears on her cheek.
New pearlins are cause of her sorrow,
New pearlins and plenishing too,
The bride that has a' to borrow,
Has e'en right mickle ado,
Woo'd and married and a'!
Woo'd and married and a'!
Is na' she very weel aff
To be woo'd and married at a'?

Her mither then hastily spak,
“The lassie is glaikit wi' pride;
In my pouch I had never a plack
On the day when I was a bride.
E'en tak' to your wheel, and be clever,
And draw out your thread in the sun;
The gear that is gifted, it never
Will last like the gear that is won.
Woo'd and married and a'!
Wi' havins and toucher sae sma'!
I think ye are very weel aff,
To be woo'd and married at a'!”

“Toot, toot!” quo' her grey-headed faither,
“She's less o' a bride than a bairn,
She's ta'en like a cout frae the heather,
Wi' sense and discretion to learn.
Half husband, I trow, and half daddy,
As humour inconstantly leans,
The chiel maun be patient and steady,
That yokes wi' a mate in her teens.
A kerchief sae douce and sae neat,
O'er her locks that the winds used to blaw!
I'm baith like to laugh and to greet,
When I think o'her married at a'!”

Then out spak' the wily bridegroom,
Weel waled were his wordies, I ween,
“I'm rich, though my coffer be toom,
Wi' the blinks o' your bonny blue een.
I'm prouder o' thee by my side,
Though thy ruffles or ribbons be few,
Than if Kate o' the Croft were my bride,
Wi' purfles and pearlins enow.
Dear and dearest of ony!
Ye're woo'd and buikit and a'!”
And do ye think scorn o' your Johnny,
And grieve to be married at a'?”

She turn'd, and she blush'd, and she smiled,
And she looket sae bashfully down;
The pride o' her heart was beguiled,
And she played wi' the sleeves o' her gown;
She twirled the tag o' her lace,
And she nippet her boddice sae blue,
Syne blinket sae sweet in his face,
And aff like a maukin she flew.
Woo'd and married and a'!
Wi' Johnny to roose her and a'!
She thinks hersel very weel aff,
To be woo'd and married at a'!

818

A SONG

[_]

(WRITTEN FOR MR. STRUTHER'S COLLECTION OF SONGS.)

It was on a morn, when we were thrang,
The kirn it croon'd, the cheese was making,
And bannocks on the girdle baking,
When ane at the door chapp't loud and lang.

Yet the auld gudewife and her mays sae tight,
Of a' this bauld din took sma' notice I ween;
For a chap at the door in braid day-light,
Is no like a chap that's heard at e'en.

But the docksy auld laird of the Warlock glen,
Wha waited without, half blate, half cheery,
And lang'd for a sight o' his winsome deary,
Raised up the latch, and cam' crousely ben.

His coat it was new, and his o'erlay was white,
His mittens and hose were cozie and bien;
But a wooer that comes in braid day-light,
Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.

He greeted the carline and lasses sae braw,
And his bare lyart pow, sae smoothly he straikit,
And he looket about, like a body half glaikit,
On bonny sweet Nanny, the youngest of a'.

“Ha laird!” quo' the carline, “and look ye that way?
Fy, let na' sic fancies bewilder you clean:
An elderlin man, in the noon o' the day,
Should be wiser than youngsters that come at e'en.”

“Na, na,” quo' the pawky auld wife, “I trow,
You'll no' fash your head wi' a youthfu' gilly,
As wild and as skeigh as a muirland filly;
Black Madge is far better and fitter for you.”

He hem'd and he haw'd, and he drew in his mouth,
And he squeezed the blue bannet his twa hands between,
For a wooer that comes when the sun's i'the south,
Is mair landward than wooers that come at e'en.

“Black Madge is sae carefu”'—“What's that to me?”
“She's sober and eydent, has sense in her noddle:
She's douce and respeckit”—“I care na' a bodle:
Love winna be guided, and fancy's free.”

Madge toss'd back her head wi' a saucy slight,
And Nanny, loud laughing, ran out to the green;
For a wooer that comes when the sun shines bright
Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.

Then away flung the laird, and loud mutter'd he,
“A' the daughters of Eve, between Orkney and Tweed, O!
Black or fair, young or auld, dame or damsel or widow,
May gang in their pride to the de'il for me!”

But the auld gudewife and her mays sae tight
Cared little for a' his stour banning, I ween;
For a wooer that comes in braid day-light,
Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.

FY, LET US A' TO THE WEDDING.

[_]

(AN AULD SANG, NEW BUSKIT.)

Fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there;
For Jock's to be married to Maggy,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.

And there will be jibing and jeering,
And glancing of bouny dark een,
Loud laughing and smooth-gabbit speering
O' questions baith pawky and keen.

And there will be Bessy the beauty,
Wha raises her cockup sae hie,
And giggles at preachings and duty,
Guid grant that she gang na' ajee!

And there will be auld Geordie Taunser,
Wha coft a young wife wi' his gowd;
She'll flaunt wi' a silk gown upon her,
But wow! he looks dowie and cow'd.

And brown Tibby Fouler the Heiress
Will perk at the tap o' the ha',
Encircled wi' suitors, wha's care is
To catch up her gloves when they fa',—

Repeat a' her jokes as they're cleckit,
And haver and glower in her face,
When tocherless mays are negleckit,—
A crying and scandalous case.

And Mysie, wha's clavering aunty
Wad match her wi' Laurie the Laird,
And learns the young fule to be vaunty,
But neither to spin nor to caird.

And Andrew, wha's Granny is yearning
To see him a clerical blade,
Was sent to the college for learning,
And cam' back a coof as he gaed.

819

And there will be auld Widow Martin,
That ca's hersel thritty and twa!
And thraw-gabbit Madge wha for certain
Was jilted by Hab o' the Shaw.

And Elspy the sewster sae genty,
A pattern of havens and sense,
Will straik on her mittens sae dainty,
And crack wi' Mess John i' the spence.

And Angus, the seer o' ferlies,
That sits on the stane at his door,
And tells about bogles, and mair lies
Than tongue ever utter'd before.

And there will be Bauldy the boaster,
Sae ready wi' hands and wi' tongue;
Proud Paty and silly Sam Foster,
Wha quarrel wi' auld and wi' young:

And Hugh the town-writer, I'm thinking,
That trades in his lawerly skill,
Will egg on the fighting and drinking
To bring after-grist to his mill:

And Maggy—na, na! we'll be civil,
And let the wee bridie a-be;
A vilipend tongue is the devil,
And ne'er was encouraged by me.

Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there,
Frae mony a far-distant ha'ding,
The fun and the feasting to share.

For they will get sheep's head, and haggis,
And browst o' the barley-mow;
E'en he that comes latest, and lag is,
May feast upon dainties enow:

Veal florentines in the o'en baken,
Weel plenish'd wi' raisins and fat
Beef, mutton, and chuckies, a' taken
Het reeking frae spit and frae pat:

And glasses (I trow 'tis na' said ill),
To drink the young couple good luck,
Weel fill'd wi' a braw beechen ladle
Frae punch-bowl as big as Dumbuck.

And then will come dancing and daffing,
And reelin and crossin o' hans,
Till even auld Lucky is laughing,
As back by the aumry she stans.

Sic bobbing and flinging and whirling,
While fiddlers are making their din;
And pipers are droning and skirling,
As loud as the roar o' the lin.

Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there,
For Jock's to be married to Maggy,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.

HOOLY AND FAIRLY.

[_]

(FOUNDED ON AN OLD SCOTCH SONG.)

Oh, neighbours! what had I a-do for to marry!
My wife she drinks posset and wine o' Canary,
And ca's me a niggardly, thraw-gabbit cairly,
O, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
O, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!

She sups wi' her kimmers on dainties enow,
Aye bowing and smirking and wiping her mou',
While I sit aside, and am helpit but sparely,
O, gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
O, gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!

To fairs and to bridals and preachings and a',
She gangs sae light headed and buskit sae braw,
In ribbons and mantuas that gar me gae barely!
O, gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
O, gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!

I' the kirk sic commotion last Sabbath she made,
Wi' babs o' red roses and breast-knots o'erlaid!
The Dominie stickit the psalm very nearly:
O, gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
O, gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!

She's warring and flyting frae morning till e'en,
And if ye gainsay her, her een glow'r sae keen,
Then tongue, nieve, and cudgel she'll lay on ye sairly:
O, gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
O, gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!

When tired wi' her cantrips, she lies in her bed,
The wark a' negleckit, the chaumer unred,
While a' our guid neighbours are stirring sae early:
O, gin my wife wad wurk timely and fairly!
Timely and fairly, timely and fairly,
O, gin my wife wad wurk timely and fairly!

A word o' guid counsel or grace she'll hear none;
She bandies the Elders, and mocks at Mess John,
While back in his teeth his own text she flings rarely:
O, gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
O, gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!

820

I wish I were single, I wish I were freed;
I wish I were doited, I wish I were dead,
Or she in the mouls, to dement me nae mair, lay!
What does it 'vail to cry hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
Wasting my breath to cry hooly and fairly!

THE LADY IN HER CAR.

(A NIGHT-SCENE BY THE SEA.)

There is darkness on a dangerous coast,
Where waves on waves are wildly toss'd.
High cliffs, and rifted rocks between;
The strife is terrific, and all unseen.
Ay, loud is the roar of winds and waves,
As strong contention wildly raves;
A fearful sound of a fearful commotion,—
The many angry voices of the ocean.

Along the shore from cottage homes
No sound of stirring inmate comes,
Though some on restless beds there be
Whose thoughts are with the wanderers of the sea.
Hark! from the mingled din an utter'd sound,
Distinct and awful, booming through the air,
A signal of distress; some ship aground,
With all her hardy crew to perish there!
Another booming sound! must they be lost,
Within man's hearing, on this ruthless coast?

No, from the lady's window lights appear;
There's stirring life within, and blessed help is near.
And sooth to say, in some few minutes more
The lady's car is at the door
Herself into the seat is lifted,
And to her hands the reins are shifted.

But who is she, whose deeds fulfill
The generous impulse of her will
So quickly?—One, with limbs nerve-bound,
Whose feet have never trod the ground;
Who loves, in tomes of Runick lore,
To scan the curious tales of yore,
Of gods and heroes, dimly wild;
And hath intently oft beguiled
Her passing hours with mystic rhymes,
Legends by bards rehearsed of other times:
Learned, and loving learning well;
For college hall or cloister'd cell
A student meet, yet all the while
As meet with repartee and smile,
'Mid easy converse, polish'd, blithe, and boon,
To join the circles of a gay saloon:
From childhood rear'd in wealth and ease,
The daily care herself to please,
For selfish nature here below
A dangerous state, I trow.

Such is the dame who, reins in hand,
Drives forth, and checks her courser on the strand,
Where torches blaze, and figures rude
Pictured on darkness, round her stood;
And she on th' instant in that trying hour
Becomes to them a spirit, and a pow'r
To rouse, and to command,—
Those hardy seamen she had taught
To guide the life-boat with its fraught
Of living souls, through surf and surge,
And brave the whirling eddy's scourge.
But now, all daunted, in amaze
They doggedly upon her gaze,
And sternly murmur short reply.—
“Will ye then all stand coldly by;
With faint hearts shrinking in dismay
Let the dark deep devour its prey,
Your friends, your brothers, gallant men,
Who ne'er must see their homes again?
But no—my words her words may not express:
Their generous import your own hearts will guess
And they their lady's voice obey,
Unto the boat-house wend their way,
Launch the light vessel from the shore
Amid the angry surges' roar;
Vaulting and sinking, as they go
The waves above, or waves below;
While their mix'd words of terror, or of cheer,
Sad friends upon the shore confus'dly hear.
It was an awful thing for them to wait
The issue of their comrades' doubtful fate.—

Minutes like hours have slowly past,
Each sadder, slower than the last,
While fancied voices oft betray
The wistful ear, and pass away.
At length in sooth a nearing sound, though faint,
Of oars and tongues from moderate distance sent!
It cannot be the mocking tempest's cry.
It comes again, must be reality;
The boat, the boat! its iron tackles ringing!
And from its sides man after man is springing,
Who strangely rock and stagger on the land,
As though they knew not how to stand.
It is our own: they've nobly braved,
And brought to shore their dearly saved.
Loud shouts of thankful joy and pride
From the beach inland echo far and wide.

The Lady's grateful heart basis high,
Whilst quick of thought, and quick of eye,
She gives directions on the spot;
And forthwith each in kindly cot,
With raiment, food, and bed supplied,
Cheered with soothing words beside,
Five hardy seamen lay them down to sleep,
Who else had seen no more the sun's glad ray,
Whose place of rest before the peep of day
Had been the yawning deep:

821

Men, brave and useful, stark and strong,
Who each to some loved home belong,
Where loving mates and kinsfolk dear
Think of their absent mariner with fear.

Still on the beach some thoughtful stragglers stay
To watch the earliest streak of coming day,
As there it dimly marks the distant main:
And the lady returns to her home again,
With the sound of blessings in her ear
From young and old her heart to cheer:
Sweet thoughts within her secret soul to cherish—
The blessings of those who were ready to perish;
And there lays her down on her peaceful pillow,
Bless'd by the Lord of the wind and the billow.

TO JAMES B. BAILLIE,

AN INFANT.

God's blessing rest upon thy harmless head,
My little James! Well mayst thou ever speed
On life's uncertain journey, firm and straight
Thy onward steps unto the opening gate,
At which the good and just shall enter in,
And there a higher, happier life begin!
Or rough or smooth the way that must be past,
What boots it, if thou gain thy home at last?
Yet, ne'ertheless I fain would hope that thou
Shalt with thy playmates three be happy now,
And throw a brightness round the native hearth,
To cheer their grateful hearts who gave thee birth.
Thy steps of eager speed at early day,
Thine eyes of glancing joy in buoyant play,
Thy words of sweet affection may delight
Their yearning fondness, and dear hopes excite:
Yea, Heaven perhaps thine aged Aunt may spare
Some years in these thy childhood's beams to share;
Thy fair beginning may her ending cheer,
But aught beyond will not to her appear,
And when to man's estate thou dost attain,
No trace of her will in thy mind remain.
Ay, so it needs must be, and be it so,
Though ne'er for thee will heart more warmly glow!

Thou wearst his name, who in his stinted span
Of human life, a generous useful man,
Did well the pastor's honour'd task perform.
The toilsome way, the winter's beating storm,
Ne'er kept him from the peasant's distant cot
Where want or suffering were the inmate's lot,
Who look'd for comfort in his friendly face,
As by the sick-bed's side he took his place.
A peace-maker in each divided home
To him all strife-perplexed folk would come.
In after years how earnestly he strove
In sacred lore his students to improve!
As they met round the academic chair
Each felt a zealous friend address'd him there.
He was thy grandsire's sire, who in his day,
That, many years gone by, hath pass'd away,
On human gratitude had many claims;—
Be thou as good a man, my little James!

THE WEARY PUND O' TOW.

A young gudewife is in my house,
And thrifty means to be,
But aye she's runnin' to the town,
Some ferlie there to see.
The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund o' tow,
I soothly think, ere it be spun, I'll wear a lyart pow.

And when she sets her to her wheel
To draw her threads wi' care,
In comes the chapman wi' his gear,
And she can spin nae mair.
The weary pund, & c.

And she, like ony merry may,
At fairs maun still be seen,
At kirkyard preachings near the tent,
At dances on the green.
The weary pund, & c.

Her dainty ear a fiddle charms,
A bagpipe's her delight,
But for the crooning o' her wheel
She disna care a mite.
The weary pund, & c.

You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white webs,
Made o' your linkum twine,
But, ah! I fear our bonny burn
Will ne'er lave web o' thine.
The weary pund, & c.

Nay, smile again, my winsome mate,
Sic jeering means nae ill,
Should I gae sarkless to my grave,
I'll lo'e and bless thee still.
The weary pund, & c.

TAM O' THE LIN.

Tam o' the Lin was fu' o' pride,
And his weapon he girt to his valorous side,
A scabbard o' leather wi' deil-haet within,—
“Attack me wha daur!” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

822

Tam o' the Lin he bought a mear,
She cost him five shilling, she was na' dear,
Her back stuck up and her sides fell in,—
“A fiery yaud,” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

Tam o' the Lin he courted a may,
She stared at him sourly and said him nay,
But he stroked down his jerkin and cock'd up his chin,—
“She aims at a laird then,” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

Tam o' the Lin he gaed to the fair,
Yet he look'd wi' disdain on the chapman's ware,
Then chuck'd out a saxpence, the saxpence was tin,—
“There's coin for the fiddlers,” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

Tam o' the Lin wad show his lare,
And he scann'd o'er the book wi' a wiselike stare,
He mutter'd confusedly but didna begin,—
“This is Dominie's business,” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

Tam o' the Lin had a cow wi' ae horn,
That liket to feed on his neighbour's corn,
The stanes he threw at her fell short o' her skin,—
“She's a lucky auld reiver,” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

Tam o' the Lin he married a wife,
And she was the torment, the plague o' his life;
She lays sae about her, and makes sic a din,—
“She frightens the bailie,” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

Tam o' the Lin grew dowie and douce,
And he sat on a stane at the end o' his house:
What ails thee, auld chield? he looks haggard and thin,—
“I'm no vera cheery,” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

Tam o' the Lin lay down to die,
And his friends whisper'd softly and woefully,
We'll buy you some masses to scour away sin,—
“And drink at my latewake,” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

NEW WORDS TO THE OLD SCOTCH AIR OF “THE WEE PICKLE TOW.”

A lively young lass had a wee pickle tow,
And she thought to try the spinning o't;
She sat by the fire and her rock took a low,
And that was an ill beginning o't.
Loud and shrill was the cry that she utter'd, I ween;
The sudden mischanter brought tears to her een;
Her face it was fair, but her temper was keen;
O dole for the ill beginning o't!

She stamp'd on the floor and her twa hands she wrung,
Her bonnie sweet mon' she crooket O!
And fell was the outbreak o' words fra her tongue;
Like one sair demented she looket O!
“Foul fa' the inventor o' rock and o' reel!
I hope, guid forgie me, he's now wi' the deil,
He brought us mair trouble than help, wot I weel,
O dole for the ill beginning o't!”

And now when they're spinning and kemping awa',
They'll talk o' my rock, and the burning o't,
While Tibbie, and Mysie, and Maggie, and a'
Into some silly joke will be turning it;
They'll say I was doited, they'll say I was fou',
They'll say I was dowie, and Robin untrue,
They'll say in the fire some luve-pouther I threw,
And that made the ill beginning o't!

O curst be the day and unchancy the hour,
When I sat me adown to the spinning o't!
Then some evil spirit or warlock had pow'r,
And made sic an ill beginning o't:
May Spunkie my feet to the boggie betray,
The lunzie folk steal my new kirtle away,
And Robin forsake me for douce Effie Gray,
The next time I try the spinning o't!

SONG,

CALLED “THE COUNTRY LADY'S REVEILLIE.”

From early fire wending
The smoke is ascending,
And with the clouds blending,
Awake, awake!
From green covert creeping
Wild creatures are peeping,
Fy! sloth of dull sleeping
Forsake, forsake!

The cocks are a-crowing,
The kine are a-lowing,
The milk-pail is flowing,
Awake, awake!
The dew-drops are gleaming,
And bright eyes are beaming,
The mist of pale dreaming
Forsake, forsake!

Now maidens are bracing,
And bodices lacing,
The slender form gracing,
Awake, awake!
On slipper'd toe stealing,
Thy fair face revealing,
The curtain's dark sheeling
Forsake, forsake!

823

VOLUNTEER'S SONG,

WRITTEN IN 1803.

Ye who Britain's soldiers be,—
Freemen, children of the free,
Who quickly come at danger's call,
From shop and palace, cot and hall,
And brace ye bravely up in warlike gear,
For all that ye hold dear;

Blest in your hands be sword and spear!
There is no banded Briton here
On whom some fond mate hath not smiled,
Or hung in love some lisping child,
Or aged parent, grasping his last stay,
With locks of honour'd gray.

Such men behold with steady pride,
The threaten'd tempest gathering wide,
And list with onward form inclined
To sound of foe-men on the wind,
And bravely act amid the battle's roar,
In seenes untried before.

Let veterans boast, as well they may,
Nerves steel'd in many a bloody day;
The generous heart, who takes his stand
Upon his free and native land,
Doth, with the first sound of the hostile drum,
A fearless man become.

Then come, ye hosts, that madly pour
From wave-toss'd floats upon our shore!
If fell or gentle, false or true,
Let those inquire, who wish to sue:
Nor fiend nor hero from a foreign strand,
Shall lord it in our land.

Come, then, ye hosts that madly pour
From wave-toss'd floats upon our shore!
An adverse wind or breezeless main
Lock'd in their ports our tars detain,
To waste their eager spirits, vainly keen,
Else here ye had not been.

Yet ne'ertheless, in strong array,
Prepare ye for a well-fought day.
Let banners wave and trumpets sound,
And closing cohorts darken round,
And the fierce onset raise its mingled roar,
New sound on England's shore!

Freemen, children of the free,
Are brave alike on land or sea;
And every rood of British ground,
On which a hostile spear is found,
Proves under their firm tread and vigorous stroke,
A deck of royal oak.

SONG,

WRITTEN FOR AN IRISH AIR.

The morning air plays on my face,
And through the grey mist peering
The soften'd sun I sweetly trace,
Wood, moor, and mountain cheering,
Larks aloft are singing,
Hares from covert springing,
And o'er the fen the wild-duck brood
Their early way are winging.

Bright every dewy hawthorn shines,
Sweet every herb is growing,
To him whose willing heart inclines
The way that he is going.
Clearly do I see now
What will shortly be now;
I'm patting at her door poor Tray,
Who fawns and welcomes me now.

How slowly moves the rising latch!
How quick my heart is beating!
That worldly dame is on the watch
To frown upon our meeting.
Fy! why should I mind her,
See who stands behind her,
Whose eye upon her traveller looks
The sweeter and the kinder.

O every bounding step I take,
Each hour the clock is telling,
Bears me o'er mountain, bourn, and brake,
Still nearer to her dwelling.
Day is shining brighter,
Limbs are moving lighter,
While every thought to Nora's love
But binds my love the tighter.

SONG,

FOR AN IRISH AIR.

Come, form we round a cheerful ring,
And broach the foaming ale,
And let the merry maiden sing,
The beldame tell her tale.

And let the sightless harper sit
The blazing fagot near;
And let the jester vent his wit,
The nurse her bantling cheer.

Who shakes the door with angry din,
And would admitted be?
No, Gossip Winter! snug within,
We have no room for thee.

824

Go scud it o'er Killarney's lake,
And shake the willows bare,
Where water-elves their pastime take,
Thou'lt find thy comrades there.

Will-o'-the-wisp skips in the dell,
The owl hoots on the tree,
They hold their nightly vigil well,
And so the while will we.

Then strike we up the rousing glee,
And pass the beaker round,
Till every head, right merrily,
Is moving to the sound!

A SCOTCH SONG.

The gowan glitters on the sward,
The lavrock's in the sky,
And collie on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.
Oh no! sad and slow
And lengthen'd on the ground,
The shadow of our trysting bush,
It wears so slowly round!

My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near,
But still the sound that I lo'e best,
Alack! I canna' hear.
Oh no! sad and slow,
The shadow lingers still,
And like a lanely ghaist I stand
And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar,
The mill wi' clacking din,
And Lucky scolding frae her door,
To ca' the bairnies in.
Oh no! sad and slow,
These are na' sounds for me,
The shadow of our trysting bush,
It creeps sae drearily!

I coft yestreen, frae Chapman Tam,
A snood of bonny blue,
And promised when our trysting cam',
To tie it round her brow.
Oh no! sad and slow,
The mark it winna' pass;
The shadow of that weary thorn,
Is tether'd on the grass.

O now I see her on the way,
She's past the witch's knowe,
She's climbing up the Browny's brae,
My heart is in a lowe!
Oh no! tis no' so,
'Tis glam'rie I have seen;
The shadow of that hawthorn bush,
Will move na' mair till e'en.

My book o' grace I'll try to read,
Though conn'd wi' little skill,
When collie barks I'll raise my head,
And find her on the hill;
Oh no! sad and slow,
The time will ne'er be gane,
The shadow of the trysting bush,
Is fix'd like ony stane.

SONG,

POVERTY PARTS GOOD COMPANY, (FOR AN OLD SCOTCH AIR.)

When my o'erlay was white as the foam o' the lin,
And siller was chinkin my pouches within,
When my lambkins were bleatin on meadow and brae,
As I went to my love in new cleeding sae gay,
Kind was she, and my friends were free,
But poverty parts good company.

How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of delight,
When piper play'd cheerly, and crusie burn'd bright,
And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear,
As she footed the floor in her holyday gear!
Woe is me; and can it then be,
That poverty parts sic company?

We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk,
We met i' the sunshine, we met i' the mirk;
And the sound o' her voice, and the blinks o' her een,
The cheering and life of my bosom hae been.
Leaves frae the tree, at Martinmass flee,
And poverty parts sweet company.

At bridal and infare, I braced me wi' pride,
The broose I hae won, and a kiss o' the bride;
And loud was the laughter good fellows among,
As I utter'd my banter or chorus'd my song;
Dowie and dree are jestin and glee,
When poverty spoils good company.

Wherever I gaed kindly lasses look'd sweet,
And mithers and aunties were unco discreet;
While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board;
But now they pass by me, and never a word!
Sae let it be, for the worldly and slee
Wi' poverty keep nae company.

825

But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart,
And the spae-wife has tauld me to keep up my heart,
For, wi' my last saxpence, her loof I hae crost,
And the bliss that is fated can never be lost.
Though cruelly we may ilka day see
How poverty parts dear company.

SONG,

(FOR A SCOTCH AIR).

O swiftly glides the bonny boat
Just parted from the shore,
And, to the fisher's chorus note,
Soft moves the dipping oar!
His toils are borne with lightsome cheer.
And ever may they speed,
Who feeble age, and helpmates dear,
And tender bairnies feed.

CHORUS.

We cast our lines in Largo Bay,
Our nets are floating wide,
Our bonny boat with yielding sway
Rocks lightly on the tide;
And happy prove our daily lot,
Upon the summer sea!
And blest on land our kindly cot,
Where all our treasures be!

The Mermaid on her rock may sing,
The Witch may weave her charm,
Nor Water-Sprite, nor elrich thing
The bonny boat can harm.
It safely bears its scaly store
Through many a stormy gale,
While joyful shouts rise from the shore,
Its homeward prow to hail.

CHORUS.

We cast our lines, & c.

A SAILOR'S SONG.

While clouds on high are riding,
The wintry moonshine hiding,
The raging blast abiding,
O'er mountain waves we go,
We go, we go, we go,
Bravely we go, we go.

With hind, the dry land reaping,—
With townsman, shelter keeping,—
With lord, on soft down sleeping,—
Change we our lot? O no!
O no! O no! O no!
Change we our lot? O no!

On stormy main careering,
Each sea-mate, sea-mate cheering,
With dauntless helmsman steering,
Our forthward course we hold,
We hold, we hold, we hold,
Our forthward course we hold, we hold.

Their sails with sunbeams whiten'd,
Themselves with glory brighten'd,
From care their bosoms lighten'd,
Who shall return?—the bold;
The bold, the bold, the bold;
Only the bold! the bold!

SONG,

(A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD SCOTCH SONG)

“Saw ye Johnny comin?” quo' she,
“Saw ye Johnny comin?
Wi' his blue bonnet on his head,
And his doggie runnin?
Yestreen about the gloamin time
I chanced to see him comin,
Whistling merrily the tune
That I am a' day hummin,” quo' she,
“I am a' day hummin.”

“Fee him, faither, fee him,” quo' she,
“Fee him, faither, fee him;
A' the wark about the house
Gaes wi' me when I see him:
A' the wark about the house,
I gang sae lightly through it;
And though ye pay some merks o' gear,
Hoot! ye winna rue it,” quo' she,
“No; ye winna rue it.”

“What wad I do wi' him, hizzy?
What wad I do wi' him?
He's ne'er a sark upon his back,
And I hae nane to gie him.”
“I hae twa sarks into my kist,
And ane o' them I'll gie him;
And for a merk o' mair fee,
O, dinna stand wi' him,” quo' she,
“Dinna stand wi' him.”

“Weel do I lo'e him,” quo' she,
“Weel do I lo'e him,
The brawest lads about the place
Are a' but haverels to him.
O fee him, faither; lang I trow

826

We've dull and dowie been;
He'll haud the plough, thrash i' the barn,
And crack wi' me at e'en,” quo' she,
“Crack wi' me at e'en.”

SIR MAURICE:

A BALLAD.

Sir Maurice was a wealthy lord,
He lived in the north countrie;
Well could he cope with foeman's sword,
Or the glance of a lady's eye.

Now all his armed vassals wait,
A staunch and burly band,
Before his stately Castle's gate,
Bound for the Holy Land.

Above the spearmen's lengthen'd file,
Are pictured ensigns flying;
Stroked by their keeper's hand the while,
Are harness'd chargers neighing.

And looks of woe, and looks of cheer,
And looks the two between,
On many a warlike face appear,
Where tears have lately been.

For all they love is left behind,
Hope beckons them before;
Their parting sails swell with the wind,
Blown from their native shore.

Then through the crowded portal pass'd
Six goodly knights and tall,
Sir Maurice himself, who came the last,
Was goodliest of them all.

And proudly roved his hasty eye
O'er all the warlike train;—
“Save ye! brave comrades!—prosperously,
Heaven send us cross the main!

“But see I right?—an armed band
From Moorham's lordless hall;
And he, who bears the high command,
Its ancient Seneschal!

“Return, your stately keep defend;
Defend your lady's bower,
Lest rude and lawless hands should rend
That lone and lovely flower.”

“God will defend our lady dear,
And we will cross the sea,
From slavery's chain, his lot severe,
Our noble lord to free.”

“Nay, nay! some wandering minstrel's tongue,
Hath framed a story vain;
Thy lord, his liege-men brave among,
Near Acre's wall was slain.”

“Nay, good my lord! for had his life
Been lost on battle-ground,
When ceased that fell and fatal strife,
His body had been found.”

“No faith to such delusion give;
His mortal term is past”—
“Not so, not so! he is alive,
And will be found at last!”

These latter words, right eagerly,
From a slender stripling broke,
Who stood the ancient warrior by,
And trembled as he spoke.

Sir Maurice started at the sound,
And all, from top to toe,
The stripling scann'd, who to the ground,
His blushing face bent low.

“Is this thy kinsman, Seneschal?
Thy own or thy sister's son?
A gentler page, in tent or hall,
Mine eyes ne'er look'd upon.

“To thine own home return, fair youth!
To thine own home return;
Give ear to likely, sober truth,
Nor prudent counsel spurn.

“War suits thee not if boy thou art;
And if a sweeter name
Befit thee, do not lightly part
With maiden's honour'd fame.”

He turn'd him from his liege-men all,
Who round their chieftain press'd;
His very shadow on the wall
His troubled mind express'd.

As sometimes slow and sometimes fast
He paced to and fro,
His plumy crest now upwards cast
In air, now drooping low.

Sometimes, like one in frantic mood,
Short words of sound he utter'd,
And sometimes, stopping short, he stood
As to himself he mutter'd:

“A daughter's love, a maiden's pride!
And may they not agree?
Could man desire a lovelier bride,
A truer friend than she?

827

“Down, cursed thought! a stripling's garb,
Betrays not wanton will;
Yet sharper than an arrow's barb,
That fear might wound me still.”

He mutter'd long, then to the gate
Return'd and look'd around,
But the Seneschal and his stripling mate
Were nowhere to be found.

With outward cheer and inward smart
In warlike, fair array,
Did Maurice with his bands depart,
And shoreward bent his way.

Their stately ship rode near to port,
The warriors to receive,
And there, with blessings kind but short,
Did friends of friends take leave.

And soon they saw the crowded strand
Wear dimly from their view,
And soon they saw the distant land,
A line of hazy blue.

The white-sail'd ship with favouring breeze,
In all her gallant pride,
Moved like the mistress of the seas,
That rippled far and wide.

Sometimes with steady course she went,
O'er wave and surge careering,
Sometimes with sidelong mast she bent,
Her wings the sea-foam sheering.

Sometimes with poles and rigging bare
She scudded before the blast,
But safely by the Syrian shore
Her anchor dropp'd at last.

What martial honours Maurice won,
Join'd with the brave and great,
From the fierce, faithless Saracen,
I may not here relate.

With boldest band on bridge or moat,
With champion on the plain,
I' the narrow bloody breach he fought,
Choked up with grisly slain.

Most valiant by the valiant deem'd,
Their praise his deeds proclaim'd,
And the eyes of his liege-men brightly beam'd,
When they heard their leader named.

But fate will quell the hero's strength,
And dim the loftiest brow,
And this our noble chief at length
Was in the dust laid low.

He lay the heaps of dead beneath,
As sank life's flickering flame,
And thought it was the trance of death,
That o'er his senses came.

And when again day's blessed light
Did on his vision fall,
There stood by his side—a wondrous sight—
The ancient Seneschal.

He strove, but could not utter word;
His misty senses fled;
Again he woke, and Moorham's lord
Was bending o'er his bed.

A third time sank he as if dead,
And then his eye-lids raising,
He saw a chief with turban'd head,
Intently on him gazing.

“The Prophet's zealous servant I;
His battles I've fought and won:
Christians I scorn, their creeds deny,
But honour Mary's Son.

“And I have wedded an English dame,
And set her parent free;
And none who bear an English name,
Shall e'er be thrall'd by me.

“For her dear sake I can endure
All wrong, all hatred smother;
Whate'er I feel, thou art secure,
As though thou wert my brother.”

“And thou hast wedded an English dame!”
Sir Maurice said no more,
For o'er his heart soft weakness came,
He sigh'd and wept full sore.

And many a dreary day and night,
With the Moslem Chief stay'd he,
But ne'er could catch, to bless his sight,
One glimpse of the fair lady.

Oft gazed he on her lattice high,
As he paced the court below,
And turn'd his listening ear to try,
If word or accent low

Might haply reach him there; and oft
Traversed the garden green,
And thought some footstep, small and soft,
Might on the turf be seen.

And oft to Moorham's lord he gave
His eager ear, who told
How he became a wretched slave,
Within that Syrian hold;

828

What time from liege-men parted far,
Upon the battle-field,
By stern and adverse fate of war,
He was compell'd to yield:

And how his daughter did by stealth,
So boldly cross the sea,
With secret store of gather'd wealth,
To set her father free:

And how into the foeman's hands
She and her people fell;
And how (herself in captive bands)
She sought him in his cell;

And but a captive boy appear'd,
Till grief her sex betray'd;
And the fierce Saracen, so fear'd,
Spoke kindly to the maid:

How for her plighted hand sued he,
And solemn promise gave,
Her noble father should be free,
With every Christian slave;

(For many there, in bondage kept,
Felt the base rule of vice,)
How long she ponder'd, sorely wept,
Then paid the fearful price.

A tale that made his bosom thrill,—
His faded eyes to weep;
He waking thought upon it still,
And saw it in his sleep.

But harness rings, and the trumpet's bray
Again to battle calls,
And Christian Powers in grand array,
Are near those Moslem walls.

Sir Maurice heard; untoward fate!
Sad to be thought upon!
But the castle's lord unlock'd its gate,
And bade his guest be gone.

“Fight thou for faith by thee adored,
By thee so well maintain'd;
But never may this trusty sword,
With blood of thine be stain'd!”

Sir Maurice took him by the hand,
“God bless thee too!”—he cried;
Then to the nearest Christian band,
With mingled feelings hied.

The battle join'd, with dauntless pride,
'Gainst foemen, foemen stood,
And soon the fatal field was dyed
With many a brave man's blood.

At length gave way the Moslem force;
Their valiant chief was slain;
Maurice protected his lifeless corse,
And bore it from the plain.

There's mourning in the Moslem halls,
A dull and dismal sound;
The lady left its 'leaguer'd walls,
And safe protection found.

When months were past, the widow'd dame
Look'd calm and cheerfully;
Then Maurice to her presence came,
And bent him on his knee.

What words of penitence or suit
He utter'd, pass we by;
The lady wept, awhile was mute,
Then gave this firm reply;

“That thou didst doubt my maiden pride,
(A thought that rose and vanish'd
So fleetingly) I will not chide;
'Tis from remembrance banish'd.

“But thy fair fame, earn'd by that sword,
Still spotless shall it be:
I was the bride of a Moslem lord,
And will never be bride to thee.”

So firm though gentle was her look,
Hope on the instant fled;
A solemn, dear farewell he took,
And from her presence sped.

And she a plighted nun became,
God serving day and night;
And he of blest Jerusalem,
A brave and zealous knight,

But that their lot was one of woe,
Wot ye, because of this
Their separate single state?—if so,
In sooth ye judge amiss.

She tends the helpless stranger's bed,
For alms her wealth is stored;
On her meek worth God's grace is shed,
Man's grateful blessings pour'd.

He still in warlike mail doth stalk,
In arms his prowess prove;
And oft of siege or battle talk,
And sometimes of his love.

His noble countenance the while,
Would youthful listeners please,
When with alter'd voice, and a sweet sad smile
He utter'd such words as these:

829

“She was the fairest of the fair,
The gentlest of the kind;
Search ye the wide world every where,
Her like ye shall not find.

“She was the fairest, is the best,
Too good for a monarch's bride;
I would not give her, in nun's coif drest,
For all her sex beside.”

TO MRS. SIDDONS.

Gifted of heaven! who hast, in days gone by,
Moved every heart, delighted every eye;
While age and youth, of high and low degree,
In sympathy were join'd, beholding thee,
As in the Drama's ever changing scene,
Thou heldst thy splendid state, our tragic queen!
No barriers there thy fair domains confined,
Thy sovereign sway was o'er the human mind;
And, in the triumph of that witching hour,
Thy lofty bearing well became thy power.

The impassion'd changes of thy beauteous face,
Thy stately form, and high imperial grace;
Thine arms impetuous toss'd, thy robe's wide flow,
And the dark tempest gather'd on thy brow;
What time thy flashing eye and lip of scorn
Down to the dust thy mimic foes have borne;
Remorseful musings, sunk to deep dejection,
The fix'd and yearning looks of strong affection;
The active turmoil a wrought bosom rending,
When pity, love, and honour, are contending:
They who beheld all this, right well, I ween,
A lovely, grand, and wondrous sight have seen.

Thy varied accents, rapid, fitful, slow,
Loud rage, and fear's snatch'd whisper, quick and low;
The burst of stifled love, the wail of grief,
And tones of high command, full, solemn, brief;
The change of voice, and emphasis that threw
Light on obscurity, and brought to view
Distinctions nice, when grave or comic mood,
Or mingled humours, terse and new, elude
Common perception, as earth's smallest things
To size and form, the vesting hoar-frost brings,
That seem'd as if some secret voice, to clear
The ravell'd meaning, whisper'd in thine ear,
And thou hadst e'en with him communion kept,
Who hath so long in Stratford's chancel slept;
Whose lines, where nature's brightest traces shine,
Alone were worthy deem'd of powers like thine;
They who have heard all this, have proved full well
Of soul-exciting sound, the mightiest spell.

But though time's lengthen'd shadows o'er thee glide,
And pomp of regal state is cast aside,
Think not the glory of thy course is spent,
There's moonlight radiance to thy evening lent,
That, to the mental world can never fade,
Till all who saw thee, in the grave are laid.
Thy graceful form still moves in nightly dreams,
And what thou wast, to the lull'd sleeper seems:
While feverish fancy oft doth fondly trace
Within her curtain'd couch thy wondrous face.
Yea; and to many a wight, bereft and lone,
In musing hours, though all to thee unknown,
Soothing his earthly course of good and ill,
With all thy potent charm, thou actest still.

And now in crowded room or rich saloon,
Thy stately presence recognized, how soon
On thee the glance of many an eye is cast,
In grateful memory of pleasures past!
Pleased to behold thee, with becoming grace,
Take, as befits thee well, an honour'd place
(Where blest by many a heart, long mayst thou stand!)
Among the virtuous matrons of our land.

A SONG,

WRITTEN FOR AN IRISH MELODY.

His boat comes on the sunny tide,
And briskly moves the flashing oar,
The boatmen carol by his side,
And blithely near the welcome shore.

How softly Shannon's currents flow,
His shadow in the stream I see;
The very waters seem to know,
Dear is the freight they bear to me.

His eager bound, his hasty tread,
His well-known voice I'll shortly hear;
And oh, those arms so kindly spread!
That greeting smile! that manly tear!

In other lands, when far away,
My love and hope were never twain;
I saw him thus, both night and day,
To Shannon's banks return'd again.

830

SONG,

FOR AN IRISH MELODY.

The harper who sat on his green mossy seat,
And harp'd to the youngsters so loud and so sweet,
The far distant hum of the children at play,
And the maiden's soft carol at close of the day,—

Ah! this was the music delighted my ear,
And to think of it now is so sad and so dear!
Ah! to listen again, by mine own cottage door,
To the sound of mine own native village once more!

I knew every dame in her holiday airs;
I knew every maiden that danced at our fairs;
I knew every farmer to market who came,
And the dog that ran after him call'd by its name.

And whom know I now in this far distant land,
But the stiff collar'd sergeant, and red-coated band?
No kinsman to comfort his own flesh and blood;
No merry-eyed damsel to do my heart good!

To mine eye or mine ear no gay cheering e'er comes,
But the flare of our colours, the tuck of our drums;
The fierce flashing steel of our long muster'd file,
And the sharp shrilly fifers a-playing the while.

At night, as I keep on the wearisome watch,
The sound of the west wind I greedily catch,
Then the shores of dear Ireland will rise to my sight,
And mine own native valley, that spot of delight!

Divided so far by a wide stormy main,
Shall I ever return to our valley again?
Ah! to listen at ease by mine own cottage door,
To the sound of mine own native village once more!

SONG.

Bird soaring high, cloud in the sky,
Where go ye? O where go ye?
Where the smoke from the gipsy's fire is veering,
And our gay little boat, o'er the blue frith steering,
Will soon bear me.

My thoughts before, on yonder shore,
Are free as wind, are free as wind,
While this body of mine on its palfry riding,
Right lazy of pace, or on smooth wave gliding,
Is far behind.

But see I not, yon distant spot?
O now I see, O now I see!
Where the mist up the distant hill is creeping,
And woods through the morning cloud are peeping,
There dwelleth she.

Doth gentle sleep her senses steep?
Or does she wake? or does she wake?
E'en now, perhaps, her dark hair raising,
At her casement she stands, o'er the waters she's gazing,
All for my sake.

Her face is gay as the joyous day,
And O how sweet! and O how sweet!
Her voice as she utters her modest greeting,
While my heart at the sound is so quickly beating,
Whene'er we meet!

When time runs on, and weeks are gone,
Then on that shore, then on that shore,
I'll meet her with all my gay bridesmen bounding,
In light-hearted glee to the minstrel's sounding,
And part no more.

SONG.

[_]

WRITTEN AT MR. THOMSON'S REQUEST, AS A KIND OF INTRODUCTION TO HIS IRISH MELODIES.

Sweet power of song! that canst impart
To lowland swain or mountaineer
A gladness thrilling through the heart,
A joy so tender and so dear!

Sweet power! that on a foreign strand
Canst the rough soldier's bosom move
With feelings of his native land,
As gentle as an infant's love!

Sweet power! that makest youthful heads,
With thistle, leek, or shamrock crown'd,
Nod proudly as the carol sheds
Its spirit through the social round!

Sweet power! that cheer'st the daily toil
Of cottage maid or beldame poor,
The ploughman on the furrow'd soil,
Or herd-boy on the lonely moor:

Or he by bards the shepherd hight,
Who mourns his maiden's broken tie,
Till the sweet plaint, in woe's despite,
Hath made a bliss of agony:

831

Sweet power of song! thanks flow to thee
From every kind and gentle breast!
Let Erin's—Cambria's minstrels be
With Burns's tuneful spirit blest!

THE BLACK COCK,

WRITTEN FOR A WELSH AIR, CALLED “THE NOTE OF THE BLACK COCK.”

Good morrow to thy sable beak,
And glossy plumage, dark and sleek,
Thy crimson moon and azure eye,
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy!
I see thee, slily cowering, through
That wiry web of silver dew,
That twinkles in the morning air,
Like casement of my lady fair.

A maid there is in yonder tower,
Who, peeping from her early bower,
Half shows, like thee, with simple wile,
Her braided hair and morning smile.
The rarest things with wayward will,
Beneath the covert hide them still:
The rarest things to light of day
Look shortly forth, and shrink away.

One fleeting moment of delight,
I sunn'd me in her cheering sight;
And short, I ween, the term will be,
That I shall parley hold with thee.
Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day;
The climbing herdboy chaunts his lay;
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring;
Thou art already on the wing!

SONG,

WRITTEN FOR A WELSH AIR, CALLED “THE PURSUIT OF LOVE.”

O, welcome, bat and owlet gray,
Thus winging low your airy way!
And welcome, moth and drowsy fly,
That to mine ear come humming by!
And welcome, shadows dim and deep,
And stars that through the pale sky peep!
O welcome all! to me ye say,
My woodland love is on her way.

Upon the soft wind floats her hair;
Her breath is in the dewy air;
Her steps are in the whisper'd sound
That steals along the stilly ground.
O dawn of day, in rosy bower,
What art thou to this witching hour?
O noon of day, in sunshine bright,
What art thou to the fall of night?

SONG,

WRITTEN FOR A WELSH AIR, CALLED “THE NEW YEAR'S GIFT.”

All white hang the bushes o'er Elaw's sweet stream,
And pale from the rock the long icicles gleam;
The first peep of morning just peers from the sky,
And here at thy door, gentle Mary, am I.

With the dawn of the year, and the dawn of the light,
The one who best loves thee stands first in thy sight,
Then welcome, dear maid! with my gift let me be—
A ribbon, a kiss, and a blessing for thee!

Last year, of earth's treasures I gave thee my part,
The new year before it, I gave thee my heart;
And now, gentle Mary, I greet thee again,
When only this band and a blessing remain.

Though Time should run on with his sack full of care,
And wrinkle thy cheek, dear, and whiten thy hair,
Yet still on this morn shall my offering be,
A ribbon, a kiss, and a blessing for thee.

SONG,

WRITTEN FOR A WELSH MELODY.

I've no sheep on the mountain, nor boat on the lake,
Nor coin in my coffer to keep me awake,
Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree,
Yet the Maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

Softly tapping at eve to her window I came,
And loud bay'd the watch-dog, loud scolded the dame;
For shame, silly Lightfoot! what is it to thee,
Though the Maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me?

The farmer rides proudly to market or fair,
The clerk at the alehouse still claims the great chair,
But, of all our proud fellows, the proudest I'll be,
While the Maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

For blythe as the urchin at holiday play,
And meek as a matron in mantle of gray,
And trim as a lady of gentle degree,
Is the Maid of Llanwellyn, who smiles upon me.

832

SONG.

What voice is this, thou evening gale!
That mingles with thy rising wail;
And, as it passes, sadly seems
The faint return of youthful dreams?

Though now its strain is wild and drear,
Blythe was it once as sky-lark's cheer—
Sweet as the night-bird's sweetest song,—
Dear as the lisp of infant's tongue.

It was the voice, at whose sweet flow
The heart did beat, and cheek did glow,
And lip did smile, and eye did weep,
And motion'd love the measure keep.

Oft be thy sound, soft gale of even,
Thus to my wistful fancy given;
And, as I list the swelling strain,
The dead shall seem to live again!

ON THE DEATH OF A VERY DEAR FRIEND.

A spirit hath pass'd from her breezy hill,
From the sound of her trees and her tinkling rill,
From her broomy nooks and her twisted bowers,
And the splendid show of her cherish'd flowers,
As the sun shone out on her garden gay,
And dew-drops sparkled on stem and spray;
From the peasant's cot, where the housewife neat
Prepared for her the oft-wiped seat;
From the farmer's hold, where the dame's glad eye
Enhanced the parlour courtesy;
From the place, above all, she loved the best,
That mansion fair, her home of rest,
Where inmates dear were ever found
And sisterly affection sweetly fenced her round.

This spirit, when clothed in mortal weeds,
Was full of Christian thoughts and deeds.
The simple sound of her well-known voice
Made lonely widow'd hearts rejoice;
And the sickly hind look'd from his bed
As he heard her steps on his threshold tread,
And, smiling momently, forgot
The pine and pain of his weary lot.

Beneath his mistress, frank and kind,
Her gardener work'd with willing mind,
As though the very flowers would bloom
To please her with their rich perfume.
And when at times with spud or rake
She did his lighter toil partake,
Some neighbour's child would slily peep
Through wicket-fence, and near her creep,
Encouraged by a nod or smile,
And by her side chat busily the while;
For with such urchin folk right dearly
She loved to hold a playful parley.

Nor did such toward spots alone declare
Her pleasing fancy and her skilful care;
The long-neglected quarry, grim and gray,
Where rubbish in uncouth confusion lay,—
Loose stones and sand with weeds and brush-wood rotten,
And everything or worthless or forgotten,—
Seem'd to obey her will, as though by duty
Constrain'd, and soon became a place of beauty.
Its fairy floor is mossy green,
And o'er its creviced walls, I ween,
The harebell, foxglove, fern, and heather,
Mingle most lovingly together;
While from the upper screen, as bent to see
What might be hid below, the rowan tree
And drooping birch seem to look curiously,
A friendly place where birds for shelter come,
And bees and flies and moths raise a soft summer hum,
Justina's Quarry! a name most dear
Will henceforth sweetly, sadly soothe the ear.

Happy, and making others so,
Her life's pure stream did gently flow.
Like a warm morning's kindly sheen,
Oft was the light of her presence seen
Reflected from the brow and eye
Of those whose hearts beat quick when she was nigh.
Her gentle voice and joyous smile
And sprightly converse could beguile
The winter's night of half its measure,
The rainy day of half its listless leisure.

The gifts of fortune were by her possess'd
As only held in trust; she felt that best
She served her bounteous Master when she gave
What He to her had given, His poor to save
From pain or penury, and could upbind
The suffering body or the wounded mind.
How generously her hand bestow'd!
How gratefully her bosom glow'd!
The God she loved did to her heart
His own beneficence impart,
And still she thought her gifts too small
To prove her gratitude to Him who gave her all.
To woe and suffering she clung,
And her protecting arms around the helpless flung.

But not in gentleness alone
The nature of her mind was known;
High intellect, acute and strong,
Did to this gifted friend belong,
In time of need a present aid
To comfort, counsel, or persuade,

833

To hold o'er other minds a sway,
Ruling their will when seeming to obey.

And thus in health and wealth her life she pass'd,
But death his stern commission gain'd at last,
Empower'd her yet fair earthly robe to rend,
And with frail timid nature to contend.
But He, the Saviour, whom she loved through life,
Had nobly braced her for the fearful strife,
And she with mind composed and steadfast eye
Could meet the grizzly foe right valiantly.
In every interval of pain
Her buoyant spirits rose again.
At open window she would sit,
And see the swallow past her flit,
And see the blue sky pure and fair,
And white clouds floating in the air,
And feel the kindly cooling breeze
That stirr'd among the waving trees;
Or call some youngling of her race
To look upon its lovely face;
Then on her sisters sweetly smile,
And for a time their woe beguile
With cheerful words of other years,
While they, belike, sat smiling through their tears.

But now, alas! the rathless foe
Must deal his final blow;
Her brief, but honour'd course is run,
Her Christian warfare done.
'Twas then her brightening eyes she raised,
And towards heaven intently gazed,
As if some beckoning vision there
Were hovering in the viewless air.
And then her eyelids slowly dropp'd,
Her features blanch'd, her pulses stopp'd,
And to the blessed realms of brighter day
The beautiful spirit hath pass'd away.

VERSES ON SACRED SUBJECTS.

HYMN.

My God! would that, from earthly trammels free,
My thoughts could win their upward way to Thee,
And there awhile in lofty regions prove
The purifying glow of holy love!

The solemn dome of night is o'er my head,
Where countless stars in grand array are spread—
Thy mighty host, that to our wond'ring eyes
One maze of glory is; while sombre lies
Beneath its vasty span the darken'd face
Of many a land, where many a motley race,
With all their worldly care, in sleep are lapt.
O, might my soul, in adoration rapt,
Her high concentred thoughts still raise to Thee,
With steady power! Alas, this may not be!
My thoughts are twilight birds, in seasons rare,
That skim, and rise, and flit in nether air;
That wheel, and turn, and cross, and soar, and swoop,
With seeming bootless speed, then feebly droop
Their weary wings, which may no more sustain
Such flight, and hie to murky haunts again.

My God, who knowst the creature thou hast made,
Pity my weakness, nor as sin be laid
Upon my head, this feebleness of mind;
And if sublimer thoughts I may not bind,
As the abiding treasure of my heart—
Inmates, who rarely from their cell depart;
Vouchsafe such grace, that many a transient notion
May oft within me kindle true devotion;
And, moving as a meteor of the night,
Be for a passing, glorious moment bright,—
A moment, uttering in words of fire,
“Thou art our Mighty Lord, our good and bounteous Sire!”

HYMN.

The frith is cross'd, the previous warfare past,
Through swampy plains, dark woods and deserts vast,
O'er heaths and flowery slopes, and valleys fair,
And gloomy mountain passes, steep and bare,—
All disembark'd the pilgrims stand
On the unknown and beauteous land,
While Hope, who needs support no more,
Hath dropp'd her anchor by the shore,
A strangely mingled band!

And lo, with many a lofty dome,
Before them stands that ample home,
Of many mansions, halls of rest,
And heavenly converse for the blest,
Where charity and love abide;
While through its precincts, fair and wide,
Research, and knowledge, and devotion,
Together wend with onward motion,—
A home to which, the entrance free,
Come from all tribes of each degree,
And from all lands, the lord, and slave,
The firm, the timid, and the brave;

834

The nursling from its mother's arms,
The maid in all her early charms,
The stately dame, the weary drudge,
The priest, the penitent, the panel, and the judge,—
The learn'd philosopher, historian sage,
And he who could not scan a letter'd page,
Who look with wonderment, yet look with love,
On their companions, and most sweetly prove
The new-born fellowship of blessed souls above.
Yea, there do enemies and rivals meet,
And with a strange good-will each other greet,
Like urchins who in feign'd array,
Of war, on school-tide holiday,
Have sparr'd and jostled on the green,
And for a moment angry been,
Yea, feel such presence hath within them given
A quicken'd zest even for the joys of heaven;
For o'er them charity, like unseen air,
Diffusing balmy sweetness every where,
Shall softly brood; and minds of every hue,
From rosy paleness to empurpled blue,
Like the fair rainbow's mingled harmony,
Give soften'd splendour to the mental eye.
For wisdom, as the generous Saviour said,
When peevish censure reckless charges made—
Wisdom, unshackled, works on every side,
And is of all her children justified.

The pilgrim crowds advance. But O, that sight
Before them opening, beautiful and bright,
As lessening distance gives to view
Their Father's house, while they pursue
Their onward path,—No! nor by word nor thought,
To man's imagination can be brought,
That awful glory: cease, vain muser! cease!
Bless God in humble hope, and be at peace!

HYMN.

Almighty God, from whom our being came,
To whom it tends, blest be Thy holy name!
Blest when through pillar'd aisles we roam,
Or kneel beneath the lofty dome,
As full o'er-head, and all around,
Swell harmonies of long-drawn sound,
While storied windows with deep tinctured beam,
On chisell'd forms and graven pavements gleam!

Blest in the low-brow'd house of prayer,
Where homely pews and rafters bare
Encompass those, who meekly look
Upon the cherish'd, holy book!
Blest in the cot where, on the ground,
The patriarch peasant kneels with all his family round!

But oh! most blest where Thy adorer stands,
Within a temple not uprear'd by hands!
O'er-canopied by pure ethereal blue,
On which fair clouds, of white and silvery hue,
In wide array with slow progression range,
And varied forms assume in endless change;
The granite peak, by storms of ages beat,
The pavement is on which he sets his feet,
And there a goodly scope surveys,
Enlighten'd by the morning rays.
Below, distinctly mark'd, are seen,
Fields, hamlets, towns, and woodlands green;
And then beyond, but less defined,
A sweep of hills and vales combined,
Where brooding vapours scarce betray
Some river winding on its way;
And far beyond, by distance made,
A fainter line of light and shade,
While further still, in distance lost,
Lie sea, and shore, and clifted coast,—
A vasty circle, dim and pale,
Of mortal ken the closing veil.

In this Thy Temple, fair and grand,
Doth Thine adoring creature stand,
His eyes in ecstacy of wonder raising,
His glowing, throbbing heart Thy goodness praising,
Till tears run coursing down his cheeks,
And every thrilling member speaks
The one absorbing thought his soul containeth,
Of love and awe composed, “the Lord omnipotent reigneth.”

HYMN.

What thoughts come to the Christian's aid,
Upon a bed of sickness laid,
While nightly watchers silence keep,
Or close their weary eyes to sleep,
When lamp and fagots waste away,
As dimly dawns approaching day?

“Though here this frame of dust may end,
My spirit shall to God ascend,
And, for His sake who died to save
Poor sinners from a hopeless grave,
With all its sins and faults forgiven,
A peaceful shelter find in heaven;
A Father's house, a home of love:
Praised be His name, all praise above!
Who, even in ruin, loved us still,
And would not soul and body kill!
And blessed be His generous Son,
Who has for us such mercy won!
His gospel sheds a cheering light
Upon our darkling way, through dreary night.
A gleam falls from a sever'd cloud,
Upon the coffin, and the shroud;
While, high in air, with buoyant swell,
Sounds like a friendly call, the passing bell.”

835

HYMN.

My soul! and dost thou faintly shrink,
Thus trembling on an awful brink?
Or rough, or smooth, but one step more,
And thy long pilgrimage is o'er.
Thy pilgrim's cloak that clipp'd thee round,
Like a sear'd leaf, dropp'd on the ground,
A base and mouldering thing shall lie,
Its form and uses all gone by.
Behind thee, closing darkness all
Shall cover, like a midnight pall;
Before thee—No! I may not dare
To think, or fancy, what lies there.—

Doth the unbodied spirit take its flight,
Unto its destined, distant, sphere of light,
Upon the buoyant wings of morn,
All conscious of its glory borne:
Or with an instant transit, make
The awful change, and then awake,
As from a slumber, sound and deep,
A wakes an infant from its sleep,
With limbs refresh'd and vigour new
A gradual progress to pursue;
Allied to infancy, with earthly charms,
Once fondled in an elder brother's arms,
Who said to men, by worldly passions driven,
“Lo! such as these possess the realms of heaven.”

Or shall it powerful, and at once
Start up as from a gloomy trance,
With sudden, glorious light astounded,
By the blest brotherhood of saints surrounded,
Where those, who have been loved and lost, appear
With kindred looks of greeting and of cheer?

Away, ye pictured thoughts that pass
Like figures on a magic glass,
Or fitful light with arrowy rays
That on the northern welkin plays!
A steady gleam that will not flit,
Comes from the words of Holy Writ.

“Eye hath not seen, and ear hath never heard,
Nor heart conceived the things by God prepared,
For those who love Him.”—O such love impart,
Repentant, fervent, and adoring,
From every taint of sin restoring,
My Father and my God! to this poor heart!

HYMN FOR THE SCOTCH KIRK.

O God! who madest earth, sea, air,
And living creatures, free and fair,
Thy hallow'd praise is every where,
Hallelujah!

All blended in the swelling song,
Are wise and simple, weak and strong,
Sweet woman's voice and infant's tongue,
Hallelujah!

Yea, woods, and winds, and waves convey
To the rapt ear a hymn, and say
“Him who hath made us we obey,
Hallelujah!”

A SECOND HYMN FOR THE KIRK.

Be heaven's almighty King adored,
Of all good things the Giver!
Sing Hallelujah to the Lord
For ever, and for ever!

Let closed lips, moved at the word,
With glowing accents sever!
O Hallelujah to the Lord
For ever, and for ever!

Can other strains such sounds afford,
Of ecstasy? O never!
Sing Hallelujah to the Lord,
For ever, and for ever!

A THIRD HYMN FOR THE KIRK.

Up, sluggard soul! awake, and raise
To thy blest Lord a song of praise,
Who lifts thee from the gloomy grave,
When low on earth thou liest,—
To Him who lived and died to save,
Hosanna in the highest!

To Him, thy friend of friends, whose love
Invites thee to a home above,
When thou, the world's poor outcast slave,
In grief and anguish criest,—
To Him who lived and died to save,
Hosanna in the highest!

His love a living stream hath found
For pilgrims faint, on barren ground,
Their parch'd and languid souls to lave,
When earthly streams are dryest,—
To Him who lived and died to save,
Hosanna in the highest!

ST. MATTHEW, v. 9.

“Blessed are the peace-makers, for they
God's children shall be called!”—so spake
The Prince of Peace, in mortal clay,
Who veil'd His glory, for our sake.

836

The stormy passions of the mind,
The boastful tongue and brow of pride,
Their soothing counsels, wise and kind,
Make to a gentle calm subside.

That eye upon the ground is cast,
Which glanced with restless angry glare,
That heart to hostile heart is prest,
Which thought to place a scorpion there.

Contentious tribes upon the ground
Cast bow and spear at their charm'd voice,
And, link'd in many a friendly round,
Will o'er the pledge of peace rejoice.

Then flourish fields and gardens gay,
Where leaders charged with martial train;
And infants 'mid the herbage play,
Where lately lay the ghastly slain.

Blest are the peace-makers! for they
To God's blest family belong;
Honour'd in this our earthly lay,
And in a sweeter, loftier song.

ST.LUKE, XVIII. 16.

“Let little children come to me,”
Our Lord and Saviour said,
As on a humble, harmless brow
His gentle hand was laid.

The teachable and simple heart
Fears not to be beguiled;
Who enters heaven must love and trust,
E'en as a little child.

The mightiest king, the wisest sage,
Who knows his God aright,
Himself a helpless infant feels
In the Almighty's sight.

A nursling at his lesson set,
Who hopes at last to know,
Is the most learn'd of Adam's race,
In this our home below.

An urchin with his borrow'd rod,
Who smites with guided hand,
Earth's greatest conqueror hath been
The lord of many a land.

“Let little children come to me!”
A cheering welcome given
To all with guileless, humble hearts,
Who seek the way to heaven.

ST.JOHN, XXI. 1.

Toil-worn upon their wavy sea,
With empty nets and wasted store,
The fishermen of Galilee
Are steering cheerless to the shore.
But lo! upon the shelving strand,
A form like one of Abraham's race,
Beckons with friendly outstretch'd hand,
Yet moves with more than mortal grace.

And words came wafted on the wind,—
“Friends, have ye meat?” they answer'd “None.”
“Cast to the right and ye shall find,”
And to the right their nets were thrown:
When all the treasures of the deep
Into their meshy cells were pour'd.
Who may it may be? within them leap
Their yearning hearts—“it is the Lord.”

So he, traversing life's broad main,
Who long hath toil'd and nothing won,
Will feel how profitless and vain
A worldling's task when it is done!
His hands hang listless by his side,
With languid eye and gather'd brow,
He wanders, hope no more his guide,
For what hath she to offer now?

But hark, a voice! he turns his head;
A treasure rich before him lies;
And rays of light from heaven are shed,
To gleam the fair unfolded prize.
Who doth this better gift impart,
Than earth or ocean can afford?
O, feel and rouse thee, grateful heart!
And gladly own it is the Lord.

ST. LUKE, VII. 12.

In silent sorrow from the gates of Nain,
Bearing their dead, the widow's only son,
A band of friends went forth; and with that train
E'en she, the most bereft, moved sadly on.

But when the Lord beheld the piteous sight,
He had compassion on her; from Him broke
Soft tenderness of soul, with saving might,
And “Weep not” were the gracious words He spoke.

In deep affliction 'tis that voice we hear,
When pitying, helpless friends keep silence round:
Weep not! there's saving power, there's comfort near,
That will e'en in the darkest hour be found.

837

It is an hour of darkest, deepest woe,
When those we love are sever'd from our side,
Yet weep not, for we soon and surely go
Upon their steps, led by the same blest Guide.

It is a darken'd hour, when evil fame
And evil fortune mingle in our lot;
Yet weep not; He, who scorn, rebuke, and shame
Bore for our worthless sakes, deserts us not.

It is an hour of darkness, when the soul,
She knows not why, dreads an impending doom,
While heaven and earth seem one black, formless scroll,
But weep not, light will yet break through the gloom.

Poor soul! He who beheld the widow's grief,
And touch'd the bier, and from death's bands set free
Her only son, hath for all woes relief,
And “Weep not” are the words He speaks to thee.

JOB, XIII. 15.

O God, who by Thy boundless might,
This earth, heaven's dome and stars of light,
Hast form'd in wisdom and in love!
Let every human bosom move
With grateful thoughts, and gladly raise
In swelling notes a psalm of praise!
Let high and low, and bond and free,
Bless Thy great name, and trust in Thee!

This is our strong and steadfast stay,
When health and wealth have flown away;
When every joy of life is past,
Our greatest comfort and our last.
When laid upon the bed of death,
These thoughts will join our latest breath.
“I will, O Lord, though crush'd and spent I be,
Yea, though Thou slay me, trust in Thee.”

A generous virtue, nobly sprung,
Faith towers our inward powers among,
Like armed chief, like warrior true,
Whose courage nothing can subdue,
But bravely combats to the last,
Then says with looks high-heavenward cast,
“I will, O Lord, in this extremity,
E'en though thou slay me, trust in thee.”

HYMN.

Those Lord, who raise their souls to Thee,
Not always sink on bended knee.
On earth's vast space of sea and land—
Thy sky-coped temple wide and grand,
Swift passing thoughts of praise and prayer
To Thee are wafted every where,
From grateful hearts, who feel, and love
To feel, that 'tis in Thee they live and move.

In hours of triumph or of woe;
On fortune's sunny heights, or low
In gloomy deeps of mortal doom,
The quickening thought will swiftly come,
As from veil'd heaven the lightning keen
Doth pass the sever'd clouds between,
And penetrates with equal power
The humble cottage or the lordly tower.

The marching soldier, stern and stark,—
The seaman in his wave-toss'd ark,—
The king on guarded throne sustain'd,—
The prisoner fetter'd and arraign'd,—
Will feel, like links of living fire,
Their kindred to a Heavenly Sire,
And in their bosoms' secret core,
With speechless praise, His mighty name adore.

The guileless youth, in halls of pleasure,
Whose light feet time the tuneful measure,
May, with thrill'd heart and flashing eye,
Blend holy thanks with revelry;
The very child, at gambols seen
With play-mates on the sunny green,
Who feels it bliss to be alive,
Will to life's Lord a transient worship give.

These nature's inward Hallelujahs are,
Warm, though with words unclothed; here let them wear
Thy robe of woven sounds, sweet harmony,
And wend in floating beauty to the sky!

A HYMN FOR THE KIRK.

O Lord of earth and heaven,
Whose love and power have given
The solid ground, and floating air,
And circling ocean, regions fair,
To be the home of moving life,
The busy seats of joy and strife,—
To Thee with fear and love we raise
A song of praise.

How many links there be
To bind man's heart to Thee;
Affections of the human breast
For children, kindred, friend, and guest;

838

Yea, those in generous minds that flow
From virtues of a noble foe!
All form a woven mystic cord,—
Thy bands, O Lord;

Thy streaming rays of love,
That glow in heaven above,
And draw the ransom'd soul to Thee,
And set it from low thraldom free!
As the snared bird, when loosen'd, flies
On outspread pinions to the skies,
With love that conquers fear, we raise
Our song of praise.

A HYMN.

O Lord supreme, whose works so fair,
Sublime and varied, every where
The gazing eye delight!
Thy wisdom, power, and love, the day
Doth in its splendid course display,
As doth the glorious night.

We look upon the ocean wide,
Where ships upon the billows ride,
And sea-birds wing the air,
And feel, as o'er the blue expanse
Soft shadows pass and sunbeams glance,
Thy power and love are there:

And also on the checker'd land,
Where mountain peaks, and forests grand,
With peopled plains between,
And rising slow from man's abode
The grey smoke on its heavenward road,
In fair array are seen.

Thus day and night, and land, and sea,
Each in its turn, O Lord! of thee
Speaks to the mental ear:
And still the thoughts that they impart
Are, to the Christian Pilgrim's heart,
Most cherish'd and most dear.

SELECT VERSES FROM THE 147TH PSALM.

Praise ye the Lord with cheerful voice,
In swelling strains His praises sing,
It makes the grateful heart rejoice,
It is a blest and pleasant thing.

He who the broken heart doth brace,
And bindeth up the wounded frame,
Numbers the host through heaven's vast space,
And gives to every star its name.

With fleecy clouds he clothes the sky,
He stores the moisten'd earth with good,
From him the ravens when they cry,
And savage beasts receive their food.

He sends afar His high behests,
Which sea and land with blessings fill;
Swift flies His word, no power arrests
The course of His almighty will.

THOUGHTS TAKEN FROM THE 93RD PSALM.

Clothed in majesty sublime,
And girt with strength th' Almighty reigns;
And, through the wreckful course of time,
His hand the steadfast world sustains.

Wide doth the mighty thunder fill
The darken'd earth with dread dismay,
But mightier far is He whose will
The lightning and the storm obey.

Deep, heaving under land and sea,
The earthquake uttereth his sound,
Awful though low; more awful He
Who holds its rage in prison bound.

The powerful billows, huge and grand,
Rise swelling from the troubled main,
More powerful is the powerful hand
That doth their threatening rage restrain.

O Lord, adored! from race to race,
Men shall thy righteous laws proclaim,
And holiness become the place
Call'd by Thy great and glorious name.

839

AHALYA BAEE:

A POEM.

A voice from Sinai's sacred summit came,
What time, enrobed and hid in smoke and flame,
Israel's assembled hosts the wonder saw
From its extended base, a sight of awe,
In stilly silence waiting to behold
What dreadful vision'd change it might unfold;
With up-cast, pallid faces, shrunk with fear,
They stood, the awful words of God to hear:
They heard and felt that Israel's God alone
Is Lord of heaven and earth, and shares His power with none.

The terrors of that awful day, though past,
Have on the tide of time their glory cast:
As when the sun, whom cloudy state conceals,
From his pavilion's curtain'd side reveals
Some scatter'd rays, that, through the general gloom,
Headland, or tower, or desert rocks illume;
So did that mighty revelation throw,
O'er Prophets, Judges, Seers, a feeble glow
Of pure religious light, and Judah's king
With psalms of praise made his struck harp to ring—
A soul-reviving light, that did impart
Devotion's warmth to many a noble heart;
Till He appear'd, in whom God's Spirit dwelt,
Unmeasured, and for helpless mortals felt
More than a brother's love, whose majesty,
Subdued and mild, struck not man's garish eye.
His mien, His motions, spoke of inward love—
His blessed words and acts of power above
All human excellence;—till, in the eternal name,
The Son of God, the Son of Man, the Son of David came.

But deem not that the Parent of mankind,
Maker of all, hath to one race confined
The gifts His blessed Spirit can bestow
On all Earth's scatter'd nations here below.

840

His revelations to a chosen race
With pow'r were manifested, yet we trace
In the bewilder'd heathen's heart, who bows
To Idols dumb, and pays devoted vows
To Wood and Stone, a conscious inward feeling
Of higher things o'er heart and fancy stealing;
Perhaps a sudden quickening thought
Across his musings strangely brought;
Ay, then God's Spirit with his soul is dealing.

And have not the philosopher and sage,
The generous and good of every age,
In silent hours of meditation high,
Contemplating the sun, the stars, and sky,
The earth, the ocean,—all that bounteous store
Of fair and good,—been strengthen'd to adore
One Mighty Lord, and Parent of all good:
Nature's own worship, not to be withstood
By partial rites which heathen power imposed?
And have not those to other minds disclosed
Their elevated thoughts, and held communion
With kindred minds,—a blest, ennobling union?

'Mid shepherd hordes, for ever changing
Their tented-homes, o'er deserts ranging;
'Mid seamen on the ocean bred;
'Mid bandits fierce on plunder fed;
Wherever mental light hath shone
In circling darkness, bright and lone,
As beacon on a distant hill
This message beams, though hush'd and still
The midnight air broods on the ear,—
“Gird on your mail, the foe is near!”—
It is a mission'd light from heaven,
By the Almighty Father given,
And hath its sacred mission well fulfill'd,
Although its path to trace we mortals are unskill'd.

Behold that female form so meekly bending
O'er a pale youth, who is the night-air rending
With many a sudden shriek, and many a cry
And lengthen'd groan of utter misery!
It is a regent Mother, one whose fate
By heav'n is fix'd to rule a warlike state;
Who, by the laws or custom of the land,
Appointed is to hold supreme command.
Yet one of gentle mind, who had been meet
On Sion's hill to sit at her Redeemer's feet,
And listen to His words with humble love,
And see His looks benign her pious heart approve.

But she hath been in heathen darkness nursed,
Hath been with much misguiding lore accursed,
Which with the worship of one God supreme
Had woven in full many an odious dream.
Vague and perplexing seem'd her future doom:
Her present world is dark, and darker that to come.

Close in her own his burning hands she press'd,
And to some pow'r unseen were words like these address'd.—
“Leave him, fierce Spirit of th' unhallow'd dead!
O, let him rest awhile his wretched head!
O, quit possession of his wasted frame!
Nor with his lips and alter'd voice blaspheme
To bring down blasting vengeance from the skies;
Upon him now enough of misery lies.
He slew thee wrongfully, and for that deed
Remorse has dealt to him a fearful meed.
It was the sudden act of jealous youth:—
He was deceived, and could not know the truth.
But he has tried to make amends; rich stores
He on thy widow and thy children pours.
An honourable tomb shall give to fame
With graven record thy unsullied name.
O from this wretched body, Spirit dire!
Come forth; what does thy fell revenge require?
Can all his misery, can all his pain,
E'er make thyself a living man again?’

Thus day and night full many tears she shed,
And watch'd, and pray'd, and struggled by his bed,
Where'er his fiercest, wildest fits prevail'd;
But neither watching, prayers, nor tears avail'd.
At length deep silence through the palace reign'd,
And for a solemn term its rule maintain'd.
The dire disease its cruel task hath done;
The princely stripling's mortal course is run.

What lamentations, mingled, loud, and shrill,
Did courts and halls and stately chambers fill,

841

Bursting from that deep silence and repose,
We say not, but the scene of sadness close.
The corse is on its pile consumed,
The bones within their urn inhumed.

But the sad Mother, so bereft,
Had she no tie of comfort left?
Yes, heaven extremes of woe restrain'd;
One little daughter yet remain'd.
She to console her Mother tried,
And play'd and prattled by her side.
Her own soft cheek to hers she laid,
And simple words of kindness said
Right coaxingly, that sometimes broke
The spell of grief; a gentle stroke
Slow sliding down her mother's arm,
Repeated oft, work'd like a charm;
Then would her dark eyes glance around
To see what farther comfort might be found.
With feather'd fan she cool'd her brow,
And when the tears began to flow,
Her small hand plied its kerchief well,
And softly wiped them as they fell.
Her fingers next, belike, would try
The Rany's raven-locks in braids to tie,
That, like torn, tangled wreaths, from altars flung,
Dishevell'd, o'er her stooping shoulders hung.
Ay, every simple, youthful, winning art
This gentle creature used to soothe the wounded heart.
Nor was that simple ministry in vain;
Her Mother's heart was soothed, and she again
Caress'd her little Maid, as heretofore,
And dearly loved her in her bosom's core.

But Brahma to her care consign'd
A family of far other kind,—
Of various casts a mingled brood,
Dull and untoward, fierce and rude;
And she must brace her for the task,
Nor leave of tend'rer passions ask.
Offers of large possessions to resign
The right of sov'reignty did she decline
Indignantly, with duty still in view
To her own house and to her people true;
And gave effect to her determination
With prompt display of warlike preparation.
Each soldier of her race, with glancing eyes,
Upon her elephant's arm'd howdah spies
Quivers with arrows stored, and bows unstrung,
Just ready for the bend in order hung,
That to their warm devoted hearts declare,
She will with them their fate and dangers share.
Yet, in his place, whose hapless race is run,
She must adopt another heir and son,
That in his settled right she still may guide
The councils of the state,—may still preside,
The careful regent Mother, over all,
And to her aid, troops, chieftains, Brahmins call.

And hath she chosen wilily
An Infant on the Nurse's knee,
Whose lengthen'd nonage may maintain
O'er subject lands her settled reign,
As prudent Ranies who pursue
One selfish end are wont to do?
O no; her noble nature spurn'd
Such narrow thoughts; her choice she turn'd

842

Upon a soldier tried and brave,
Faithful of heart, and firm to save
The country from all threaten'd wrong
By hostile Rajahs fierce and strong;
Of generous nature too, who fought
Beneath a woman's rule, nor sought
Undue extension of his power,
Her active champion, till her dying hour.
He call'd her Mother, though his life had run
More years by far than hers—a true and noble son.

Of holkar's valiant race was he,
Though somewhat distant in degree.
But no suspicions e'er found way
To her most generous mind, which lay
In steady confidence, reposing
On his tried worth, nor once disclosing,
By word or look, an inward doubt
Of his fidelity throughout
A lengthen'd course of years, in which he served
Nobly his noble Dame, nor from strict duty swerved.
They were a state-constructed Son and Mother,
A blessed twain, each worthy of the other;
United firmly to their native land,
She the considerate head, and he the ready hand.

War on her distant frontiers never ending,
Was waged by chiefs for booty still contending
E'en more than power; but round her seat of sway,
Peaceful and bright, a charmed circle lay.
There she the even scales of justice held,
And all oppressive wrong and faction quell'd.
There to her subjects, of whate'er degree,
It was, I trow, a joyous sight to see
Their noble Baee her seat of judgment fill,
Dispensing justice with impartial skill.

They gather'd round her unrestrain'd,
Buoyant and happy if they gain'd
Such words of her sonorous speech,
As might their distant station reach,
Some looks of meaning from her eye
While perjured knaves, belike, would try
A simple statement to perplex,
The poor unwary hind to vex.
And, if no better they might have,
E'en o'er the crowd to see her wave
Her little hand with queenly grace,
Warm'd the good Ryot's heart and gleam'd his dusky face.
The children raised a joyous cry,
When from afar they could descry
Her palanquin so gay and bright,
By coolies borne—a burden light!
And cluster'd in the narrowest lane
To see her pass with all her train;
And urchins dared aloud to call,
“She is our Mother, and she loves us all.”

The Parish, or the meanest hind,
Did to her presence access find;
To her might tell with much detail
His wearisome and lengthy tale,
Circuitous and slow, nor fear
To tire her patient ear.
But when she question'd him again
To make the knotted matter plain,
Away would awe and caution wend;
He felt conversing with a friend.
And her shrewd mind, the while, quick to discern
The human character, did useful knowledge learn.

Woe, want, and suff'ring to assuage,
Would still her daily thoughts engage;

843

On this her mind was most intent;
She knew she was by Brahma sent;
For works of mercy, by her hand
To be dispensed through all the land,
He had committed to her care,
Nor might she toil nor trouble spare.
She thought upon the pilgrim's woes,
Who over plain and mountain goes,
His sinking steps, his visage gaunt,
And eager glare of hungry want,
His still increasing hourly pain,
Ere he may reach his Idol's distant fane.
She thought upon wayfaring strangers,
Braving of wood and wild the dangers,
Who yet by thirst subdued are found
Stretch'd fainting on the parched ground.
She thought of age and infancy
Left on the river's brink to die:
Yea, e'en on animals her thoughts would dwell,
Who have no words their sufferings to tell.

And still to kindly thoughts succeed
Full many a charitable deed;
Her agents watch'd the pilgrim's track,
To give him what his need might lack;
From river's weedy margin took the child,
And bade the aged live in accents mild.
They caravanseras would build,
Poor strangers from the night to shield,
And many a well and cooling tank
Upon the traveller's route they sank.
The thirsty oxen in the plough,
See help at hand, and stop to bow
Their heads unto the trough beneath,
And drink the welcome draught with seething, long-drawn breath.
Upon her heart they had their claim,
Yea, Ahalya Baee e'en cared for them.

And here with humble zeal I must disclose
A further bounty, strange, belike, to those,
Who in a better, purer faith were born:
Yet pause awhile, I pray, and check your scorn;
Ye who acknowledge freely your descent
From those, in former days, who humbly bent
At shrines of many a carved and gilded saint—
Ay, saints who when their earthly race was run,
Full many a black and ruthless deed had done;
Will ye despise the simple blinded zeal
Which now my truthful legend must reveal?
Water in vessels closely pent,
From Ganges' sacred waves she sent
The holy idols to bedew,
And at their shrines her vows would oft renew.
Brahma supreme o'er all above,
She did as humble daughter love;
And other gods, set by his will
O'er Hindus' race for good or ill,
She would invoke, at needful hours,
Subordinate but awful powers.
Fell powers, who ruled in nether air,
Who bade War's weapons kill or spare;
Sent pestilence, all human joy
To blast, to poison, and destroy,—
Those still she tried her friends to make,
For her own weal, and for her people's sake.
With wise and learned Brahmins to converse,
To hear them many lines of lore rehearse;
And from the sacred shasters to recite
Maxims, and rules, and laws, was her delight;
And many a solemn, wide-sleeved sage, I ween,
Was in her special courtly circle seen,
Mingled with stately chiefs of high degree,
And watchful, wary scribes, and merchants free.

But ne'er a Brahmin of them all
Could win her for his blinded thrall,
Could e'er her noble mind persuade
To do what inward rectitude forbade.
And if from district far or near,
Some fact of ruthless rapine reach'd her ear,
Or base oppression to the poor,
Who must too oft such grievous wrong endure,
How quickly did her alter'd brow,
Her inward indignation show!

844

Nor durst the boldest culprits dare
To front her presence; and if there
They were at her imperious call assembled,
The bravest chief and holiest Brahmin trembled.
Her countenance, so mild by nature,
Grew sternly fix'd in ev'ry feature;
Her dark eye flash'd like kindled leven
Sent from a rifted cloud of heaven;
Her stature low and figure slight,
Strangely dilated grew, and grand,
Like ruling spirit of the night,
Through misty vapour seen, by some benighted band.
Her voice, whose tones so kindly sweet,
Made widows' hearts with gladness beat,
Is now a sound of awe and fear,
Swelling like onward thunder to the ear;
In sooth, a strange, unwonted sound to hear!

It was her solace and her pride
O'er peaceful districts to preside,
And keep around, remote or nigh,
Her country in prosperity.
Erewhile, her blessed reign before,
It was a country to deplore;
Where war and bloodshed, want and strife,
Had made a hell for human life.
Chiefs were by turns, or weak or strong,
All interlaced in deeds of wrong;
Fiercely attacking town and village,
And fenced forts for sordid pillage;
Treasure they did so vainly reap,
Which all could gain, but none could keep.
He who to-day had home and hold,
Grain on his fields, sheep in his fold,
To-morrow with his family fled,
And had not where to lay his head.
He who to-day hath kept his state
In princely hall where menials wait,
May soon in ruin'd haunts abide,
Or in the perilous jungle hide,
Where foul and fair are side by side;
A place of fear and admiration. There
The brindled tiger in his reedy lair,
Purrs gruffly, while aloft is singing
The Loorie gay, on light spray swinging;
There oft the baleful snake is seen,
Through flow'ry slopes and thickets green,
Where roses blush and blossoms blow,
And lilies sweet profusely grow,
Moving his sluggish, loathly length,
Then rearing up his stiffen'd strength,
At moving prey to take his aim,
And swathe and crush the vital frame.
Horsemen and spearmen o'er the plains
In dusky masses moved, while trains
Of heavy cannon in the rear,
By harness'd bullocks dragg'd, appear;
And high, belike, above the crowd,
Upon his elephant some chieftain proud,
Sits stately, though less rational in nature
Than that on which he rides,—a noble sapient creature.

But now, how changed! Upon the frontiers far
Her brave adopted son waged ceaseless war
With every restless robber-chief, who dared
Her rightful boundary to invade, and spared
The centre districts. Peaceful, still, and bright,
They gleam'd on the admiring stranger's sight,
Like green oases of some desert land,
Encircled round with brown and barren sand;
As many learned travellers endite
Who of far distant countries love to write:
For all, within the guarded girdle bound,
Were peace and wealth, content and comfort found.

The Ryot plough'd his native soil,—
His Father's fields, a pleasing toil;
Who, as he guides his sturdy steers,
With kindly voice their labour cheers;
For well he knows the produce will
In season due his garner fill,—
Will, on his quiet, daily board
Food for his mate and little ones afford.
Beside her door the Matron stands
And deftly draws, with busy hands,
The snowy yarn from distaff tall,
For turban fine, or gorgeous shawl.
The weaver plies his useful trade,
In humid cell beneath the shade,
Through the strain'd warp his shuttle throws,
And as his web more lengthy grows,
Thinks of the golden price that will be paid
When in the throng'd bazaars its beauty is display'd.
In flow'ry nooks the children play,
Or through the shady copses stray
In quest of fruit; while from the bough
Offended monkeys grin and mow.
The gentle lady, all bedight,
In gilded palanquin so bright,
Goes forth secure, on visit kind
Or ceremonious, to some distant friend;
Nor fears that on her lengthen'd way
She may become some lurking bandit's prey.
But wherefore needless words increase?
With wise and equal rule the land was bless'd—and peace.

But who through life's uncertain day hath run
With still, o'er head, a clear unclouded sun;

845

When noon is past he hears the tempest roar,
And on his shoulders pelting torrents pour.
The weary pilgrim rests him void of fear,
Unwitting of the lurking tiger near.
The loaded raft floats smoothly on the tide,
Though fatal rocks beneath the waters hide;
And when the steersman thinks he nears the shore
A stroke is felt,—they sink, and rise no more.

Our Rany, as this legend soothly said
Had, for her solace sweet, a little Maid.
Her after-lot was bright; one happy scene
Of married love her easy life had been.
But now, alas! her happiness is flown;
Death has o'er all his sable mantle thrown.
Who now are seen within that spacious room,
Where rests an ominous and dismal gloom?
She, seated by yon deck'd and rose-strew'd bier,
Who neither heaves a sigh nor sheds a tear;
She stooping over her and gently speaking,
To stem her wayward sorrow vainly seeking!
The one is Ahalya's widow'd child;
The other is herself, composed and mild,
Trying the fatal purpose to avert—
Composed, indeed, but with a bleeding heart.
Ay, all in vain her gentle words; for hear
What words of woe the tardy answers bear
“O Mother, do not grieve me so,
My lot is cast and I must go.
Shall Jeswunt Row, my noble mate,
On pyre be laid in lonely state,
While I, who was the only flower
He watch'd and cherish'd in his bower,
A craven wife shall from the brink
Of love's last trial meanly shrink?
Forbid it, Brahma, Lord above!
Forbid it, faithfulness and love!”—
“And dost thou think that Brahma's will
I did not righteously fulfil,
When I, bereft and sad, did strive
Thy noble father to survive?
And was not his high blessing pour'd
On one so sever'd from her lord?
And characters, distinct and fair,
Did his approval well declare,
When flourishing beneath my sway
My people and my kingdom lay.
Yes; though a widow so bereft,
My heart had other blessings left.
But still, as cell'd within my breast,
Thou wast my dearest and my best;
Thou wast as my own youngling still,
Who didst my first affections fill.
And wilt thou leave me sad and lone?
How shall I live when thou art gone?
Whom shall I fondly love and trust?
O, do not bow me to the dust!”—
“O no! committed to thy care,
Thou hast thy children every where,
Their daily benefits will be
The comfort Brahma sends to thee.
And, dearest mother! thou art old—
Thy grains of life will soon be told;
And what to me will then remain?
My Lost will ne'er return again!
I through these lonely rooms shall roam
A living thing, whose heart hath with the dead its home.
Then, best and dearest, to my passion bend,
And let my sorrows have an honour'd end!”—
“An honour'd end will close her life,
Who was a good and faithful wife;
Die when she will, the funeral flame
Gives but a fruitless fleeting fame.”—
“I seek not fame, O say not so!
O, add not agony to woe!
Life would be death to me, and worse:
The inward working of remorse
Would make my day as darkness seem,
My haunted night a fearful dream.
For then he would be ever near,
And his upbraiding eyes appear
To glare upon a wife, whose love
Could not one moment rise above
Base fears, but from her last sad duty started
And left his lonely bier unhonour'd and deserted.”

846

All interchange of words were vain—
The Rany answer'd not again;
But long fix'd looks of anguish fell
Upon her daughter's face, and well
Spoke that which language could not tell;
While actions too did piteously entreat,
The mother kneeling at her daughter's feet:—
But all in vain; nought may arrest
The purpose of her wounded breast.

The parent bent her to the cruel blow,
And left the dismal chamber, sad and slow;
And, closely shut within her secret bower,
With humble penitence and prayer
Did her afflicted soul prepare
For the approaching, dreadful hour:
Her prayers were heard, and mercy gave
A stinted strength the dreadful hour to brave.

That hour is come; and from the palace gate
There issues forth in melancholy state,
A gorgeous pageant.—Standards borne on high,
Moved by the fanning air, arrest the eye,
On which devices, traced in colours gay,
Emblems of ranks and races make display.
First portly Brahmins, sombre and profound,
Walk, loosely robed, with eyes cast on the ground.
Next turban'd chiefs, with fierce and warlike mien,
Cinctured with shawls and flashing arms, are seen;
Then high authorities, the letter'd scribe,
And mission'd men from many a different tribe,
Move slowly on, all ranged in sad array,
Proceeding on their mournful, destined way,
With heavy steps, that from the ground
Send up a muffled, sullen sound.
Then doth from portal-arch appear,
Circled by friends, the stately bier,
On which the princely corse is laid,
In rich and splendid robes array'd,
Whose features, like to chisel'd stone,
Do still an awful beauty own.
The crowd on him intently gaze
And deeply murmur words of praise.
Anon they drop their eyes to find
The youthful widow, close behind.
She moved, with brow and step sedate,
As one who of her lifeless mate
Alone had conscious thoughts, and she
Worthy appear'd his mate to be.
But when by priestly Brahmins, stern and strong,
They saw their own loved Rany led along,
On her at once all eager eyes were turn'd,
And grateful sympathy within each bosom burn'd:
Their inward sorrow broke through all restraint,
And all around a loud and mingled wailing sent.

Now onward as the long procession goes,
A different mournful harmony arose
From many instruments, whose mingled sound
Is floating on the air, and rising from the ground.
But when it reach'd the fatal spot,
All soft excitement was forgot;
A deep and solemn pause ensued,
Silence with strange mysterious awe embued.

Alas! what measured words can tell
The anguish of their last farewell,
When that young widow with that Mother parted?
From the intense embrace the younger started,
As if afraid. Her failing steps sustain'd
The bier of death she has already gain'd,
Hath on her lap with gentle kindness placed
The lifeless head, and its cold form embraced.
To the heap'd pile the torch hath been applied,
And from between the fagots are descried
Pale curving streams of smoke, that wind and sweep,
Coil and uncoil, like serpents waked from sleep,
Then broadening and ascending hang on high,
A dusky, fearful canopy;
While pointed tongues of flame below
Burst forth: and soon one general glow
Involves, in fierce consuming fire,
Roaring and red, the funeral pyre.
Then drum and trumpet, cymbal, gong,
And stringed viols, harsh and strong,
Discordant minstrelsy, begin
To raise a loud and deaf'ning din;
While faintly come to fancy's ear
Shrieks from the burning bier.
Ay, there are dismal shrieks I wot,
But from the flames proceeding not.
'Tis Ahalya in despair,
Who, though by friendly force restrain'd
Convulsively hath freedom gain'd,
And beats her breast and tears her hair.
Her gnashing teeth and bleeding hand
Too plainly show that self-command
Is from her princely spirit taken,
Of all its wonted power forsaken.
And pause we here! That noble mind
To dull unconsciousness was for awhile consign'd.

But heaven's all merciful and potent Lord
To health of mind the Rany soon restored.
He raised again her drooping head;
From him received, as from the dead,
The people saw their noble Dame,
And bade her hail with loud and long acclaim.

Still wasteful war, though raging round,
Within her precincts was not found,
The husbandman scarce turn'd his ear
Some far-off tale of love to hear,
How bandits, on the distant border,
With bandits strove in wild disorder;
Where sordid chiefs to robbers turn'd,
Made might their right, and justice spurn'd:

847

What cares he for their ceaseless coil?
She lives and reigns who will protect his toil.

In sooth, o'er all the watch she kept,
And waked, and thought, when others slept.
When early dawn appear'd, she rose,
Nor longer would indulge repose,
But to herself (for she could read)
Grave books perused. Then would succeed
Hours of reflection and of pray'r,
That cleared her mind and soothed her care;
And oft her day, so well begun,
An easy, prosp'rous course would run.
Herself sagacious, firm, and just,
She put in others gen'rous trust;
And when their merit well was proved,
Her ministers she ne'er removed.
With all the Rajah pow'rs of ev'ry nation,
From time to time, she held communication:
Could points of policy with art contest,
But ever loved the simple method best.
And in good sooth, to reason cool,
The simplest was the wisest rule.
For who would venture to gainsay
Or doubt the faith of Ahaly a Baee?

To death at last the mission'd power was given
To call her hence; her earthly ties were riven.
Through all the land a woeful wailing went,
From cot to cot, from town to village sent;
A tender woe, like which there is no other,—
Bereaved children weeping for a mother.
Her life and reign were closed in glory,
And thus concludes my Legend's faithful story.

For thirty years—her reign of peace—
The land in blessings did increase;
And she was bless'd by every tongue,
By stern and gentle, old and young.
And where her works of love remain,
On mountain pass, on hill or plain,
There stops the traveller awhile,
And eyes it with a mournful smile,
With muttering lips, that seem to say,
“This was the work of Ahalya Baee.”

The learned Sage, who loves to muse,
And many a linked thought pursues,
Says to himself, and heaves a sigh
For things to come and things gone by,
“O that our restless chiefs, by misery school'd,
Would rule their states as that brave woman ruled!”
Yea, even children at their mothers' feet,
Are taught such homely rhyming to repeat:—
“In better days, from Brahma came,
To rule our land, a noble Dame;
Kind was her heart, and bright her fame,
And Ahalya was her honour'd name!”

THE END.

University of Virginia Library

MISCELLANEOUS POETRY.

METRICAL LEGENDS.

A METRICAL LEGEND OF WILLIAM WALLACE.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

XLIII.

XLIV.

XLV.

XLVI.

XLVII.

XLVIII.

XLIX.

L.

LI.

LII.

LIII.

LIV.

LV.

LVI.

LVII.

LVIII.

LIX.

LX.

LXI.

LXII.

LXIII.

LXIV.

LXV.

LXVI.

LXVII.

LXVIII.

LXIX.

LXX.

LXXI.

LXXII.

LXXIII.

LXXIV.

LXXV.

LXXVI.