The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle With A Sketch of his Life, by Leitch Ritchie |
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| III. | PART III.
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle |  |
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III. PART III. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
THE SPAEWIFE.
Where Grubet's ancient copsewood skirts the vale,
Fringing the thymy braes of pastoral Cayle,
Near to the spot where oft, in other times,
Our gentle Thomson tuned his youthful rhymes,
(Deserted now, for good Sir William's race
Are ‘wed away’ and ‘gathered to their place;’)
Beyond the hamlet, 'neath an aged tree,
Crooning some scrap of ballad minstrelsy,
Sits the old crone—prepared with cunning tale
To cozen simple damsels of the dale,
Whose smiles but half conceal the fluttering qualm
With which they yield in turn the anxious palm;
While o'er the pale, sly Sandy of the Mill
Lends in a hint to help the gipsy's skill.
Fringing the thymy braes of pastoral Cayle,
Near to the spot where oft, in other times,
Our gentle Thomson tuned his youthful rhymes,
(Deserted now, for good Sir William's race
Sir William Bennet, of Grubet, was the early patron of the poets Thomson and Allan Ramsay. It was at his seat on Cale-Water, a branch of the Teviot, that Thomson is said to have written several of his juvenile pieces; and there is still a tradition current in the vicinity, that the impressive description, in his “Winter,” of a man perishing in the snows, was suggested by an affecting incident of this sort which occurred at Wideopen, a neighbouring farm, during one of the poet's Christmas visits. Grubet is now a mere pastoral hamlet. The last of Sir William's descendants was “gathered to his place,” as the country people quaintly but touchingly express it, about seventy years ago.
Are ‘wed away’ and ‘gathered to their place;’)
Beyond the hamlet, 'neath an aged tree,
Crooning some scrap of ballad minstrelsy,
Sits the old crone—prepared with cunning tale
To cozen simple damsels of the dale,
Whose smiles but half conceal the fluttering qualm
With which they yield in turn the anxious palm;
While o'er the pale, sly Sandy of the Mill
Lends in a hint to help the gipsy's skill.
Old Madge the Spaewife,
though now worn and frail,
Can travel still her rounds from Jed to Cayle;
With panniered donkey trudging o'er the moors
To bear her almous-bag for winter stores;
While frugal housewives, scolding as they give
The wonted handful, add—‘Poor Madge maun live;’
And maidens, though demure, are willing still
To purchase sixpence-worth of gipsy skill,
Even at the hazard of a stern rebuke,
Should such colleaguings meet some elder's look.
—Thus Madge contrives to ‘make a fend.’ But time
Has sadly changed her since her stalwart prime,
When straight and tall, with locks like raven's wing,
She roamed, the jocund mate of gipsy king;
Now bent and palsied, cowering in her cloak,
While 'neath the hood steals out the silvery lock.
We scarce can recognise the form and mien
Of her who once was ‘every inch a queen.’
Yet still she tells, as from the chimney nook
She awes the rustics with a sibyl's look,
How, in the blithe and boisterous days of old,
Ere clanship's links were broke or blood grew cold,
A hundred kinsmen drank her bridal ale
To whom both Tweed and Tyne had paid black-mail;
And how her friends, from Humber to the Tay,
Sped at her call to lykewake or to fray.
“But times are changed,” she adds; “Och! weel I trow,
Kin are grown fremit—blood's but water now!”
Can travel still her rounds from Jed to Cayle;
With panniered donkey trudging o'er the moors
To bear her almous-bag for winter stores;
While frugal housewives, scolding as they give
The wonted handful, add—‘Poor Madge maun live;’
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To purchase sixpence-worth of gipsy skill,
Even at the hazard of a stern rebuke,
Should such colleaguings meet some elder's look.
—Thus Madge contrives to ‘make a fend.’ But time
Has sadly changed her since her stalwart prime,
When straight and tall, with locks like raven's wing,
She roamed, the jocund mate of gipsy king;
Now bent and palsied, cowering in her cloak,
While 'neath the hood steals out the silvery lock.
We scarce can recognise the form and mien
Of her who once was ‘every inch a queen.’
Yet still she tells, as from the chimney nook
She awes the rustics with a sibyl's look,
How, in the blithe and boisterous days of old,
Ere clanship's links were broke or blood grew cold,
A hundred kinsmen drank her bridal ale
To whom both Tweed and Tyne had paid black-mail;
And how her friends, from Humber to the Tay,
Sped at her call to lykewake or to fray.
“But times are changed,” she adds; “Och! weel I trow,
Kin are grown fremit—blood's but water now!”
Poor Madge!—And yet, perchance in other guise,
Our own regrets are not a whit more wise.
Comparing the dull present with the past,
The afternoon of life seems overcast:
Not that the sun his brightness has withdrawn,
But we have lost the freshness of our dawn.
Our own regrets are not a whit more wise.
Comparing the dull present with the past,
The afternoon of life seems overcast:
Not that the sun his brightness has withdrawn,
But we have lost the freshness of our dawn.
Ay! while I dally with this idle strain,
Blithe schoolboy days come back to me again;
Th' adventurous rambles high o'er Hounam fells;
The feast of blaeberries by Wearie's Wells;
The harrying of hawk-nests on Græmeslaw rock;
The hunts in Clifton woods of tod or brock;
Long quiet days of lonely angling sport;
Long hours by mirthful converse rendered short,—
When by the Manse, beside the cherry trees,
We tilled our little plots 'mong flowers and bees,
With hearts like that fair garden in the spring
When buds unfold and birds break forth to sing;
And he, the good old pastor, smiling nigh,
And lifting aye, at times, our thoughts on high—
“How happily the years of Thalaba went by!”
Blithe schoolboy days come back to me again;
Th' adventurous rambles high o'er Hounam fells;
The feast of blaeberries by Wearie's Wells;
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The hunts in Clifton woods of tod or brock;
Long quiet days of lonely angling sport;
Long hours by mirthful converse rendered short,—
When by the Manse, beside the cherry trees,
We tilled our little plots 'mong flowers and bees,
With hearts like that fair garden in the spring
When buds unfold and birds break forth to sing;
And he, the good old pastor, smiling nigh,
And lifting aye, at times, our thoughts on high—
“How happily the years of Thalaba went by!”
But where's our Spaewife?—With her tawny brood,
I see her sitting 'neath old Gaitshaw wood;
Her asses grazing down the broomy dale,
And Faa, her husband, angling in the Cayle.
I see her sitting 'neath old Gaitshaw wood;
Her asses grazing down the broomy dale,
And Faa, her husband, angling in the Cayle.
'Tis thirty years since, near that very spot,
Just where the stream sweeps round old Elshie's cot,
Madge stopped me at the ford to spae my lot;
And, poring o'er my palm with earnest look,
Said that my name should be in printed book;
For I (a scape-grace, then some nine years old)
Should travel to far lands, and gather gold;
Should be a scholar—wed a “gentle bride”—
And build a castle on fair Teviot's side:
—“And this shall sooth betide,” quoth black-browed Madge,
“Ere nine times thrice the haw grows on the hedge!”
Just where the stream sweeps round old Elshie's cot,
Madge stopped me at the ford to spae my lot;
And, poring o'er my palm with earnest look,
Said that my name should be in printed book;
For I (a scape-grace, then some nine years old)
Should travel to far lands, and gather gold;
Should be a scholar—wed a “gentle bride”—
And build a castle on fair Teviot's side:
—“And this shall sooth betide,” quoth black-browed Madge,
“Ere nine times thrice the haw grows on the hedge!”
My Sibyl's spae-weird, like Pelides' prayer,
Was half fulfilled, half lost in empty air:
I grew a scholar—such as Madge foretold;
Became a traveller—but caught no gold;
Was wedded—but (thank Heaven!) with happier fate
Than to be matched with a patrician mate,
Though here my fortune, faithful to the letter,
Failing the gipsy's meaning, found a better.
—But, castle-building!—that has been my joy,
In all my wanderings ever since a boy;
Not in the Greek or Gothic style restored,
Or on Sir Walter's plan at Abbotsford,—
But, scorning line and plummet, rule and square,
I build ('tis most convenient) in the air!
Was half fulfilled, half lost in empty air:
I grew a scholar—such as Madge foretold;
Became a traveller—but caught no gold;
Was wedded—but (thank Heaven!) with happier fate
Than to be matched with a patrician mate,
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Failing the gipsy's meaning, found a better.
—But, castle-building!—that has been my joy,
In all my wanderings ever since a boy;
Not in the Greek or Gothic style restored,
Or on Sir Walter's plan at Abbotsford,—
But, scorning line and plummet, rule and square,
I build ('tis most convenient) in the air!
1829.
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
This fair Volume to our eye
Human life may typify.
View the new-born infant's face
Ere yet Mind hath stamped its trace,
Or the young brain begun to think—
'Tis like this book ere touched by ink.
Look again: As time flows by
Expression kindles in the eye,
And dawning Intellect appears
Gleaming through its smiles and tears;
Lightening up the living clay,
Year by year, and day by day;
While the Passions, as they change,
Write inscriptions deep and strange,
Telling to observant eyes
Life's eventful histories.
Human life may typify.
View the new-born infant's face
Ere yet Mind hath stamped its trace,
Or the young brain begun to think—
'Tis like this book ere touched by ink.
Look again: As time flows by
Expression kindles in the eye,
And dawning Intellect appears
Gleaming through its smiles and tears;
Lightening up the living clay,
Year by year, and day by day;
While the Passions, as they change,
Write inscriptions deep and strange,
Telling to observant eyes
Life's eventful histories.
Lady, even so thy book
By degrees shall change its look,
As each following leaf is fraught
With some penned or pictured thought,
Or admits the treasured claims
Of endeared and honoured names;
While gleams of genius and of grace,
Like fine expression in a face,
Lend even to what is dark or dull
Some bright tinge of the beautiful.
By degrees shall change its look,
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With some penned or pictured thought,
Or admits the treasured claims
Of endeared and honoured names;
While gleams of genius and of grace,
Like fine expression in a face,
Lend even to what is dark or dull
Some bright tinge of the beautiful.
Farther still in graver mood
Trace we the similitude?
Apter yet the emblem grows
As we trace it to a close.
Life, with all its freaks and follies,
Mummeries and melancholies,
Fond conceits, ill-sorted matches,
Is—a book of shreds and patches;
Stained, perchance, with many a blot,
And passages were well forgot,
And vain repinings for the past:
While Time, who turns the leaves so fast,
(The hour-glass in his other hand
With its ever-oozing sand,)
Presents full soon the final page
To the failing eye of Age,
Scribbled closely to the ending—
And, if marred, past hope of mending.
Trace we the similitude?
Apter yet the emblem grows
As we trace it to a close.
Life, with all its freaks and follies,
Mummeries and melancholies,
Fond conceits, ill-sorted matches,
Is—a book of shreds and patches;
Stained, perchance, with many a blot,
And passages were well forgot,
And vain repinings for the past:
While Time, who turns the leaves so fast,
(The hour-glass in his other hand
With its ever-oozing sand,)
Presents full soon the final page
To the failing eye of Age,
Scribbled closely to the ending—
And, if marred, past hope of mending.
1828.
192
A POET'S FAVOURITE.
Oh she is guileless as the birds
That sing beside the summer brooks!
With music in her gentle words,
With magic in her winsome looks.
That sing beside the summer brooks!
With music in her gentle words,
With magic in her winsome looks.
With beauty by all eyes confessed,
With grace beyond the reach of art;
And, better still than all the rest,
With perfect singleness of heart.
With grace beyond the reach of art;
And, better still than all the rest,
With perfect singleness of heart.
With kindness like a noiseless spring
That faileth ne'er in heat or cold;
With fancy like the wild-dove's wing,
As innocent as it is bold.
That faileth ne'er in heat or cold;
With fancy like the wild-dove's wing,
As innocent as it is bold.
With sympathies that have their birth
Where woman's best affections lie;
With hopes that hover o'er the earth,
But fix their resting-place on high.
Where woman's best affections lie;
With hopes that hover o'er the earth,
But fix their resting-place on high.
And if, with all that thus exalts
A soul by sweet thoughts sanctified,
This dear one has her human faults,
They ever ‘lean to Virtue's side.’
A soul by sweet thoughts sanctified,
This dear one has her human faults,
They ever ‘lean to Virtue's side.’
1826.
193
ON A VIEW OF SPOLETO.
A scene such as we picture in our dreams:
Grey castled rocks, green woods, and glittering streams;
Mountains in massive grandeur towering high;
Spires gleaming in the soft Ausonian sky;
Groves, gardens, villas, in their rich array;
Majestic ruins, glorious in decay;
Marvels by Art and Nature jointly wrought—
And every stone instinct with teeming thought:
Such look'st thou, fair Spoleto!—And the Art
That through the eye speaks volumes to the heart,
Lifting the veil that envious distance drew,
Reveals thee, bathed in beauty, to our view;
Each feature so distinct—so freshly fair,
We almost seem to scent thy mountain air—
Breathing upon us from yon clump of pines,
Where the blithe goatherd 'mid his flock reclines.
Grey castled rocks, green woods, and glittering streams;
Mountains in massive grandeur towering high;
Spires gleaming in the soft Ausonian sky;
Groves, gardens, villas, in their rich array;
Majestic ruins, glorious in decay;
Marvels by Art and Nature jointly wrought—
And every stone instinct with teeming thought:
Such look'st thou, fair Spoleto!—And the Art
That through the eye speaks volumes to the heart,
Lifting the veil that envious distance drew,
Reveals thee, bathed in beauty, to our view;
Each feature so distinct—so freshly fair,
We almost seem to scent thy mountain air—
Breathing upon us from yon clump of pines,
Where the blithe goatherd 'mid his flock reclines.
How rich the landscape!—opening, as we look,
To many a sacred fane and sylvan nook;
While through the vale, by antique arches spanned,
The river, like some stream of Fairyland,
Pours its bright waters,—with deep solemn sound,
As if rehearsing to the rocks around
The tale of other times. Methinks I hear
Its dream-like murmur melting on the ear,—
Telling of mighty chiefs whose deeds sublime
Loom out gigantic o'er the gulfs of Time;
Of the stern African whose conquering powers
Recoiled abashed from these heroic towers;
Of him who, when Rome's glorious days were gone,
Built yon grim pile to prop his Gothic throne;
Of Belisarius, Narses—But 'twere vain
To weave such names into this idle strain;
These mouldering mounds their towering aims proclaim,
—The historic Muse hath given their acts to fame.
To many a sacred fane and sylvan nook;
While through the vale, by antique arches spanned,
The river, like some stream of Fairyland,
Pours its bright waters,—with deep solemn sound,
As if rehearsing to the rocks around
The tale of other times. Methinks I hear
Its dream-like murmur melting on the ear,—
Telling of mighty chiefs whose deeds sublime
Loom out gigantic o'er the gulfs of Time;
Of the stern African whose conquering powers
Recoiled abashed from these heroic towers;
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Built yon grim pile to prop his Gothic throne;
Of Belisarius, Narses—But 'twere vain
To weave such names into this idle strain;
These mouldering mounds their towering aims proclaim,
—The historic Muse hath given their acts to fame.
Spoleto! midst thy hills and storied piles,
Thy classic haunts and legendary aisles,
'Twere sweet, methinks, ere life hath passed away,
To spend one long, reflective summer's day;
Beneath those quiet shades my limbs to cast,
And muse o'er all that links thee to the past;
To linger on, through twilight's wizard hour,
Till the wan moon gleamed high o'er rock and tower,
And, with her necromantic lustre strange,
Lit up the landscape with a solemn change—
Gilding its grandeur into sad relief,
Like a pale widow stately in her grief.
Thy classic haunts and legendary aisles,
'Twere sweet, methinks, ere life hath passed away,
To spend one long, reflective summer's day;
Beneath those quiet shades my limbs to cast,
And muse o'er all that links thee to the past;
To linger on, through twilight's wizard hour,
Till the wan moon gleamed high o'er rock and tower,
And, with her necromantic lustre strange,
Lit up the landscape with a solemn change—
Gilding its grandeur into sad relief,
Like a pale widow stately in her grief.
So rose this scene on Rogers' classic eye—
And thus, embalmed in words that ne'er could die,
Its touching image had remained enshrined,
Had he to verse transferred it from his mind.
Far other fate awaits this rustic lay,
Framed for the passing purpose of a day:
Enough for me if he its tone commend
Whom 'tis a pride and grace to call my Friend.
And thus, embalmed in words that ne'er could die,
Its touching image had remained enshrined,
Had he to verse transferred it from his mind.
Far other fate awaits this rustic lay,
Framed for the passing purpose of a day:
Enough for me if he its tone commend
Whom 'tis a pride and grace to call my Friend.
1829.
195
VERSES, ON THE RESTORATION OF DESPOTISM IN SPAIN, IN 1823.
'Tis the old tale! perfidious wars,
And forts and fields for tyrants gain'd;
And kings, and emperors, and czars,
Colleagued to hold mankind enchain'd.
And forts and fields for tyrants gain'd;
And kings, and emperors, and czars,
Colleagued to hold mankind enchain'd.
'Tis the old tale!—an abject race,
To wisdom, virtue, mercy blind,
Resumes the jealous despot's place,
Triumphant o'er man's soaring mind.
To wisdom, virtue, mercy blind,
Resumes the jealous despot's place,
Triumphant o'er man's soaring mind.
And Freedom's hopes again are crush'd,
All soil'd the flag she late unfurl'd,
Her song upon the mountains hush'd,—
While sullen gloom pervades the world.
All soil'd the flag she late unfurl'd,
Her song upon the mountains hush'd,—
While sullen gloom pervades the world.
And, one by one, each glorious light
Is quench'd at foul Oppression's nod,
Whose league unhallow'd courts the night,
To clinch the chain and ply the rod.
Is quench'd at foul Oppression's nod,
Whose league unhallow'd courts the night,
To clinch the chain and ply the rod.
Thus sink the stars in sickening gloom,
And poisonous fogs the heavens infold,
When fiends and ghouls forsake the tomb,
Their hellish sacrament to hold!
And poisonous fogs the heavens infold,
When fiends and ghouls forsake the tomb,
Their hellish sacrament to hold!
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And now, as erst in elder days,
The patriot earns a traitor's fame;
And Mina, like sad Brutus, says—
“Virtue is but an empty name!”
The patriot earns a traitor's fame;
And Mina, like sad Brutus, says—
“Virtue is but an empty name!”
Alas, for Spain! that fiercely fought,
Nor vainly, 'gainst a nobler foe;
Now, by the Bourbon sold and bought,
And shamed and sunk without a blow.
Nor vainly, 'gainst a nobler foe;
Now, by the Bourbon sold and bought,
And shamed and sunk without a blow.
Degraded Spain! a fitting fate
A waits her with her recreant chief;
Foul superstition, fraud, and hate,
And mockery amidst her grief.
A waits her with her recreant chief;
Foul superstition, fraud, and hate,
And mockery amidst her grief.
Alas, for craven Italy!
That chants in Austria's iron cage
Her soft voluptuous minstrelsy,
To charm the brutal Vandal's rage.
That chants in Austria's iron cage
Her soft voluptuous minstrelsy,
To charm the brutal Vandal's rage.
And thou, betray'd, insulted Pole,
And Saxon of the Elbe and Rhine,
I see the iron pierce your soul,
The tears commingling with your wine.
And Saxon of the Elbe and Rhine,
I see the iron pierce your soul,
The tears commingling with your wine.
I hear deep curses mutter'd low,
See fingers grasp the warrior's brand,
To burst the bondman's chain—But, no!
Ye have the heart without the hand.
See fingers grasp the warrior's brand,
To burst the bondman's chain—But, no!
Ye have the heart without the hand.
But now my glance to England turns,
Whose beacon light, 'midst ocean set
Impregnable, for ever burns,
To tell where Freedom lingers yet.
Whose beacon light, 'midst ocean set
Impregnable, for ever burns,
To tell where Freedom lingers yet.
197
And to that guardian Isle, the eye
Of fetter'd Europe fondly bends,
Waiting for England's battle cry
To rouse the earth's remotest ends.
Of fetter'd Europe fondly bends,
Waiting for England's battle cry
To rouse the earth's remotest ends.
And slumberest thou, my Native Land!
While Slaves and Despots league around?
Ah! where is Chatham's high command,
To bid thy warning trumpet sound?
While Slaves and Despots league around?
Ah! where is Chatham's high command,
To bid thy warning trumpet sound?
And where is Chatham's mighty Son?
And he—the thunderbolt of war
That shiver'd all he struck upon—
The Chief of Nile and Trafalgar!
And he—the thunderbolt of war
That shiver'd all he struck upon—
The Chief of Nile and Trafalgar!
And where are Fox and Sheridan—
Of Freedom's friends were they the last?
Remains there not a living man
Still fit to sound that signal blast?
Of Freedom's friends were they the last?
Remains there not a living man
Still fit to sound that signal blast?
Yes, hark!—it sounds!—I hear it now—
And Britain rouses at the peal,
And binds the helmet on her brow,
And grasps once more the glittering steel
And Britain rouses at the peal,
And binds the helmet on her brow,
And grasps once more the glittering steel
Her mighty voice is on the breeze—
Her martial step is on the plain—
Her flag's afloat upon the seas—
To bid the world be free again!
Her martial step is on the plain—
Her flag's afloat upon the seas—
To bid the world be free again!
Uprise the nations at her call,—
As once they started with a bound
To hurl to earth the tyrant Gaul,
Who fiercely trod them to the ground.
As once they started with a bound
To hurl to earth the tyrant Gaul,
Who fiercely trod them to the ground.
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But not, as then, to stoop their necks
Again beneath the despot's yoke;
And idly champ the curb—that checks
The fretful spirit it has broke.
Again beneath the despot's yoke;
And idly champ the curb—that checks
The fretful spirit it has broke.
No! Courts and Congresses must yield
To Nations bursting from their chain—
And, under Britain's guardian shield,
Law, Freedom, Truth, begin their reign.
To Nations bursting from their chain—
And, under Britain's guardian shield,
Law, Freedom, Truth, begin their reign.
1823.
THE REFUGEES.
'Tis Summer—'neath the brilliant sky
Of fair Castile or Italy.
The sighing breeze just stirs the bower,
Rich with the spoils of fruit and flower;
Above, the marble porch is gleaming;
Below, the sparkling fount is streaming:
And circling woodlands stretch their shade
O'er linpid stream and lawny glade.
Of fair Castile or Italy.
The sighing breeze just stirs the bower,
Rich with the spoils of fruit and flower;
Above, the marble porch is gleaming;
Below, the sparkling fount is streaming:
And circling woodlands stretch their shade
O'er linpid stream and lawny glade.
It is a lovely spot; and there
Are happy hearts its joys to share:
Yon group that o'er the lakelet's brim
Watch where the swans in beauty swim;
And, there the sage released from toils,
The warrior won from battle broils.
The lady in her matron charms,
The laughing girl with clasping arms
Around her brother's neck,—and she
Who dandles on her dancing knee
The infant crowing wild with glee.
Are happy hearts its joys to share:
Yon group that o'er the lakelet's brim
Watch where the swans in beauty swim;
And, there the sage released from toils,
The warrior won from battle broils.
The lady in her matron charms,
The laughing girl with clasping arms
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Who dandles on her dancing knee
The infant crowing wild with glee.
A graceful group—a joyous scene!—
But turn we now from what hath been,
And follow far that gentle band
In exile from their native land,
'Midst wreck of those who dared proclaim
To trampled nations Freedom's name.
But turn we now from what hath been,
And follow far that gentle band
In exile from their native land,
'Midst wreck of those who dared proclaim
To trampled nations Freedom's name.
It was their crime to hope too high
Of their fall'n country's destiny:
And villany was prompt and strong,
And England held her hand too long,
Till, quenched once more in blood and shame,
Expired fair Freedom's rising flame;
And now the remnant of her train
From Naples, Portugal, and Spain,
The high of heart, the fair, the young,
Like sea-weed by the waters flung,
Upon our British shores are lying—
For famine in our land are dying!
Of their fall'n country's destiny:
And villany was prompt and strong,
And England held her hand too long,
Till, quenched once more in blood and shame,
Expired fair Freedom's rising flame;
And now the remnant of her train
From Naples, Portugal, and Spain,
The high of heart, the fair, the young,
Like sea-weed by the waters flung,
Upon our British shores are lying—
For famine in our land are dying!
These lines were written in September, 1828, when the Spanish and Italian refugees in England were reduced to extreme destitution; and they were adapted to a picture in “Friendship's Offering,” and published there with the view of aiding, however humbly, the appeal then made in England for pecuniary support to them.
God of our fathers! and shall we
The offspring of the brave and free—
Of men who freely poured their veins
To ransom us from servile chains—
Shall we in this their evil day
From these sad exiles turn away?
From their despair our faces hide,
Besotted with our selfish pride,
And shut our sordid hearts and hands,
When man implores and God commands?
The offspring of the brave and free—
Of men who freely poured their veins
To ransom us from servile chains—
Shall we in this their evil day
From these sad exiles turn away?
From their despair our faces hide,
Besotted with our selfish pride,
And shut our sordid hearts and hands,
When man implores and God commands?
200
Oh, no! the thought I will not brook
That gentle eyes, which here may look
On pictured scene or poet's lay,
Will turn in apathy away,
While thus the stranger, at our gate,
Sinks destitute and desolate!
No! though the train of pampered pride
Pass by “upon the other side,”
As did the Pharisee of old,
Yet there are hearts of better mould
High throbbing in Old England's breast—
Ten thousand hearts that will not rest
Till they have succoured the distressed—
To whom even this brief hurried strain
I know will not appeal in vain:
And foremost of that generous band
Are they, the ladies of our land,
Whose bounty, like the dew of heaven,
Though silently is freely given.
That gentle eyes, which here may look
On pictured scene or poet's lay,
Will turn in apathy away,
While thus the stranger, at our gate,
Sinks destitute and desolate!
No! though the train of pampered pride
Pass by “upon the other side,”
As did the Pharisee of old,
Yet there are hearts of better mould
High throbbing in Old England's breast—
Ten thousand hearts that will not rest
Till they have succoured the distressed—
To whom even this brief hurried strain
I know will not appeal in vain:
And foremost of that generous band
Are they, the ladies of our land,
Whose bounty, like the dew of heaven,
Though silently is freely given.
Enough—the blush—the starting tear
Reveal the purpose nobly dear!
And see! the Exile's languid eyes
Are lightened up in glad surprise,
As, wakening from despair's wild trance,
Kind faces meet his wildered glance.
—Enough!—here let the curtain fall:
Hearts that can feel will picture all—
All that my verse may not unfold
Of meeting minds of generous mould.
Reveal the purpose nobly dear!
And see! the Exile's languid eyes
Are lightened up in glad surprise,
As, wakening from despair's wild trance,
Kind faces meet his wildered glance.
—Enough!—here let the curtain fall:
Hearts that can feel will picture all—
All that my verse may not unfold
Of meeting minds of generous mould.
Sept. 1828.
201
SPANIARDS, YIELD NOT TO DESPAIR.
Spaniards, yield not to despair!
Sink not, Portuguese, forlorn!
Wintry nights are worst to bear
Just before the break of morn.
Sink not, Portuguese, forlorn!
Wintry nights are worst to bear
Just before the break of morn.
Though down-trampled in the dust
By the traitor's cruel heel,
Freedom's cause ye hold in trust—
Falter not for rack or wheel.
Spaniards, yield not to despair!
By the traitor's cruel heel,
Freedom's cause ye hold in trust—
Falter not for rack or wheel.
Spaniards, yield not to despair!
Hunted from your native strand
By the Blood-hounds Hate and Fear,
Sink not yet, high-hearted band,
Retribution's hour is near.
Spaniards, yield not to despair!
By the Blood-hounds Hate and Fear,
Sink not yet, high-hearted band,
Retribution's hour is near.
Spaniards, yield not to despair!
Lo! yon perjured caitiff slaves,
While they clinch their country's chain,
Tremble even amidst the graves
Of the victims they have slain.
Spaniards, yield not to despair!
While they clinch their country's chain,
Tremble even amidst the graves
Of the victims they have slain.
Spaniards, yield not to despair!
Let them tremble!—they have cause
Loudest when they rant and boast;
Freedom on her march may pause,
But her battle ne'er is lost.
Spaniards, yield not to despair!
Loudest when they rant and boast;
Freedom on her march may pause,
But her battle ne'er is lost.
Spaniards, yield not to despair!
202
Though the tyrant's bitter taunt
Sting you like a viper foul,
Though Despite and Famine gaunt
Like hyænas round you howl—
Spaniards, yield not to despair!
Sting you like a viper foul,
Though Despite and Famine gaunt
Like hyænas round you howl—
Spaniards, yield not to despair!
Though your dearest blood may flow,
On the scaffold or the plain,
Though your bravest be laid low
Ere their country rise again—
Spaniards, yield not to despair!
On the scaffold or the plain,
Though your bravest be laid low
Ere their country rise again—
Spaniards, yield not to despair!
Ne'er in vain the patriot dies:
Pours he not life's fountain free
Servile millions to baptize
Proselytes of Liberty!
Spaniards, yield not to despair!
Pours he not life's fountain free
Servile millions to baptize
Proselytes of Liberty!
Spaniards, yield not to despair!
1829.
OUR NEIGHBOUR.
LUKE X. 29.
“Who is my neighbour?”—Selfishness replies,“The man who best can aid your steps to rise;
The powerful—for whose favour all contend;
The wealthy—who may prove a useful friend;
The fashionable—whose notice is a grace;
In short, whoe'er is forward in the race
Of worldly honour. Such as lag behind,
The poor, th' oppressed, the wretched of mankind,—
If you are prudent, from their presence fly—
Leave them to Providence, and pass them by.”
203
MEMENTO.
My Son, be this thy simple plan:Serve God, and love thy brother man;
Forget not in temptation's hour,
That Sin lends Sorrow double power;
Count life a stage upon thy way,
And follow Conscience, come what may:
Alike with heaven and earth sincere,
With hand, and brow, and bosom clear,
‘Fear God—and know no other fear.’
THE VALLEY OF HUMAN LIFE.
A FRAGMENT.
“O see ye not yon narrow road,
So thick beset with thorns and briars?
That is the path of Righteousness,
Though after it but few enquires.
So thick beset with thorns and briars?
That is the path of Righteousness,
Though after it but few enquires.
“And see ye not that braid braid road,
That lies across that lily leven?
That is the path of Wickedness,
Though some call it the road to heaven.”
Old Ballad.
That lies across that lily leven?
That is the path of Wickedness,
Though some call it the road to heaven.”
Old Ballad.
Methought a valley wild and wide,
With granite cliffs on either side
Embattled, stretched from sea to sea:
Old Ocean's voice came dreamily
From its dim openings east and west,
Where clouds and misty vapours rest:
And from beneath the eastern cloud
Of human kind a countless crowd,
Methought, were landing evermore,
Like seafowl flocking to the shore,
And up that vale incessant wending
In a train that had no ending.
With granite cliffs on either side
Embattled, stretched from sea to sea:
Old Ocean's voice came dreamily
204
Where clouds and misty vapours rest:
And from beneath the eastern cloud
Of human kind a countless crowd,
Methought, were landing evermore,
Like seafowl flocking to the shore,
And up that vale incessant wending
In a train that had no ending.
Then, lifting up my eyes to view
The path this multitude pursue,
I straight beheld a giant mound
Stretching across the valley ground,
So high the eagle's wing would fail
Its sky-topt battlements to scale.
Soon by that rampart's frowning wall
I stood, and heard a herald's call;
While, like the current of a river,
The human tide rolled on for ever.
The path this multitude pursue,
I straight beheld a giant mound
Stretching across the valley ground,
So high the eagle's wing would fail
Its sky-topt battlements to scale.
Soon by that rampart's frowning wall
I stood, and heard a herald's call;
While, like the current of a river,
The human tide rolled on for ever.
Two passages received that tide;
The one, a gateway large and wide,
Like a triumphal arch bestrode
The level highway, sweeping broad
Right through the rampart to the left:
The other, like some fissure cleft
By earthquake or volcanic fires,
All overgrown with thorns and briars,
Appeared so dismal, strange, and rude,
That of the countless multitude,
Methought, comparatively few
Sought there to find a passage through.
The one, a gateway large and wide,
Like a triumphal arch bestrode
The level highway, sweeping broad
Right through the rampart to the left:
The other, like some fissure cleft
By earthquake or volcanic fires,
All overgrown with thorns and briars,
Appeared so dismal, strange, and rude,
That of the countless multitude,
Methought, comparatively few
Sought there to find a passage through.
But by that rugged entrance stood
A herald, grave, yet mild of mood,
Proclaiming, in high solemn strain,
That all who peace and rest would gain,
Or 'scape the fierce Pursuer's wrath,
Must enter by the Narrow Path.
And, as he cried aloud, I saw
That many heard the voice with awe,
Hushed a brief space their boisterous din,
And turned, as if to enter in
By that rude portal; till amain
From the great gate some mirthful strain
Lured back their giddy hearts again.
A herald, grave, yet mild of mood,
205
That all who peace and rest would gain,
Or 'scape the fierce Pursuer's wrath,
Must enter by the Narrow Path.
And, as he cried aloud, I saw
That many heard the voice with awe,
Hushed a brief space their boisterous din,
And turned, as if to enter in
By that rude portal; till amain
From the great gate some mirthful strain
Lured back their giddy hearts again.
Then, looking to the left, a blaze
Of dazzling lustre caught my gaze,
Where by the gate a lady sate,
In queenly guise, on throne of state:
She wore a crown of gems and gold;
Her robe was loose, her looks were bold;
And round her a voluptuous train
Of bacchanals and jugglers vain
Were dancing to a Lydian measure:
It was the court of Worldly Pleasure.
And thus unto the passing crowd
The cunning Sorceress cried aloud:—
Of dazzling lustre caught my gaze,
Where by the gate a lady sate,
In queenly guise, on throne of state:
She wore a crown of gems and gold;
Her robe was loose, her looks were bold;
And round her a voluptuous train
Of bacchanals and jugglers vain
Were dancing to a Lydian measure:
It was the court of Worldly Pleasure.
And thus unto the passing crowd
The cunning Sorceress cried aloud:—
“Heed not, my friends, the frantic call
Of that old maniac, by the wall!
The dismal chasm he calls a path
(A relic of some earthquake's wrath)
'Mong savage rocks and grottoes wending,
Must end—if it has any ending—
In some dark gulf or dreary bourne
Whence living wight shall ne'er return!
Of that old maniac, by the wall!
The dismal chasm he calls a path
(A relic of some earthquake's wrath)
'Mong savage rocks and grottoes wending,
Must end—if it has any ending—
In some dark gulf or dreary bourne
Whence living wight shall ne'er return!
Come hither; this way bends the road,
Well-paved and pleasant, smooth and broad,
Which none but madmen would forsake
For yon wild track by cliff and brake.
Come hither; cast off foolish fear;
The Land of Pleasure lieth here.
Look through the gate: behold the bowers
Of citron, shedding fruits and flowers;
The groves of palm by limpid brooks;
The grottoes cool, the grassy nooks;
The banks where joyous groups recline,
With music solaced and with wine.
Come, enter freely the domain
Where I, indulgent empress, reign:
Each moment lost is wasted time,
Till you have gained that luscious clime:
Haste then, and every sense employ—
For life was given you to enjoy.”
Well-paved and pleasant, smooth and broad,
206
For yon wild track by cliff and brake.
Come hither; cast off foolish fear;
The Land of Pleasure lieth here.
Look through the gate: behold the bowers
Of citron, shedding fruits and flowers;
The groves of palm by limpid brooks;
The grottoes cool, the grassy nooks;
The banks where joyous groups recline,
With music solaced and with wine.
Come, enter freely the domain
Where I, indulgent empress, reign:
Each moment lost is wasted time,
Till you have gained that luscious clime:
Haste then, and every sense employ—
For life was given you to enjoy.”
The Enchantress thus: and, with a shout
Of high acclaim, the heedless rout
Pressed through the portal's mighty jaws.
Yet many made a doubtful pause,
And some (too few, alas! were they)
Recoiled, and took the Narrow Way.
The rest irresolutely stand,
Gazing on the delicious land
Within: yet blushing, as with shame,
To look on that seductive dame,
And those who danced around her throne
With drunken gait and loosened zone:
And oft, as if with sudden fright,
They glanced with terror to the right,
Whence rose the herald's warning cry—
“From the Betrayer hither fly!”
Of high acclaim, the heedless rout
Pressed through the portal's mighty jaws.
Yet many made a doubtful pause,
And some (too few, alas! were they)
Recoiled, and took the Narrow Way.
The rest irresolutely stand,
Gazing on the delicious land
Within: yet blushing, as with shame,
To look on that seductive dame,
And those who danced around her throne
With drunken gait and loosened zone:
And oft, as if with sudden fright,
They glanced with terror to the right,
Whence rose the herald's warning cry—
“From the Betrayer hither fly!”
Then that Witch with smiling malice
Quickly seized a golden chalice,
And its charmèd mixture threw,
Sprinkling all that hapless crew—
Those alike who hasten in
And those who halt, but fly not sin—
“Thus,” she said, “I make you mine
By a sure baptismal sign!”
Then, submissive to her call,
Through the huge gate hurried all.
Quickly seized a golden chalice,
207
Sprinkling all that hapless crew—
Those alike who hasten in
And those who halt, but fly not sin—
“Thus,” she said, “I make you mine
By a sure baptismal sign!”
Then, submissive to her call,
Through the huge gate hurried all.
Soon or slow the fiendish spell
Wrought on all on whom it fell:
While I gazed, a fearful change
Came o'er all with aspect strange:
By degrees the human face
Lost each intellectual trace,
And the features took the cast
Of the bestial kind at last.
Yet still within the eyes there dwelt
A look as if the wretches felt
A hateful consciousness of harm,
Produced by that prevailing charm,
Which gave man's countenance divine
The expression of the wolf or swine.
Wrought on all on whom it fell:
While I gazed, a fearful change
Came o'er all with aspect strange:
By degrees the human face
Lost each intellectual trace,
And the features took the cast
Of the bestial kind at last.
Yet still within the eyes there dwelt
A look as if the wretches felt
A hateful consciousness of harm,
Produced by that prevailing charm,
Which gave man's countenance divine
The expression of the wolf or swine.
208
LINES TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. DR. WAUGH.
Whoe'er thou art whose eye may hither bend,
If thou art human, here behold a friend.
Art thou of Christ's disciples? He was one
Like him whose bosom Jesus leant upon.
Art thou a sinner burthened with thy grief?
His life was spent proclaiming sin's relief.
Art thou an unbeliever? He could feel
Much for the patient whom he could not heal.
Whate'er thy station, creed, condition be,
This man of God has cared and prayed for thee.
If thou art human, here behold a friend.
Art thou of Christ's disciples? He was one
Like him whose bosom Jesus leant upon.
Art thou a sinner burthened with thy grief?
His life was spent proclaiming sin's relief.
Art thou an unbeliever? He could feel
Much for the patient whom he could not heal.
Whate'er thy station, creed, condition be,
This man of God has cared and prayed for thee.
Do riches, honours, pleasures, smile around?
He would have shown thee where alone is found
Their true enjoyment—on the Christian plan
Of holiness to God and love to man.
Are poverty, disease, disgrace, despair,
The ills, the anguish to which flesh is heir,
Thy household inmates?—Yea, even such as thee
He hailed as brothers of humanity;
And gave his hand and heart, and toiled and pled,
Till nakedness was clothed and hunger fed;
Till pain was soothed, and even the fiend Despair
Confessed a stronger arm than his was there.
He would have shown thee where alone is found
Their true enjoyment—on the Christian plan
Of holiness to God and love to man.
Are poverty, disease, disgrace, despair,
The ills, the anguish to which flesh is heir,
Thy household inmates?—Yea, even such as thee
He hailed as brothers of humanity;
And gave his hand and heart, and toiled and pled,
Till nakedness was clothed and hunger fed;
Till pain was soothed, and even the fiend Despair
Confessed a stronger arm than his was there.
And ye far habitants of heathen lands,
For you he raised his voice and stretched his hands;
And taught new-wakened sympathy to start
With generous throb through many a British heart;
Till wide o'er farthest oceans waved the sail
That bade in Jesus' name the nations hail.
And Afric's wastes and wildered Hindostan
Heard the glad tidings of good will to man.
For you he raised his voice and stretched his hands;
And taught new-wakened sympathy to start
With generous throb through many a British heart;
209
That bade in Jesus' name the nations hail.
And Afric's wastes and wildered Hindostan
Heard the glad tidings of good will to man.
Such was his public ministry. And they
Through life who loved him till his latest day,
Of many a noble, gentle trait can tell,
That, as a man, friend, father, marked him well:
The frank simplicity; the cordial flow
Of kind affection; the enthusiast glow
That love of Nature or his Native Land
Would kindle in those eyes so bright and bland;
The unstudied eloquence that from his tongue
Fell like the fresh dews by the breezes flung
From fragrant woodlands; the benignant look
That like a rainbow beamed through his rebuke—
Rebuke more dreaded than a despot's frown,
For sorrow more than anger called it down;
The winning way, the kindliness of speech,
With which he wont the little ones to teach,
As round his chair like clustering doves they clung—
For, like his Master, much he loved the young.
Through life who loved him till his latest day,
Of many a noble, gentle trait can tell,
That, as a man, friend, father, marked him well:
The frank simplicity; the cordial flow
Of kind affection; the enthusiast glow
That love of Nature or his Native Land
Would kindle in those eyes so bright and bland;
The unstudied eloquence that from his tongue
Fell like the fresh dews by the breezes flung
From fragrant woodlands; the benignant look
That like a rainbow beamed through his rebuke—
Rebuke more dreaded than a despot's frown,
For sorrow more than anger called it down;
The winning way, the kindliness of speech,
With which he wont the little ones to teach,
As round his chair like clustering doves they clung—
For, like his Master, much he loved the young.
These, and unnumbered traits like these, my verse
Could fondly dwell upon: but o'er his hearse
A passing wreath I may but stop to cast,
Of love and grateful reverence the last
Poor earthly token. Weeping mourners here
Perchance may count such frail memorial dear,
Though vain and valueless it be to him
Who tunes his golden harp amidst the seraphim!
Could fondly dwell upon: but o'er his hearse
A passing wreath I may but stop to cast,
Of love and grateful reverence the last
Poor earthly token. Weeping mourners here
Perchance may count such frail memorial dear,
Though vain and valueless it be to him
Who tunes his golden harp amidst the seraphim!
1827.
210
A HYMN.
When morn awakes our hearts,
To pour the matin prayer;
When toil-worn day departs,
And gives a pause to care;
When those our souls love best
Kneel with us, in thy fear,
To ask thy peace and rest—
Oh God our Father, hear!
To pour the matin prayer;
When toil-worn day departs,
And gives a pause to care;
When those our souls love best
Kneel with us, in thy fear,
To ask thy peace and rest—
Oh God our Father, hear!
When worldly snares without,
And evil thoughts within,
Stir up some impious doubt,
Or lure us back to sin;
When human strength proves frail,
And will but half sincere;
When faith begins to fail—
Oh God our Father, hear!
And evil thoughts within,
Stir up some impious doubt,
Or lure us back to sin;
When human strength proves frail,
And will but half sincere;
When faith begins to fail—
Oh God our Father, hear!
When in our cup of mirth
The drop of trembling falls,
And the frail props of earth
Are crumbling round our walls;
When back we gaze with grief,
And forward glance with fear;
When faileth man's relief—
Oh God our Father, hear!
The drop of trembling falls,
And the frail props of earth
Are crumbling round our walls;
When back we gaze with grief,
And forward glance with fear;
When faileth man's relief—
Oh God our Father, hear!
211
When on the verge we stand
Of the eternal clime,
And Death with solemn hand
Draws back the veil of Time;
When flesh and spirit quake
Before Thee to appear—
For the Redeemer's sake,
Oh God our Father, hear!
Of the eternal clime,
And Death with solemn hand
Draws back the veil of Time;
When flesh and spirit quake
Before Thee to appear—
For the Redeemer's sake,
Oh God our Father, hear!
1830.
INSCRIPTION, FOR A TOMB-STONE IN THE BURIAL-GROUND AT DRYBURGH ABBEY.
A Scottish patriarch lies buried here;
An upright man, a Christian sincere;
A frugal husbandman of th' olden style,
Who lived and died near this monastic pile.
A stone-cast from this spot his dwelling stood;
His farm lay down the margin of the flood;
Those moss-grown abbey orchards filled his store,
Though now scarce blooms a tree he trained of yore;
Amidst these ivied cloisters hived his bees;
Here his young children gambolled round his knees;
And duly here, at morn and evening's close,
His solemn hymn of household worship rose.
An upright man, a Christian sincere;
A frugal husbandman of th' olden style,
Who lived and died near this monastic pile.
A stone-cast from this spot his dwelling stood;
His farm lay down the margin of the flood;
Those moss-grown abbey orchards filled his store,
Though now scarce blooms a tree he trained of yore;
Amidst these ivied cloisters hived his bees;
Here his young children gambolled round his knees;
And duly here, at morn and evening's close,
His solemn hymn of household worship rose.
His memory now hath perished from this place,
And over many lands his venturous race
Are scatter'd widely: some are in the grave;
Some still survive in Britain; ocean's wave
Hath wafted many to far Western woods
Laved by Ohio's and Ontario's floods:
Another band beneath the Southern skies
Have built their homes where Caffer mountains rise,
And taught wild Mancazana's willowy vale
The simple strains of Scottish Teviotdale.
And over many lands his venturous race
Are scatter'd widely: some are in the grave;
Some still survive in Britain; ocean's wave
Hath wafted many to far Western woods
Laved by Ohio's and Ontario's floods:
212
Have built their homes where Caffer mountains rise,
And taught wild Mancazana's willowy vale
The simple strains of Scottish Teviotdale.
A wanderer of the race, from distant climes
Revisiting this spot, hath penned these rhymes,
And raised this stone, to guard, in hallowed trust,
His kindred's memory and great-grandsire's dust;
Resting in hope, that at the Saviour's feet
They yet may re-unite, when Zion's pilgrims meet.
Revisiting this spot, hath penned these rhymes,
And raised this stone, to guard, in hallowed trust,
His kindred's memory and great-grandsire's dust;
Resting in hope, that at the Saviour's feet
They yet may re-unite, when Zion's pilgrims meet.
1830.
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