The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
But I must sing of scenes more ancient still,
When offerings smoked upon the rocky hill;
In days long past, when, circled round with wood,
The lowly huts of pristine warriors stood,
Where the majestic oaks their branches spread,
And for the Druids formed a sacred shade,—
Who, at one period of the changing year,
Did for their deep, imposing rites prepare.
White as the snow their sacred vests appeared;
They as the gods' vicegerents were revered.
On every hill the milk-white beasts were sought;
When found, with joy they to the groves were brought.
Then virgins culled the flowers with greatest care,
To strive who could the richest wreath prepare;
While to the harps of bards the peasants sung,
And round the beasts the rosy garlands hung.
The rock, which yet retains the Altar's name,
Had honours paid, and mighty was its fame.
There, 'tis presumed, the mistletoe was laid,
While to their unknown god the Druids prayed;
There were domestic quarrels made to cease,
And foes at variance thence returned in peace.
Unlike the various priests of modern days,
So different, that they teach a thousand ways;
And though they boast superior knowledge given,
Who knows but Druids taught the way to heaven?
Then all returning from the Altar's height,
Some filled with awe, some smiling with delight,
While ancient bards, as slow they moved along,
Touched their wild harps, and this their artless song:
Oft on the hills, to chase the dappled deer,
The painted Britons would in troops appear;
Swift as the hind they bounded o'er the plain—
The sportive chase was then their only gain.
They knew not then the sickle, scythe, nor hoe;
No panting oxen laboured at the plough:
Their flocks and herds were then their only store,
They lived content, nor knew, nor wished for more.
But, if their chiefs had struck upon the shield,
And called their warriors to the embattled field,
They left their homes, and all their rural charms,
And o'er their painted shoulders threw their arms:
The British virgins, while their bows were strung,
Joined with the native bards, while thus they sung:
When offerings smoked upon the rocky hill;
In days long past, when, circled round with wood,
The lowly huts of pristine warriors stood,
Where the majestic oaks their branches spread,
And for the Druids formed a sacred shade,—
Who, at one period of the changing year,
Did for their deep, imposing rites prepare.
White as the snow their sacred vests appeared;
They as the gods' vicegerents were revered.
On every hill the milk-white beasts were sought;
When found, with joy they to the groves were brought.
Then virgins culled the flowers with greatest care,
To strive who could the richest wreath prepare;
While to the harps of bards the peasants sung,
And round the beasts the rosy garlands hung.
10
Had honours paid, and mighty was its fame.
There, 'tis presumed, the mistletoe was laid,
While to their unknown god the Druids prayed;
There were domestic quarrels made to cease,
And foes at variance thence returned in peace.
Unlike the various priests of modern days,
So different, that they teach a thousand ways;
And though they boast superior knowledge given,
Who knows but Druids taught the way to heaven?
Then all returning from the Altar's height,
Some filled with awe, some smiling with delight,
While ancient bards, as slow they moved along,
Touched their wild harps, and this their artless song:
Now with the gods our peace is made,
No demon's spell or charm
Can make our hawthorn blossoms fade,
Our flock or herbage harm.
No demon's spell or charm
Can make our hawthorn blossoms fade,
Our flock or herbage harm.
Safe from the wolf and furious boar
We rest another year;
No fox shall take our feathered store,
Or make our springs less clear.
We rest another year;
No fox shall take our feathered store,
Or make our springs less clear.
No fairy climb the lofty oak,
The sacred plant to kill;
No warrior wear a bloody cloak,
Or fall upon the hill.
The sacred plant to kill;
11
Or fall upon the hill.
No eagle, from the stormy north,
Shall our young lambs destroy;
Nor hawk nor raven shall come forth,
To blast our rural joy.
Shall our young lambs destroy;
Nor hawk nor raven shall come forth,
To blast our rural joy.
But ev'rything we want is ours,
Bestowed by bounteous Heaven,
And falls like fruitful rain in showers,
If for them praise be given.
Bestowed by bounteous Heaven,
And falls like fruitful rain in showers,
If for them praise be given.
The painted Britons would in troops appear;
Swift as the hind they bounded o'er the plain—
The sportive chase was then their only gain.
They knew not then the sickle, scythe, nor hoe;
No panting oxen laboured at the plough:
Their flocks and herds were then their only store,
They lived content, nor knew, nor wished for more.
But, if their chiefs had struck upon the shield,
And called their warriors to the embattled field,
They left their homes, and all their rural charms,
And o'er their painted shoulders threw their arms:
The British virgins, while their bows were strung,
Joined with the native bards, while thus they sung:
12
Britain! the land by gods beloved,
The land of warriors brave,
Who ever meet their foes unmoved,
Nor dread the hero's grave.
The land of warriors brave,
Who ever meet their foes unmoved,
Nor dread the hero's grave.
By barbarous foes unconquered still,
The pastures yet our own;
And ours the grove and sacred hill,
While Cuno wears the crown.
The pastures yet our own;
And ours the grove and sacred hill,
While Cuno wears the crown.
The northern nations, fierce, may come,
To waste our fruitful field;
But those shall rue they left their home,
And soon to Britons yield.
To waste our fruitful field;
But those shall rue they left their home,
And soon to Britons yield.
Arm, warriors, arm! your children call—
The gods will give you aid;
Before your spears your foes shall fall,
The mighty army fade!
The gods will give you aid;
Before your spears your foes shall fall,
The mighty army fade!
Arm, warriors, arm! your all defend—
The Highland foe is near!
Let all upon the gods depend,
And strangers be to fear!
The Highland foe is near!
Let all upon the gods depend,
And strangers be to fear!
With quivers filled, and brazen spears,
With trumpets loud and strong,
Rush to the fight—the foe appears,
But foes shall not be long.
With trumpets loud and strong,
Rush to the fight—the foe appears,
But foes shall not be long.
13
Thus sung the bards—and at their words,
At once the warriors drew
From brazen sheaths their glitt'ring swords,
And to the conflict flew.
At once the warriors drew
From brazen sheaths their glitt'ring swords,
And to the conflict flew.
So 'twas of old, one dreadful day,
Which ancient bards did sing,
When mighty warriors fled away,
Like hawks upon the wing.
Which ancient bards did sing,
When mighty warriors fled away,
Like hawks upon the wing.
Fierce were their foes,—the savage boar
Had lent its bristled hide,
Which they for barbarous helmets wore,
With various colours dyed.
Had lent its bristled hide,
Which they for barbarous helmets wore,
With various colours dyed.
Upon their breasts imagined beasts
And monsters were portrayed;
The Highland skins, with labour dressed,
Was then their tartan plaid.
And monsters were portrayed;
The Highland skins, with labour dressed,
Was then their tartan plaid.
Dreadfully grim the van appeared,
A far extended line;
From wing to wing their spears, upreared,
Did bright as silver shine.
A far extended line;
From wing to wing their spears, upreared,
Did bright as silver shine.
The Britons waited not to view
Or study dangers o'er;
But, dauntless, in their chariots flew,
And stained their arms in gore.
Or study dangers o'er;
But, dauntless, in their chariots flew,
And stained their arms in gore.
14
The conflicts on the fields of Troy
To this were but a fray;
Each Grecian warrior but a boy,
To those who fought that day.
To this were but a fray;
Each Grecian warrior but a boy,
To those who fought that day.
No room to bear the banners high;
No breath to give command;
No heart to fear, no way to fly;
But warrior hand to hand!
No breath to give command;
No heart to fear, no way to fly;
But warrior hand to hand!
Swords cut like saws, and broke in twain,
And spears as crimson red,
Were strewed all o'er the bloody plain,
Or grasped by many dead.
And spears as crimson red,
Were strewed all o'er the bloody plain,
Or grasped by many dead.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |