The Harvest :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Harvest

a poem [by Robert Story]

Story, Robert (1795-1860)

[section]

HARVEST.

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HARVEST.

CANTO FIRST.

Sweet smil'd the morn from Bewick fells,
On fair Roddamia's greenwood dells,
And bade the rising vapours redden,
O'er Dunmoor wild, and heathy Heddin.
The corn fields, yellow, deep, serene,
By hawthorn hedge and forest green,
Seem'd to invite, with mellow smile,
The jovial reaper-band to toil.

Rous'd by good Albert's mild command,
Calder sent forth her reaper band—
A motely group! the village maid,
By Neatness' simple hand array'd,
Here sweetly smil'd; the youthful hind
Here jested blithe with vacant mind;

Here wedded life, and age were seen,
With calmer glee to tread the green.
—Rapt into pleasures past, again
I view the gaily-marching train,
Through eastern wood as sunbeams dance,
And fair on Calder's windows glance,
I see them pass the lea along,
And hear the jest, and frequent song!
Come, then, celestial glow of soul,
Whose raptures have so often stole
My fancy softly on;
At ev'ning calm, or morning gay,
Or when still midnight's solemn ray
In pensive beauty shone!
But most when lovely Anna smil'd
I felt thy sacred pow'r
Inspirit every love note wild,
That sung the peerless Flow'r.
Oh, come! and while the lightsome throng
To fields of Roddam hie,
Select the chief that train among
To live through all, and grace my song—
Ah! not to last through ages long,
But with their names to die!

Two hills on the east from Cheviot.

ALBERT's CHARACTER.

By pious parents train'd from youth
To pure devotion, and to truth,
Albert the path of virtue trod,
The friend of man—the child of God.
His was not Fortune's golden store,—
She gave enough, though little more,
But in a lovely, virtuous wife,
Fair beam'd his pleasure-star of life.
Six comely babes to him she bore,
And happiness, but once before
That smil'd on earth, to Calder giv'n,
Seem'd to have left her native heav'n,
As if mistaking this serene
For sinless calm, for Eden's scene!
But ah, chang'd doom! the calm is done!
Woe-clouds o'ercast so bright a sun!
Like lily, nipp'd by bitter gales,
His Ellen dies—and Albert wails!
His little children, weeping round,
Would wake Mammā from slumber sound—
Alas! she hears not grief express'd—
Sees not her Albert's tortur'd breast,
That vainly strives to check the flow
Of deep, of unavailing woe!

The mournful sounds those echoes bore,
Which never heard a sigh before!

Celestial friend! Religion, hail!
Delightful cheerer of the vale!
When fate's deep-black'ning tempests howl,
'Tis thou alone canst calm the soul!
When chill'd with anguish and dismay,
We watch the ling'ring life away,
'Tis thine to show the blissful shore
Where friends shall meet to part no more!

Time and Religion's aid at last
Their veil expanded o'er the past.
Less keen was felt the bosom-throe,
And ceas'd the frequent tear to flow.
A sister, long to him endear'd,
With pious care his children rear'd!
Domestic happiness serene,
Began once more to gild the scene;
And cheerfulness, with smiling face,
To reign the mistress of the place.

Such Albert was; free, kind, sedate,
The good man's boast, the tyrant's hate,
Beloved by all within his land,
The Master of the reaper band.

CHARACTER OF ANNA.

The fairest of the female train
(Confess'd by every maid and swain,)
Was Anna. Fair indeed was she;
Sweet innocence, and modesty
Beam'd in each look—which charm'd the good—
The rake repented as he view'd,
Of virtuous beauty own'd the pow'r,
And would be chaste for Calder's Flow'r!

Ah! why was e'er sweet Anna's lot
The labouring peasant's humble cot?
For sure, that black eye, beaming bright,
That lovely cheek, and neck of light,
That form of finest symmetry,
That angel motion, sprightly, free,
Might well have joy diffus'd o'er all,
In brightest room of courtly hall!

Led by the moon, o'er moor and glen,
Have often come the Cheviot men,
The blithest they that wear the plaid,
And favourites of each rural maid.
Anna alone their suit denied—
Their simple tales she could deride;

In vain they knew, with graceful arm,
The plaid to throw—it fail'd to charm.
To her though hope's illusive tongue
Of higher fortune never sung;
In lovely Anna there was more
Than ever cottage saw before.
When hill and vale in beauty smil'd,
As fell the beams of ev'ning mild,
When glow'd the clouds along the sky,
And wak'd the forest-melody.
So gaily look'd her sparkling eye,
And thoughts so novel utter'd she.
As spoke a fancy, lively, fine—
Which, if illum'd by learning's shine,
May yet, in spite of penury's pow'r,
Give fame to Calder's lovely Flow'r,
And future ages bless the lays
Sweet sung by her on Cheviot braes.

Lo! how she smiles amid the throng;
Hark! is it not fair Anna's song?
Yes—as her heart from sorrow free,
She pours the simple melody.
Ceas'd now the countless notes that rung,
The lasses list her sweeter tongue;

The youth of Calder move along,
And bless the maid, and bless her song!
Yes! all admire, but one adores!
Mark, as her song sweet Anna pours,
How speaks that glance, his inward flame!
Sylvander is the stripling's name.

SYLVANDER's CHARACTER.

Full twenty times had Winter snell,
His tempests blown o'er Cheviot Fell;
As often spring had green'd the tree,
Since smil'd the youth in infancy.

He pass'd his childhood's sportive days,
On banks of Tweed and Beaumont braes,
And where, beneath the southern hill,
Fair Ewart shines beside the Till.
These lovely scenes, now sung so long,
Attun'd his infant mind to song,
And gave a joy to after days
Which poverty could ne'er eraze.
For oh! 'twas all his pleasure still
To wake the harp by dale and hill,
And paint the feelings, fervid, warm,
When love sublimed each maiden charm!

And long shall Roddam's daughters sing
The strains Sylvander taught the string.

When winter over plain and steep
Had thrown his mantle white and deep;
How grand, he deem'd, at night's calm noon,
To walk beneath the lovely moon,
As high amid her starry show,
She smil'd upon a land of snow!
While not a breeze was heard to stir
Roddamia's woods of gloomy fir;
His hoary branches stretch'd the oak
In silent grandeur o'er the rock;
And Cheviot seem'd, in snowy pride,
Among the stars his head to hide!

When Spring, with fairy hand began,
In all her hues, to paint the lawn;
To bid the forest smile again,
And birds resume the rapture-strain;
Wherever spread yon alders dank
Above the riv'let's grassy bank,
Oft has the wand'rer of the dean,
(Conceal'd among the foliage green,)
Beheld his eye in raptures roll
As Fancy lighten'd on his soul;

And often fear'd the flying gale
Might waft, unheard, the tender tale!

Elate with hope—elate in vain!
Our Bard had left his native plain,
To seek promotion in the vale,
Where Aire's soft murmurs load the gale.
Too proud to cringe to shallow Pride,
Too proud a Pedan'ts sneer to bide,
His parting tear indignant burn'd,
And to Northumbria he return'd.

And now twelve months away have flown
Since first to him was Anna known;
That charmer of the rural scene,
In all the bloom of seventeen,
Soon caught his heart; for none could view
That maid, and not adore her too!
She caught his heart—but felt her own,
Before she knew her conquest, gone.
Oh glorious time of bliss and love!
Sweet foretaste of the joys above!
When, from each frigid doubt estrang'd,
Hearts, mutually dear, are interchang'd

And confidently can repose
In others' breast their joys or woes!

So lov'd the pair; but penury cold
Still cramp'd Hope's rose-bud in the fold,
But soon a fortune-beam shall glow,
And sweet expand its beauty-blow!
Sufficiency shall bless his lot
With Anna in Roddamian Cot,
And love, unconscious of controul,
To purest rapture tune the soul!
Such were his hopes, when, all-unskill'd,
He sought good Albert's harvest field,
Not prizing much a reaper's name,
He came for money—not for fame.

A river in Yorkshire.

EDWARD AND JESSY.

There Edward walks in manhood's bloom!
He, forc'd by Fortune's sullen gloom,
Has chang'd, for peasant's toil and strife,
His much-lov'd hills and shepherd-life.
From Dunmoor oft, at nightly hour,
He came to Calder's fairest Flow'r.
Though in his limbs, and in his face,
Were manly strength, and youthful grace;

And though his uncorrupted heart
Ne'er knew the rake's seductive art;
With usual sneer that Beauty heard
His artless tale of love preferr'd.
Of lively fancy unpossess'd,
No “Soul of Fire” inform'd his breast,
Which, teaching words to burn or sigh,
And glancing from the speaking eye,
Might, like to powder touch'd by flame,
Have shot sweet tumult through her frame.

Tir'd of a tedious suit, and vain,
Long ere to Albert's mellow plain
He came, for Jessy young and fair,
(Save Anna far the loveliest there,)
Edward did feel a passion pure,
To slighted love the happiest cure!
Now could he look on Anna's eye,
Now hear her speak without a sigh.
Jessy less coy as lovely grew,
Though fainter beam'd her eyes of blue;
And deeper tints the cot-maid speak
Than those on Anna's lady-cheek.
Secure of being lov'd again
By Edward, Cheviot's comely swain,

Blithe was the maid, and light, and free,
As lamb that bounds on Calder-lea.
Not Anna's self more sprightly, gay,
Who chose her partner of her way,
Whether they sought the house of prayer
Or shone in Wooler's merry fair.
Mark the fond lovers! foremost seen,
As pass the band yon woods between,
Whence to the view, in morning's glow,
Expand the golden fields below.
Resolv'd, in ev'ry bustling field
Together still their hooks to wield,
They move with jest and smile so bland,
The pride of Albert's Harvest-band!

CHARACTER OF MARY NELSON.

Passing yon haws in clusters ripe,
Who rolls the blue smoke from her pipe?
Her wan and wrinkled visage bears
The envious marks of sixty years—
Envious—for, though so old and staid,
Mary in sooth, is still a maid.

She bore, and proudly bore a name
Distinguish'd in the list of Fame,

And—half deranged—each rural jar
Brought to her fancy Trafalgar,
Where her brave kinsman, she would tell,
So nobly fought—so nobly fell!
But chief, when Harvest sickles toil'd
Her bosom beat, her blood high boil'd;
And rather would she die, than shame,
In hottest kemp, a Nelson's name!

The black companion of her way,
Where'er she wander'd, follow'd Tray.
What tales of him would Mary tell!
Oft had he cross'd the ocean's swell:
Oft cours'd in Afric's burning soil,
And scar'd Egyptian crocodile.—
Then westward bounding swift as breeze,
He dash'd through rough-opposing seas!
Now kept by Mary many a day,
Through wintry storm, and sunny ray,
Fed by her hand was gentle Tray.

Such was her look and brow austere,
That e'en her smile inspir'd a fear.
Few were the hearts could firm advance
To meet her wild eye's piercing glance.

Sternly against the flights of wit,
Jests all but Mary safe might hit;
But here, a single look forbade,
And pleasantry retir'd dismay'd!
Yet those who, like our lovers, would
Divert her from her sullen mood,
Had nought to do, but notice take
Of fav'rite Tray, with stroak or cake,
And then a heart more kind and good
Ne'er felt the throb of gratitude.

ELLEN OF RODDAM.

Thy hall, Roddamia! glancing sheen
From forth thy woods of varied green,
Now rises to the reapers' view,
And to its task thy steeple true,
Now chimes the hour of seven aloud.—
Who comes from thence to join the crowd?
Her smirking smile, her rosy face,
Her fluster'd dress, and sturdy pace
Well do the laughing youngsters know—
“Here comes the virgin! O—huroe!”

A maiden she—though many tell—
Yet many frame a falsehood well.

Enough for me, who dare not stand
Her advocate against a band,
She bore a virgin's honour'd name,
But rather deem'd its honour shame.
For now, full twenty summers gay
Have seen her stand in wedlock's way,
Unnotic'd oft, while meaner eyes
And blaer cheeks have caught the prize.
Yet blasted hope reblossom'd still,
And not a lad, on dale or hill,
No lowland youth, or mountain swain,
But would of her to wife be vain!

All news she had, and added too,
Which shepherd's cot, or village knew.
What courtships had of late begun;
What old ones now (she smil'd) were done;
What maiden had resign'd the name,
Scandal her pleasure, and her aim.

Smoothly and slyly could she find
The secrets of another's mind,
And when acquainted with the cause
Why neighbours were with neighbours foes,
Eager she mov'd the springs of ire,
And blew the kindling spark to fire;

Then unsuspected inly joy'd
To see her arts so well employ'd.
Or if, by chance to air it came
That Ellen's lies had rais'd the flame,
Deeply might kindle Anger's cheek,
But ne'er to her might Anger speak;
She pour'd of epithets such store,
Told all she knew, and fabled more,
That few or none durst e'er resent
Affront by Roddam's virgin lent.

Yet in the Harvest's joyous field
The soul of mirth was Ellen held.
To her the merry youngsters drew;
Their jests to her the married threw:
In his first harvest, e'en the boy
Beheld her join the band with joy,
And welcom'd to the field with shout
The fear and wonder of the rout!

These are the chief, but following these
A various crowd the Poet sees,
To share in Harvest toils and gains
They come from distant hills and plains,
Where Teviot crystals o'er her bed,
From Tweedmouth, and the banks of Jed,

And, further far, where surges roar
Around, O Skie! thy misty shore.

Now all arriv'd—by Albert set—
Three on each ridge the reapers met.
With Anna, blooming as the spring,
Sylvander led the foremost wing,
And Mary, who oft blest her case,
Beside the pair to gain a place.
Next Edward brought his ridge along;
Here Roddam's virgin, stale and strong,
Smil'd at his left, and Jessy fair
Stood prompt his dexter side to bare.
Behind, and next to these again,
Two ridges wait the Tweedmouth train.
And farther still the soldier stood
Whose harmless weapon ne'er drank blood,
Whom fate ne'er sent from home afar
To try his chance in ranks of war,
Still in dear red he casts a dash.
Next, smutty from his hasty wash,
His ponderous bulk the blacksmith rears;
And next the joiner's form appears;
Ruddy and young, he leaves his shade,
And smiles beside his fav'rite maid.

Last, join'd with two, stands mournful by
Poor Norman from the Isle of Skie;
Alone he seem'd, though with a crowd,
And sad though laughter wak'd aloud;
But none as yet made comfort flow,
None knew to soothe the stranger's woe!

Thus, in long order, stand the group,
Heads after heads, successive, stoop;
Rustles along the falling corn,
The rising shocks salute the morn;
Light fly the jests, the harmless wiles,
And laughter rings, and beauty smiles!
Their mirth upon the breezes swell,
Rung sweetly to the sunny dell,
Where many a warbler pour'd his strain,
And sweetly sent to them again.
Fair Anna smiling sweet I see,
Sylvander wears an air of glee,
And many a love-taught art he tries
To ease the form that by him plies;—
Oh, happy youth! whose every art
Was more than paid with such a heart!

The morn's cool breeze, expanding now,
Blew warm on every reaper's brow,

And, sounding far to field and glen,
Roddamia rung the hour of ten.
Prompt at the moment, Albert bade
The toiling hooks aside be laid.
At once they cease, and, stretch'd at ease,
Devour their forenoon bread and cheese;
While from each ridge, along the rout,
By fits resound the laugh and shout;
With frequent song, and loving smile,
Which soon the short half hour beguile.

Good Albert's voice is heard again;
Bestir the slow, reluctant train;
And o'er the field, from wing to wing,
Fast falls the corn, the sickles ring;
A merry bustle! all the while
Sweet lasses jest, and lasses smile.
Behind, the cheerful bindsters ply,
And proudly rear their shocks on high,
While oft with jest and leering eye,
Some lovely maid they stay,
As, sweet, she turns with loaded hand,
She feels it grasp'd within the band
A moment forc'd, unseen, to stand,
She, smiling, walks away.

High rides the flaming orb of day,
Smile Cheviot's mountains in the ray.
All heathless, to the south, are seen
Thy summits Fawdon! cloth'd in green.
In brightness flows the winding Till,
And gay is Hebburn's shrub-wild hill.
At hand, the sunbeams brightly play,
On village, field, and turret gay;
On woods, that like green mantles lie,
(Wav'd free from sloping summits nigh,)
Whose verdant folds luxuriant flow
Down bank and brae, in graceful show!

The breezes, now, so slowly borne,
Scarce fann'd the cheek, or stirr'd the corn,
While, fiercely pour'd, meridian heat
O'er all the sickening landscape beat!
Each heart is faint, and, wrung with toils,
And bath'd in sweat, each body broils;
All spirits sink,—thirst rages sore,—
Light fly the jest and song no more!
Oh, for a cloud to intervene,
Whose shadow o'er the parched scene
A grateful gloom might throw!

Vain wish! the wide horizon blue
Nor streak, nor vapour gives to view,
And not a breeze to blow.
At length, by Albert's care, from spring
The cooling water one must bring,
And oh! that maid, how black soe'er,
To-day is fairest and most dear!
Refresh'd a moment—mirth again
Begins to wake among the train,
Again the youth divert the while
With lasses blithe, and lasses smile.

But Nelson's languid eye and brow
Bespoke her strength exhausted now:
What cordial can in age replace
The springs that mov'd life's morning race?
Sweet Anna saw, and on her tongue
That instant pity's dictates hung;
Old Mary could the tear espy
Wet the bright blackness of her eye,
And thus she gave her fancy scope
In prospects vain, and idle hope:—
“Nay,—view not me an object here
That needs a sympathetic tear.

Not force, but choice draws me to wield
A reaper's hook in Albert's field,
To see my grounds have justice done:
For yonder hall, so bright with sun,
Yes—Roddam Hall is mine, by will,
With all the lands of Tankerville.
—Nay laugh not! for my kinsman brave
To Roddam all his riches gave,
And bade that I, who on my knee
Had danc'd the warrior's infancy,
His heiress, these possessions claim,
Long to perpetuate the name.
Ceas'd Roddam's name in Roddam now,
To Nelson of Nelson all must bow.”

At once she heard such laughter burst—
She blush'd not—though she inly curs'd.
For Roddam's Ellen sign had sent,
And to her speech all ears were lent.
She stoop'd and cut, and stoop'd again,
Till ceas'd the laughing of the train;
Then, rising, thus in lower tone
Once more her reverie went on:

“They mock—but ye, so happy pair!
Shall yet be blest in Mary's care.
The best of food in Nelson's hall
Shall, ready, soon attend your call.
And of the silks of Trafalgar
My gallant kinsman gain'd in war
The fairest, Anna, shall be thine,
And in a hall as grand as mine,
(Built on the bank of yonder dell,)
Shalt thou and thy Sylvander dwell.”

Upon her lover turn'd her eye,
And half on Mary, smiling sly,
Sweet Anna thank'd her generous care,
And wish'd her soon her heirship fair.
Blithe smil'd Sylvander too, the while
He saw his lovely Anna smile;
But when she turn'd her footstep light,
And hid her beauteous eyes so bright,
As stoop'd she to the ridge again,
The neatest reaper of the train,—
He thought the whimsies that beguil'd
The toils of Mary not more wild
Than those himself had felt inspire
His bosom, ever prone to fire!

'Tis true his prayers did never soar
For splendid hall, or golden store;
The wish, the dearest to his heart
To dwell with love in cot apart:
But then his hopes of lasting fame;
Ages unborn to boast his name;
Perhaps with awe to seek the vale,
Where oft his harp had charm'd the gale;
With rev'rence tread the very wild
Where first he lov'd, and Anna smil'd;
Or view her cottage, whither oft,
With heart that throbb'd, and eye that glanc'd
High rapture, as his steps advanc'd,
Had he repair'd at moonlight soft;—
As wildly vain Sylvander knew.
He on the future turn'd his view,—
There he beheld, with blasting rage,
Censure! thy fires consume his page;
And from the lovely book of Fame
Oblivion's hand eraze his name!
A madd'ning thought!—his reverie
Was broke by many a voice of glee.

For now from far the steeple's chime
Had rung the hour of resting-time,

And jolting down the neighb'ring road,
The cart its kegs and baskets show'd.
Each reaper, tir'd of heat and hook,
Regards it with a blithsome look.
And slowly fill the sheaves, I ween,
And few the bands are made between,
And seldom moves each wistful eye,
Till the slow wheels are grazing nigh!
At length the tins froth to the brim,
By each is laid a wheaten loaf;
Albert's delays now cruel seem,—
For almost drain'd the barrel-stream,
They drop their hooks and off.—
See! how they crowd around the cheer,
Till wholesome draughts of cooling beer
Their burning thirst allay;
Sylvander rush'd among the rest,
And lovely Anna forward prest;
He chose a bap he deem'd the best,
And tipt the wink to stay.
She smiling understood the sign;
And never cup of rosy wine

Was heartier offer'd, heartier ta'en,
Than this, of ale, the maid and swain
Exchang'd with humour gay!
Now part the group, as fancies please,
Some quaff their beer, reclin'd at ease,
Beneath the standing grain,
Where infant clover, fresh and green,
Presents a cooling, grateful scene;
Some make the yellow shocks their screen,
And feel reviv'd again.
The blacksmith, soldier, and the hind,
A garrulous few! are here combin'd.
Whose wives beside, (their dinner done)
Industrious sew or knit in sun,
Or list, by fits, with Mary old,
The warm debates their husbands hold.
They spoke of all that then rung through,
Of Wellington and Waterloo.
Some mourn'd the thousands there that bled,
And wish'd the ruthless Chieftain dead,
Whom wild ambition led again
To spill a nation's blood in vain!
Still heating as uncheck'd they go—
Doom the vile wretch to endless woe,

Would wish the regent mercy show
To old Britannia's fellest foe!—
Others as heartily execrate
Th'ungen'rous conduct of the state
That heard, with careless look and high,
The pray'r of fallen majesty!
Brook'd not to tread upon our shore
Such foot as never trod before;
But sent to exile, sad and far,
The wise in peace, the brave in war!

Amid a group of young and fair
(Herself by far the fairest there,)
Sweet Anna sat, her youth apart,
With glowing, but respectful heart,
Unseen, a glance of rapture stole
At the dear Idol of his soul!
There circled jests, unwont to fail,
And many a merry local tale,
Till fare was done, and tankards quaff'd,
And maidens smil'd, and youngsters laugh'd.

Now noisy mirth has done; each fair
Uncovering, combs her sunburnt hair.
The youths, delighted, mark the curls
Fall down their favourite's cheeks in swirls.

But still was cast the general view
On Anna's locks of raven hue;
Now o'er her snowy brows that twin'd,
Now, wanton, waving, hung behind;
Till, roll'd on high, and smoothly laid,
Again reclin'd the lovely maid.

“But who our lasses fair among
Will welcome Harvest with a song?”
Was often by the crowd requir'd;—
From Anna's voice, the most admir'd,
They begg'd to hear a fav'rite strain,—
For well they knew her loving swain
Had taught her all the tender lays
Himself had sung in Beauty's praise,
Oh! still the lovely blush I view,
And my warm'd bosom beats anew—
That lovely blush which deeper gave
The rose-bloom o'er her cheek to wave,
Confus'd, as in Sylvander's eye
The glance of rapture she could spy,
And, sweet, essay'd to find the air
Of “Armley's Flow'r that blooms so fair”

With wave and shout the tidings soon
Were carried through the scatter'd boon,
And young and old to Anna drew,
The aged ran, the youthful flew;
E'en politicians ceas'd debate,
Resign'd Napoleon to his fate,
And, eager, join'd the impatient ring
To hear the lovely virgin sing!

She means the late Admiral Roddam.

Armley, a village in Yorkshire.

ANNA's SONG.

Once free in heart I rov'd the plain,
Nor minded flow'rs of beauty blooming;
I careless wak'd the past'ral strain,
And thought not—knew not what was coming.
But love at last hath caught my heart;
I feel, what once did ne'er alarm me;
And she who causes all my smart,
Is the fairest Flower that blooms in Armley!

Though sweet the lowly daisy blows,
And sweet the heath-flow'r on the mountain;
Though sweet the blooms the wild-brier shows,
And blue-bell by the chrystal fountain;

Yet sweeter far the garden's pride,
The Rose, supremely does it charm me:
So shines my love o'er all beside,
The fairest Flower that blooms in Armley!

In cold Misfortune's stormy vale,
Through life, alas! I'm doom'd to wander;
Not love itself should e'er prevail
To bid the fair resign her grandeur.
But were I king of nations wide,
Did all the sex aspire to charm me;
I'd, raptur'd, stoop from all the pride,
And bless the Flower that blooms in Armley!

Her mellow voice so sweetly rung,
So sweet they deem'd the lay she sung,
With one accord applause they roar,
And beg another from her store.
The fair obey'd, and, to the throng,
Thus gave Sylvander's farewell song,
When, leaving Aire's soft banks, again
He sought his much-lov'd native plain.

FAREWELL.

How sweetly balm'd the gentle breeze
That whispers o'er the dewy leas,
While glimpsing through yon trembling trees,
The silent moon shines bonny!
Eliza, come! of maids the pride!
Once more we tread the dewy side
Of Aire, that leads her silver tide
Beneath the moonshine bonny.

Afar from friends that knew my youth,
I sought them here my woes to soothe;
But thee—and honour, love, and truth,
Were fled these vales so bonny!
Eliza! still to thee I stole—
Forgot the griefs that wrung my soul—
As walk'd we by the water's roll
When fell the moonshine bonny.

I sigh'd not then for Border stream,
For love and joy were all our theme,
And lost, the while, in rapture's dream,
Were thoughts of sorrow many.—

But now I bid these scenes farewell,
Where all the graces love to dwell;
And thee, the fairest of the dell,
Where thousand maids are bonny!

Northumbria's mountains lovely are,
And green her vales, expanding far,
Her sons are fam'd in glorious war,
Her daughters good and bonny.
I go—dear soother of my care!
Farewell my sweet transcendent fair!
Long will I think on thee and Aire,
Where shone the moon so bonny!

Ceas'd her sweet voice;—applauses loud
Re-thunder through the charmed crowd.
They die away;—and many a strain
Alternate raise the maiden train.
Those airs a Ramsay's pipe had blown,
Those raptures that a Burns had known,
Here, true to nature's feelings, find
A living mirror in each mind.
Last Jessy, ask'd by all the train,
Awak'd thy lovely Flower, Dumblane!

On the sweet air attention hung,
And when she ceas'd applauses rung.

With mirth and many a lovely lay
'Twas thus they sent the time away,
Till, in the field arriv'd again,
Good Albert rous'd to toil the train!

THE END OF THE FIRST CANTO.

CANTO SECOND.

Though gen'rous Albert so was fam'd,
That Albert's field of Harvest, nam'd,
Instant did list'ner's fancy see
A field of friendship, love, and glee;
Where, mild, a parent-master walk'd,
And join'd the jest, and smil'd and talk'd;
Yet sometimes there, despite his sway,
Contention rose, and fierce affray,
Till ridge behind on ridge before
Came furious up, and past it bore;
While stubble rough, and bindsters flung
Declar'd the wrath with which they sprung.

Now to their ridge each merry three
Repair'd once more from song and glee.
At once they stoop! from side to side
The ring of sickles nimbly plied,
And rustling corn are heard;
Successive sheaves are fill'd and bound,
Successive bands bestrew the ground,
The hooks, bright circling, still resound,
And still the field is bared.
The corn is dropp'd from Anna's hand—
Why glance her eyes along the band?
The bustle is begun!
Has lovely Anna, lost in thought,
Or youthful Edward faster wrought;
Was Nelson fir'd, by phrenzy taught,
Or did thy breast, with rapture fraught,
Sylvander! bid thee run?
'Twas on the left the harsher jar
Of sickles spoke commencing war,
And anger mutter'd low;
The soldier saw with jealous glance,
The blacksmith's ridge too far advance,
And held that ridge a foe;

And bore away;—that motion soon
Like lightning glanc'd along the boon,
Till all, from side to side, was life,
Resentment, bustle, rage, and strife!

But still unbroken stretch'd the line,
And foot to foot the kempers join;
Not one, though all were toiling keen,
To pass another yet was seen.
While Albert, walking slow behind,
Was long debating in his mind,
Whether at once to interfere,
And stop them in their hot career;
Or leave them to themselves, to pay
With sweat the price of causeless fray.
But well he knew Sylvander's hand
Unskill'd the sickle to command;
And Mary, though unknown to yield,
Was now unfit for bustling field:
Considerate, he resolv'd that toil,
Till o'er the headland rush'd turmoil,
Uncheck'd go on—unless their power
Outstrip the band of Calder's Flower.
For here e'en Albert gaz'd unseen,
And sigh'd—his Ellen such had been!

So often had recurr'd the thought,
A kind of tenderness it wrought
For the sweet maid; and he could spy
Her form with scarce impartial eye.
That eye which beam'd respect to all
On her a kinder glance let fall,
And oh! that glance, heart-sent, did tell
How fond he wish'd her ever well!

As when upon the side of Heddin
The nightly conflagrations redden;
Before the west-wind, swift and strong,
The broad flame rages, grand, along;
Still fiercer blazes from beneath,
And—crackling—falls the sapless heath;—
So, in their rage, the madd'ning train
Toil'd,—and so fell the rustling grain!

Sylvander, on! a time to prove
Thy merits to returning love
Is come! Oh, think what shame shouldst thou
Lose thine and Anna's honour now,
And cloud her ever-cheerful brow!
Thus thought he—and, with all his might
He plied beside his soul's delight:

That maid to whom all hearts must yield—
The pride, the grace of all the field;
With whom to join the best were proud;—
Were here the laziest clown allowed,
From temples of the laziest clown
Thou wouldst have seen the sweat run down:
For—who beside such charms could stand?
Who would not toil with heart and hand?

Thy virgin, Roddam! striking strong
And eager, bore her part along;
Edward exerted all his power;
Sylvander toil'd, and Calder's Flower;
Her furrow-brow sweet Jessy bared,
And Mary all youth's ardour shared,
“Come on!” she cried, “why stop afar?
Come on—a Nelson offers war!”

Behind, and toiling fast as they,
Stripp'd to the shirt, his hat away,
Their bindster rear'd his shocks so frail,
They scarce might bide a gentle gale;
Yet was he pleas'd to see his band
Now far the foremost bare the land.
For all behind, save Tweedmouth's train,
The kempers left had ceas'd to strain;

But those, though yards from Edward sever,
Toil'd in pursuit as keen as ever!

With gesture odd, and smirking smile,
The Roddam Virgin stood,
And thus, in metaphoric style,
Her comrades laughing all the while,
Harangued them as she view'd:
“Sylvander, ply! and all your sail,
Spread, Anna, out, to catch the gale;
In battle Nelson ne'er can fail;—
On then, and bear away!
The Berwick Smacks are coursing nigh,
Their sails are out, their colours fly;
They come—in triumph gay!
Oh! had we been behind—to chase;
Warm were the hindmost in the race,
And wish'd-for long the bay:
Our vessels—firm, expert, and sound,
Had run their feeble barks aground;
And dash'd against the rocky shore,
Till sailors scorn'd to board them more.
Down, Anna, and at least retain
What space we have, or rather gain,—
Up, Calder, yet for aye!”

She wav'd her sickle round in air,
And merrily lilted “Calder Fair,”
Then stooping, with extended stride,
Struck boldly o'er the ridge's side!

Nor with less might the Tweedmouth band
And strokes far-sweeping, bared the land;
Their faces glow'd with heat and ire,
Red in their eyes was seen the fire;—
They heard, nor answered her harangue,
Save with the sickles' quicker clang;
And bearing onward, doubly keen,
Till scarce an inch was left between,
With foot to foot they swept away,
And fired again the flagging fray!

The flame pours on!—Along the rank
The well-plied sickles faster clank:
For now they near the head-land drew,
Where stones lay thick, and thistles grew;
And ere these stalks be level'd low
What wounds may ope, what blood may flow?
Ye Farmers! while your fields are green,
Oh, careful bid your virgins clean;
Nor let one angry thistle tower,
To mar the glee of Harvest hour;

Make some Sylvander's brow ungay,
Some lovely Anna lose the day!

'Twas thou, fair Anna! form'd to charm,
And Mary old, with ardour warm,
That young Sylvander's skilless arm
Did dext'rously supply!
And certain his defeat had been,
Had he the blood of Anna seen,
Instead of that which trickled sheen
From Nelson's hand—whose die,
Blushing upon her toil-clear'd hook,
And every handful that she took,
Though seen by her with careless look,
Caught Anna's pitying eye;
Sweet Anna's heart was good and kind,
And, heedless of the day,
Her fingers strove a cloth to find;
But Nelson gave it to the wind—
“Away, away, away!
What! stop me now—the end so nigh!
And what is blood to victory?”
She cried and join'd the fray.

Albert had seen the accident
And, inly flutter'd for th'event—
The word to stop the kemp just hung
Impatient on his trembling tongue;
But when he saw them start again,
And still the foremost of the train,
He turn'd him from the bustling crowd,
And laugh'd at Mary long and loud!
The soldier heard his master's glee;
The blacksmith rear'd his bulk to see;
The joiner bade, with loving smile,
His fav'rite maid behold the toil;
E'en pensive Norman, left afar,
Stood up and view'd the distant war!

With zeal redoubled on they press;
Thy foot, fair Anna! treads the ness.
On, Anna, on! thy nimble hand
Can best the circling blade command.
On! swiftly stoop, and, stretching o'er,
With sweeping stroke lead down before;
Thy gather'd handfuls, hurried, fling
Into Sylvander's ready string;
Rough is thy ridge from brow to brow,
But Albert will excuse it now:

On, Anna, on!—'Tis done! 'tis done!
The field is thine—the hedge is won!

The loveliest of the reaper-train
Had scarce a moment ceas'd to strain,
When the last rustling stalks were seen
To fall before their ardour keen.
So far at last old Mary struck,
Fast in the earth her sickle stuck;
Edward rush'd out—and, high in glee,
Rodammia's maid cried “Victory!”—
Yet not a minute did they stand
Ere sprung to end the Tweedmouth band.

Exchang'd is now the sickles' jar
For noisier tongues, and female war.
Now angry jest and jeer inflame,
On this, on that is flung the blame;
While scandal stale, and private spite
Are brought, in all their grace, to light.
My song! to polished ages thou
An humble debtor needst not bow;
But for restraints which they impose,
What beauties shouldst thou here disclose!

Those oaths which awe the eastern deep,
When night-clouds lour, and tempests sweep,
And which, imported from afar,
Now thunder'd in the wordy war,
And chill'd with fear the village throng,
Should, sweetly number'd, flow in song!—
Half blithe, and half in vengeful mood,
Vexing, the Roddam virgin stood;
And scarce could Anna's angel tongue,
Where peace's calming accents hung,
Restrain old Nelson's wrath, as kind
She strove her bleeding hand to bind!
Roddamia's steeple, ringing clear,
Was heard by few save Albert's ear;
When “four o'clock!” he shouted loud,
And soon in groups reclin'd the crowd.

“When toil has steep'd in sweat the brow,
Oh rest, how truly sweet art thou!”
Thus spoke each kemper's heart, as they
On unbound sheaves extended lay
Before the sun's declining fire,
And felt their bodies warm perspire.

Beside the maids they lov'd with truth,
Sylvander and the Cheviot-youth
Confess'd a lover's bliss the while,
From whisper'd speech, and answering smile.
Till Albert, who did now prolong
The rest-time of the wearied throng,
The order gave to rise once more,—
“I trust”—he smiled—“the bustle's o'er.
And now your aid, ye first in war!
Be giv'n to them you left afar.
Thus, still if rage your breasts retain,
Thus shall you fairly start again.
But little fear of that I trow—
Sylvander, you and Anna, go,
And forward bring yon man of Skie.
The rest shall here their aid apply.”

Slow at the word, arose the train;
Their toiling sickles clash'd again.
While, with his Anna, pass'd along
Roddamia's “Son of rural song,”
To where poor Norman, rais'd once more,
Unskill'd and feeble, forward bore.
Sylvander mark'd his visage dun,
Furrow'd and tawn'd by time and sun;

His hazle eyes, where erst had reign'd
A matchless lustre, yet retain'd
A lively fire, that sparkled through
Their lashes long of sable hue.
Woe, want, and hardship's ruthless storm
Had sore unnerv'd his manly form,
Which, under their united rage,
Now prematurely sunk in age.
He wore the seaman's colour true,
And priz'd the Highland bonnet blue.
Norman in turn, survey'd the youth;
He liked his open face of truth.
He found him curious—fond to hear
A travell'd stranger's life-career;
And, while the ridge they downward hold,
His story thus the wanderer told.

NORMAN's STORY.

From infancy to manhood I
Dwelt in the lovely Isle of Skie.
A gay, unconscious, orphan child;
A stripling, thoughtless, blithe, and wild.
The toils of day unreck'd and light,
My pleasure was to rove the night,

With others of my years and glee,
From beauty still to beauty free,
Till all through Slate rung Norman's fame—
Each maid's heart flutter'd at the name!
—Nay, lovely maiden, smile not thou—
No more the youthful Norman now!
My frame is shrunk, my cheek no more
Can boast the bloom that then it bore;
And dim that eye which erst could make
The female heart to rapture wake;
That could the fair Matilda gain
Where thousand suitors strove in vain!
This maid was sweet as summer gale,
The “Beauty” styl'd “of Armadale.”
And sure a fairer never shone
“The sun in all his round upon!”
Oft had I bled beneath Love's dart,
But quickly heal'd my keenest smart:
What images could long remain
Where constant throng'd a novel train!
But here it was, if ever, sure,
That Norman felt affection pure:
And oh! that innocence had bless'd
Still with its reign my wretched breast!

I found the maiden in my power,
(Some cursed demon ruled the hour!)
And, madden'd, deaf to all request,
Robb'd her of virtue, and of rest!
Ah! lost was now that virgin air,
And pale with grief that face so fair!
Howe'er, though loath'd the yielding maid,
My visits still were duly paid,
To light till our imprudence came;—
With sorrow stung, and fear of shame,
Without a friend to soothe, advise,
Resolv'd I, under other skies,
My hapless fate to follow far,
Through distant climes of peace or war!

Full of the foolish, mad intent,
My course was to the sea-ward bent.
Vain were the attempt with words to show
The thoughts that wrung this heart of woe,
As pass'd I by, at moonlight pale,
Matilda's home in Armadale!
When—having seen me as I pass'd—
My steps the mourner follow'd fast;
And, by a hawthorn, reach'd me soon,
Where glanc'd a streamlet to the moon.

Her ringlets, all uncurled now,
Hung yellow round her snowy brow;
Rain'd from her eye, to which was given
The azure of the summer heaven,
Adown her cheek the tear-drops fell
Like dew upon a pale heath-bell;
Wild was her accent;—“Thought I e'er
Usage like this from thee to bear?
Was it for this I fondly hung
Upon my praise from Norman's tongue?
Num'rous as drops of April rain,
Have all thy vows been vow'd in vain?
Will no remorse, no pity wake
Within thee for Matilda's sake?
And canst thou doom to woe and shame
That once ador'd, once flatter'd name?—
Oh! yet bethink thee of thy child,
Mid sorrow, and distraction wild,
Soon to be born, if thus, ingrate,
Its father still persists to hate!”
If power infernal had not steel'd
My heart, these words had made it yield,
And, bless'd with love and peace at home,
Norman had never thought to roam;

And oh! what dangers, woes, and toil
Had miss'd me in my native Isle!
After false promises of bliss,
And oft repeated farewell-kiss,
I left the unsuspecting fair
To all the tortures of despair;
And soon in Glasgow's city found
A Scottish Band to India bound.

A fitter time may come, kind youth,
To tell thee out this tale of truth;
What dangers ran, what toils we bore
Ere we arriv'd at Kingston's shore;
How, in that pestilential day,
Our army sicken'd, died away;
What numbers fell, for Britain's right,
In close-plied siege, and open fight;
And, nine years past, how small a train
Beheld their native land again!

Companion of my toils and way,
Old Donald left me yesterday;
By him I soon from Skie shall know
My future bliss or future woe.
If yet she lives—unmarried still—
With love repay her wrongs I will:

While Chelsea's annual bounty free
Shall happy make my fair and me!
If she has fallen—as much I fear—
I still can wander! and shall ne'er
Visit my native Island more;
Since come too late to save
Her whom my tears can not restore,
For whom remorse hath stung me sore,
Matilda from the grave!”

The tear was in poor Norman's eye;
Nor was thy cheek, fair Anna! dry;
Sylvander deem'd the woeful tale
Might furnish theme for plaintive wail.
And while he comfort spoke, was heard
The gen'rous Albert's warning word.
For now the crowded ridge-ends yield,
The bands fly scatter'd through the field
For coat or bottle, hat or shawl;
And, hook on arm, re-meeting all,
With jest, and laugh, and merry lay,
So blithe they went their homeward way.

The glorious sun, o'er Higypt hung,
His setting rays obliquely flung,
And bade the landscape smile;
Extended lay—a varied scene!
The crossing lines of hawthorns green,
The yellow fields, with woods between,
And halls and hamlets glancing sheen
For many a lovely mile!
So clear the evening, and so still
The curious eye could mark
Thy fam'd kine noble Tankerville!
Graze in their verdant park;
Thy Mount, fair Alnwick! tow'ring high
Against the distant azure sky,
Where—durst a foreign band
Threaten our sea-encircled coast,—
(As late, Napoleon! was thy boast,)
The beacon, blazing grand,
Would bid the heroes of the North,
Around their Percy sally forth,
And guard their native land!

But these gay scenes at last sink down,
And fells of Bewick, wild and brown,
As home the reapers go;
They lose Roddamia's window-gleam;
And now, beneath the western beam,
They see dun Heddin glow;
Now Calder's supper-smoke they spy
Rolling to meet the light on high,
And Cunnion's cliffs, rough-rising nigh,
Dark down their shadows throw!

One of the Cheviot mountains.

Behind the rest, with Calder's maid,
The young, the fond Sylvander staid,
And thus, as o'er the lea they trod,
By turns the loving converse flow'd:
“My Anna! this sweet, tranquil eve
Recals the hour when I did leave
Malvina; (this was not her name
But this I hop'd to raise to fame)
The sun's sublimest tinge was thrown
O'er lofty woods of P---rl---gton;
A shower that late had fall'n serene
A fresher colour gave their green;

Above the glowing rainbow hung;
The feather'd minstrels sweetly sung;
The wild deer tripp'd from glade to glade
As last I wander'd with that maid.

“Long had I borne her proud disdain,
But now was come my turn to reign.
Her tear-bright eye, her pressing hand,
Were hints I would not understand;
Bethought me of her scorn anew,
And bade to love and her adieu.
The silver moon shone bright and fair;
As lone I sought the banks of Aire;
There one pure friendship sooth'd the hours
By Kirkstal's ivied, mould'ring towers,
Till Heaven—thrice blest the dear decree!
Brought me, sweet Anna! home to thee.”

With half-upbraiding look, the maid
Sylvander as he spoke survey'd:
“Oh, couldst thou act so base a part?
Where was the Poet's feeling heart?
Say, what avail thy num'rous lays
Sung in that very maiden's praise,
Where passion pure, with rapture high
Seems in the glowing verse to vie?

She, once, was heroine of each strain,
But now she mourns her faithless swain;
Such strains have sung of Anna's bloom,
And such at last shall be her doom.—
A foolish maiden I!”—“Oh, no,
My charming Anna, say not so!
Did such as thou, allur'd away
By fairer face, or mien more gay,
Desert short space a lover true,
Until reflection made her sue
Once more for grace, by look or sigh,—
Oh! who could view her watery eye,
Could view her all in mournful charms,
Nor rush with rapture to her arms!
But when, in love's wiles hackney'd long,
A maid would wound a feeling heart,
'Tis meet she feel—what else were wrong—
Her due, neglect's envenom'd smart.
Thus did that maid; though fairer face,
Save Anna's, ne'er my song did grace;
And finer form was never seen;
But ill agreed with form and mien
Her sordid soul, that could forego
The hopes which youth and beauty gave,

And could on doted age bestow
—On age just tottering o'er the grave—
Such charms as seldom bloom below!
But leave we her; Malvina fair
Adieu to thee and banks of Aire;
But welcome Roddam's humblest bower,
If grac'd by Calder's fairest Flower!
—Ah! had I known, on banks of Aire,
In Calder bloom'd a Flower so fair;
That such a Flower was destin'd mine;
What joy! and can I once repine,
That toils oppress and poverty,
Since thou, sweet Anna! smil'st on me!
I prize, my fair, thy smile of love
Peruvian richest mines above.
Those sordid souls that can be low
May barter bliss for wealth and show;
I envy not their state,—nor long
For more than love, and love-taught song!
My Anna true, kind Heaven shall grant
Sufficient to supply our want,
And Cheviot hills that heard my young,
Shall hear my latest wild notes sung.

Dear mountains! to my fathers dear!
How oft did Fancy wander here;
How oft, in dreams, ye sooth'd my pain!
Ye are Sylvander's once again!
And never more my steps shall roam
From your dear shade, and native home.”

Calder's green lea they pass'd the while,
And now they reach'd the village stile,
Where milking-pails did waiting stand
For two sweet lingerers of the band.
Sweet Anna stoop'd to seize her own,
And in a moment had been gone,
For low'd her spotty in the loan;
But as she turn'd, Sylvander staid,
With gentle grasp, the blushing maid,
And while she chided sweet at this,
Press'd on her rosy lips a kiss.—
Just then blithe Jessy and her swain
In loving talk the stile did gain,
And seizing there her milking-pail
The two sweet virgins trod the dale,
Charming with songs the evening gale;
While hastened, gaily-happy too,
To Albert's hall the lovers true.

Smokes on the board the healthy fare;
Warm, from the fire, is pottage there;
The central bowl's capacious round
With laving floods of milk is crown'd.
They sit, with grace, or none at all;
With sports the children shake the hall.
The elder hopes of Albert come,
Repress the clamours of the dome;
Themselves their years but children tell,
They aid the mirth they came to quell.

Oh Calder! scene of guileless youth!
Abode of virtue, love, and truth!
How often, in thy lowly hall,
Sylvander rous'd the village-ball!
The rich, the pompous, and the vain
May treat his low mirth with disdain,
But ne'er did Lover of the Muse
To circle pleasure once refuse.
What, though the tones he drew were rough,
His comrades priz'd them—'twas enough;
And when to Albert's kitchen came
The sire and daughter, child and dame,

And foremost there, in such an hour,
Came Jessy blithe, and Calder's Flower;
Oft has he view'd with rapture-glance,
These beauties lead the simple dance,
Before their smile while striplings plied,
And pleas'd each anxious mother eyed,—
And felt as exquisite a joy
His pleasure-lightened bosom buoy,
As when—that bosom all on flame—
He pour'd in song his Anna's name!

Then, all dispersed, when frequent bark
To maid foretold the coming spark;
When windows, darkened, flash'd, by turns,
Betray'd the lone hearth's dying burns;
How heavenly did he deem to join
The pious prayer, the psalm divine;
While, mix'd with Albert's raptures high,
His spirit soar'd beyond the sky
Where zephyrs fan, with heaven's perfume,
A land of light—a land of bloom!

So pass'd that Harvest eve, until
The village lay in slumber still,
And dreams—by blameless fancy borne—
Were broken by the rousing morn.

That morn arose; that noon went by;
And evening gilt the western sky;
Day followed day, with sunshine still,
And fresh gales fanning vale and hill.
The well-dried shocks, so lately shorn,
On fair-built wains were homeward borne;
Where, in tall ricks successive piled,
That graceful in the sunbeams smiled,
Each merry driver drew his rein,
And rattled to the fields again.

Thus Roddam's Harvest pass'd away,
Thus dawn'd its last, and merriest day.
That day the master's bosom glow'd
With love superior to his God.
Who thus had given the sun to smile
So sweet at last as all the while.
And not that sun a kinder glance
Threw o'er the landscape's fair expanse,
Diffusing health, content, and joy,
Than beam'd that day from Albert's eye;
Giving among his social train
More than their usual mirth to reign.

To sing that mirth were but to stay
The closing notes of tedious lay;
Each fancy, therefore, must pourtray
That day's superior glee;
How danced, by turns, the Harvest boon
From early morn to glowing noon,
While played the fiddle many a tune
Behind them merrily;
How Nelson laugh'd—how Ellen wheeled—
How gracefully our lovers reeled—
While, echoing, rung from field to field
Shouts of their revelry.
“But where is Norman?”—Norman now
Perchance is happy in his vow!
A letter came; he wept,—although
His tears seem'd more through joy than woe.
Sylvander's hand he kindly shook
As he his hurried farewell took.
I know no more—but Fortune's smile
Attend him in his native Isle!
At length the blithe rout crouding press
Around the last stalks of the ness.

Still customs of the times of old
Sway o'er the peasant's bosom hold,
Deriv'd from those who never more
Shall swell the merry, final roar;
Who feel alike—laid cold and low—
The wintry storm, and summer glow!
But this unthought of—each is fain
The last prophetic cut to gain,
For who, 'tis said, comes off with this,
Shall taste the first of wedded bliss.
Fast throng the youthful and the fair—
Now, Roddam's Maid, exert thee there!
Another year bloom not in vain;
On! and secure yon mountain swain!
The wiley lass behind the rout
Stood, till they rais'd the merry shout,
Then stooping cut her rip conceal'd,
And wav'd in triumph o'er the field!
Laughing they view'd—but ah! 'twas vain;
Not she first wedded of the train.
Already in Sylvander's soul
The matrimonial raptures roll;
Before to-morrow's dawn be light,
Coldstream shall hear the nuptial rite;

And Tweed's pure waters murmur by
Beneath the bedding revelry!

The Author alludes to the well known Ceremony of throwing the stocking, &c.

With many a mingled “Kirnie-hoo!”
To Calder slow the reapers drew;
Down Roddam's dells the echoes flew.
But when they met the hall before
Cunnion and Heddin gave the roar;
Thrice rose the shouting of the train,
And thrice the mountains rung again;
Then, parting, youthful fancies roam
Upon the coming harvest-home.

The eastern clouds their folds unclose;
The eastern moon in beauty rose.
Already to the music's sound
The granary shook, the reels went round,
And tins with frothing beverage crown'd.
But in her father's cottage shade
Sylvander with his bride yet staid.
Emblem of virgin purity.
Dress'd in a snow-white gown was she;

Genteel, but plain;—no gaudy show
Of frills her form of beauty deck'd;
No ribbands in luxuriant blow,
Quench'd love in youth, in age respect.
Curled her hair in ringlets fine;
The comb that held the raven twine,
Was given by him who fondly press'd
Her to his heart, and thus address'd;—
“My charming Anna! since my soul
First own'd thy beauty's sweet controul,
Yon moon—whose beams of silvery hue
Shine purely through thy window blue—
Hath twelve times, full, o'er heath and lea
Illumed my steps to love and thee.
And wandering back o'er Heddin brae,
Oh! often has that silent ray,
As calm upon the heath it shone,
My heart-felt raptures heard alone!
Thou knowest my heart is only thine,
Then oh! this very night be mine!
So shall yon moon, that witnessed oft
Thy lover's songs at midnight soft,
Light our fond steps, with favouring beam,
To Tweeda's silver-flowing stream.”

“'Twould please me more, my lovely maid!
If legal church-rites meet were paid;
It were my highest joy and pride
To have thee nam'd my bonny bride;
But penury this, alas! denies;—
Yet deem not, Anna! but the ties,
The mutual love, the plighted vow
Are holy and as binding—now—
As if a priest the knot had framed,
And husband, wife, us solemn named.
Why scruple then?—away we go;
Thy hand, my love! come weal or woe!”

“My charming maid! loth would I be
To bring thee into misery;
But he who stills the raven's cry
Will bend on us benignant eye!
And when true Candour sees the lays
I've sung in many a virgin's praise,
In thine, too, love!—the sweetest smile
That e'er did Poet's song beguile—
These lays may bring our humble cot
A competency—happiest lot!
Come then my own, with me advance,
A while we join the merry dance,

Then take the way—Oh glorious night!
O transport! rapture! joy! delight!”

Sylvander waited no reply;
He looked but on his Anna's eye;
He looked but on her flushing cheek,
Nor farther wish'd consent to speak.

Now, arm in arm, the lovers went
To join the scene of merriment.
The high-end door expanded stood,
And all the revelry they viewed:
The candles, from the rafters swung,
Upon the group their radiance flung;
The merry ploughman ranting there,
The lasses shining white and rare,
With ribbands streaming—to and fro
As reeled they mingling—made a show
Like that which ancient bards have told
Of fairies on the midnight wold;
Leading their moonlight revelry
To strains of elfin minstrelsy.
But well Sylvander deemed, I ween,
Was wanting there the fairy Queen,
Until his Anna light along
He led amid the parting throng!

With rural maids, in blooming pride,
The forms were graced on every side.
Were only Roddam's lasses fair,
Were only Roddam's youngsters there?
From every cot and hamlet round
Numbers at Albert's kirn were found.
Nor were they viewed by figure prim,
Importance all from head to limb,
Strutting, as if to make us see
How little little man can be.
Of pleasing mien, and cheerful mood,
One of the throng the master stood;
Handed, himself, the beverage free,
And felt, and own'd he felt the glee.
While his lov'd sister not disdained
To mingle in the mirth that reigned;
Or bid his girls, in sweet amaze,
Skip, blooming, through the novel maze!

His strings the blind musician swept:
Quick o'er the floor the dancers stept;
Arranged was there no modish line,
Where all must wait their turns to shine,
With simpered smile and formal bow;
No polished manners smoothed the brow;

No measured step by master taught;—
With nature's grace, and light as thought,
From end to end, from side to side,
Were skip, and bound, and shuffle, plied.
They reeled—they set; 'twas bliss the while,
Eye glanc'd to eye, and smile met smile.
They reeled—they set, to favourite air
Of “Miss M'Leod,” or “Calder-fair.”
The rafters shook their lights suspended;
As dancing too, the board-floor bended;
The Barrel, in the western nook,
The universal stir partook;
Nor sat unmov'd the jovial core
Who there awak'd the merry roar,
The elder sires, who many a year
Had tasted Albert's harvest cheer.
Joyous they drank, and joyous sent
The ale around sans compliment,
With many a tale, remembered long,
And many a jest and half sung song,
And many a jeer now feigned, but truth,
Flung on the partners of their youth,—
“They heed not them! and yet in sooth,
The poor things must not want;”

Then forth the frothing tins must go
To where the matrons in a row,
Sit, cheery, and enjoy the show
Where sons or daughters flaunt.

There bounded Jessy, blithe and fair,
Her favourite lover shuffled there;
And there thy virgin, Roddam! sprung,
Reeled round her partners, skipped, and flung,
While distant shout and laughter loud
Hailed her the nimblest of the crowd.
Old Nelson there, in figured dress
So antic you might almost guess
It flourished in the days of Bess,
With thumbs erect, or gown outspread,
The dance with equal pleasure led,
And called on Tray, his course who took
With frequent bark, and joyous look!

But oh! by far the lightest reeled
The graceful Anna there;
Whom every site and turn revealed
The fairest of the fair!

As when to lover, wandering far
Beneath the beams of evening's star
So beauteously serene,
Now hid the gathered clouds among,
Now lovely, as they sweep along,
That star shines out between;
So did angelic Anna glance,
Now here, now there, amid the dance,
Of every eye the star!
At length her lover true, afraid
To tire the soul-enchanting maid,
(For Coldstream way was far)
Took her dear hand, and mov'd with pride
While merrily struck up “Tweedside;”
That done, in triump led his bride
The glad Sylvander out!
Short space the train but deem'd them gone,
And hence enquiring pause was none,
But merrier still the reels went on,
And merrier rose the shout.
It rose—till quick and glibly now
Slid o'er the strings the silent bow,
And you the laugh and slap might see,
Not hear, where mixed the old in glee.

It rose—till round the forms were pushed,
The latest rills the barrel gushed,
When pale dawn opened on the view,
And cocks in chorus loudly crew!

The generous master—absent long—
Was entering then amid the throng.
A ploughman youth attendant bare
A pitcher reeking, rich and rare.
In Albert's hand the glasses glanced,
The music ceas'd as he advanced;
And many a stripling pressed and shoved
To get beside the fair he loved;
And, arm round neck or lovely waist,
From end to end the forms were graced.

Albert, himself, with pleasing smile,
Serv'd round the whiskey-punch the while.
They drank his health who gave the cheer,
The master generous, frank, and dear.
Then, arm in arm, went off the young;
The old men ranted, laughed, and sung;
The candles gilt the scene no more,
And fast was barred the granary-door;
Ne'er to be graced with such a train
Till merry Harvest comes again.

CONCLUSION.

'Tis done—the simple melody!
Does censure with malignant eye
The lowly theme regard?
Does lordly pride's contemptuous sneer,
Does learned genius' look severe
Abash the unletter'd bard?
Inquiries, cease! such cares above,
The business of my life is—love,
And love my dear reward!
Enough for me, that still my harp
Fair Anna's smile can gain;
Enough for me—let envy carp—
Good Albert loves the strain!
Live then my song! beloved as known,
With those thou hop'st to please alone,
While life is theirs below;
And when—like flowers whose reign is o'er—
Good Albert's name is heard no more,
Nor Anna's beauties blow;

Contented sink, unknown, unseen,
Calm as thou never sung hadst been;
Calm as thine Author, whom the green,
Unnoticed turf shall cover;
For still shall Cheviot's mountains dun
Smile in the beams of morning's sun;
And Harvest Pleasures ever run,
When sleeps the Bard—the ardent Lover!

THE END OF HARVEST.