University of Virginia Library

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!”