Poems by the late John Bethune With a sketch of the author's life, by his brother |
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| II. |
THE FAITHFUL SERVANT.
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 | Poems by the late John Bethune |  |
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THE FAITHFUL SERVANT.
A BALLAD.
With dreams of good and ill too high
For the low world where he was placed,
Poor Harold was not made to be
By rising Fortune's favours graced.
For the low world where he was placed,
Poor Harold was not made to be
By rising Fortune's favours graced.
He did not fawn before his lord,
With simpering look and supple knee;
He did not tremble at his word,
With craven-nerved timidity.
With simpering look and supple knee;
He did not tremble at his word,
With craven-nerved timidity.
He did not fear again to frown
Upon the haughty debauchee,
Who vainly strove to scowl him down
From his own native dignity.
Upon the haughty debauchee,
Who vainly strove to scowl him down
From his own native dignity.
He knew that sycophants were rife—
He saw the favours they obtain'd;
But he despised their venal life,
And all their vile rewards disdain'd.
He saw the favours they obtain'd;
But he despised their venal life,
And all their vile rewards disdain'd.
And masters' favours seldom fall
To servants with such hearts as he,
Who scorn to flatter in the hall,
Or pamper pride and vanity.
To servants with such hearts as he,
Who scorn to flatter in the hall,
Or pamper pride and vanity.
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From year to year he sunk apace,
While worthless menials round him rose;
But patient still in his disgrace,
Unbendingly he downward goes.
While worthless menials round him rose;
But patient still in his disgrace,
Unbendingly he downward goes.
Though poor, his mien was still erect,
And still erect his head was borne,
And all might treat him with neglect,
Though none might dare to treat with scorn.
And still erect his head was borne,
And all might treat him with neglect,
Though none might dare to treat with scorn.
But Time in his career will prove
The truth of every fawning slave,
And who deserves a master's love—
The faithful, or the flattering knave?
The truth of every fawning slave,
And who deserves a master's love—
The faithful, or the flattering knave?
Behold, around yon Castle gate,
Assembled, many a fierce brigand,
Impatient, for their leader wait
With pistol and with sword in hand.
Assembled, many a fierce brigand,
Impatient, for their leader wait
With pistol and with sword in hand.
And see upon his jet-black barb
He comes as proud, as fearlessly,
As if that plume and robber's garb
Were royalty's own livery.
He comes as proud, as fearlessly,
As if that plume and robber's garb
Were royalty's own livery.
And hark! he issues his commands,
As if by freedom's glorious laws
He led his country's patriot bands
To battle in his country's cause.
As if by freedom's glorious laws
He led his country's patriot bands
To battle in his country's cause.
Dismounted now he leads the way,
The first to conquer or to fall;
And bloody sure shall be the fray,
For bold is he who guards the wall.
The first to conquer or to fall;
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For bold is he who guards the wall.
And numerous is his menial train,
And well supplied with weapons bright,
And dearly shall the robbers' gain
Be bought—if gain they get to-night.
And well supplied with weapons bright,
And dearly shall the robbers' gain
Be bought—if gain they get to-night.
But hark! again the robber's horn
Summons the Castle to submit:
In vain the sun shall gild the morn,
Ere proud Count Vasco deign' to quit.
Summons the Castle to submit:
In vain the sun shall gild the morn,
Ere proud Count Vasco deign' to quit.
No bolt is drawn—no voice replies;
All idly sweeps the useless blast—
Booming along the midnight skies,
It dies among the hills at last.
All idly sweeps the useless blast—
Booming along the midnight skies,
It dies among the hills at last.
A moment at the Castle gate,
Impatient stands the robber-chief;
But quick must be the work of fate—
The counsel short—the orders brief.
Impatient stands the robber-chief;
But quick must be the work of fate—
The counsel short—the orders brief.
“Comrades! our summons is defied—
What will not bend we well can break:
To-night our sabres must be dyed—
Down with the gate for Vasco's sake!”
What will not bend we well can break:
To-night our sabres must be dyed—
Down with the gate for Vasco's sake!”
Axes and hammers—stroke on stroke—
Upon the massy postern dash;
And whirling from the splinter'd oak,
Beneath the moon the fragments flash.
Upon the massy postern dash;
And whirling from the splinter'd oak,
Beneath the moon the fragments flash.
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It creaks—it bends—it bursts in twain;
And on they rush—the pass is free;
But some shall ne'er return again
To celebrate their victory.
And on they rush—the pass is free;
But some shall ne'er return again
To celebrate their victory.
Now onward—onward for the prize—
The happy guard must slumber well;
And now if they should chance to rise,
They may forget their tale to tell.
The happy guard must slumber well;
And now if they should chance to rise,
They may forget their tale to tell.
Hurrying along the airy trance,
With flashing eyes and dashing feet,
Upon that band the moonbeams glance—
But where the foes they came to meet?
With flashing eyes and dashing feet,
Upon that band the moonbeams glance—
But where the foes they came to meet?
Without a stroke they reach the stair—
Where are the cowardly menials gone?—
The proud Count Vasco meets them there—
But, ah! the Count is all alone!
Where are the cowardly menials gone?—
The proud Count Vasco meets them there—
But, ah! the Count is all alone!
Yet stern his look—his sword is bare—
And firm his step, and firm his tone;
And flattering hope, and faint despair,
Seem both alike to him unknown.
And firm his step, and firm his tone;
And flattering hope, and faint despair,
Seem both alike to him unknown.
Now pistols flash, and shouts arise;
But in the dim uncertain light,
Though sternly aim'd by steady eyes,
The distant mark deceives the sight.
But in the dim uncertain light,
Though sternly aim'd by steady eyes,
The distant mark deceives the sight.
And he returns each volley sent
With better success, ball for ball;
For where the robber-horde are pent,
Though dark, he cannot miss them all.
With better success, ball for ball;
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Though dark, he cannot miss them all.
But on they press to closer fight;
And soon that haughty lord must yield
His Castle to superior might,
Or fall, with none his head to shield.
And soon that haughty lord must yield
His Castle to superior might,
Or fall, with none his head to shield.
The long contested stair is won,
And every step with blood is red;—
Count Vasco, thine shall soon atone
For that thou hast so boldly shed!
And every step with blood is red;—
Count Vasco, thine shall soon atone
For that thou hast so boldly shed!
Soon shall thy mother, o'er her son,
A hopless frantic mourner stand,
For thou must fight, not one by one,
But all at once—that robber band!
A hopless frantic mourner stand,
For thou must fight, not one by one,
But all at once—that robber band!
Long baited there, with flashing eyes
He welcomes on the bloody train;
Once more their fury he defies,
And nearly turns them back again.
He welcomes on the bloody train;
Once more their fury he defies,
And nearly turns them back again.
But now his blows more feebly fall—
Though some have sunk beneath his might,
One sword may not contend with all:
His death must close the doubtful fight.
Though some have sunk beneath his might,
One sword may not contend with all:
His death must close the doubtful fight.
He reels before the robber chief,
Yet neither flies nor begs for life:
His blood flows fast—he falls!—and brief
Is mercy's gleam, in such a strife.
Yet neither flies nor begs for life:
His blood flows fast—he falls!—and brief
Is mercy's gleam, in such a strife.
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Already o'er his helpless head
Waves, in a hand unused to spare,
The deeply dyed and thirsty blade—
But mark!—who comes with weapon bare?
Waves, in a hand unused to spare,
The deeply dyed and thirsty blade—
But mark!—who comes with weapon bare?
Another's sword receives the blow,
And turns its vengeful force aside;
And down before that stranger foe
Is borne the robber's plume of pride.
And turns its vengeful force aside;
And down before that stranger foe
Is borne the robber's plume of pride.
And now, beneath the castle wall,
Dismounting from their foaming steeds,
And forming, at their leader's call,
A gallant band the entrance threads;
Dismounting from their foaming steeds,
And forming, at their leader's call,
A gallant band the entrance threads;
And swelling wildly over all,
The din of stroke, and groan, and cheer,
Which mingles in that dubious hall,
A trumpet's blast rings loud and clear.
The din of stroke, and groan, and cheer,
Which mingles in that dubious hall,
A trumpet's blast rings loud and clear.
Now turn, ye bloody bandits, turn,
And boldly meet more equal foes!
Now let your fiercest passions burn,
And man to man in battle close.
And boldly meet more equal foes!
Now let your fiercest passions burn,
And man to man in battle close.
They come—they come! with steady tread;
Their footsteps now the robbers hear;
And silent stand, but not in dread,
For theirs are hearts unused to fear.
Their footsteps now the robbers hear;
And silent stand, but not in dread,
For theirs are hearts unused to fear.
A moment in dark counsel mix'd,
They lean upon their ponderous swords;
And now—their deadly purpose fix'd—
From man to man, in whisper'd words,
They lean upon their ponderous swords;
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From man to man, in whisper'd words,
The secret sign is quickly pass'd,
And every hand is rais'd on high
To take that oath—the last—the last!
Which binds the brotherhood to die.
And every hand is rais'd on high
To take that oath—the last—the last!
Which binds the brotherhood to die.
And now the robbers stand prepared
In hotter conflict to engage;
And none shall spare, and none be spared
In the next burst of wrath and rage.
In hotter conflict to engage;
And none shall spare, and none be spared
In the next burst of wrath and rage.
A moment for the word they wait—
'Tis given! and down they madly rush,
Impatient of their dubious fate—
Burning, their cautious foes to crush.
'Tis given! and down they madly rush,
Impatient of their dubious fate—
Burning, their cautious foes to crush.
And now, like maddening waves, they meet;
And pistols flash, and sabres shiver;
And some, beneath their foeman's feet,
Have sunk to rise no more for ever.
And pistols flash, and sabres shiver;
And some, beneath their foeman's feet,
Have sunk to rise no more for ever.
Pent to the wall, the robbers stand,
Devoid of fear, devoid of hope:
Despair unites their lessening band,
And nerves with numbers still to cope.
Devoid of fear, devoid of hope:
Despair unites their lessening band,
And nerves with numbers still to cope.
But fast the fierce marauders fall,
And man by man expire: the last
Stands lonely by the bloody wall,
And round him bullets rattle fast:
And man by man expire: the last
Stands lonely by the bloody wall,
And round him bullets rattle fast:
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He too is struck, and one and all
Lie stretch'd in blood! The strife is past,
And Silence reigns within the hall
Whence Mercy lately fled aghast!
Lie stretch'd in blood! The strife is past,
And Silence reigns within the hall
Whence Mercy lately fled aghast!
And where is proud Count Vasco now?
Senseless he lies where first he fell,
But lives—though bloody be his brow;
For he maintain'd that conflict well.
Senseless he lies where first he fell,
But lives—though bloody be his brow;
For he maintain'd that conflict well.
And where is he who interposed
Between him and the desperate strife,
When but a moment more had closed
The struggle with Count Vasco's life?
Between him and the desperate strife,
When but a moment more had closed
The struggle with Count Vasco's life?
Not distant from his lord he lies—
Blood on his bosom and his head;
But now, alas! his closed eyes
Tell that the hero's soul hath fled.
Blood on his bosom and his head;
But now, alas! his closed eyes
Tell that the hero's soul hath fled.
Poor Harold saw the flatterers fly,
When danger came, with all their speed,
And leave their lord alone to die—
Deserted at his utmost need:
When danger came, with all their speed,
And leave their lord alone to die—
Deserted at his utmost need:
And he, too, fled, but not like them—
With nobler thoughts his bosom burn'd;
Successful in his generous aim,
In happy time he back return'd.
With nobler thoughts his bosom burn'd;
Successful in his generous aim,
In happy time he back return'd.
'Twas he the faithful rescue led,
And fast outran the fleetest steed—
He, when the fawning menials fled,
Came boldly for his lord to bleed.
And fast outran the fleetest steed—
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Came boldly for his lord to bleed.
Poor as he was, and humbly born,
Too late for him, that master learn'd
That truest hearts for ever scorn
To feed on favours basely earn'd.
Too late for him, that master learn'd
That truest hearts for ever scorn
To feed on favours basely earn'd.
| Poems by the late John Bethune | |