 | The poetical remains |  |
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CANTO II.
I
Unfit am I to wound a British soul,Unfit am I to trace ignoble deeds;
Yet albeit I mote well unveil the whole,
Though certes whilomwhile my bosom bleeds:
And who this sad and rueful story reads,
Deigns to refuse a sigh, a pitying tear,
Or shroud himself, I wot, in sable weeds;
For Charlotte was to every Briton dear—
Her worth was known, and sweetly dwelt on here.
II
Oh! may that day be never known in heaven,When high-born souls were separated, disjoined—
May the “Recording Angel's” leaf be riven,
Or else by some sweet seraph interlined!
And well I wis, that seraph sure may find
Some smooth excuse that to us is unknown;
A Prince's love is cold as northern wind—
But Providence will soothe that mother lone,
Who mourns her daughter's fate, and sadly weeps her own.
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III
I'm not beholden to a great man's power,And reckless am I of the courtly band,
The heaviest malisons may on me shower—
In Scottish phrase, I'll tell my tale aff hand;
Shame! shame! the highest head in all the land,
To bow so lowly in life's gloaming hour—
To spurn his better half was noble, grand!
Mayhap it was to please his princely power,
Mayhap to gratify some haughty paramour!
IV
Thus far I venture—I will not recede—A Scottish spirit was, and shall be free—
But oh! my Prince, our mountain bosoms bleed,
Though erst attuned to merriment and glee:
The nation's glory driven across the sea,
Thy bosom-partner through the world to roam!
Princess! an houseless wanderer thou canst be,
But what was stately palace, princely dome,
When thou wert far away from thy loved daughter's home?
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V
Say, did the climes of Italy sufficeTo calm thy soul when Charlotte was not by?
Could balmy gales, from where the myrtles rise,
Sweep the still tear-drop from thy lovely eye?
Methinks I hear that sad heart-rending cry,
When the rude messenger proclaimed the death
Of her thou lovedst—and not behold her die;
Or hear those sentiments of purest faith;
Or fold her in thy arms, and catch her parting breath.
VI
Though not unskilled in courtly lore, I mustProbe the deep gangrene of my country's wound.
Where, where, I say, in vilest living dust,
Could such cold-hearted apathy be found?
Not one relation was there seen around
The bed of death, save Leopold alone;
The Royal Uncles, with high feasting crowned,
Sat reckless of the heirship to the crown,
Although each goodly prospect might be overthrown.
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VII
Peace be to thee, my good, my worthy king(A shattered fragment of the olden school),
My Northern breast must still be murmuring,
When Southern chiefs spend time in sad misrule.
Deem not the indignant Bard, ye Chiefs, a fool,
Though in the world's broad path he's marked as such,
If willing he, some nobles would cry dool,
And writhe themselves beneath satiric clutch,
He'd wield Uriel's spear—expose them at the touch.
VIII
Charlotte was thine, thou lovedst her, Farmer George,Humble the title, but it was thine own;
Kings may take titles—kings may titles forge,
But mote, I say, thou well became thy throne:
Thy peaceful, rural attributes are gone—
A lonely stranger in thy lovely land!
But thou for nigh a century hath won
Thy lieges' love, for mild was thy command:
The sceptre never graced a truer, nobler hand.
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IX
Where was the highest female in the land?Where was the grandame in the trying hour?
Was it Apollion's, or God's command,
That bade her speed her way on such a tour?
Say, say, could eild grace festive hall or bower,
Or catch the joy-glance of a youthful eye,
While Britain's sweets were mingled with the sour?
It was a scene whereat I might say, Fye!
Muse on a lonely death-bed, wring my hands, and sigh!
X
Grandames are wont in our cold Northern clime,In place of fleeing (as it were) from harms,
To spare no hardship, no fatigue, no time,
To fly and catch the cherub in their arms:
Each aged heart with youthful pleasure warms,
They crack fu' couthily on promised bliss;
But Southern dames are cold to infant charms,
Else the great matron of our land, I wis,
Would ne'er give an example, cruel, such as this!
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XI
Indignant bursts the Spirit of the North,His trembling hand points to a misty cloud,
Noble his words, if I dare call them forth;
But what he breathed mote not be spoke aloud;
It was about a strange Egyptian shroud,
Wrapt round my Princess, hurried rapidly;
But wild ideas on my senses crowd—
I am confused; and yet I can't tell why,
For 'tis strange—a deep hid mystery.
XII
A mountain heart throbs wild within its plaid,And darts on yonder cloud his eagle eyes;
With manly step, short breath, and lofty head,
He trims his bonnet in a warlike guise;
And yet the cloud still hovers in the skies,
Although the Chieftain such a proud look wore!
He knows a foe behind the curtain lies,
Albeit he mote not eye his shield before,
He throws the gauntlet down, unsheathes his gude claymore.
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XIII
Sheathe, sheathe thy sword, my Highland Chief, my brother,It will be broken, or my chieftain fall;
I grant, I grant that never such another,
Could from its scabbard thy bright claymore call;
I know thou'dst thrown thy gauntlet to all—
But rest ye, rest ye on thy lovely isle,
Forbear from Highland feud, from Highland brawl,
Put up thy claymore, Chieftain, whilomwhile,
And smile—but well I know 'twill be a ghastly smile!
XIV
What now avails the deadliest human strife?—The race is over and the goal is won;
Oh! could that call the angel back to life,
How many swords would glitter in the sun!
Sweet innocent! thy race indeed is run,
And short but brilliant was thy swift career,
For it was ended e'er 'twas well begun—
Yet distant ages will bewail thee here,
And blend with Charlotte's name the heart-felt sigh and tear.
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XV
Poetic spirit! let no minstrel breatheUnhallowed accents o'er this tale of woe;
Oh! bid them bind their temples with a wreath
Of cypress, that the world their grief may know;
And cause their verse mellifluent to flow
For Charlotte and for Leopold alone;
Inspire each lofty British Bard to show
That the departed angel was their own;
For never purer gem could have adorned our Throne.
XVI
The wild bird's artless strain is closed, and nowHe wings his flight to yonder dark yew-tree;
Emblem of death! he'll perch upon thy bough,
And never more trill cheerful melody;
Mute, mute is all his merriment and glee,
On which his cheerful notes oft used to dwell;
But off this sombre bower he'll never flee,
His heart is bursting with a parting swell,
It soon will cease to beat—and now a last farewell.
| The poetical remains | |