Heath flowers being a collection of poems, chiefly lyrical, written in the Highlands. By William Glen |
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DUKE MURDOCH. |
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DUKE MURDOCH.
[_]
Murdoch, Duke of Albany, Uncle to James the Third, suffered in the reign of that Monarch for stirring up a rebellion. He was an ambitious man, and vainly attempted to set the Crown on his own head.—The ruins of his Castle are still to be seen in an Island on Loch-Ard.
At Beltein a fire on Benledi blazed high,
And the volumes of flame half illumined the sky,
The gray tower of Stirling was seen far to redden,
And the flashes were viewed from the rock of Dun-Eden;
Benvoirlich's high summit, and dark Benvenue,
Brightened up from their gloom to a light yellow hue;
While lovely Loch Keturine returned the red glow
From the place of her rest, like a mirror below—
An aged Seer stood by a moss-covered stone,
He was wrapt up in visions, but was not alone;
Duke Murdoch stood nigh him, and marked the gray Sire
As he motionless looked on the pillar of fire;
Intent on the eddying volume of flame,
To decypher the fortune of Albany's name.
Duke Murdoch gazed on, and a stern look he wore,
As he leaned on the hilt of his trusty Claymore;
The one was so proud, and the other so pale,
They appeared like the ghosts of the Saxon and Gaël!
“Duke Murdoch,” (at length the old Seer began)
“Return to thy Castle, return to thy clan,
And ne'er let the pibroch of warfare be heard
On the strath of Montieth, or the banks of Loch-Ard,
Else the gray moss of ruin thy Castle shall wear,
And the scaffold will finish thy mortal career;
For the hand that must fall on the chief of thy line,
Will soon be uplifted, but must not be thine.”
The proud highland chieftain turned from him in ire,
And haughtily bade him remain by his fire;
“The Crown shall be mine, ye may tell it King James,
And my Claymore and Clan are the pledge of my claims.”
And the volumes of flame half illumined the sky,
The gray tower of Stirling was seen far to redden,
And the flashes were viewed from the rock of Dun-Eden;
Benvoirlich's high summit, and dark Benvenue,
Brightened up from their gloom to a light yellow hue;
While lovely Loch Keturine returned the red glow
From the place of her rest, like a mirror below—
An aged Seer stood by a moss-covered stone,
He was wrapt up in visions, but was not alone;
Duke Murdoch stood nigh him, and marked the gray Sire
As he motionless looked on the pillar of fire;
Intent on the eddying volume of flame,
To decypher the fortune of Albany's name.
70
As he leaned on the hilt of his trusty Claymore;
The one was so proud, and the other so pale,
They appeared like the ghosts of the Saxon and Gaël!
“Duke Murdoch,” (at length the old Seer began)
“Return to thy Castle, return to thy clan,
And ne'er let the pibroch of warfare be heard
On the strath of Montieth, or the banks of Loch-Ard,
Else the gray moss of ruin thy Castle shall wear,
And the scaffold will finish thy mortal career;
For the hand that must fall on the chief of thy line,
Will soon be uplifted, but must not be thine.”
The proud highland chieftain turned from him in ire,
And haughtily bade him remain by his fire;
“The Crown shall be mine, ye may tell it King James,
And my Claymore and Clan are the pledge of my claims.”
Duke Murdoch, as told by the old Highland Seer,
As a Traitor, a Rebel, soon closed his career;
For the young Monarch stretched forth his hand, and dashed down
His proud haughty kinsman, who aimed at the Crown,
Then, relentless, moved on like a fire on the heath,
Nor called back his sword to its rest in the sheath,
'Till the last of the Clan lay in death on the ground,
And the firebrand had covered the castle around.
I've seen the lone ruin on lovely Loch-Ard,
Where the fox and the woe-loving raven are heard,
There, in old times, the “rose of the wilderness grew,”
And the fair flowers of Albyn spread rich to the view;
While Albany's pennon waved over the walls,
And the voice of festivity gladdened the halls;—
But gone are those times, and the ruins but bring
The remembrance of one who was false to his King.
As a Traitor, a Rebel, soon closed his career;
For the young Monarch stretched forth his hand, and dashed down
His proud haughty kinsman, who aimed at the Crown,
Then, relentless, moved on like a fire on the heath,
Nor called back his sword to its rest in the sheath,
'Till the last of the Clan lay in death on the ground,
And the firebrand had covered the castle around.
71
Where the fox and the woe-loving raven are heard,
There, in old times, the “rose of the wilderness grew,”
And the fair flowers of Albyn spread rich to the view;
While Albany's pennon waved over the walls,
And the voice of festivity gladdened the halls;—
But gone are those times, and the ruins but bring
The remembrance of one who was false to his King.
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