The Poetical Remains of the late Dr. John Leyden ::

Avaunt the lark's clear thrilling note
That warbles sweet through ether blue,
While on the sloping sun-beam float
Her waving pinions wet with dew!
Too dire the power whose sullen sway
My torpid nerves and breast obey.—

But, from the stump of withered oak,
Let me hear the raven croak,
And her sooty pinions flap
At the night thunder's startling clap,
As perch'd aloft she mutters hoarse
O'er an infant's mangled corse;
When, drunk with blood, her sharp short scream
Shall wake me from my wayward dream,
To see the blood spontaneous flow
Through the half-opened sod below.

II.

Avaunt the cheerful village throng,
With all the sprightly sports of youth,
The mazy dance, and maiden song!
Be mine to roam through wilds uncouth;
To talk by fits at dusky eve
With Echo in her rock-hewn cave,
And see the fairy people glide
Down the cavern's rugged side;
Or dive into the wood profound,
Where red leaves rustle strangely round;
Where through the leaf-embowered way,
The star-light sheds a sickly ray.—

And then the dead-man's lamp I spy,
As twinkling blue it passes by,
Soon followed by the sable pall,
And pomp of shadowy funeral.

III.

Beside yon hoary shapeless cairn,
That points the shepherd's lonely path,
Mantled with frizly withered fern,
And skirted by the blasted heath;—
By the slow muddy streams which lave
The suicide's unhallowed grave,
Where flaunts around in loose array,
The withered grass that looks so gray;
Whence aloof the travellers go,
And curse the wretch that lies below;—
I'll sit at midnight's fearful hour,
When the wan April moon has power,

Poring o'er a mossy skull,
Till my blue swollen eyes be dull;
While the unsheeted spectre loud
Bewails his interdicted shroud.

IV.

When wintry thaws impel the wave
Beyond the channel's pebbled bounds,
And hoarse the red-gorg'd rivers rave,
To mine their arching icy mounds;
Though they rush against the shore,
Waves successive tumbling o'er;
While clouds like low-brow'd mountains lower,
And pour the chilling sleety shower:—
Then let me by the torrent roam
At night to watch the churning foam.
And then a wailing voice I hear
By solemn pauses strike the ear
A river-wreck'd unhappy ghost
Shrieks doleful, “Lost, for ever lost!”

And the rocky banks around
Echo back the dreary sound.

V.

But on St. John's mysterious night,
Sacred to many a wizard spell,
The time when first to human sight
Confest the mystic fern-seed fell;
Beside the sloe's black knotted thorn,
What hour the Baptist stern was born—
That hour when heaven's breath is still,—
I'll seek the shaggy fern-clad hill,
Where time has delv'd a dreary dell,
Befitting best a hermit's cell;
And watch 'mid murmurs muttering stern,
The seed departing from the fern,
Ere wakeful demons can convey
The wonder-working charm away,
And tempt the blows from arm unseen,
Should thoughts unholy intervene.

VI.

Or let me watch the live-long night
By some dark murderer's bed of death,
Whose secret crimes his soul affright,
And clog his sighs and parting breath.
Pale-sheeted spectres seem to rise
Before his fix'd and glaring eyes,
That dimly glance with stone-set stare,
The rueful hue of black despair.
A death-head slowly to his view
Presents its withering grisly hue,
And grins a smile with aspect grim—
Cold horror thrills his every limb,
His half-form'd accents die away,
And scarce the glimmering sense convey:
He owns the justice of his doom,
And muttering sinks to endless gloom.

VII.

Or, in some haunted Gothic hall
Whose roof is moulder'd, damp, and hoar,
Where figur'd tapestry shrouds the wall,
And murder oft has dy'd the floor;

With frantic fancies sore opprest,
My weary eyes shall sink to rest—
When, sudden from my slumbers weak
Arous'd in wild affright I break;
A death-cold hand shall slowly sleek
With icy touch my shuddering cheek.
Soft as the whispers of the gale,
Forth steals an infant's feeble wail,
From some far corner of the dome,
Approaching still my haunted room;
A spirit then seems the floor to trace,
With hollow-sounding, measur'd pace.—

VIII.

I heard it! Yes; no earthly call!
Repeated thrice in dismal tone;
And still along the echoing wall
Resounds the deep continuous moan;
Responsive to my throbbing heart,
Stung with fear's incessant smart,
How creeps my blood in every vein,
While desperate works my maddening brain—
See there! where vibrates on my view
That visage grim of ashen hue;

Glaring eyes that roll so red,
Starting from the straining lid;
At each horrid death-set stare
He bristles up his hoary hair,
And shows his locks so thin and few,
Dropping wet with crimson dew.—

IX.

Hence fleets the form, while hush'd the sound—
'Tis past—till sleep resumes her reign.
But soon as wakeful sense is drown'd
Fantastic visions rise again.
Then borne on tempest wings I go
O'er the deep that foams below:
In whirling eddies raves the tide,
While piping winds its thunders chide.
The mass of waters heaves on high,
Till surging billows dash the sky;
White they burst around my ear,
Down the west they bear me far,
Far beyond the setting sun,
Where ever brood the shadows dun,
Where bends the welkin to the wave,
And ocean's utmost waters lave.

X.

The eddying winds along the shore
Clash rudely with opposing rage
Where never mortal touch'd before,
Save the far-wandering Grecian sage.
By ocean's hoar-fermenting foam,
Darkly lowers the airy dome;
By brown substantial darkness wall'd
Whence bold Ulysses shrunk appall'd;
Where ghosts, half seen by glances dim,
With shadowy feet the pavement skim.
But soon the feeble-shrieking dead
Are scatter'd by the Gorgon's head;
Whose withering look, so wan and cold,
No frame can bear of mortal mould;
While snaky wreaths of living hair,
With crests red-curling, writhe in air.

XI.

Anon, with sound confus'd and shrill,
The thin embodied forms decay;
And, like the gray mist of the hill,
The airy mansion fleets away.—

When Phantasy transports the scene,
Where glows the starry sky serene;
And then I seem in wild vagary,
Roving with the restless fairy;
Round and round the turning sphere,
To chase the moon-beam glancing clear.
Where ocean's oozy arms extend,
There our gliding course we bend;
Our right feet brush the billows hoar,
Our left imprint the sandy shore;
While mermaids comb their sea-green locks
By moonlight on the shelving rocks.

XII.

But while these scenes I pleas'd survey,
They vanish slow with giddy hum,
And visions rise, of dire dismay,
That Fancy's plastic power benumb.
The last dread trumpet stuns the ear
Which central nature groans to hear;
And seems to shrink with rueful throes,
To see her ancient offspring's woes.—
Quick start to life the astonish'd dead;
Old heroes heave the helmed head;

Again the sons of war return;
No more their red-flam'd eye-balls burn;
While scroll-shrunk skies around them blaze,
In mute despair around they gaze;
Then frightful shrieks the welkin rive—
As I, with rapture, wake alive.—

XIII.

Avaunt! ye empty notes of joy,
Ye vain delusive sounds of mirth;
No pleasure's here without alloy,
No room for happiness on earth.
To calm my breast's impatient glow,
Arise ye scenes of fancied woe!
That I may relish while they stay
Such joys as quickly fleet away.
And still let Phantasy renew
Her antic groups of sombre hue,
Where every unconnected scene
Combines to rouse emotions keen,
And far transcending judgment's law,
Astounds the wondering breast with awe:—
Till all this dream of life be o'er
And I awake to sleep no more.

ON PARTING WITH A FRIEND ON A JOURNEY.

WRITTEN IN 1797.

As o'er the downs expanding silver-gray
You pass, dear friend, your altered form I view
Diminish'd to a shadow dim and blue,
As oft I turn to gaze with fond delay.—
Alas that youthful friendships thus decay!
While fame or fortune's dizzy heights we scale,
Or through the mazy windings of the vale
Of busy life pursue our separate way.—
Too soon by nature's rigid laws we part,
Too soon the moments of affection fly,
Nor from the grave shall one responsive sigh
Breathe soft to soothe the sad survivor's heart!
Ah! that when life's brief course so soon is o'er,
We e'er should friendship's broken tie deplore.

ON AN OLD MAN DYING FRIENDLESS.

WRITTEN IN 1798.

To thee, thou pallid form, o'er whose wan cheek
The downy blossoms of the grave are shed!
To thee the crumbling earth and clay-cold bed
Of joys supreme, instead of sorrows, speak.
Deep in the silent grave thou soon shalt rest;
Nor e'er shalt hear beneath the ridgy mould
The howling blast, in hollow murmurs cold,
That sweeps by fits relentless o'er thy breast!
No warm eye glistens with the dewy tear
For thee, no tongue that breathes to heaven the vow,
No hand to wipe the death-drops from thy brow,
No looks of love thy fainting soul to cheer!
Then go, forlorn! to thee it must be sweet
Thy long-lost friends beyond the grave to meet.

WRITTEN AT ST. ANDREWS,

IN 1798.

Along the shelves that line Kibriven's shore
I lingering pass, with steps well-pois'd and slow,
Where brown the slippery wreaths of sea-weeds grow,
And listen to the weltering ocean's roar.
When o'er the crisping waves the sun-beams gleam,
And from the hills the latest streaks of day
Recede, by Eden's shadowy banks I stray,
And lash the willows blue that fringe the stream;
And often to myself, in whispers weak,
I breathe the name of some dear gentle maid;
Or some lov'd friend, whom in Edina's shade
I left when forc'd these eastern shores to seek!
And for the distant months I sigh in vain
To bring me to these favourite haunts again.

TO RUIN.

WRITTEN IN 1798.

Dire Power! when closing autumn's hoary dews
Clog the rank ambient air with fell disease,
And yellow leaves hang shivering on the trees,
My pensive fancy loves on thee to muse.
Mountains, that once durst climb the azure sky,
Proud waving woods, and vales expanding green,
No trace display of what they once have been;
But deep beneath the world of waters lie.—
Yet not the shaken earth, the lightning's blaze,
When yawning gulfs wide peopled realms devour,
But nature's secret all-destroying power
With ceaseless torment on my spirit preys:
While man's vain knowledge in his fleeting hour
Serves but to show how fast himself decays.

MELANCHOLY.

WRITTEN IN 1798.

Where its blue pallid boughs the poplar rears
I sit, to mark the passing riv'let's chime,
And muse whence flows the silent stream of time;
And to what clime depart the winged years.
In fancy's eye each scene of youth appears
Bright as the setting sun's last purple gleam,
Which streaks the mist that winds along the stream,
Bathing the harebell with eve's dewy tears.
Ah! blissful days of youth, that ne'er again
Revive, with scenes of every fairy hue,
And sunny tints which fancy's pencil drew,
Are you not false as hope's delusive train?
For, as your scenes to memory's view return,
You ever point to a lov'd sister's urn.

TO THE YEW.

WRITTEN IN 1799.

When fortune smil'd, and nature's charms were new,
I lov'd to see the oak majestic tower;
I lov'd to see the apple's painted flower,
Bedropt with pencill'd tints of rosy hue.
Now more I love thee, melancholy Yew,
Whose still green leaves in solemn silence wave
Above the peasant's red unhonour'd grave,
Which oft thou moistenest with the morning dew.
To thee the sad, to thee the weary fly;
They rest in peace beneath thy sacred gloom,
Thou sole companion of the lowly tomb!
No leaves but thine in pity o'er them sigh.
Lo! now, to fancy's gaze, thou seem'st to spread
Thy shadowy boughs to shroud me with the dead.

ODE, ADDRESSED TO MR. GEO. DYER, ON SCOTTISH SCENERY AND MANNERS.

WRITTEN IN 1799.

I

Dyer! whom late on Lothian's daisied plains,
We hail'd a pilgrim-bard, like minstrel old,
(Such as our younger eyes no more behold,
Though still remembered by the aged swains,)
Sleeps thy shrill lyre where Cam's slow waters lave
Her sedgy banks o'erhung with oziers blue?
Or does romantic Tweed's pellucid wave
Still rise in fancy to the poet's view?—
Her moors, that oft have seen the hostile throng
Of warriors mingle in encounter dire;—
Her meads, that oft have heard the shepherd's song
Carol of youthful love's enchanting fire;—

Lomond's proud mountains, where the summer snow,
In faint blue wreaths, “congeals the lap of May;”—
And Teviot's banks, where flowers of fairy blow,—
Could'st thou with cold unraptur'd eye survey,
Nor wake to bardish notes the bosom-thrilling lay?

II

What though by Selma's blazing oak no more
The bards of Fingal wake the trembling string;
Still to the sea-breeze sad they nightly sing
The dirge forlorn on ancient Morven's shore;
And still, in every hazel-tangled dell,
The hoary swain's traditionary lay
Can point the place where Morven's heroes fell,
And where their mossy tombs are crusted gray.
The mountain rock, to shepherds only known,
Retains the stamp of Fingal's giant heel;
The rough round crag, by rocking storms o'erthrown,
The swain misdeems some ancient chariot wheel.
On those brown steeps where the shy red deer play,
And wanton roes, unscar'd by hunter, roam,
Sat Morven's maids o'er the smooth dimpling bay,
To see their barks, from Lochlin oaring home,
Rush like the plunging whale through ocean's bursting foam.

III

The heath, where once the venom-bristled boar
Pierc'd by the spear of mighty Dermid fell—
The martial youth secur'd by many a spell,
Who long in fight the shaggy goat-skin wore.
Him, far in northern climes, a female bore
Where the red heath slopes gradual to the main,
Where boreal billows lash the latest shore,
And murky night begins her sullen reign.
So soft the purple glow his cheek could boast,
It seem'd the spiky grass might grave a scar,
Yet, foremost still of Fingal's victor host,
He strode tremendous in the van of war.
He sunk not till the doubtful field was won,
Though life-blood steep'd his shaggy vest in gore,
When, to a clime between the wind and sun,
Him to his weïrd dame the heroes bore,
Whose plastic arts did soon her valiant son restore.

IV

The magic shores of Ketterin's silver lake,
Where shuddering beauty struggles to beguile

The frown of horror to an awful smile,
May well thy harp's sublimest strains awake.
There the Green Sisters of the haunted heath
Have strew'd with mangled limbs their frightful den;
And work with rending fangs the stranger's death,
Who treads with lonely foot dark Finlas' glen.
Lur'd from his wattled shiel on Ketterin's side,
The youthful hunter trode the pathless brake,
No pilot star, impetuous love his guide,
But ne'er return'd to Ketterin's fatal lake.
Still one remains his hapless fate to tell,
The visionary chief of gifted eye,
Wild on the wind he flings each potent spell,
Which ill-starr'd mortals only hear to die—
Far from his wizard notes the fell Green Sisters fly.

LOVE.

WRITTEN IN 1800.

Sweet power of Love! no idle fluttering boy
Art thou, to flaunt with brilliant purple wing,
And from thy bow, in merry mischief, fling
The tiny shafts which mortal peace destroy.
'Tis thine the sickness of the soul to heal,
When pines the lonely bosom, doom'd to know
No dear associate of its joy or woe,
Till, warm'd by thee, it learns again to feel.
As the bright sun-beam bids the rose unrol
Her scented leaves, that sleep in many a fold,
Thou wak'st the heart from selfish slumbers cold,
To all the generous softness of the soul.
Ah doubly blest the heart that wakes to prove
From some congenial breast the dear return of Love!

WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF SKY,

IN 1800.

At eve, beside the ringlet's haunted green
I linger oft, while o'er my lonely head
The aged rowan hangs her berries red;
For there, of old, the merry elves were seen,
Pacing with printless feet the dewy grass;
And there I view, in many a figur'd train,
The marshall'd hordes of sea-birds leave the main,
And o'er the dark-brown moors hoarse-shrieking pass.
Next in prophetic pomp along the heath
I see dim forms their shadowy bands arrange,
Which seem to mingle in encounter strange,
To work with glimmering blades the work of death:
In fancy's eye their meteor falchions glare;
But, when I move, the hosts all melt in liquid air.

TO THE SETTING SUN.

WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF IONA, IN 1800.

Fair light of heaven! where is thy couch of rest?
That thy departing beams so sweetly smile:
Thou sleepest calm in that green happy isle
That rises mid the waters of the west.
Sweet are thy tidings from the land of hills
To spirits of the dead who round thee throng,
And chaunt in concert shrill thine evening song,
Whose magic sound the murmuring ocean stills:
Calm is thy rest amid these fields so green,
Where never breathes the deep heart-rending sigh,
Nor tears of sorrow dim the sufferer's eye.—
Then why revisit this unhappy scene,
Like the lone lamp that lights the sullen tomb,
To add new horrors to sepulchral gloom?

SERENITY OF CHILDHOOD.

In the sweet morn of life, when health and joy
Laugh in the eye, and o'er each sunny plain
A mild celestial softness seems to reign,
Ah! who could dream what woes the heart annoy?
No saddening sighs disturb the vernal gale
Which fans the wild-wood music on the ear;
Unbath'd the sparkling eye with pity's tear,
Save listening to the aged soldier's tale.
The heart's slow grief, which wastes the child of woe,
And lovely injur'd woman's cruel wrong,
We hear not in the sky-lark's morning song,
We hear not in the gales that o'er us blow.
Visions devoid of woe which childhood drew,
How oft shall my sad heart your soothing scenes renew!

THE MEMORY OF THE PAST.

Alas, that fancy's pencil still pourtrays
A fairer scene than ever nature drew!
Alas, that ne'er to reason's placid view
Arise the charms of youth's delusive days!
For still the memory of our tender years,
By contrast vain, impairs our present joys;
Of greener fields we dream and purer skies,
And softer tints than ever nature wears.—
Lo! now, to fancy, Teviot's vale appears
Adorn'd with flowers of more enchanting hue
And fairer bloom than ever Eden knew,
With all the charms that infancy endears.
Dear scenes! which grateful memory still employ,
Why should you strive to blast the present joy?

MACGREGOR.

WRITTEN IN GLENORCHY, NEAR THE SCENE OF THE MASSACRE OF THE MACGREGORS.

In the vale of Glenorchy the night-breeze was sighing
O'er the tombs where the ancient Macgregors are lying:
Green are their graves by their soft murm'ring river,
But the name of Macgregor has perish'd for ever.—
On a red stream of light, from his gray mountains glancing,
The form of a spirit seem'd sternly advancing;
Slow o'er the heath of the dead was its motion,
As the shadow of mist o'er the foam of the ocean;
Like the sound of a stream thro' the still evening dying.
“Stranger, who tread'st where Macgregor is lying!
“Dar'st thou to walk unappall'd and firm-hearted
“Midst the shadowy steps of the mighty departed?—
“See, round thee the cairns of the dead are disclosing
“The shades that have long been in silence reposing!

“Through their form dimly twinkles the moon-beam descending,
“As their red eye of wrath on a stranger are bending.
“Our gray stones of fame though the heath-blossoms cover,
“Round the hills of our battles our spirits still hover;
“But dark are our forms by our blue native fountains,
“For we ne'er see the streams running red from the mountains.
“Our fame fades away like the foam of the river,
“That shines in the sun ere it vanish for ever;
“And no maid hangs in tears of regret o'er the story,
“When the minstrel relates the decline of our glory.
“The hunter of red deer now ceases to number
“The lonely gray stones on the fields of our slumber.
“Fly stranger, and let not thine eye be reverted!—
“Ah! why should'st thou see that our fame is departed?”

THE ELFIN KING.

—“Oh swift, and swifter far he speeds
“Than earthly steed can run;
“But I hear not the feet of his courser fleet,
“As he glides o'er the moorland dun.”—

Lone was the strath where he cross'd their path,
And wide did the heath extend.
The Knight in Green on that moor is seen
At every seven years' end.

And swift is the speed of his coal-black steed,
As the leaf before the gale,
But never yet have that courser's feet
Been heard on hill or dale.

But woe to the wight who meets the Green Knight,
Except on his faulchion arm
Spell-proof he bear, like the brave St. Clair,
The holy trefoil's charm;

For then shall fly his gifted eye
Delusions false and dim;
And each unbless'd shade shall stand pourtray'd
In ghostly form and limb.

“Oh swift, and swifter far he speeds
“Than earthly steed can run;
“He skims the blue air,” said the brave St. Clair,
“Instead of the heath so dun.

“His locks are bright as the streamer's light,
“His cheeks like the rose's hue;
“The Elfin-King, like the merlin's wing
“Are his pinions of glossy blue.”—

—“No Elfin-King, with azure wing,
“On the dark brown moor I see;
“But a courser keen, and a Knight in Green,
“And full fair I ween is he.

“Nor Elfin-King, nor azure wing,
“Nor ringlets sparkling bright;”—
Sir Geoffry cried, and forward hied
To join the stranger Knight.

He knew not the path of the lonely strath,
Where the Elfin-King went his round;
Or he never had gone with the Green Knight on,
Nor trod the charmed ground.

How swift they flew! no eye could view
Their track on heath or hill;
Yet swift across both moor and moss,
St. Clair did follow still.

And soon was seen a circle green,
Where a shadowy wassail crew
Amid the ring did dance and sing,
In weeds of watchet blue.

And the windlestrae , so limber and gray,
Did shiver beneath the tread
Of the coursers' feet, as they rush'd to meet
The morrice of the dead.

—“Come here, come here, with thy green feere,
“Before the bread be stale;
“To roundel dance with speed advance,
“And taste our wassail ale.”—

Then up to the knight came a grizzly wight,
And sounded in his ear,
—“Sir knight, eschew this goblin crew,
“Nor taste their ghostly cheer.”—

The tabors rung, the lilts were sung,
And the knight the dance did lead;
But the maidens fair seem'd round him to stare
With eyes like the glassy bead.

The glance of their eye, so cold and so dry,
Did almost his heart appal;
Their motion is swift, but their limbs they lift
Like stony statues all.

Again to the knight came the grizzly wight,
When the roundel dance was o'er:
—“Sir knight, eschew this goblin crew,
“Or rue for evermore.”—

But forward press'd the dauntless guest
To the tables of ezlar red,
And there was seen the Knight in Green,
To grace the fair board head.

And before that Knight was a goblet bright
Of emerald smooth and green;
The fretted brim was studded full trim
With mountain rubies sheen.

Sir Geoffry the bold of the cup laid hold
With heath-ale mantling o'er:
And he saw as he drank that the ale never shrank,
But mantled as before.

Then Sir Geoffry grew pale as he quaff'd the ale,
And cold as the corpse of clay;
And with horny beak the ravens did shriek,
And fluttered o'er their prey.

But soon throughout the revel rout
A strange commotion ran,
For beyond the round they heard the sound
Of the steps of an uncharm'd man.

And soon to St. Clair the grim wight did repair,
From the midst of the wassail crew;
“Sir knight, beware of the revellers there,
“Nor do as they bid thee do.”—

—“What woeful wight art thou” said the knight,
“To haunt this wassail fray?”—
—“I was once,” quoth he, “a mortal like thee,
“Though now I'm an Elfin gray.

“And the knight so bold as a corpse lies cold,
“Who trode the green-sward ring:
“He must wander along with that restless throng,
“For aye with the Elfin-King.

“With the restless crew, in weeds so blue,
“The hapless knight must wend;
“Nor ever be seen on haunted green,
Till the weary seven years' end.

“Fair is the mien of the Knight in Green,
“And bright his sparkling hair;
“'Tis hard to believe how malice can live
“In the breast of aught so fair.

“And light and fair are the fields of air,
“Where he wanders to and fro;
“Still doom'd to fleet from the regions of heat
“To the realms of endless snow.

“When high over head fall the streamers red,
“He views the blessed afar;
“And in stern despair darts through the air
“To earth, like a falling star.

“With the shadowy crew in weeds so blue
“That knight for aye must run;
“Except thou succeed in a perilous deed,
“Unseen by the holy sun.

“Who ventures the deed and fails to succeed,
“Perforce must join the crew.”—
—“Then brief declare,” said the brave St. Clair,
“A deed that a knight may do.”—

“'Mid the sleet and the rain thou must here remain,
“By the haunted green-sward ring,
“Till the dance wax slow, and the song faint and low,
“Which the crew unearthly sing.

“Then, right at the time of the matin chime,
“Thou must tread the unhallow'd ground,
“And with mystic pace the circles trace,
“That inclose it, nine times round.

“And next must thou pass the rank green grass
“To the table of ezlar red;
“And the goblet clear away must thou bear,
“Nor behind thee turn thy head.

“And ever anon, as thou tread'st upon
“The sward of the green charm'd ring,
“Be no word express'd in that space unbless'd
“That 'longeth of holy thing.

“For the charmed ground is all unsound,
“And the lake spreads wide below,
“And the Water-Fiend there with the Fiend of Air
“Is leagued for mortals' woe.”—

Mid the sleet and the rain did St. Clair remain
Till the evening star did rise;
And the rout so gay did dwindle away
To the elritch dwarfy size.

When the moon-beams pale fell through the white hail,
With a wan and a watery ray,
Sad notes of woe seem'd round him to grow,
The dirge of the Elfins gray.

And right at the time of the matin chime
His mystic pace began,
And murmurs deep around him did creep,
Like the moans of a murder'd man.

The matin bell was tolling farewell,
When he reach'd the central ring,
And there he beheld to ice congeal'd
That crew with the Elfin-King.

For aye, at the knell of the matin bell,
When the black monks wend to pray,
The spirits unbless'd have a glimpse of rest
Before the dawn of day.

The sigh of the trees and the rush of the breeze
Then pause on the lonely hill;
And the frost of the dead clings round their head,
And they slumber cold and still.

The knight took up the emerald cup,
And the ravens hoarse did scream,
And the shuddering Elfins half rose up,
And murmur'd in their dream:

They inwardly mourn'd, and the thin blood return'd
To every icy limb;
And each frozen eye, so cold and so dry,
'Gan roll with lustre dim.

Then as brave St. Clair did turn him there,
To retrace the mystic track;
He heard the sigh of his lady fair,
Who sobbed behind his back.

He started quick, and his heart beat thick,
And he listen'd in wild amaze;—
But the parting bell on his ear it fell,—
And he did not turn to gaze.

With panting breast as he forward press'd,
He trode on a mangled head;
And the skull did scream, and the voice did seem
The voice of his mother dead.

He shuddering trode;—On the great name of God
He thought, —but he nought did say;
And the green-sward did shrink as about to sink,
And loud laugh'd the Elfins gray.

And loud did resound o'er the unbless'd ground
The wings of the blue Elf-King;
And the ghostly crew to reach him flew;—
But he cross'd the charmed ring.

The morning was gray, and dying away
Was the sound of the matin bell;
And far to the west the Fays that ne'er rest
Fled where the moon-beams fell.

And Sir Geoffry the bold on the unhallow'd mold
Arose from the green witch-grass;
And he felt his limbs like a dead man's cold,
And he wist not where he was.

And that cup so rare, which the brave St. Clair
Did bear from the ghostly crew,
Was suddenly chang'd from the emerald fair
To the ragged whinstone blue;
And instead of the ale that mantled there,
Was the murky midnight dew.

Rye-grass.

Northern lights.

SCOTTISH MUSIC,

AN ODE.

TO IANTHE.

Again, sweet syren! breathe again
That deep, pathetic, powerful strain!
Whose melting tones of tender woe
Fall soft as evening's summer dew,
That bathes the pinks and harebells blue
Which in the vales of Tiviot blow.

Such was the song that sooth'd to rest,
Far in the green isle of the west,
The Celtic warrior's parted shade:
Such are the lonely sounds that sweep
O'er the blue bosom of the deep,
Where ship-wreck'd mariners are laid.

Ah! sure, as Hindu legends tell,
When music's tones the bosom swell,
The scenes of former life return;
Ere, sunk beneath the morning star,
We left our parent climes afar,
Immur'd in mortal forms to mourn.

Or if, as ancient sages ween,
Departed spirits half unseen
Can mingle with the mortal throng;
'Tis when from heart to heart we roll
The deep-ton'd music of the soul,
That warbles in our Scottish song.

I hear, I hear, with awful dread,
The plaintive music of the dead!
They leave the amber fields of day:
Soft as the cadence of the wave,
That murmurs round the mermaid's grave,
They mingle in the magic lay.

Sweet syren, breathe the powerful strain!
Lochroyan's Damsel sails the main;
The crystal tower enchanted see!
“Now break,” she cries “ye fairy charms!”
As round she sails with fond alarms,
“Now break, and set my true love free!”

Lord Barnard is to greenwood gone,
Where fair Gil Morrice sits alone,
And careless combs his yellow hair.
Ah! mourn the youth, untimely slain!
The meanest of Lord Barnard's train
The hunter's mangled head must bear.

Or, change these notes of deep despair
For love's more soothing tender air;
Sing how, beneath the greenwood tree,
Brown Adam's love maintain'd her truth,
Nor would resign the exil'd youth
For any knight the fair could see.

And sing the Hawk of pinion gray ,
To southern climes who wing'd his way,
For he could speak as well as fly;
Her brethren how the fair beguil'd,
And on her Scottish lover smil'd,
As slow she rais'd her languid eye.

Fair was her cheek's carnation glow,
Like red blood on a wreath of snow;
Like evening's dewy star her eye;
White as the sea-mew's downy breast,
Borne on the surge's foamy crest,
Her graceful bosom heav'd the sigh.

In youth's first morn, alert and gay,
Ere rolling years had pass'd away,
Remember'd like a morning dream,
I heard these dulcet measures float
In many a liquid winding note
Along the banks of Teviot's stream.

Sweet sounds! that oft have sooth'd to rest
The sorrows of my guileless breast,

And charm'd away mine infant tears:
Fond memory shall your strains repeat,
Like distant echoes, doubly sweet,
That in the wild the traveller hears.

And thus, the exil'd Scotian maid,
By fond alluring love betray'd
To visit Syria's date-crown'd shore,
In plaintive strains that sooth'd despair
Did “Bothwell's banks that bloom so fair,”
And scenes of early youth, deplore.

Soft syren! whose enchanting strain
Floats wildly round my raptur'd brain,
I bid your pleasing haunts adieu!
Yet, fabling fancy oft shall lead
My footsteps to the silver Tweed,
Through scenes that I no more must view.

The Lass of Lochroyan.

See the ballad entitled, Brown Adam.

See the Gray Goss Hawk.

ODE ON VISITING FLODDEN.

Green Flodden, on thy blood-stain'd head
Descend no rain nor vernal dew!
But still, thou charnel of the dead,
May whitening bones thy surface strew!
Soon as I tread thy rush-clad vale,
Wild fancy feels the clasping mail;
The rancour of a thousand years
Glows in my breast; again I burn
To see the banner'd pomp of war return,
And mark beneath the moon the silver light of spears.

Lo! bursting from their common tomb,
The spirits of the ancient dead
Dimly streak the parted gloom,
With awful faces, ghastly red;
As once around their martial king
They clos'd the death-devoted ring,

With dauntless hearts, unknown to yield;
In slow procession round the pile
Of heaving corses moves each shadowy file,
And chaunts in solemn strain the dirge of Flodden field.

What youth, of graceful form and mien,
Foremost leads the spectred brave,
While o'er his mantle's folds of green
His amber locks redundant wave?
When slow returns the fated day,
That view'd their chieftain's long array,
Wild to the harp's deep, plaintive string,
The virgins raise the funeral strain,
From Ord's black mountain to the northern main,
And mourn the emerald hue which paints the vest of spring.

Alas! that Scottish maid should sing
The combat where her lover fell!
That Scottish bard should wake the string,
The triumph of our foes to tell!
Yet Teviot's sons, with high disdain,
Have kindled at the thrilling strain
That mourn'd their martial fathers' bier;
And, at the sacred font, the priest
Through ages left the master-hand unblest,
To urge with keener aim the blood-encrusted spear.

Red Flodden! when thy plaintive strain
In early youth rose soft and sweet,
My life-blood through each throbbing vein
With wild tumultuous passion beat.
And oft, in fancied might, I trode
The spear-strewn path to fame's abode,
Encircled with a sanguine flood;
And thought I heard the mingling hum,
When, croaking hoarse, the birds of carrion come
Afar on rustling wing to feast on English blood.

Rude border chiefs, of mighty name
And iron soul, who sternly tore
The blossoms from the tree of fame,
And purpled deep their tints with gore,
Rush from brown ruins scarr'd with age,
That frown o'er haunted Hermitage;
Where, long by spells mysterious bound,
They pace their round with lifeless smile,
And shake with restless foot the guilty pile,
Till sink the mouldering towers beneath the burden'd ground.

Shades of the dead, on Alfer's plain
Who scorn'd with backward step to move,
But, strugling 'mid the hills of slain,
Against the Sacred Standard strove;
Amid the lanes of war I trace
Each broad claymore and ponderous mace!

Where'er the surge of arms is tost,
Your glittering spears, in close array,
Sweep, like the spider's filmy web, away
The flower of Norman pride, and England's victor host!

But distant fleets each warrior ghost,
With surly sounds that murmur far:
Such sounds were heard when Syria's host
Roll'd from the walls of proud Samàr.
Around my solitary head
Gleam the blue lightnings of the dead,
While murmur low the shadowy band—
“Lament no more the warrior's doom!
“Blood, blood alone, should dew the hero's tomb,
“Who falls, 'mid circling spears, to save his native land.”

LORD SOULIS.

Lord Soulis he sat in Hermitage castle,
And beside him Old Redcap sly:—
“Now tell me, thou sprite, who art meikle of might,
“The death that I must die!”

While thou shalt bear a charmed life,
“And hold that life of me,
“'Gainst lance and arrow, sword and knife,
“I shall thy warrant be.

“Nor forged steel, nor hempen band,
“Shall e'er thy limbs confine,
“Till threefold ropes of sifted sand
“Around thy body twine.

“If danger press fast, knock thrice on the chest
“With rusty padlocks bound;
“Turn away your eyes when the lid shall rise,
“And listen to the sound.”

Lord Soulis he sat in Hermitage castle,
And Redcap was not by;
And he called on a page who was witty and sage,
To go to the barmkin high.

“And look thou east, and look thou west,
“And quickly come tell to me,
“What troopers haste along the waste,
“And what may their livery be.”

He looked o'er fell, and he looked o'er flat,
But nothing, I wist, he saw,
Save a pyot on a turret that sat
Beside a corby craw.

The page he look'd at the skriek of day,
But nothing, I wist, he saw,
Till a horseman gray in the royal array
Rode down the Hazel-shaw.

“Say, why do you cross o'er moor and moss?”
So loudly cried the page:
“I tidings bring from Scotland's king,
“To Soulis of Hermitage.

“He bids me tell that bloody warden,
“Oppressor of low and high,
“If ever again his lieges complain,
“The cruel Soulis shall die.”

By traitorous sleight they seized the knight,
Before he rode or ran.
And through the key-stone of the vault
They plunged him horse and man.

O May she came, and May she gaed,
By Goranberry green;
And May she was the fairest maid
That ever yet was seen.

O May she came, and May she gaed,
By Goranberry tower;
And who was it but cruel Lord Soulis
That carried her from her bower?

He brought her to his castle gray,
By Hermitage's side;
Says—“Be content, my lovely May,
“For thou shalt be my bride.”

With her yellow hair that glittered fair
She dried the trickling tear;
She sigh'd the name of Branxholm's heir,
The youth that lov'd her dear.

“Now be content, my bonny May,
“And take it for your hame;
“Or ever and aye shall ye rue the day
“You heard young Branxholm's name.

“O'er Branxholm tower, ere the morning hour,
“When the lift is like lead so blue,
“The smoke shall roll white on the weary night,
“And the flame shine dimly through.”

Syne he's ca'd on him Ringan Red;
A sturdy kemp was he,
From friend or foe in border feid
Who never a foot would flee.

Red Ringan sped and the spearmen led
Up Goranberry slack;
Aye, many a wight unmatch'd in fight,
Who never more came back.

And bloody set the westering sun,
And bloody rose he up;
But little thought young Branxholm's heir
Where he that night should sup.

He shot the roe-buck on the lee,
The dun deer on the law;
The glamour sure was in his e'e,
When Ringan nigh did draw.

O'er heathy edge, through rustling sedge,
He sped till day was set;
And he thought it was his merry men true,
When he the spearmen met.

Far from relief they seiz'd the chief;
His men were far away;
Through Hermitage slack they sent him back
To Soulis' castle gray;
Syne onward sure for Branxholm tower,
Where all his merry men lay.

“Now, welcome, noble Branxholm's heir
“Thrice welcome,” quoth Soulis to me!
“Say, dost thou repair to my castle fair,
“My wedding guest to be?
“And lovely May deserves, per fay,
“A brideman such as thee!”

And broad and bloody rose the sun,
And on the barmkin shone;
When the page was aware of Red Ringan there,
Who came riding all alone.

To the gate of the tower Lord Soulis he speeds,
As he lighted at the wall,
Says—“Where did ye stable my stalwart steeds,
“And where do they tarry all?”

“We stabled them sure on the Tarras muir
“We stabled them sure,” quoth he:
“Before we could cross that quaking moss,
“They all were lost but me.”

He clenched his fist, and he knock'd on the chest,
And he heard a stifled groan;
And at the third knock, each rusty lock
Did open one by one.

He turn'd away his eyes, as the lid did rise,
And he listened silently;
And he heard, breathed slow in murmurs low,
“Beware of a coming tree!”

In muttering sound the rest was drown'd;
No other word heard he;
But slow as it rose the lid did close,
With the rusty padlocks three.

Think not but Soulis was wae to yield
His warlock chamber o'er;
He took the keys from the rusty lock,
That never were ta'en before.

He threw them o'er his left shoulder,
With meikle care and pain;
And he bade it keep them fathoms deep,
Till he return'd again.

And still, when seven years are o'er,
Is heard the jarring sound;
When slowly opes the charmed door
Of the chamber under ground.

And some within the chamber door
Have cast a curious eye;
But none dare tell, for the spirits in hell,
The fearful sights they spy.

When Soulis thought on his merry men now,
A woeful wight was he;
Says—“Vengeance is mine, and I will not repine
“But Branxholm's heir shall die.”

Says—“What would you do, young Branxholm,
“Gin ye had me, as I have thee?”—
“I would take you to the good greenwood,
“And gar your ain hand wale the tree.”

“Now shall thine ain hand wale the tree,
“For all thy mirth and meikle pride;
“And May shall chuse, if my love she refuse,
“A scrog bush thee beside.”

They carried him to the good greenwood,
Where the green pines grew in a row;
And they heard the cry from the branches high
Of the hungry carrion-crow.

They carried him on from tree to tree,
The spiry boughs below.
“Say, shall it be thine on the tapering pine
“To feed the hooded crow?”—

“The fir-tops fall by Branxholm wall,
“When the night blast stirs the tree;
“And it shall not be mine to die on the pine,
“I loved in infancie.”

Young Branxholm turn'd him, and oft looked back,
And aye he passed from tree to tree;
Young Branxholm peeped, and puirly spake,
“O sic a death is no for me!”

And next they passed the aspin gray,
Its leaves were rustling mournfullie;
“Now, chuse thee, chuse thee, Branxholm gay!
“Say, wilt thou never chuse the tree?”—

“More dear to me is the aspin gray,
“More dear than any other tree;
“For beneath the shade that its branches made
“Have past the vows of my love and me.”

Young Branxholm peeped, and puirly spake,
Until he did his ain men see,
With witches' hazel in each steel cap,
In scorn of Soulis' gramarye;
Then shoulder-hight for glee he lap,
“Methinks I spye a coming tree!”

“Aye, many may come, but few return,”
Quo' Soulis, the lord of gramarye;
“No warrior's hand in fair Scotland
“Shall ever dint a wound on me!”

“Now, by my sooth,” quo' bauld Walter,
“If that be true we soon shall see.”
His bent bow he drew, and the arrow was true,
But never a wound or scar had he.

Then up bespake him true Thomas,
He was the lord of Ersyltoun:
“The wizard's spell no steel can quell,
“Till once your lances bear him down.”

They bore him down with lances bright,
But never a wound or scar had he;
With hempen bands they bound him tight,
Both hands and feet on the Nine-stane lee.

That wizard accurst, the bands he burst;
They moulder'd at his magic spell;
And, neck and heel, in the forged steel
They bound him against the charms of hell.

That wizard accurst, the bands he burst;
No forged steel his charms could bide.
Then up bespake him true Thomas,
“We'll bind him yet, whate'er betide.”

The black spae-book from his breast he took,
Impressed with many a warlock spell:
And the book it was wrote by Michael Scott,
Who held in awe the fiends of hell.

They buried it deep, where his bones they sleep,
That mortal man might never it see:
But Thomas did save it from the grave,
When he returned from Faërie.

The black spae-book from his breast he took,
And turned the leaves with curious hand;
No ropes, did he find, the wizard could bind,
But threefold ropes of sifted sand.

They sifted the sand from the Nine-stane burn,
And shaped the ropes so curiouslie;
But the ropes would neither twist nor twine,
For Thomas true and his gramarye.

The black spae-book from his breast he took,
And again he turned it with his hand;
And he bade each lad of Teviot add
The barley chaff to the sifted sand.

The barley chaff to the sifted sand
They added still by handfulls nine;
But Redcap sly unseen was by,
And the ropes would neither twist nor twine.

And still beside the Nine-stane burn,
Ribb'd like the sand at mark of sea
The ropes, that would not twist nor turn,
Shap'd of the sifted sand you see.

The black spae-book true Thomas he took;
Again its magic leaves he spread;
And he found that to quell the powerful spell,
The wizard must be boil'd in lead.

On a circle of stones they plac'd the pot,
On a circle of stones but barely nine;
They heated it red and fiery hot,
Till the burnish'd brass did glimmer and shine.

They roll'd him up in a sheet of lead,
A sheet of lead for a funeral pall;
They plung'd him in the cauldron red,
And melted him, lead and bones, and all.

At the Skelf-hill, the cauldron still
The men of Liddesdale can show;
And on the spot, where they boil'd the pot,
The spreat and the deer-hair ne'er shall grow.

Shriek—Peep.

Lift—Sky.

Glamour—Magical delusion.

Wale—Chuse.

Puirly—Softly.

The spreat is a species of water-rush.

The deer-hair is a coarse species of pointed grass, which, in May, bears a very minute, but beautiful yellow flower.

THE COUT OF KEELDAR.

The eiry blood-hound howl'd by night,
The streamers flaunted red,
Till broken streaks of flaky light
O'er Keeldar's mountains spread.

The lady sigh'd as Keeldar rose:
“Come tell me, dear love mine,
“Go you to hunt where Keeldar flows,
“Or on the banks of Tyne?”

“The heath-bell blows where Keeldar flows,
“By Tyne the primrose pale:
“But now we ride on the Scottish side,
“To hunt in Liddesdale.”

“Gin you will ride on the Scottish side,
“Sore must thy Margaret mourn;
“For Soulis abhorr'd is Lyddall's lord,
“And I fear you'll ne'er return.

“The axe he bears, it hacks and tears;
“'Tis form'd of an earth-fast flint;
“No armour of knight, though ever so wight,
“Can bear its deadly dint.

“No danger he fears, for a charm'd sword he wears;
“Of adderstone the hilt;
“No Tynedale knight had ever such might,
“But his heart-blood was spilt.”—

“In my plume is seen the holly green,
“With the leaves of the rowan tree;
“And my casque of sand by a mermaid's hand
“Was formed beneath the sea.

“Then, Margaret dear, have thou no fear!
“That bodes no ill to me,
“Though never a knight by mortal might
“Could match his gramarye.”—

Then forward bound both horse and hound,
And rattle o'er the vale;
As the wintry breeze through leafless trees
Drives on the pattering hail.

Behind their course the English fells
In deepening blue retire;
Till soon before them boldly swells
The muir of dun Redswire.

And when they reach'd the Redswire high,
Soft beam'd the rising sun;
But formless shadows seem'd to fly
Along the muir-land dun.

And when he reach'd the Redswire high,
His bugle Keeldar blew;
And round did float, with clamorous note
And scream, the hoarse curlew.

The next blast that young Keeldar blew,
The wind grew deadly still;
But the sleek fern with fingery leaves
Wav'd wildly o'er the hill.

The third blast that young Keeldar blew,
Still stood the limber fern;
And a Wee Man, of swarthy hue,
Up started by a cairn.

His russet weeds were brown as heath
That clothes the upland fell;
And the hair of his head was frizly red
As the purple heather-bell.

An urchin , clad in prickles red,
Clung cowering to his arm;
The hounds they howl'd, and backward fled,
As struck by Fairy charm.

“Why rises high the stag-hound's cry,
“Where stag-hound ne'er should be?
“Why wakes that horn the silent morn,
“Without the leave of me?”—

“Brown dwarf, that o'er the muirland strays,
“Thy name to Keeldar tell!”—
“The Brown Man of the Muirs, who stays
“Beneath the heather-bell.

“'Tis sweet beneath the heather-bell
“To live in autumn brown;
“And sweet to hear the laverocks swell
“Far far from tower and town.

“But woe betide the shrilling horn,
“The chace's surly cheer;
“And ever that hunter is forlorn,
“Whom first at morn I hear.”—

Says, “Weal nor woe, nor friend nor foe,
“In thee we hope nor dread.”—
But, ere the bugles green could blow,
The Wee Brown Man had fled.

And onward, onward, hound and horse,
Young Keeldar's band have gone;
And soon they wheel in rapid course
Around the Keeldar Stone.

Green vervain round its base did creep,
A powerful seed that bore;
And oft of yore its channels deep
Were stain'd with human gore.

And still, when blood-drops, clotted thin,
Hang the grey moss upon,
The spirit murmurs from within,
And shakes the rocking-stone.

Around, around, young Keeldar wound,
And call'd, in scornful tone,
With him to pass the barrier ground,
The Spirit of the Stone.

The rude crag rock'd: “I come for death,
“I come to work thy woe.”
And 'twas the Brown Man of the Heath,
That murmur'd from below.

But onward, onward, Keeldar past,
Swift as the winter wind,
When, hovering on the driving blast,
The snow-flakes fall behind.

They pass'd the muir of berries blae,
The stone cross on the lee;
They reach'd the green, the bonny brae,
Beneath the birchen tree.

This is the bonny brae, the green,
Yet sacred to the brave,
Where still, of ancient size, is seen
Gigantic Keeldar's grave.

The lonely shepherd loves to mark
The daisy springing fair,
Where weeps the birch of silver bark,
With long dishevelled hair.

The grave is green, and round is spread
The curling lady-fern:
That fatal day the mould was red,
No moss was on the cairn.

And next they pass'd the chapel there;
The holy ground was by,
Where many a stone is sculptur'd fair,
To mark where warriors lie.

And here, beside the mountain flood,
A massy castle frown'd,
Since first the Pictish race in blood
The haunted pile did found.

The restless stream its rocky base
Assails with ceaseless din;
And many a troubled spirit strays
The dungeons dark within.

Soon from the lofty tower there hied
A knight across the vale.
“I greet your master well,” he cried,
“From Soulis of Liddesdale.

“He heard your bugle's echoing call,
“In his green garden bower;
“And bids you to his festive hall,
“Within his ancient tower.”—

Young Keeldar call'd his hunter train;
“For doubtful cheer prepare!
“And, as you open force disdain,
“Of secret guile beware!

“'Twas here for Mangerton's brave lord
“A bloody feast was set,
“Who weetless at the festal board
“The bull's broad frontlet met.

“Then ever, at uncourteous feast,
“Keep every man his brand;
“And, as you mid his friends are plac'd,
“Range on the better hand.

“And if the bull's ill-omen'd head
“Appear to grace the feast,
“Your whingers with unerring speed
“Plunge in each neighbour's breast.”—

In Hermitage they sat at dine,
In pomp and proud array;
And oft they fill'd the blood-red wine,
While merry minstrels play.

And many a hunting-song they sung,
And song of game and glee;
Then tun'd to plaintive strains their tongue,
“Of Scotland's luve and lee.”

To wilder measures next they turn:
“The Black Black Bull of Noroway!”
Sudden the tapers cease to burn,
The minstrels cease to play.

Each hunter bold of Keeldar's train
Sat an enchanted man;
For, cold as ice, through every vein
The freezing life-blood ran.

Each rigid hand the whinger wrung,
Each gaz'd with glaring eye;
But Keeldar from the table sprung,
Unharm'd by gramarye.

He burst the doors; the roofs resound;
With yells the castle rung;
Before him with a sudden bound
His favourite blood-hound sprung.

Ere he could pass, the door was barr'd;
And, grating harsh from under,
With creaking, jarring noise, was heard
A sound like distant thunder.

The iron clash, the grinding sound,
Announce the dire sword-mill:
The piteous howlings of the hound
The dreadful dungeon fill.

With breath drawn in, the murderous crew
Stood listening to the yell;
And greater still their wonder grew,
As on their ear it fell.

They listen'd for a human shriek
Amid the jarring sound;
They only heard, in echoes weak,
The murmurs of the hound.

The death-bell rung, and wide were flung
The castle gates amain;
While hurry out the armed rout,
And marshal on the plain.

Ah! ne'er before in Border feud
Was seen so dire a fray!
Through glittering lances Keeldar hew'd
A red corse-paven way.

His helmet, form'd of mermaid-sand,
No lethal brand could dint;
No other arms could e'er withstand
The axe of earth-fast flint.

In Keeldar's plume the holly green,
And rowan leaves, nod on,
And vain Lord Soulis's sword was seen,
Though the hilt was adderstone.

Then up the Wee Brown Man he rose,
By Soulis of Liddesdale:
“In vain,” he said, “a thousand blows
“Assail the charmed mail.

“In vain by land your arrows glide,
“In vain your faulchions gleam:
“No spell can stay the living tide,
“Or charm the rushing stream.”

And now young Keeldar reach'd the stream,
Above the foamy lin;
The Border lances round him gleam,
And force the warrior in.

The holly floated to the side,
And the leaf of the rowan pale:
Alas! no spell could charm the tide,
Nor the lance of Liddesdale.

Swift was the Cout o' Keeldar's course
Along the lily lee;
But home came never hound nor horse,
And never home came he.

Where weeps the birch with branches green,
Without the holy ground,
Between two old gray stones is seen
The warrior's ridgy mound.

And the hunters bold of Keeldar's train
Within yon castle's wall,
In a deadly sleep must aye remain,
Till the ruin'd towers down fall.

Each in his hunter's garb array'd,
Each holds his bugle horn;
Their keen hounds at their feet are laid,
That ne'er shall wake the morn.

Streamers—Northern lights.

Urchin—Hedge-hog.

THE MERMAID.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY CHARLOTTE CAMPBELL, WITH THE MERMAID.

To brighter charms depart, my simple lay,
Than grac'd of old the maid of Colonsay,
When her fond lover, lessening from her view,
With eyes reverted o'er the surge withdrew.
But happier still, should lovely Campbell sing
Thy plaintive numbers to the trembling string,
The Mermaid's melting strains would yield to thee,
Though pour'd diffusive o'er the silver sea.

Go boldly forth—but ah! the listening throng,
Rapt by the Syren, would forget the song!
Lo! while they pause, nor dare to gaze around,
Afraid to break the soft enchanting sound,
While swells to sympathy each fluttering heart,
'Tis not the poet's, but the Syren's art.

Go forth, devoid of fear, my simple lay!
First heard, returning from Iona's bay,
When round our bark the shades of evening drew,
And broken slumbers prest our weary crew.
While round the prow the sea-fire, flashing bright,
Shed a strange lustre o'er the waste of night;
While harsh and dismal scream'd the diving gull,
Round the dark rocks that wall the coast of Mull;
As through black reefs we held our venturous way,
I caught the wild traditionary lay;—
A wreath, no more in black Iona's isle
To bloom—but grac'd by high-born beauty's smile.

THE MERMAID.

On Jura's heath how sweetly swell
The murmurs of the mountain bee!
How softly mourns the writhed shell
Of Jura's shore its parent sea!

But softer, floating o'er the deep,
The Mermaid's sweet sea-soothing lay,
That charm'd the dancing waves to sleep,
Before the bark of Colonsay.

Aloft the purple pennons wave,
As, parting gay from Crinan's shore,
From Morven's wars the seamen brave
Their gallant chieftain homeward bore.

In youth's gay bloom, the brave Macphail
Still blam'd the lingering bark's delay;
For her he chid the flagging sail,
The lovely maid of Colonsay.

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And “Raise,” he cried, “the song of love,
“The maiden sung with tearful smile,
“When first, o'er Jura's hills to rove,
“We left afar the lonely isle!

‘When on this ring of ruby red
‘Shall die,’ she said, ‘the crimson hue,
‘Know that thy favourite fair is dead,
‘Or proves to thee and love untrue.’

Now, lightly pois'd, the rising oar
Disperses wide the foamy spray,
And, echoing far o'er Crinan's shore,
Resounds the song of Colonsay.

“Softly blow, thou western breeze,
“Softly rustle through the sail,
“Sooth to rest the furrowy seas,
“Before my love, sweet western gale!

“Where the wave is ting'd with red,
“And the russet sea-leaves grow,
“Mariners, with prudent dread,
“Shun the shelving reefs below.

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‘As you pass through Jura's sound,
“Bend your course by Scarba's shore,
“Shun, O shun, the gulf profound,
“Where Corrivrekin's surges roar!

“If, from that unbottom'd deep,
“With wrinkled form and writhed train,
“O'er the verge of Scarba's steep,
“The sea snake heave his snowy mane,

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“Unwarp, unwind his oozy coils,
“Sea-green sisters of the main,
“And in the gulf where ocean boils
“The unwieldy wallowing monster chain!

“Softly blow, thou western breeze,
“Softly rustle through the sail,
“Sooth to rest the furrowed seas,
“Before my love, sweet western gale!”

Thus, all to sooth the chieftain's woe,
Far from the maid he lov'd so dear,
The song arose, so soft and slow,
He seem'd her parting sigh to hear.

The lonely deck he paces o'er,
Impatient for the rising day,
And still, from Crinan's moonlight shore,
He turns his eyes to Colonsay.

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The moonbeams crisp the curling surge,
That streaks with foam the ocean green;
While forward still the rowers urge
Their course, a female form was seen.

That Sea-maid's form, of pearly light,
Was whiter than the downy spray,
And round her bosom, heaving bright,
Her glossy, yellow ringlets play.

Borne on a foamy-crested wave,
She reach'd amain the bounding prow,
Then, clasping fast the chieftain brave,
She plunging sought the deep below.

Ah! long beside thy feigned bier
The monks the prayers of death shall say,
And long for thee the fruitless tear
Shall weep the maid of Colonsay!

But downwards, like a powerless corse,
The eddying waves the chieftain bear;
He only heard the moaning hoarse
Of waters murmuring in his ear.

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The murmurs sink by slow degrees;
No more the surges round him rave;
Lull'd by the music of the seas,
He lies within a coral cave.

In dreamy mood reclines he long,
Nor dares his tranced eyes unclose,
Till, warbling wild, the Sea-maid's song
Far in the crystal cavern rose;

Soft as that harp's unseen controul,
In morning dreams that lovers hear,
Whose strains steal sweetly o'er the soul,
But never reach the waking ear.

As sunbeams through the tepid air,
When clouds dissolve in dews unseen,
Smile on the flowers, that bloom more fair,
And fields, that glow with livelier green—

So melting soft the music fell;
It seem'd to sooth the fluttering spray.
“Say, heard'st thou not these wild notes swell?”—
“Ah! 'tis the song of Colonsay.”

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Like one that from a fearful dream
Awakes, the morning light to view,
And joys to see the purple beam,
Yet fears to find the vision true,—

He heard that strain, so wildly sweet,
Which bade his torpid languor fly;
He fear'd some spell had bound his feet,
And hardly dar'd his limbs to try.

“This yellow sand, this sparry cave,
“Shall bend thy soul to beauty's sway.
“Can'st thou the maiden of the wave
“Compare to her of Colonsay?”

Rous'd by that voice of silver sound,
From the pav'd floor he lightly sprung,
And, glancing wild his eyes around,
Where the fair Nymph her tresses wrung,

No form he saw of mortal mould;
It shone like ocean's snowy foam;
Her ringlets wav'd in living gold,
Her mirror crystal, pearl her comb.

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Her pearly comb the Syren took,
And careless bound her tresses wild;
Still o'er the mirror stole her look,
As on the wondering youth she smil'd.

Like music from the greenwood tree,
Again she rais'd the melting lay:
—“Fair warrior, wilt thou dwell with me,
“And leave the maid of Colonsay?

“Fair is the crystal hall for me,
“With rubies and with emeralds set,
“And sweet the music of the sea
“Shall sing, when we for love are met.

“How sweet to dance with gliding feet
“Along the level tide so green,
“Responsive to the cadence sweet,
“That breathes along the moonlight scene!

“And soft the music of the main
“Rings from the motley tortoise-shell,
“While moonbeams o'er the watery plain
“Seem trembling in its fitful swell.

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“How sweet, when billows heave their head,
“And shake their snowy crests on high,
“Serene in ocean's sapphire bed,
“Beneath the tumbling surge to lie;

“To trace with tranquil step the deep,
“Where pearly drops of frozen dew
“In concave shells unconscious sleep,
“Or shine with lustre silvery blue!

“Then shall the summer sun from far
“Pour through the wave a softer ray,
“While diamonds, in a bower of spar,
“At eve shall shed a brighter day.

“Nor stormy wind, nor wintry gale,
“That o'er the angry ocean sweep,
“Shall e'er our coral groves assail,
“Calm in the bosom of the deep.

“Through the green meads beneath the sea,
“Enamour'd, we shall fondly stray:
“Then, gentle warrior, dwell with me,
“And leave the maid of Colonsay!”—

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“Though bright thy locks of glistering gold,
“Fair maiden of the foamy main!
“Thy life-blood is the water cold,
“While mine beats high in every vein.

“If I, beneath thy sparry cave,
“Should in thy snowy arms recline,
“Inconstant as the restless wave,
“My heart would grow as cold as thine.”—

As cygnet-down, proud swell'd her breast;
Her eye confest the pearly tear;
His hand she to her bosom prest—
“Is there no heart for rapture here?

“These limbs, sprung from the lucid sea,
“Does no warm blood their currents fill,
“No heart-pulse riot, wild and free,
“To joy, to love's delirious thrill?”—

“Though all the splendour of the sea
“Around thy faultless beauty shine,
“That heart, that riots wild and free,
“Can hold no sympathy with mine.

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“These sparkling eyes, so wild and gay,
“They swim not in the light of love:
“The beauteous maid of Colonsay,
“Her eyes are milder than the dove!

“E'en now, within the lonely isle,
“Her eyes are dim with tears for me:
“And canst thou think that Syren-smile
“Can lure my soul to dwell with thee?”

An oozy film her limbs o'erspread;
Unfolds in length her scaly train;
She toss'd in proud disdain her head,
And lash'd with webbed fin the main.

“Dwell here, alone!” the Mermaid cried,
“And view far off the Sea-nymphs play;
“The prison-wall, the azure tide,
“Shall bar thy steps from Colonsay.

“Whene'er, like ocean's scaly brood,
“I cleave with rapid fin the wave,
“Far from the daughter of the flood
“Conceal thee in this coral cave.

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“I feel my former soul return;
“It kindles at thy cold disdain:
“And has a mortal dar'd to spurn
“A daughter of the foamy main?”—

She fled; around the crystal cave
The rolling waves resume their road,
On the broad portal idly rave,
But enter not the Nymph's abode.

And many a weary night went by,
As in the lonely cave he lay,
And many a sun roll'd through the sky,
And pour'd its beams on Colonsay:

And oft, beneath the silver moon,
He heard afar the Mermaid sing,
And oft, to many a melting tune,
The shell-form'd lyres of ocean ring:

And when the moon went down the sky,
Still rose in dreams his native plain,
And oft he thought his love was by,
And charm'd him with some tender strain:

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And, heart-sick, oft he wak'd to weep,
When ceas'd that voice of silver sound,
And thought to plunge him in the deep,
That wall'd his crystal cavern round.

But still the ring of ruby red
Retain'd its vivid crimson hue,
And each despairing accent fled,
To find his gentle love so true.

When seven long lonely months were gone,
The Mermaid to his cavern came,
No more mishapen from the zone,
But like a maid of mortal frame.

“O give to me that ruby ring,
“That on thy finger glances gay,
“And thou shalt hear the Mermaid sing
“The song, thou lov'st, of Colonsay.”

“This ruby ring, of crimson grain,
“Shall on thy finger glitter gay,
“If thou wilt bear me through the main,
“Again to visit Colonsay.”—

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“Except thou quit thy former love,
“Content to dwell for aye with me,
“Thy scorn my finny frame might move
“To tear thy limbs amid the sea.”—

“Then bear me swift along the main,
“The lonely isle again to see,
“And when I here return again,
“I plight my faith to dwell with thee.”

An oozy film her limbs o'erspread,
While slow unfolds her scaly train,
With gluey fangs her hands were clad,
She lash'd with webbed fin the main.

He grasps the Mermaid's scaly sides,
As with broad fin she oars her way;
Beneath the silent moon she glides,
That sweetly sleeps on Colonsay.

Proud swells her heart! she deems, at last,
To lure him with her silver tongue,
And, as the shelving rocks she past,
She rais'd her voice and sweetly sung.

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In softer, sweeter strains she sung,
Slow gliding o'er the moonlight bay,
When light to land the chieftain sprung,
To hail the maid of Colonsay.

O sad the Mermaid's gay notes fell,
And sadly sink remote at sea!
So sadly mourns the writhed shell
Of Jura's shore its parent sea.

And ever as the year returns,
The charm-bound sailors know the day;
For sadly still the Mermaid mourns
The lovely chief of Colonsay.

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ON THE SABBATH MORNING.

With silent awe I hail the sacred morn,
That slowly wakes while all the fields are still!
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne;
A graver murmur gurgles from the rill;
And echo answers softer from the hill;
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn;
The sky-lark warbles in a tone less shrill.
Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath-morn!
The rooks float silent by in airy drove;
The sun a placid yellow lustre throws;
The gales, that lately sigh'd along the grove,
Have hush'd their downy wings in dead repose;
The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move;—
So smil'd the day when the first morn arose!

115

ODE, TO THE SCENES OF INFANCY.

WRITTEN IN 1801.

My native stream, my native vale,
And you, green meads of Teviotdale,
That after absence long I view!
Your bleakest scenes, that rise around,
Assume the tints of fairy ground,
And infancy revive anew.

Thrice blest the days I here have seen,
When light I trac'd that margin green,
Blithe as the linnet on the spray;
And thought the days would ever last
As gay and cheerful as the past;—
The sunshine of a summer's day.

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Fair visions, innocently sweet!
Though soon you pass'd on viewless feet,
And vanish'd to return no more;
Still, when this anxious breast shall grieve,
You shall my pensive heart relieve,
And every former joy restore.

When first around mine infant head
Delusive dreams their visions shed,
To soften or to soothe the soul;
In every scene, with glad surprise,
I saw my native groves arise,
And Teviot's crystal waters roll.

And when religion rais'd my view
Beyond this concave's azure blue,
Where flowers of fairer lustre blow,
Where Eden's groves again shall bloom,
Beyond the desart of the tomb,
And living streams for ever flow,—

The groves of soft celestial dye
Were such as oft had met mine eye,
Expanding green on Teviot's side;
The living stream, whose pearly wave
In fancy's eye appear'd to lave,
Resembled Teviot's limpid tide.

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When first each joy that childhood yields
I left, and saw my native fields
At distance fading dark and blue,
As if my feet had gone astray
In some lone desart's pathless way,
I turn'd, my distant home to view.

Now tir'd of folly's fluttering breed,
And scenes where oft the heart must bleed,
Where every joy is mix'd with pain;
Back to this lonely green retreat,
Which Infancy has render'd sweet,
I guide my wandering steps again.

And now, when rosy sun-beams lie
In thin streaks o'er the eastern sky,
Beside my native stream I rove;
When the gray sea of fading light
Ebbs gradual down the western height,
I softly trace my native grove.

When forth at morn the heifers go,
And fill the fields with plaintive low,
Re-echoed by their young confin'd;
When sun-beams wake the slumbering breeze,
And light the dew-drops on the trees,
Beside the stream I lie reclin'd,

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And view the water-spiders glide
Along the smooth and level tide,
Which, printless, yields not as they pass;
While still their slender frisky feet
Scarce seem with tiny step to meet
The surface blue and clear as glass.

Beside the twisted hazel bush
I love to sit, and hear the thrush,
Where cluster'd nuts around me spring;
While from a thousand mellow throats
High thrill the gently-trembling notes,
And winding woodland echoes ring.

The shadow of my native grove,
And wavy streaks of light I love,
When brightest glows the eye of day;
And shelter'd from the noon-tide beam,
I pensive muse beside the stream,
Or by the pebbled channel stray.

Where little playful eddies wind,
The banks with silvery foam are lin'd,
Untainted as the mountain-snow;
And round the rock, incrusted white,
The rippling waves in murmurs light
Reply to gales that whispering blow.

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I love the riv'let's stilly chime,
That marks the ceaseless lapse of time,
And seems in fancy's ear to say—
“A few short suns, and thou no more
Shalt linger on thy parent shore,
But like the foam-streak pass away.”—

Dear fields, in vivid green array'd!
When every tint at last shall fade
In death's funereal cheerless hue,
As sinks the latest fainting beam
Of light that on mine eyes shall gleam,
Still shall I turn your scenes to view.

120

SPRING, AN ODE.

WRITTEN WHILE RECOVERING FROM SICKNESS.

How softly now the vernal gales
Caress the blossoms on the trees,
How bright the glistening vapour sails,
And floats, and wantons on the breeze!

Sweet Spring in vest of emerald hue,
With daisy buds embroider'd fair,
Calls the gray sky-lark to renew
Her morning carols, high in air.

Soft as she treads the dewy vale,
She listens oft in silence deep,
To hear her favourite primrose pale
Awaking from her winter sleep.

The fostering gales, the genial skies,
My languid frame to health restore;
And every sun appears to rise
More bright than e'er it rose before.

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Soul of the world! thy cheering rays
Bid my full heart with transport burn!
Again on nature's charms I gaze,
And youth's delightful days return.

Sure he that bids thy radiance glance
On numerous orbs that round thee wheel,
Awakes each secret slumbering sense,
The heavenly breath of Spring to feel.

I see the hazel's rough notch'd leaves
Each morning wide and wider spread;
While every sigh that zephyr heaves
Sprinkles the dew-drops round my head.

The yellow moss in scaly rings
Creeps round the hawthorn's prickly bough:
The speckled linnet pecks and sings,
While snowy blossoms round her blow.

The gales sing softly through the trees,
Whose boughs in green waves heave and swell;
The azure violet scents the breeze
Which shakes the yellow crow-foot's bell.

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The morning sun's soft trembling beams
Shoot brighter o'er the blue expanse,
And red the cottage window gleams,
As o'er its crystal panes they glance.

But you, dear scenes! that far away
Expand beyond these mountains blue,
Where fancy sheds a purer day,
And robes the fields in richer hue,—

A softer voice in every gale
I mid your woodlands wild should hear;
And death's unbreathing shades would fail
To sigh their murmurs in mine ear.

Ah! when shall I by Teviot's stream
The haunts of youth again explore?
And muse in melancholy dream
On days that shall return no more?

Dun heathy slopes, and valleys green,
Which I so long have lov'd to view,
As o'er my soul each lovely scene
Unfolds, I bid a fond adieu!

123

Yet, while we mark with pitying eye
The varied scenes of earthly woe,
Why should we grieve to see them fly;
Or fondly linger as they go?

Yes! friendship sweet, and tender love,
The fond reluctant soul detain;
Or all the whispers of the grove,
With Spring's soft gales, would woo in vain.

For bliss so sweet, though swift its flight,
Again we hail the holy sun.—
Thy yellow tresses glitter bright,
Fair maid, thy life is just begun.

To tell thee of the lonely tomb,
Is morning's radiant face to cloud;
To wrap thy soul in sable gloom,
Is veiling roses with the shroud.

124

ODE

TO THE EVENING STAR.

How sweet thy modest light to view,
Fair Star, to love and lovers dear!
While trembling on the falling dew,
Like beauty shining through a tear.

Or, hanging o'er that mirror-stream,
To mark that image trembling there,
Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam,
To see thy lovely face so fair.

Though, blazing o'er the arch of night,
The moon thy timid beams outshine
As far as thine each starry light;—
Her rays can never vie with thine.

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Thine are the soft enchanting hours
When twilight lingers on the plain,
And whispers to the closing flowers,
That soon the sun will rise again.

Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland
As music, wafts the lover's sigh,
And bids the yielding heart expand
In love's delicious extasy.

Fair Star! tho' I be doom'd to prove
That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain,
Ah, still I feel 'tis sweet to love!—
But sweeter to be lov'd again.

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GREENLAND ELEGY.

A FATHER ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON.

Again, my son! the lamp of eve burns clear,
And every other friend around I see,
That form the fond fraternal circle here,
But empty still remains the seat for thee.

In vain are all thy mother's toils of love;
Thy sister Runa's matchless skill is vain;
Who oft the eider's silken down has wove
For thee returning from the glassy plain.

In Disko's bay I stand for thee no more,
At gelid eve to see thy trim canoe
Come lightly gliding through the frost-smoke hoar,
The sea-fire flashing round the grazing prow.

127

No more the peterel's down shall form my vest,
My robe the giant white-bear's shaggy spoil;
No more at evening shall I share the feast,
Who never shar'd by day the hunter's toil.

The cavern'd ice has form'd thy chilly bed;
Thou dwell'st in darkness all forlorn and drear:
The mist of ages clings around thy head;
The weary winter of the northern year.

My tears are frozen now; I cannot weep!—
My heart is chang'd to ice, it feels so cold!
And oft, my son, I long with thee to sleep
Where, in some emerald cave, thy bones are roll'd.

But, yet, though grief has chill'd my aged heart,
And frozen tears have lost their power to flow,—
Still fond affection bids me bear the smart,
To guard thy mother from severer woe.

128

THE WAIL OF ALZIRA.

A NEGRO SONG.

Sweet bird of twilight, sad thy notes,
That swell the citron-flowers among!
But sadder on the night-breeze floats
Forlorn Alzira's plaintive song.

While, bending o'er the western flood,
She soothes the infant on her knee,—
Sweet babe! her breast is streak'd with blood,
And all to ward the scourge from thee.

“Green are the groves on Benin's strand;
And fair the fields beyond the sea:
Where, lingering on the surf-beat sand,
My youthful warrior pines for me.

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“And, each revolving morn, he wears
The sandals his Alzira wore,
Ere whites, regardless of her tears,
Had borne her far from Benin's shore.

“And, each revolving morn, he bears
The sabre which his father bore:
And, by the negro's God, he swears
To bathe its glimmering edge in gore.

130

EPISTLE TO A LADY,

FROM A DANCING BEAR.

[_]

Sent to Lady—, after dancing with her in 1801.

While beaux and foplings simper mawkish praise
To lisping belles of these degenerate days,
For orient brilliant, or the smart aigrette
Of ostrich plumes, with taste and fancy set;
Till the fair head no longer can sustain
The waste of feather, and the want of brain:—
What praise deserves Almira, dauntless fair,
Who first aspir'd to lead a Dancing Bear?
Taught him to bound on firm elastic heel;
In winding orbits round the fair to wheel;
Advance, retreat, the twining maze pursue,
As wanton kittens use the trundling clue?—
So, charm'd by Orpheus' magic lyre, advance
The Thracian Bears to mingle in the dance,
While broad expands each clumsy, clutching paw;
And awful yawns each wide extended jaw;

131

With awkward force their lumpish limbs they fling;
And flounce, and hitch, and hobble round the ring:
While oft the minstrel paus'd, and smil'd to see
The monsters bounce against a capering tree.

But then no grateful brute in tuneful lays,
The music prais'd, as I thy dancing praise!
What though these rugged limbs forbid to trace
Each mazy figure, like the monkey race,
Yet, not devoid of skill, I boldly claim
The right to celebrate thy dancing fame.—
From Bears, the dancer's art at first began;
To monkeys next it past, and then to man;
And still from Bears, by fate's unerring law,
Their dance, their manners, men and monkeys draw.

Thus, mid the lucid wastes of Greenland's snow,
Where moon-beams wan with silver radiance glow,
And rocks of ice in misty grandeur rise,
And men seem giants of enormous size;
The fur-clad savage joys the feast to share,
Conducts the dance and imitates the Bear;
Assumes his clumsy gait with conscious pride,
And kicks, and scampers in the monster's hide,
Knocks round the shatter'd ice in slippery lumps,
And thumps the pavement, not with feet, but stumps;—

132

The grisly monster grins at man's disgrace,
And proudly holds the dancing-master's place.

In every region, and in every clime
Renown'd for beauty, genius, wit, and rhyme,
Where high the plant of fair politeness shoots,
And glittering blossoms bears, instead of fruits;—
Long did the beau claim kindred with the ape,
And shone a monkey of sublimer shape;
Skilful to flirt the hat, the cane, the glove,
And wear the pert grimace of monkey-love;
Of words unmeaning pour'd a ceaseless flood,
While ladies look'd as if they understood.
So chats one monkey, while his perter brother
Chatters as if he understood the other.

But modern beaux disdain the monkey air,
And in politeness ape the surly Bear;
Like their gruff brother-cubs beside the pole,
Supinely yawn or indolently loll;
Or, careless, seated in an elbow chair,
Survey the fretted roof with curious stare.
Secure of pleasing, should they wish to please,
They trust the fair may term their rudeness ease;—
The modish ease that no decorum checks,
That, proud of manhood, dares insult the sex.

133

And oft, as affectation's charms bewitch,
Their efforts rise to a sublimer pitch,
With maudlin looks the drunkard's mien to suit,
Anxious to seem a more degraded brute.
Such are the modish youths, at ball or play,
Edina's maids without contempt survey;
Whom if you with their fellow brutes compare,
They sink inferior to the honest Bear;
Prove man the only brute of nature's race
That sinks his rank and powers, and courts disgrace.
What Bear of parts, for human pranks unripe,
Pretends to smoke the slim tobacco-pipe?
Or needs for languor, in his social den,
To play at commerce, whist, or brag, like men?—
Be thine the praise that thou, Almira fair,
For a spruce beau didst choose a Dancing Bear:
For sure with men like these in order plac'd,
The Bear himself must prove a beast of taste.—
The Bear has power, as Indian ladies say,
To mend your vices, take your faults away;
And though he cannot female charms renew,
Removes the fault that shades them from the view.
As envious clouds forbid the sun to shine,
Or patches mar the human face divine.
Yet some pretend the Bears their talents hide,
As such experiments are seldom tried;

134

And some demand, to wit and beauty blind,
“Take all their faults, pray what remains behind?”
But let them sneer—the ladies swear they shall
Be lov'd for faults, or not be lov'd at all.
Virtues are strong, and need no kind affection;
They love their faults because these need protection.
Hence springs the cause that female hearts incline
The first in fashion's meteor-lists to shine,
While baby words soft affectation minces,
With “O the charming lace! the charming chintzes!”
Hence taught, they flirt with tittering skill the fan,
Or scan with optic glass the form of man;
They pant in silence, or exult in riot,
Absurdly prattlesome, absurdly quiet.

Almira, thou whom thy companions see
The soul of parties, yet not seem to be;
Doom'd to excel, yet never wish to shine,
Almira! say what faults wilt thou resign?
The wit, though fear'd by none, by all admir'd?
Good humour, prais'd by none, by all desir'd?
Softness of soul, to which our hearts submit?
The nameless grace, that pleases more than wit?
These are the powers that every bosom move
To love thee, though they never think of love;

135

And if we pause, we oft shall find it true,
We love the most when love is least in view.—
Are these thy faults, Almira? blest is he
Foredoom'd to lead the dance of life with thee.
But as thou tread'st the giddy circling maze
Of airy fashion, where each step betrays,
Still faultless hold thy course, intrepid fair,
Nor quite forget thy surly friend

THE BEAR.

136

THE FAN.

ADDRESSED TO A LADY IN 1802.

The fan, as Syrian poets sing,
Was first a radiant angel's wing.
When heaven consign'd each mortal fair
To some pure spirit's guardian care,
When sun-beams slept on Eden's vale,
The rustling pennon wak'd the gale;
And shed from every downy plume,
At tepid noon, a sweet perfume.
As softly smil'd each artless fair,
Her angel left the fields of air,
Sunk in the blushing nymph's embrace
A mortal of terrestrial race.

Hence, many an eastern bard can tell
How for the fair the angels fell:
And those who laugh at beauty's thrall,
I ween, must like the angels fall.

137

Anacreon wish'd to be a dove,
To flutter o'er his sleeping love;
To drink her humid breath, and blow
The fresh gale o'er her breast of snow;
Breathe o'er her flushing cheek the breeze,
Nay, be her fan the fair to please.—
But I would be nor fan nor dove,
If, dearest, I might be thy love.

138

HEADACH.

TO A LADY.

WRITTEN IN 1802.

That eye of soft cerulean hue,
And clear as morn's transparent dew,
Why dimly shines its lustre meek?
Why fades the rose-bloom on that cheek,
Whose varying hue was still the sign
Of the warm heart's emotions fine?
Where softest tints were wont to glow,
Why spreads the lily's veil of snow?
The tresses of her auburn hair
O'er her pale brow disorder'd wave:
Celestial guardians of the fair,
Avails not now your power to save?

When fall the trickling tears of grief,
Like dew bells o'er the rose's leaf;
And drops minute from every pore
Shoot cold the shuddering forehead o'er;

139

And every nerve that seeks the brain
Conveys the thrilling surge of pain,
The sages of the eastern climes,
Who read the dark decrees of fate,
Declare, that maidens expiate
The penance of their venial crimes.—
But sure no thought that heart hath known
That guardian angels blush to own;
And every sigh that heaves that breast,
With virtue's fairest seal imprest,
Is pure as mountain gales that blow
The fringed foliage of the snow.

And, hark! in soft regretful sighs,
The guardian spirit's voice replies,
“These eyes, that boast their power to kill,
Deserve to feel the painful thrill.
'Tis but the lover's lingering sigh,
As the warm breath or humid air
Obscures the brightest mirror's glare,
That dims her lucid sparkling eye;
Her nerves but lightly feel the smart
That rankles in the lover's heart.”

140

TO AURELIA.

WRITTEN IN 1802.

One kind kiss, my love, before
We bid a long adieu!
Ah! let not this fond heart deplore
Thy cold cheek's pallid hue.

One soft sweet smile before I go!
That fancy may repeat,
And whisper, mid the sighs of woe,
My love, we yet shall meet.

One dear embrace, and then we part—
We part to meet no more!
I bear a sad and lonely heart
To pine on India's shore.

A heart that once has lov'd like mine
No second love can know!
A heart that once has throbb'd with thine
Must other love forego.

141

SONNET. WRITTEN AT WOODHOUSELEE IN 1802.

Sweet Riv'let! as, in pensive mood reclin'd,
Thy lone voice talking to the night I hear,
Now swelling loud and louder on the ear,
Now sinking in the pauses of the wind,
A stilly sadness overspreads my mind,
To think how oft the whirling gale shall strew
O'er thy bright stream the leaves of sallow hue,
Ere next this classic haunt my wanderings find.—
That lulling harmony resounds again,
That soothes the slumbering leaves on every tree,
And seems to say—“Wilt thou remember me?”
The stream that listen'd oft to Ramsay's strain.
Though Ramsay's pastoral reed be heard no more,
Yet taste and fancy long shall linger on thy shore.

142

ELEGY ON A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WEST INDIES.

'Tis sad to linger in the church-yard lone,
Where mouldering graves in dreary rows extend,
To pause at every rudely sculptur'd stone,
And read the name of a departed friend.

Yet o'er the youthful friend's untimely grave
'Tis sweet to pour the solitary tear;
And long the mourner haunts at fall of eve
The narrow house of him that once was dear.

The latest word, that feebly died away,
Revisits oft the ear in accents weak;
The latest aspect of the unbreathing clay,
The thin dew shining on the lifeless cheek.

143

The freezing crystal of the closing eye
In fancy's waking dreams revives again:
And when our bosoms heave the deepest sigh,
A mournful pleasure mingles with the pain.

While still, the glimmering beam of joy to cloud,
Returns anew the wakeful sense of woe;
Again we seem to lift the fancied shroud,
And view the sad procession moving slow.

But o'er young Henry's bier no tear shall fall,
Nor sad procession stretch its long array:
For him no friendly hand shall lift the pall,
Nor deck the greenwood turf that wraps his clay.

Mid Caribbs as the brinded panther fierce,
Far from his friends the youthful warrior fell;
The field of battle was his trophied hearse;
His dirge the Indian whoop's funereal knell.

In youth he fell:—so falls the western flower
Which gay at morn its purple petal rears,
Till fainting in the noontide's sultry hour,
Fades the fair blossom of an hundred years.

144

Unsooth'd by fame, to fond affection lost,
Beneath the palm the youthful warrior lies;
And on the breeze from India's distant coast
Sad fancy seems to hear his wafted sighs.

Not this the promise of thy vernal prime;—
Mature of soul, and confident of fame,
Thy heart presag'd with chiefs of elder time
The sons of glory would record thy name.

And must thou sink forgotten in the clay?
Thy generous heart in dumb oblivion lie;
Like the young star, that on its devious way
Shoots from its bright companions in the sky?

Ah! that this hand could strike the magic shell,
And bid thy blighted laurel-leaves be green!
Ah! that this voice in living strains could tell
The future ages what thou wouldst have been!

It must not be—thine earthly course is run—
Sleep, sweetly sleep in Vincent's western isle!
I hopeless waste beneath the eastern sun,
Nor can the charm of song the hours beguile.

145

Blest be the sanguine bier, for warriors meet,
When no slow-wasting pangs their youth consume,
They fearless wrap them in the winding-sheet,
And for their country proudly meet their doom.

And blest were I to yield this fleeting breath,
And proud to wrap me in a blood-stain'd pall,
So I might stand on glory's field of death
'Mid mighty chiefs, and for my country fall.

146

DIRGE.

ON A YOUNG BOY.

Ah, vanish'd early from the view
Of every friend who lov'd thee dear!
Reluctant is the last adieu,
Sweet boy, we whisper round thy bier!

Now swift as morning beams shall fade
Thy memory, as thou ne'er hadst been;
The smile that round thy features play'd
Forgotten, ere thy grave be green.

Thy mother wondering at the space,
So vacant now, where thou shouldst be,
In fancy views thy smiling face;
'Tis all that now remains of thee.

147

THE CELTIC PARADISE,

OR GREEN ISLE OF THE WESTERN WAVES.

On Flannan's rock, where spring perennial smiles,
Beyond the verge of cold Ebuda's isles,
(Where, as the labourer turns the sainted ground,
The relics of a pigmy race are found;
A race who liv'd before the light of song
Had pour'd its beams o'er days forgotten long;)
A Druid dwelt,—at whose unclosing gate
The spirits of the winds were wont to wait:
Whether he bade the northern blasts disclose
The ice-pil'd storehouse of the feathery snows;
Or the soft southern breezes fan the deep,
And wake the flower-buds from their infant sleep:
Whether he bade the clammy eastern rime
Clog the young floweret in its silken prime;
Or round his isle the fleecy sea-mists wreath,
Till e'en the wild-wood music ceas'd to breathe.

148

Oft on the tempest's blackening wings he rode,
And oft the deep's unsteady plain he trode;
Or, pillow'd on some green foam-crested surge,
Securely slept within the ocean-verge.

In his deep grot of green transparent spar,
He mark'd the twinkling path of every star;
And, as new planets met his wondering gaze,
Sigh'd o'er the narrow circle of his days.
And when hoarse murmurs echoed through the wood,
He blam'd the billows of the restless flood,
Whose heaving wastes and weltering waves enclose
The Western Isle where ancient chiefs repose.

One day, while foaming white the waters rave,
And hurl on high the hoarse-resounding wave,
A pitch-black cloud above the surges hung;
Hoarse in its skirts the moaning tempest sung;
Skimming the deep it reach'd the Druid's grot,
When its dark womb display'd a living boat.
An hundred oars, self moving, brush the seas;
The milk-white sails bend forward to the breeze;
No human forms the glistening cordage bound,
But shapes like moon-light shadows glancing round.
Unusual terror seiz'd the aged seer,
And soon these whisper'd accents reach'd his ear;—

149

“The boat of heroes see,—no longer stay—
Come to the fair Green Isle of those long past away!”

He heard:—strange vigour strung each aged limb,
He treads the air to ocean's echoing brim;
Embark'd, the breezes blow, o'er surges loud
He rides; while round him clings the pitchy cloud.
Now seven times night had rais'd her ebon brow,
And seven long days the sun shone dimly through;
On either side the wind's dull murmur past,
And voices shrill roll'd wildly on the blast:
But he no answer gave the shrieking dead,
And clos'd in sleep his eye's unwearied lid.
But when the next revolving morn drew nigh,
The mounting foam-hills swell to touch the sky,
They heave, they plunge, their shouldering heights divide,
And rock the reeling barge on every side:
With pausing glimpse the dim uncertain light
Fades, and loud voices rend the veil of night.
Shouts each exulting voice! “the Isle! the Isle!”
Again in light the curling billows smile;
They part, and sudden on the sage's eyes
The calm green fields of the departed rise.

150

Mild glanc'd the light with no sun-flaring ray,
A clear, a placid, and a purer day;
No flickering cloud betray'd the lurking storm,
No shade bedimm'd each object's faultless form;
Before his sight, as dreams celestial smile,
Spreads the green bosom of the Western Isle;
Where nearest objects glare not on the view,
Nor distant dwindle indistinct and blue.
Green sloping hills in spring eternal drest,
Where fleecy clouds of bright transparence rest,
Whose lucid folds the humid course reveal
Of trickling rills, that from their bosoms steal,
And down through streaks of deeper verdure glide,
Melodious tinkling o'er the mountain's side;
While echo wafts their music wild and clear,
Like breeze-touch'd harpings to the distant ear.
As through the fragrant vales they linger slow,
They feel no sultry suns of summer glow;
Nor rapid flooded by the pearly rain
Impel the foamy deluge o'er the plain.
As dews of morn distend the lily's bell,
High in their beds the murmuring riv'lets swell.
Beneath the whispering shade of orange trees,
Where sloping valleys spread to meet the seas.

151

While round the crystal marge undazzling play
With soften'd light the amber beams of day.
The lingering sun from his meridian height
Strews on these fair green fields his golden light,
In western billows shrouds no more his head,
Nor streaks again the morning sky with red.

152

A LOVE TALE.

A FRAGMENT.

The glance of my love is mild and fair
Whene'er she looks on me;
As the silver beams, in the midnight air,
Of the gentle moon; and her yellow hair
On the gale floats wild and free.

Her yellow locks flow o'er her back,
And round her forehead twine;
I would not give the tresses that deck
The blue lines of her snowy neck,
For the richest Indian mine.

153

Her gentle face is of lily hue;
But whene'er her eye meets mine,
The mantling blush on her cheek you view
Is like the rose-bud wet with dew,
When the morning sun-beams shine.

“Why heaves your breast with the smother'd sigh?
“My dear love tell me true!
“Why does your colour come and fly,
“And why, oh why is the tear in your eye?
“I ne'er lov'd maid but you.

“True I must leave Zeania's dome,
“And wander o'er ocean-sea;
“But yet, though far my footsteps roam,
“My soul shall linger round thy home,
“I'll love thee though thou love not me.”

She dried the tear with her yellow hair,
And rais'd her watery eye,
Like the sun with radiance soft and fair,
That gleams thro' the moist and showery air
When the white clouds fleck the sky.

154

She rais'd her eye with a feeble smile,
That through the tear-drops shone:
Her look might the hardest heart beguile,—
She sigh'd, as she press'd my hand the while,
“Alas! my brother John.

“Ah me! I lov'd my brother well
“Till he went o'er the sea;—
“And none till now could ever tell
“If joy or woe to the youth befel;
“But he will not return to me.”

155

SONG OF A TELINGA DANCING GIRL.

[_]

Addressed to an European Gentleman, in the Company of some European Ladies, in 1803.

Dear youth, whose features bland declare
A milder clime than India's air,
These ardent glances hither turn!
For thee, for thee alone, I burn.

Ah! if these kindling eyes could see
No dearer beauty here than me,
I vow by this impassion'd sigh,
For thee, for thee, would Rad'ha die!

Ah me! where'er I turn my view,
Bright rivals rise of fairer hue,
Whose charms a milder sun declare.—
Ah! Rad'ha yields to sad despair.

156

THE BATTLE OF ASSÀYE.

WRITTEN IN 1803.

Shout, Britons, for the battle of Assàye!
For that was a day
When we stood in our array,
Like the lion's might at bay,
And our battle-word was “Conquer or die.”

Rouse! rouse the cruel leopard from his lair.
With his yell the mountain rings,
And his red eye round he flings,
As arrow-like he springs,
And spreads his clutching paw to rend and tear.

Then first array'd in battle-front we saw,
Far as the eye could glance,
The Mahratta banners dance
O'er the desolate expanse;
And their standard was the leopard of Malwà.

157

But, when we first encounter'd man to man,
Such odds came never on,
Against Greece or Macedon,
When they shook the Persian throne
Mid the old barbaric pomp of Ispahàn.

No number'd might of living men could tame
Our gallant band, that broke
Through the bursting clouds of smoke,
When the vollied thunder spoke
From a thousand smouldering mouths of lurid flame.

Hail Wellesley! who led'st the martial fray!—
Amid the locust swarm,
Dark fate was in thine arm;
And his shadow shall alarm
The Mahratta when he hears thy name for aye.

Ah! mark these British corses on the plain!—
Each vanish'd like a star
Mid the dreadful ranks of war,
While their foemen stood afar,
And gaz'd with silent terror at the slain.

158

Shout Britons, for the battle of Assàye!—
Ye who perish'd in your prime,
Your hallow'd names sublime
Shall live to endless time!
For heroic worth and fame shall never die.

159

ODE ON LEAVING VELORE.

WRITTEN IN 1804.

Farewell Velura's moat-girt towers,
Her rocky mountains huge and high,
Each giant cliff that darkly lowers
In sullen shapeless majesty!
And thou, tall mount, that from the sky
Usurp'st a proud, a sacred name;
Whose peak, by pilgrims seldom trod,
The silent throne of nature's God
Thine awe-struck devotees proclaim!

Thee too we hail with reverence meet,
Dread mountain! on whose granite breast
The stamp of Buddha's lotus-feet
The kneeling Hindù views imprest.
The mango on thy hoary crest,

160

Thy winding caverns dark and rude,
The tomb of him who sleeps alone,
O'er-canopied with living stone,
Amid the mountain-solitude.

Thy fame is vanish'd like a dream;
Now Islam's hermit-sons from far,
Primeval Adam's footsteps deem
The traces of thine Avatàr.
Not such when his triumphal car
By torch-light led the proud array;
When, as the priests the chorus sung,
Thy caves with central thunders rung,
And pour'd o'er prostrate crowds dismay.—

While he—whose soul sublime aspir'd
The dark decrees of fate to know,
Deep in these vaulted caves retir'd,
To watch the strange symbolic show,—
Around his head red lightnings gleam,
And wild mysterious accents swell:—
But, what the voice of thunder spoke,
Within the caverns of the rock,
No mortal tongue could live and tell.

161

Farewell, ye cliffs and ruin'd fanes!
Ye mountains tall, and woodlands green!
Where every rock my step detains,
To mark where ancient men have been.
Yet not for this I muse unseen,
Beside that river's bed of sand;
Here first, my pensive soul to cheat,
Fancy pourtray'd in visions sweet
The mountains of my native land.

Still as I gaze, these summits dun
A softer livelier hue display,
Such as beneath a milder sun
Once charm'd in youth's exulting day,—
Where harmless fell the solar ray
In golden radiance on the hill,
And murmuring slow the rocks between,
Or through long stripes of fresher green,
Was heard the tinkling mountain-rill.

Soft as the lov'd illusions glow,
New lustre lights the faded eye;
Again the flowers of fancy blow,
Which shrunk beneath the burning sky.
To aguey pen and forest fly

162

The night-hag fever's shuddering brood;
And now, with powers reviv'd anew,
I bid Velura's towers adieu!
Adieu, her rocks and mountains rude!

And thou! with whom the sultry day
Unnoted pass'd in converse bland!
Or when thy lyre some witching lay
Would wake beneath thy magic hand;—
(Wild as the strains of fairy-land
It threw its numbers on the breeze;
Soft as the love-sick mermaid's plaint,
That breathes at summer evenings faint,
And dies along the crisping seas—)

Dear youth, farewell! whose accents wake
Fond thoughts of friends I view no more,
Since first, to furrow ocean's lake,
I left the cliffs of Albion's shore.
Amid the wilds of grey Mysòre
For thee the frequent sigh shall swell,
When rise Velura's massy towers,
Her hills and palm-encircled bowers
To fancy's view.—Again farewell!—

163

ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN.

WRITTEN IN CHÉRICÁL, MALABAR.

Slave of the dark and dirty mine!
What vanity has brought thee here?
How can I love to see thee shine
So bright, whom I have bought so dear?—
The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear
For twilight-converse, arm in arm;
The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear
When mirth and music wont to charm.

By Chéricál's dark wandering streams,
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams
Of Teviot lov'd while still a child,
Of castled rocks stupendous pil'd
By Esk or Eden's classic wave,
Where loves of youth and friendships smil'd,
Uncurs'd by thee, vile yellow slave!

164

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade!—
The perish'd bliss of youth's first prime,
That once so bright on fancy play'd,
Revives no more in after-time.
Far from my sacred natal clime,
I haste to an untimely grave;
The daring thoughts that soar'd sublime
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.

Slave of the mine! thy yellow light
Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear.—
A gentle vision comes by night
My lonely widow'd heart to cheer;
Her eyes are dim with many a tear,
That once were guiding stars to mine:
Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!—
I cannot bear to see thee shine.

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,
I left a heart that lov'd me true!
I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave,
To roam in climes unkind and new.
The cold wind of the stranger blew
Chill on my wither'd heart:—the grave
Dark and untimely met my view—
And all for thee, vile yellow slave!

165

Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock
A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn,
Now that his frame the lightning shock
Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne?
From love, from friendship, country, torn,
To memory's fond regrets the prey,
Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn!—
Go mix thee with thy kindred clay!

166

ADDRESS TO MY MALAY KREES.

WRITTEN WHILE PURSUED BY A FRENCH PRIVATEER OFF SUMATRA.

Where is the arm I well could trust
To urge the dagger in the fray?
Alas! how powerless now its thrust,
Beneath Malaya's burning day!

The sun has wither'd in their prime
The nerves that once were strong as steel:
Alas! in danger's venturous time
That I should live their loss to feel!

Yet still my trusty Krees prove true,
If e'er thou serv'dst at need the brave,
And thou shalt wear a crimson hue,
Or I shall win a watery grave.

167

Now let thine edge like lightning glow,
And, second but thy master's will,
Malay ne'er struck a deadlier blow,
Though practis'd in the art to kill.

O! by thy point! for every wound
Where trace of Frankish blood hath been,
A golden circle shall surround
Thy hilt of agate smooth and green.

My trusty Krees now play thy part,
And second well thy master's will!
And I will wear thee next my heart,
And many a life-blood owe thee still.

168

CHRISTMAS IN PENANG.

WRITTEN IN 1804.

Dear Nona, Christmas comes from far
To seek us near the eastern star,
But wears not, in this orient clime,
Her wintry wreaths and ancient thyme.—
What flowerets must we strew to thee,
For glossy bay or rosemary?

Champaca flowers for thee we strew,
To drink the merry Christmas dew:
Though hail'd in each Malayan grove
The saffron-tinted flower of love,
Its tulip-buds adorn the hair
Of none more lov'd amid the fair.

169

Banana leaves their ample screen
Shall spread, to match the holly green.
Well may their glossy softness please,
Sweet emblem of the soul at ease,
The heart expanding frank and free,
Like the still-green Banana tree.

Nona, may all the woodland powers
That stud Malaya's clime with flowers,
Or on the breeze their fragrance fling,
Around thee form an angel ring,
To guard thee ever gay and free,
Beneath thy green Banana tree!

170

DIRGE OF THE DEPARTED YEAR.

To Olivia.

WRITTEN IN 1806.

Malaya's woods and mountains ring
With voices strange but sad to hear;
And dark unbodied spirits sing
The dirge of the departed year.

Lo! now, methinks, in tones sublime,
As viewless o'er our heads they bend,
They whisper, “thus we steal your time,
Weak mortals! till your days shall end.”

Then wake the dance, and wake the song,
Resound the festive mirth and glee!
Alas! the days have pass'd along,
The days we never more shall see.

171

But let me brush the nightly dews,
Beside the shell-depainted shore,
And mid the sea-weeds sit to muse
On days that shall return no more.

Olivia, ah! forgive the bard,
If sprightly strains alone are dear:
His notes are sad, for he has heard
The footsteps of the parting year.

Mid friends of youth, belov'd in vain,
Oft have I hail'd this jocund day.
If pleasure brought a thought of pain,
I charm'd it with a passing lay.

Friends of my youth, for ever dear,
Where are you from this bosom fled?
A lonely man I linger here,
Like one that has been long time dead.

Fore-doom'd to seek an early tomb,
For whom the pallid grave-flowers blow,
I hasten on my destin'd doom,
And sternly mock at joy or woe.

172

Yet, while the circling year returns,
Till years to me return no more,
Still in my breast affection burns
With purer ardour than before.

Departed year! thine earliest beam,
When first it grac'd thy splendid round,
Beheld me by the Caveri's stream,
A man unblest on holy ground.

With many a lingering step and slow,
I left Mysura's hills afar,
Through Curga's rocks I past below,
To trace the lakes of Malabar.

Sweet Malabar! thy suns, that shine
With soften'd light through summer showers,
Might charm a sadder soul than mine
To joy amid thy lotus-flowers.

For each sweet scene I wander'd o'er,
Fair scenes that shall be ever dear,
From Curga's hills to Travencore—
I hail thy steps, departed year!

173

But chief that in this eastern isle,
Girt by the green and glistering wave,
Olivia's kind endearing smile
Seem'd to recall me from the grave.

When, far beyond Malaya's sea,
I trace dark Soonda's forests drear,
Olivia! I shall think of thee;—
And bless thy steps, departed year!

Each morn or evening spent with thee
Fancy shall mid the wilds restore
In all their charms, and they shall be
Sweet days that shall return no more.

Still may'st thou live in bliss secure,
Beneath that friend's protecting care,
And may his cherish'd life endure
Long, long, thy holy love to share.

Penang, Jan. 1806.

174

VERSES

WRITTEN AT THE ISLAND OF SAGUR, IN THE MOUTH OF THE GANGES, IN 1807.

On sea-girt Sagur's desert isle,
Mantled with thickets dark and dun,
May never moon or starlight smile,
Nor ever beam the summer sun!—
Strange deeds of blood have there been done,
In mercy ne'er to be forgiven;
Deeds the far-seeing eye of heaven
Veiled his radiant orb to shun.

To glut the shark and crocodile
A mother brought her infant here:
She saw its tender playful smile,
She shed not one maternal tear;—
She threw it on a watery bier:—
With grinding teeth sea monsters tore
The smiling infant which she bore:—
She shrunk not once its cries to hear!

175

Ah! mark that victim wildly drest,
His streaming beard is hoar and grey,
Around him floats a crimson vest,
Red-flowers his matted locks array.—
Heard you these brazen timbrels bray?
His heart-blood on the lotus-flower
They offer to the Evil Power;
And offering turn their eyes away.

Dark Goddess of the iron mace,
Flesh-tearer! quaffing life-blood warm,
The terrors of thine awful face
The pulse of mortal hearts alarm.—
Grim Power! if human woes can charm,
Look to the horrors of the flood,
Where crimson'd Ganga shines in blood,
And man-devouring monsters swarm.

Skull-chaplet-wearer! whom the blood
Of man delights a thousand years,
Than whom no face, by land or flood,
More stern and pitiless appears,

176

Thine is the cup of human tears.
For pomp of human sacrifice
Cannot the cruel blood suffice
Of tigers, which thine island rears?

Not all blue Ganga's mountain-flood,
That rolls so proudly round thy fane,
Shall cleanse the tinge of human blood,
Nor wash dark Sagur's impious stain:—
The sailor, journeying on the main,
Shall view from far the dreary isle,
And curse the ruins of the pile
Where Mercy ever sued in vain.

177

VERSES

ON THE DEATH OF NELSON.

How dark the cloud of fate impends!
That canopies the ocean-plain!
How red the shower of blood descends,
Till Nelson lies amid the slain.—
Then pauses battle's awful reign:—
As warriors strive the tear to hide,
Wild shuddering shoots along the purple main—
The main by mighty Nelson's heart-blood dyed.

Blood of the brave! thou art not lost
Amid the waste of waters blue!
The waves that roll to Albion's coast,
Shall proudly boast their sanguine hue;
And thou shalt be the vernal dew
To foster valour's daring seed.
The generous plant shall still its stock renew,
And hosts of heroes rise when one shall bleed.

178

Great Nelson! o'er thy battle-bier
Soft shall the maids of Albion smile;
For thee shall fall no woman-tear,
Victorious hero of the Nile!
Reversing o'er thy funeral pile
The flags of Denmark, France, and Spain,
The martial youth of Britain's generous isle
In hymns shall hail thee “Conqueror of the Main.”—

O! thou hast fallen as warriors ought,
Iberia's banner beaten down,
Nor, till the glorious deed was wrought,
Forsook thy comrades of renown.
When many a lingering year is flown,
Shall Britons mark the fateful day,
When Victory brought her fadeless laurel crown,
And bore thee in immortal arms away.—

You, ancient chiefs of deathless praise,
From high celestial thrones, behold!
Say, deem you not our modern days
Shall match the mighty years of old?
Long has the tide of ages roll'd
And brought no rival to your fame:
But now, whene'er your wonderous deeds are told,
Your's shall but rank with mighty Nelson's name.

179

How dark the cloud of war impends!
How wide the bursting tempest flies!
How red the rain of blood descends,
Till Nelson mid the carnage lies!
Red days have flash'd from angry skies—
No common eye can bear to gaze—
But eagle-souls like Nelson's love to rise,
And soaring drink the broad meridian blaze.

180

TO MR. JAMES PURVIS.

Purvis, when on this eastern strand
With glad surprise I grasp thy hand,
And memory's, fancy's, powers employ
In the form'd man to trace the boy;
How many dear illusions rise,
And scenes long faded from my eyes,
Since first our bounding steps were seen
Active and light on Denholm's level green!

Playmate of boyhood's ardent prime!
Rememberest thou, in former time
How oft we bade, in fickle freak,
Adieu to Latin terms and Greek,

181

To trace the banks where blackbirds sung,
And ripe brown nuts in clusters hung,
Where tangled hazels twined a screen
Of shadowy boughs in Denholm's mazy Dean?

Rememberest thou, in youthful might
Who foremost dared the mimic fight,
And, proud to feel his sinews strung,
Aloft the knotted cudgel swung;
Or fist to fist, with gore embrued,
The combat's wrathful strife pursued,
With eager heart, and fury keen,
Amid the ring on Denholm's bustling green?

Yes, it was sweet, till fourteen years
Had circled with the rolling spheres.
Then round our heads the tempest sleet
Of fretful cares began to beat;
As to our several paths we drew,
The cold wind of the stranger blew
Cold on each face—and hills between
Our step uptower'd and Denholm's lovely green.

When the gay shroud and swelling sail
Bade each bold bosom court the gale;

182

The first that tried the eastern sea
Was Gavin, gentle youth, was he!
His yellow locks fann'd by the breeze,
Gleam'd golden on the orient seas:
But never shall his steps be seen
Bounding again on Denholm's pleasant green.

We both have seen the ruddy tide
Of battle surging fierce and wide;
And mark'd with firm unconquer'd soul
The blackest storms of ocean roll;
While many a sun-ray, tipt with death,
Has fall'n like lightning on our path;
Yet, if a bard presage aright, I ween,
We both shall live to dance once more on Denholm's green.

183

ODE ON THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA.

WRITTEN IN 1809.

Forward, ye dauntless heirs of fame;
Stand forth your country's rights to save!
Again a chief of glorious name
Has sought the mansions of the brave.
Who next shall rear in combat high
Our banners, and the foe defy,
Till battling fields are red with gore?
For many a field with death shall groan,
Ere heaps of slaughtered Franks atone
Our high revenge for dauntless Moore.

Lo! I arraign thee, Leon old,
With proud Castile, the boast of Spain,
For cavaliers and warriors bold!—
Here I impeach thee, hill and plain,
Thy airy pennons glancing green,
Long borne in fight by barons keen

184

By Carrion and old Douro's stream!—
Where were you when an hour of pause
Was treason to your own good cause,
Which valour's self shall scarce redeem?

He pauses not—to Douro's side
Moves on the firm undaunted band;
And lo! by foes encompassed wide,
Moore stands alone on Spanish land.
As seaward bends his long array,
The Gallic wolf from day to day
Scowls on his route with distant awe:
Distant he prowls, but shrinks to wait
The close-encountering shock of fate—
To face the lion's rending paw.

The iron king, supreme in war,
Whose look bids armies melt away,
Like death's dark spectre gloom'd from far,
And first in battle felt dismay.
He thought of Acre's dreadful strife,
That reft his bravest hearts of life,
And bade his battle-star look pale,
While bright the waning crescent grew,
And Sydney's still unconquer'd crew
Made his proud soaring eagles quail.

185

Gallicia's hills are rising near,
The foes are pressing, swarming nigh;
Ah! how shall souls that mock at fear
Endure before their taunts to fly?
Ne'er may I live that day to see,
When Scotland's banners fair and free
Shall shun to face the fiercest fray:
No, let her pipes indignant blow,
And turn her broad-swords on the foe!—
Fear not, her clans shall hew their way.

And turn they shall—for who is he,
With myriads mustering at his back,
Who boasts to plunge them in the sea,
And foremost heads the fell attack?
Ha! stern Dalmatia's lord 'tis thou!
The laurels on that haughty brow
Are doom'd to wither, dry and sere:
These blood be-sprinkled wreaths of thine,
Are doom'd to grace a nobler shrine,
To crown our hero's martial bier.—

O vain of prowess! whence the boast
That swells thy heart to talk so proud?
Though hangs thy far out-numbering host
Above them like a thunder-cloud,

186

Full many a hero bold and tall
Whose souls thy vaunts shall ne'er appal,
Eager and panting for the fray,
Shall to the lists of death descend,
Whom, chief, thy battle ne'er shall bend
To yield, for life, an inch of way.

As waves redoubling dash the shore,
Descends to death each iron line;
And high the haughty eagles soar,
As towers mid storms the mountain-pine;
Harsh rings the steel, with fruitless toil
They burst—they break, and wide recoil,
With banners rent and standards torn;—
As mountain forests, quell'd by age,
Crash in the whirlwind's sweeping rage,
Afar their shatter'd ranks are borne.

Now turn we to Corunna's steep,
And mark that tomb beside the shore;
There, in his blood-stained arms, shall sleep
To future times the hero Moore:
There, in stern valour's generous glow,
Each manly heart shall melt with woe

187

For Moore, in freedom's battle slain;
While soft shall float the maiden's sigh,
And gentle tears from beauty's eye
Bedew his grave who died for Spain.

188

PORTUGUEZE HYMN.

TO THE VIRGIN MARY, “THE STAR OF THE SEA.”

WRITTEN AT SEA, ON BOARD THE SHIP SANTO ANTONIO.

Star of the wide and pathless sea,
Who lov'st on mariners to shine,
These votive garments wet, to thee,
We hang within thy holy shrine.
When o'er us flash'd the surging brine,
Amid the waving waters tost,
We called no other name but thine,
And hop'd when other hope was lost.
Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the vast and howling main!
When dark and lone is all the sky,
And mountain-waves o'er ocean's plain
Erect their stormy heads on high,

189

When virgins for their true-loves sigh
They raise their weeping eyes to thee;—
The Star of ocean heeds their cry,
And saves the foundering bark at sea.
Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the dark and stormy sea!
When wrecking tempests round us rave.
Thy gentle virgin-form we see
Bright rising o'er the hoary wave,
The howling storms that seem'd to crave
Their victims, sink in music sweet;
The surging seas recede to pave
The path beneath thy glistening feet.
Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the desart waters wild,
Who pitying hears't the seaman's cry!
The God of mercy as a child
On that chaste bosom loves to lie;
While soft the chorus of the sky
Their hymns of tender mercy sing,
And angel voices name on high
The mother of the heavenly king.
Ave Maris Stella!

190

Star of the deep! at that blest name
The waves sleep silent round the keel,
The tempests wild their fury tame,
That made the deep's foundations reel;
The soft celestial accents steal
So soothing through the realms of woe,
The newly-damn'd a respite feel
From torture in the depths below.
Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the mild and placid seas!
Whom rain-bow rays of mercy crown,
Whose name thy faithful Portugueze,
O'er all that to the depths go down,
With hymns of grateful transport own,
When clouds obscure all other light,
And heaven assumes an awful frown,
The Star of ocean glitters bright.
Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the deep! when angel lyres
To hymn thy holy name assay,
In vain a mortal harp aspires
To mingle in the mighty lay;

191

Mother of God! one living ray
Of hope our grateful bosoms fires—
When storms and tempests pass away,
To join the bright immortal choirs.
Ave Maris Stella!

192

FINLAND SONG.

ADDRESSED BY A MOTHER TO HER CHILD.

Sweet bird of the meadow, oh, soft be thy rest!
Thy mother will wake thee at morn from thy nest;
She has made a soft nest, little red-breast, for thee,
Of the leaves of the birch and the moss of the tree.
Then soothe thee, sweet bird of my bosom, once more!
'Tis Sleep, little infant, that stands at the door.—
“Where is the sweet babe,” you may hear how he cries,
“Where is the sweet babe in his cradle that lies,
“In his cradle, soft swaddled in vestments of down?
“'Tis mine to watch o'er him till darkness be flown.”

193

ELEGIAC ODE AT THE RETURN OF THE PARENTALIA, OR FEAST OF THE DEAD.

IMITATED FROM AUSONIUS.

When friends of youth, departed long,
Return to memory's pensive view,
'Tis sweet to chaunt the votive song,
A meed to fond affection due.

But grief, which fancy dreads to sing,
And deep heart-rending sighs return,
When slow revolve the months that bring
The flowers to lost Sabina's urn.

Ah! first belov'd! in youth's fair bloom
From these sad arms untimely torn,—
Still lingering by thy lonely tomb,
Thee, lost Sabina, still I mourn!

194

The tear at last may cease to flow,
But time can ne'er my peace restore;
If e'er this bosom pause from woe,
'Tis only when I thee deplore.

Ne'er has oblivious length of days
Conceal'd thy form from memory's view,
Nor e'er did second love erase
The lines which first affection drew.

Through my sad home, of thee bereft,
I linger silent and alone,
No friend to share my joy is left,
Or sooth my grief, since thou art gone.

While others in their cheerful home
Their loves of youth enamour'd see,
Beside the lonely grave I roam,
And only can remember thee.

For pleasures lost, for fortune's scorn,
Ne'er have I shed the useless tear,
But hoary age laments forlorn
The maid to first affection dear.

195

Though, hallow'd by thy parting prayer,
Thy sons exult in youth's fair bloom,
Yet left too soon, they ne'er can share
The fond regret that haunts thy tomb.

For thee my woes I sacred hold,
No heart shall steal a sigh from mine,
Till in the common crumbling mould
Mine ashes mingle yet with thine.

206

ODE TO VIRTUE,

IMITATED FROM THE GREEK OF ARISTOTLE.

[_]

(Written on the death of General Frazer, killed at the battle of Deeg.)

Stern Virtue, unappall'd by toil,
To mortal man the noblest prize!
For thee the chiefs of Albion's soil
By envied death to glory rise.
Inspir'd by thee, their souls disdain
Intolerable toil and pain,
Beneath the noontide's sultry star:
When fell Mahrattas, on the fervid plain,
Bend fainting o'er each fervid courser's mane,
They rush impetuous to the charge of war.

For thee the sons of Albion bore
Woes that no mortal tongue can tell;
For thee, on India's dusky shore
They nobly fought and proudly fell.

207

For thee, brave Frazer sunk below;—
For him no more the sunbeams glow;
Yet lives his worth on India's strand;
And long on Albion's shore the warrior's fame
To future ages shall bequeath his name,
The pride, the glory of his native land.

289

SCENES OF INFANCY: DESCRIPTIVE OF TEVIOTDALE. 1803.

Dulcia rura valete, et Lydia, dulcior illis,
Et casti fontes, et felix nomen agelli!
Valerius Cato.

[_]

IN FOUR PARTS.

291

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY CHARLOTTE CAMPBELL, THE FOLLOWING POEM IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, AS A SMALL, BUT SINCERE, MARK OF THE AUTHOR'S ESTEEM AND ADMIRATION FOR HER LADYSHIP'S TASTE AND UNDERSTANDING, WHICH ARE THE DELIGHT OF ALL WHO HAVE THE PLEASURE OF HER ACQUAINTANCE.

293

I. PART I.

Ben sanno i verdi poggi, e le sonanti
Selve romite, e l' acque
Che son le mie ricchezze inni soavi:
Alor la cetra consacrar mi piacque—
Menzini.

295

Sweet scenes of youth, to faithful memory dear,
Still fondly cherish'd with the sacred tear,
When, in the soften'd light of summer-skies,
Full on my soul life's first illusions rise!
Sweet scenes of youthful bliss, unknown to pain!
I come, to trace your soothing haunts again,
To mark each grace that pleas'd my stripling prime,
By absence hallow'd, and endear'd by time,
To lose amid your winding dells the past:—
Ah! must I think this lingering look the last?
Ye lovely vales, that met my earliest view!
How soft ye smil'd, when Nature's charms were new!
Green was her vesture, glowing, fresh, and warm,
And every opening grace had power to charm;
While as each scene in living lustre rose,
Each young emotion wak'd from soft repose.

296

E'en as I muse, my former life returns,
And youth's first ardour in my bosom burns.
Like music melting in a lover's dream,
I hear the murmuring song of Teviot's stream:

297

The crisping rays, that on the waters lie,
Depict a paler moon, a fainter sky;
While through inverted alder boughs below
The twinkling stars with greener lustre glow.

On these fair banks thine ancient bards no more,
Enchanting stream! their melting numbers pour;
But still their viewless harps, on poplars hung,
Sigh the soft airs they learn'd when time was young:
And those who tread with holy feet the ground,
At lonely midnight, hear their silver sound;
When river breezes wave their dewy wings,
And lightly fan the wild enchanted strings.

What earthly hand presumes, aspiring bold,
The airy harp of ancient bards to hold,

298

With ivy's sacred wreath to crown his head,
And lead the plaintive chorus of the dead—
He round the poplar's base shall nightly strew
The willow's pointed leaves, of pallid blue,
And still restrain the gaze, reverted keen,
When round him deepen sighs from shapes unseen,
And o'er his lonely head, like summer bees,
The leaves self-moving tremble on the trees.
When morn's first rays fall quivering on the strand,
Then is the time to stretch the daring hand,
And snatch it from the bending poplar pale,
The magic harp of ancient Teviotdale.

If thou, Aurelia, bless the high design,
And softly smile, that daring hand is mine!
Wild on the breeze the thrilling lyre shall fling
Melodious accents from each elfin string.
Such strains the harp of haunted Merlin threw,
When from his dreams the mountain-sprites withdrew;

299

While, trembling to the wires that warbled shrill,
His apple-blossoms wav'd along the hill.

300

Hark! how the mountain-echoes still retain
The memory of the prophet's boding strain!

“Once more, begirt with many a martial peer,
Victorious Arthur shall his standard rear,

301

In ancient pomp his mailed bands display;
While nations wondering mark their strange array,
Their proud commanding port, their giant form,
The spirit's stride, that treads the northern storm.
Where fate invites them to the dread repast,
Dark Cheviot's eagles swarm on every blast;
On Camlan bursts the sword's impatient roar;
The war-horse wades with champing hoofs in gore;
The scythed car on grating axle rings;
Broad o'er the field the ravens join their wings;
Above the champions in the fateful hour
Floats the black standard of the evil power.”

Though many a wondrous tale of elder time
Shall grace the wild traditionary rhyme,
Yet, not of warring hosts and faulchion-wounds
Again the harp of ancient minstrels sounds:
Be mine to sing the meads, the pensile groves,
And silver streams, which dear Aurelia loves.

From wilds of tawny heath and mosses dun,
Through winding glens scarce pervious to the sun,
Afraid to glitter in the noon-tide beam,
The Teviot leads her young, sequester'd stream;
Till, far retiring from her native rills,
She leaves the covert of her sheltering hills,

302

And, gathering wide her waters on their way,
With foamy force emerges into day.

Where'er she sparkles o'er her silver sand,
The daisied meads in glowing hues expand;
Blue osiers whiten in their bending rows;
Broad o'er the stream the pendent alder grows;
But, more remote, the spangled fields unfold
Their bosoms, streak'd with vegetative gold;
Gray downs ascending dimple into dales;
The silvery birch hangs o'er the sloping vales;
While, far remote, where flashing torrents shine,
In misty verdure towers the tapering pine,
And dusky heaths in sullen languor lie,
Where Cheviot's ridges swell to meet the sky.

As every prospect opens on my view,
I seem to live departed years anew;
When in these wilds a jocund, sportive child,
Each flower self-sown my heedless hours beguil'd;
The wabret leaf, that by the pathway grew,
The wild-briar rose, of pale and blushful hue,

303

The thistle's rolling wheel, of silken down,
The blue-bell, or the daisy's pearly crown,
The gaudy butterfly, in wanton round,
That, like a living pea-flower, skimm'd the ground.

Again I view the cairn, and moss-gray stone,
Where oft at eve I wont to muse alone,
And vex with curious toil mine infant eye,
To count the gems that stud the nightly sky,
Or think, as playful fancy wander'd far,
How sweet it were to dance from star to star!

304

Again I view each rude romantic glade,
Where once with tiny steps my childhood stray'd
To watch the foam-bells of the bubbling brook,
Or mark the motions of the clamorous rook,
Who saw her nest, close thatch'd with ceaseless toil,
At summer-eve become the woodman's spoil.

How lightly then I chas'd from flower to flower
The lazy bee, at noon-tide's languid hour,
When, pausing faint beneath the sweltering heat,
The hive could scarce their drowsy hum repeat!

Nor scenes alone with summer-beauties bright,
But winter's terrors brought a wild delight,
With fringed flakes of snow that idly sail,
And windows tinkling shrill with dancing hail;
While, as the drifting tempest darker blew,
White showers of blossoms seem'd the fields to strew.

Again, beside this silver riv'let's shore,
With green and yellow moss-flowers mottled o'er,
Beneath a shivering canopy reclin'd
Of aspen leaves, that wave without a wind,
I love to lie, when lulling breezes stir
The spiry cones that tremble on the fir,

305

Or wander mid the dark-green fields of broom,
When peers in scatter'd tufts the yellow bloom,
Or trace the path with tangling furze o'er-run;
When bursting seed-bells crackle in the sun,
And pittering grasshoppers, confus'dly shrill,
Pipe giddily along the glowing hill.

306

Sweet grasshopper, who lov'st at noon to lie
Serenely in the green-ribb'd clover's eye,
To sun thy filmy wings and emerald vest,
Unseen thy form, and undisturb'd thy rest!
Oft have I listening mus'd the sultry day,
And wonder'd what thy chirping song might say;
When nought was heard along the blossom'd lea,
To join thy music, save the listless bee.

Since with weak step I trac'd each rising down,
Nor dream'd of worlds beyond yon mountains brown,
These scenes have ever to my heart been dear;
But still, Aurelia, most, when thou wert near!

On Eden's banks, in pensive fit reclin'd,
Thy angel-features haunted still my mind;
And oft, when ardent fancy spurn'd control,
The living image rush'd upon my soul,
Fill'd all my heart, and mid the bustling crowd
Bade me forgetful muse or think aloud;
While, as I sigh'd thy favourite scenes to view,
Each lingering hour seemed lengthening as it flew.
As Ovid, banish'd from his favourite fair,
No gentle melting heart his grief to share,
Was wont in plaintive accents to deplore
Campania's scenes, along the Getic shore;

307

A lifeless waste, unfann'd by vernal breeze,
Where snow-flakes hung like leaves upon the trees:
The fur-clad savage lov'd his aspect mild,
Kind as a father, gentle as a child,

308

And though they pitied, still they bless'd the doom,
That bade the Getæ hear the songs of Rome.

Sweet scenes, conjoin'd with all that most endears
The cloudless morning of my tender years!
With fond regret your haunts I wander o'er,
And wondering feel myself the child no more:
Your forms, your sunny tints, are still the same;—
But sad the tear which lost affections claim.

Aurelia! mark yon silver clouds unroll'd,
Where far in ether hangs each shining fold,
That on the breezy billow idly sleeps,
Or climbs ambitious up the azure steeps!
Their snowy ridges seem to heave and swell
With airy domes, where parted spirits dwell;
Untainted souls, from this terrestrial mould
Who fled, before the priest their names had told.

On such an eve as this, so mild and clear,
I follow'd to the grave a sister's bier.
As sad by Teviot I retir'd alone,
The setting sun with silent splendour shone;
Sublime emotions reach'd my purer mind;
The fear of death, the world was left behind.

309

I saw the thin-spread clouds of summer lie,
Like shadows, on the soft cerulean sky:
As each its silver bosom seem'd to bend,
Rapt fancy heard an angel-voice descend,
Melodious as the strain which floats on high,
To soothe the sleep of blameless infancy;
While, soft and slow, aerial music flow'd,
To hail the parted spirit on its road.
“To realms of purer light,” it seem'd to say,
“Thyself as pure, fair sufferer, come away!
“The moon, whose silver beams are bath'd in dew,
“Sleeps on her mid-way cloud of softest blue;
“Her watery light, that trembles on the tree,
“Shall safely lead thy viewless steps to me.”
As o'er my heart the sweet illusions stole,
A wilder influence charm'd and aw'd my soul;
Each graceful form that vernal nature wore
Rous'd keen sensations never felt before;
The woodland's sombre shade that peasants fear,
The haunted mountain-streams that murmur'd near,
The antique tomb-stone, and the church-yard green,
Seem'd to unite me with the world unseen.
Oft, when the eastern moon rose darkly red,
I heard the viewless paces of the dead,
Heard on the breeze the wandering spirits sigh,
Or airy skirts unseen that rustled by.

310

The lyre of woe, that oft had sooth'd my pain,
Soon learn'd to breathe a more heroic strain,
And bade the weeping birch her branches wave
In mournful murmurs o'er the warrior's grave.

Where rising Teviot joins the Frostylee,
Stands the huge trunk of many a leafless tree.
No verdant wood-bine wreaths their age adorn;
Bare are the boughs, the knarled roots uptorn.
Here shone no sun-beam, fell no summer-dew,
Nor ever grass beneath the branches grew,
Since that bold chief who Henry's power defied,
True to his country, as a traitor died.

311

Yon mouldering cairns, by ancient hunters plac'd,
Where blends the meadow with the marshy waste,
Mark where the gallant warriors lie:—but long
Their fame shall flourish in the Scotian song;
The Scotian song, whose deep impulsive tones
Each thrilling fibre, true to passion, owns,
When, soft as gales o'er summer seas that blow,
The plaintive music warbles love-lorn woe,
Or, wild and loud, the fierce exulting strain
Swells its bold notes triumphant o'er the slain.

Such themes inspire the Border shepherd's tale,
When in the gray thatch sounds the fitful gale,
And constant wheels go round with whirling din,
As by red ember-light the damsels spin:
Each chaunts by turns the song his soul approves,
Or bears the burthen to the maid he loves.

312

Still to the surly strain of martial deeds,
In cadence soft, the dirge of love succeeds,
With tales of ghosts that haunt unhallow'd ground;
While narrowing still the circle closes round,
Till, shrinking pale from nameless shapes of fear,
Each peasant starts his neighbour's voice to hear.
What minstrel wrought these lays of magic power,
A swain once taught me in his summer-bower,
As round his knees in playful age I hung,
And eager listen'd to the lays he sung.

Where Bortha hoarse, that loads the meads with sand,
Rolls her red tide to Teviot's western strand,

313

Through slaty hills whose sides are shagg'd with thorn,
Where springs in scatter'd tufts the dark-green corn,
Towers wood-girt Harden far above the vale;
And clouds of ravens o'er the turrets sail.
A hardy race, who never shrunk from war,
The Scott, to rival realms a mighty bar,
Here fix'd his mountain-home;—a wide domain,
And rich the soil, had purple heath been grain;
But, what the niggard ground of wealth denied,
From fields more bless'd his fearless arm supplied.

The waning harvest-moon shone cold and bright;
The warder's horn was heard at dead of night;

314

And, as the massy portals wide were flung,
With stamping hoofs the rocky pavement rung.
What fair, half-veil'd, leans from her lattic'd hall,
Where red the wavering gleams of torch-light fall?
'Tis Yarrow's fairest flower, who through the gloom
Looks wistful for her lover's dancing plume.
Amid the piles of spoil that strew'd the ground,
Her ear, all anxious, caught a wailing sound;
With trembling haste the youthful matron flew,
And from the hurried heaps an infant drew:
Scar'd at the light, his little hands he flung
Around her neck, and to her bosom clung;
While beauteous Mary sooth'd in accents mild
His fluttering soul, and clasp'd her foster-child.
Of milder mood the gentle captive grew,
Nor lov'd the scenes that scar'd his infant view.
In vales remote, from camps and castles far,
He shunn'd the fearful shuddering joy of war;
Content the loves of simple swains to sing,
Or wake to fame the harp's heroic string.

His are the strains, whose wandering echoes thrill
The shepherd lingering on the twilight hill,
When evening brings the merry folding-hours,
And sun-eyed daisies close their winking flowers.

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He liv'd, o'er Yarrow's Flower to shed the tear,
To strew the holly's leaves o'er Harden's bier;
But none was found above the minstrel's tomb,
Emblem of peace, to bid the daisy bloom:
He, nameless as the race from which he sprung,
Sav'd other names, and left his own unsung.

Nurs'd in these wilds, a lover of the plains,
I sing, like him, the joys of inland swains,
Who climb their loftiest mountain-peaks, to view
From far the cloud-like waste of ocean blue.
But not, like his, with unperceiv'd decay
My days in fancy's dreams shall melt away;
For soon yon sun, that here so softly gleams,
Shall see me tossing on the ocean-streams.
Yet still 'tis sweet to trace each youthful scene,
And conjure up the days which might have been,
Live o'er the fancied suns which ne'er shall roll,
And woo the charm of song to soothe my soul,
Paint the fair scenes which charm'd when life began,
And in the infant stamp'd the future man.

From yon green peak black haunted Slata brings
The gushing torrents of unfathom'd springs:

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In a dead lake, that ever seems to freeze,
By sedge inclos'd from every ruffling breeze,
The fountains lie; and shuddering peasants shrink
To plunge the stone within the fearful brink:
For here, 'tis said, the fairy hosts convene,
With noisy talk, and bustling steps unseen;

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The hill resounds with strange, unearthly cries;
And moaning voices from the waters rise.
Here oft in sweetest sounds is heard the chime
Of bells unholy from the fairy clime;
The tepid gales, that in these regions blow,
Oft on the brink dissolve the mountain-snow;
Around the deep that seeks the downward sky,
In mazes green the haunted ringlets lie.
Woe to the upland swain who, wandering far,
The circle treads beneath the evening star!
His feet the witch-grass green impels to run
Full on the dark descent he strives to shun;
Till, on the giddy brink, o'erpower'd by charms,
The fairies clasp him in unhallow'd arms,
Doom'd with the crew of restless foot to stray
The earth by night, the nether realms by day;
Till seven long years their dangerous circuit run,
And call the wretch to view this upper sun.
Nor long the time, if village-saws be true,
Since in the deep a hardy peasant threw
A ponderous stone; when, murmuring from below,
With gushing sound he heard the lake o'erflow.
The mighty torrent, foaming down the hills,
Call'd with strong voice on all her subject rills;
Rocks drove on jagged rocks with thundering sound,
And the red waves impatient rent their mound;

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On Hawick burst the flood's resistless sway,
Plough'd the pav'd streets, and tore the walls away,
Floated high roofs, from whelming fabricks torn;
While pillar'd arches down the wave were borne.

Boast! Hawick, boast! Thy structures, rear'd in blood,
Shall rise triumphant over flame and flood,
Still doom'd to prosper, since on Flodden's field
Thy sons, a hardy band, unwont to yield,
Fell with their martial king, and (glorious boast!)
Gain'd proud renown where Scotia's fame was lost.

Between red ezlar banks, that frightful scowl,
Fring'd with gray hazel, roars the mining Roull;
Where Turnbulls once, a race no power could awe,
Lin'd the rough skirts of stormy Ruberslaw.

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Bold was the chief, from whom their line they drew,
Whose nervous arm the furious bison slew;
The bison, fiercest race of Scotia's breed,
Whose bounding course outstripp'd the red deer's speed.
By hunters chaf'd, encircled on the plain,
He frowning shook his yellow lion-mane,
Spurn'd with black hoof in bursting rage the ground,
And fiercely toss'd his moony horns around.
On Scotia's lord he rush'd with lightning speed,
Bent his strong neck, to toss the startled steed;
His arms robust the hardy hunter flung
Around his bending horns, and upward wrung,
With writhing force his neck retorted round,
And roll'd the panting monster on the ground,
Crush'd with enormous strength his bony skull;
And courtiers hail'd the man who turn'd the bull.

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How wild and harsh the moorland music floats,
When clamorous curlews scream with long-drawn notes,
Or, faint and piteous, wailing plovers pipe,
Or, loud and louder still, the soaring snipe!
And here the lonely lapwing whoops along,
That piercing shrieks her still-repeated song,
Flaps her blue wing, displays her pointed crest,
And cowering lures the peasant from her nest.
But if where all her dappled treasure lies
He bend his steps, no more she round him flies;
Forlorn, despairing of a mother's skill,
Silent and sad, she seeks the distant hill.

The tiny heath-flowers now begin to blow;
The russet moor assumes a richer glow;

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The powdery bells, that glance in purple bloom,
Fling from their scented cups a sweet perfume;
While from their cells, still moist with morning dew,
The wandering wild bee sips the honied glue:
In wider circle wakes the liquid hum,
And far remote the mingled murmurs come.

Where, panting, in his chequer'd plaid involv'd,
At noon the listless shepherd lies dissolv'd,
Mid yellow crow-bells, on the riv'let's banks,
Where knotted rushes twist in matted ranks,

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The breeze, that trembles through the whistling bent,
Sings in his placid ear of sweet content,
And wanton blows with eddies whirling weak
His yellow hair across his ruddy cheek.
His is the lulling music of the rills,
Where, drop by drop, the scanty current spills
Its waters o'er the shelves that wind across,
Or filters through the yellow, hairy moss.
'Tis his, recumbent by the well-spring clear,
When leaves are broad, and oats are in the ear,
And marbled clouds contract the arch on high,
To read the changes of the flecker'd sky;
What bodes the fiery drake at sultry noon;
What rains or winds attend the changing moon,
When circles round her disk of yellowish hue
Portentous close, while yet her horns are new;
Or, when the evening sky looks mild and gray,
If crimson tints shall streak the opening day.
Such is the science to the peasant dear,
Which guides his labour through the varied year;
While he, ambitious mid his brother swains
To shine, the pride and wonder of the plains,
Can in the pimpernel's red-tinted flowers,
As close their petals, read the measur'd hours,
Or tell, as short or tall his shadow falls,
How clicks the clock within the manse's walls.

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Though with the rose's flaring crimson dye
The heath-flower's modest blossom ne'er can vie,
Nor to the bland caresses of the gale
Of morn, like her, expand the purple veil,
The swain, who mid her fragrance finds repose,
Prefers her tresses to the gaudy rose,
And bids the wild bee, her companion, come
To sooth his slumbers with her airy hum.

Sweet, modest flower, in lonely deserts dun
Retiring still for converse with the sun,
Whose sweets invite the soaring lark to stoop,
And from thy cells the honied dew-bell scoop,
Though unobtrusive all thy beauties shine,
Yet boast, thou rival of the purpling vine!
For once thy mantling juice was seen to laugh
In pearly cups, which monarchs lov'd to quaff;
And frequent wake the wild inspired lay,
On Teviot's hills, beneath the Pictish sway.

When clover-fields have lost their tints of green,
And beans are full, and leaves are blanch'd and lean,
And winter's piercing breath prepares to drain
The thin green blood from every poplar's vein,
How grand the scene yon russet down displays,
While far the withering heaths with moor-burn blaze!

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The pillar'd smoke ascends with ashen gleam;
Aloft in air the arching flashes stream;
With rushing, crackling noise the flames aspire,
And roll one deluge of devouring fire;
The timid flocks shrink from the smoky heat,
Their pasture leave, and in confusion bleat,
With curious look the flaming billows scan,
As whirling gales the red combustion fan.

So, when the storms through Indian forests rave,
And bend the pliant canes in curling wave,
Grind their silicious joints with ceaseless ire,
Till bright emerge the ruby seeds of fire,
A brazen light bedims the burning sky,
And shuts each shrinking star's refulgent eye;
The forest roars, where crimson surges play,
And flash through lurid night infernal day;
Floats far and loud the hoarse, discordant yell
Of ravening pards, which harmless crowd the dell
While boa-snakes to wet savannahs trail
Awkward a lingering, lazy length of tail;
The barbarous tiger whets his fangs no more,
To lap with torturing pause his victim's gore;
Curb'd of their rage, hyenas gaunt are tame,
And shrink, begirt with all-devouring flame.

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But far remote, ye careful shepherds, lead
Your wanton flocks to pasture on the mead,
While from the flame the bladed grass is young,
Nor crop the slender spikes that scarce have sprung;
Else, your brown heaths to sterile wastes you doom,
While frisking lambs regret the heath-flower's bloom!
And ah! when smiles the day, and fields are fair,
Let the black smoke ne'er clog the burthen'd air!
Or soon, too soon, the transient smile shall fly,
And chilling mildews ripen in the sky,
The heartless flocks shrink shivering from the cold,
Reject the fields, and linger in the fold.

Lo! in the vales, where wandering riv'lets run,
The fleecy mists shine gilded in the sun,
Spread their loose folds, till now the lagging gale
Unfurls no more its lightly skimming sail,
But through the hoary flakes, that fall like snow,
Gleams in ethereal hue the watery bow.
'Tis ancient Silence, rob'd in thistle-down,
Whose snowy locks its fairy circles crown;
His vesture moves not, as he hovers lone,
While curling fogs compose his airy throne;
Serenely still, self-pois'd, he rests on high,
And soothes each infant breeze that fans the sky.

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The mists ascend;—the mountains scarce are free,
Like islands floating in a billowy sea;
While on their chalky summits glimmering dance
The sun's last rays across the gray expanse:
As sink the hills in waves that round them grow,
The hoary surges scale the cliff's tall brow;
The fleecy billows o'er its head are hurl'd,
As ocean once embrac'd the prostrate world.

So, round Caffraria's cape the polar storm
Collects black spiry clouds of dragon form:
Flash livid lightnings o'er the blackening deep,
Whose mountain-waves in silent horror sleep;
The sanguine sun, again emerging bright,
Darts through the clouds long watery lines of light;
The deep, congeal'd to lead, now heaves again,
While foamy surges furrow all the main;
Broad shallows whiten in tremendous row;
Deep gurgling murmurs echo from below;
And o'er each coral reef the billows come and go.

Oft have I wander'd in my vernal years
Where Ruberslaw his misty summit rears,
And, as the fleecy surges clos'd amain,
To gain the top have trac'd that shelving lane,

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Where every shallow stripe of level green,
That winding runs the shatter'd crags between,
Is rudely notch'd across the grassy rind
In awkward letters by the rural hind.
When fond and faithful swains assemble gay,
To meet their loves on rural holiday,
The trace of each obscure, decaying name
Of some fond pair records the secret flame.
And here the village-maiden bends her way,
When vows are broke, and fading charms decay,
Sings her soft sorrow to the mountain gale,
And weeps, that love's delusions e'er should fail.
Here too the youthful widow comes, to clear
From weeds a name to fond affection dear:
She pares the sod, with bursting heart, and cries,
“The hand, that trac'd it, in the cold grave lies!”—

Ah! dear Aurelia! when this arm shall guide
Thy twilight steps no more by Teviot's side,
When I to pine in eastern realms have gone,
And years have pass'd, and thou remain'st alone,
Wilt thou, still partial to thy youthful flame,
Regard the turf where first I carv'd thy name,
And think thy wanderer, far beyond the sea,
False to his heart, was ever true to thee?

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Why bend, so sad, that kind, regretful view,
As every moment were my last adieu?
Ah! spare that tearful look, 'tis death to see,
Nor break the tortur'd heart that bleeds for thee!
That snowy cheek, that moist and gelid brow,
Those quivering lips, that breathe the unfinish'd vow,
These eyes, that still with dimming tears o'erflow,
Will haunt me, when thou canst not see my woe.
Not yet, with fond but self-accusing pain,
Mine eyes reverted linger o'er the main;
But, sad, as he that dies in early spring,
When flowers begin to blow, and larks to sing,
When nature's joy a moment warms his heart,
And makes it doubly hard with life to part,
I hear the whispers of the dancing gale,
And fearful listen for the flapping sail,
Seek in these natal shades a short relief,
And steal a pleasure from maturing grief.

Yes! in these shades, this fond, adoring mind
Had hop'd in thee a dearer self to find,
Still from thy form some lurking grace to glean,
And wonder it so long remain'd unseen;
Hop'd, those seducing graces might impart
Their native sweetness to this sterner heart,

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While those dear eyes, in pearly light that shine,
Fond thought! should borrow manlier beams from mine.
Ah! fruitless hope of bliss, that ne'er shall be!
Shall but this lonely heart survive to me?
No! in the temple of my purer mind
Thine imag'd form shall ever live enshrin'd,
And hear the vows, to first affection due,
Still breath'd—for love that ceases ne'er was true.

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II. PART II.

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July flowers;—
I write of groves, of twilight; and I sing
The Court of Mab, and of the Fairy-king:
I write of youth, of love, &c.

Herrick's Hesperides.

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Star of the mead! sweet daughter of the day,
Whose opening flower invites the morning ray,
From thy moist cheek and bosom's chilly fold
To kiss the tears of eve, the dew-drops cold!
Sweet daisy, flower of love! when birds are pair'd,
'Tis sweet to see thee, with thy bosom bar'd,
Smiling in virgin innocence serene,
Thy pearly crown above thy vest of green.
The lark, with sparkling eye and rustling wing,
Rejoins his widow'd mate in early spring,
And, as he prunes his plumes of russet hue,
Swears on thy maiden blossom to be true.

When May-day comes, the morning of the year,
And from young April dries the gelid tear,

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When, as the verdure spreads, the bird is seen
No more, that sings amid the hawthorns green,
In lovelier tints thy swelling blossoms blow,
The leaflets red between the leaves of snow.
The damsel now, whose love-awaken'd mind
First hopes to leave her infancy behind,
Glides o'er the untrodden mead at dawning hour,
To seek the matin-dew of mystic power,
Bends o'er the mirror-stream with blushful air,
And weaves thy modest flower amid her hair.

Oft have I watch'd thy closing buds at eve,
Which for the parting sun-beams seem'd to grieve,
And, when gay morning gilt the dew-bright plain,
Seen them unclasp their folded leaves again:
Nor he, who sung—“The daisy is so sweet,”—
More dearly lov'd thy pearly form to greet;
When on his scarf the knight the daisy bound,
And dames at tourneys shone with daisies crown'd,

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And fays forsook the purer fields above,
To hail the daisy, flower of faithful love.

Ne'er have I chanc'd upon the moonlight-green,
In May's sweet month, to see the daisy-queen,
With all her train in emerald vest array'd;
As Chaucer once the radiant show survey'd.
Graceful and slow advanc'd the stately fair;
A sparkling fillet bound her golden hair;
With snowy florouns was her chaplet set,
Where living rubies rais'd each curious fret,
Sweet as the daisy, in her vernal pride;
The god of love attendant by her side:
His silken vest was purfled o'er with green,
And crimson rose-leaves wrought the sprigs between;
His diadem, a topaz, beam'd so bright,
The moon was dazzled with its purer light.

This Chaucer saw; but fancy's power denies
Such splendid visions to our feebler eyes:
Yet sure, with nymphs as fair, by Teviot's strand,
I oft have roam'd, to see the flower expand;
When, like the daisy-nymph, above the rest
Aurelia's peerless beauty shone confest.
Lightly we danc'd in many a frolic ring,
And welcom'd May with every flower of spring:

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Each smile, that sparkled in her artless eye,
Nor own'd her passion, nor could quite deny;
As blithe I bath'd her flushing cheek with dew,
And on the daisy swore to love her true.

Still in these meads, beside the daisy-flower,
I love to see the spiky rye-grass tower;
While o'er the folding swathes the mowers bend,
And sharpening scythes their grating echoes send
Far o'er the thymy fields. With frequent pause,
His sweepy stroke the lusty mower draws,
Impels the circling blade with sounding sway,
Nods to the maids that spread the winnowing hay,
Draws from the grass the wild bee's honied nest,
And hands to her he prizes o'er the rest.

Again the ruthless weapon sweeps the ground;
And the gray corn-craik trembles at the sound.
Her callow brood around her cowering cling—
She braves its edge—she mourns her sever'd wing.
Oft had she taught them with a mother's love
To note the pouncing merlin from the dove,
The slowly floating buzzard's eye to shum,
As o'er the meads he hovers in the sun,

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The weazel's sly imposture to prevent,
And mark the martin by his musky scent:—
Ah! fruitless skill, which taught her not to scan
The scythe afar, and ruthless arm of man!
In vain her mate, as evening shadows fall,
Shall lingering wait for her accustom'd call;
The shepherd boys shall oft her loss deplore,
That mock'd her notes beside the cottage-door.

The noon-breeze pauses now, that lightly blew;
The brooding sky assumes a darker hue;
Blue watery streaks, diverging, downwards run,
Like rays of darkness, from the lurid sun;
The shuddering leaves of fern are trembling still;
A horrid stillness creeps from hill to hill;
A conscious tremor nature seems to feel,
And silent waits the thunder's awful peal.
The veil is burst;—the brazen concave rends
Its fiery arch;—one lurid stream descends.
Hark! from yon beetling cliff, whose summit rude
Projecting nods above the hanging wood,
Rent from its solid base, with crashing sound
Downward it rolls, and ploughs the shelving ground.
The peasants awe-struck bend with reverent air,
And pausing leave the half-completed prayer;

338

Then, as the thunder distant rolls away,
And yellow sun-beams swim through drizzly spray,
Begin to talk, what woes the rock portends,
Which from its jutting base the lightning rends:
Then circles many a legendary tale
Of Douglas' race, foredoom'd without a male
To fade, unbless'd, since on the church-yard green
Its lord o'erthrew the spires of Hazel-dean;
For sacred ruins long respect demand,
And curses light on the destroyer's hand.

Green Cavers, hallow'd by the Douglas name,
Tower from thy woods! assert thy former fame!
Hoist the broad standard of thy peerless line,
Till Percy's Norman banner bow to thine!
The hoary oaks, that round thy turrets stand—
Hark! how they boast each mighty planter's hand!

339

Lords of the border! where their pennons flew,
Mere mortal might could ne'er their arms subdue:
Their sword, the scythe of ruin, mow'd a host;
Nor Death a triumph o'er the line could boast.

Where rolls o'er Otter's dales the surge of war,
One mighty beacon blazes, vast and far.
The Norman archers round their chieftain flock;
The Percy hurries to the spearmen's shock:
“Raise, minstrels, raise the pealing notes of war!
“Shoot, till broad arrows dim each shrinking star!
“Beam o'er our deeds, fair sun, thy golden light;
“Nor be the warrior's glory lost in night!”
In vain!—his standards sink!—his squadrons yield;—
His bowmen fly:—a dead man gains the field.

The song of triumph Teviot's maids prepare.
Oh, where is he? the victor Douglas where?

340

Beneath the circling fern he bows his head,
That weaves a wreath of triumph o'er the dead.

In lines of crystal shine the wandering rills
Down the green slopes of Minto's sun-bright hills,
Whose castled crags in hoary pomp sublime
Ascend, the ruins of primeval time.
The peasants, lingering in the vales below,
See their white peaks with purple radiance glow,
When setting sunbeams on the mountains dance,
Fade, and return to steal a parting glance.

So, when the hardy chamois-hunters pass
O'er mounds of crusted snows and seas of glass,
Where, far above our living atmosphere,
The desert rocks their crystal summits rear,
Bright on their sides the silver sunbeams play,
Beyond the rise of morn and close of day:
O'er icy cliffs the hunters oft incline,
To watch the rays that far through darkness shine,
And, as they gaze, the fairy radiance deem
Some Alpine carbuncle's enchanted gleam.

Mark, in yon vale, a solitary stone,
Shunn'd by the swain, with loathsome weeds o'ergrown!

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The yellow stone-crop shoots from every pore,
With scaly, sapless lichens crusted o'er:
Beneath the base, where starving hemlocks creep,
The yellow pestilence is buried deep,

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Where first its course, as aged swains have told,
It stay'd, concenter'd in a vase of gold.

Here oft at sunny noon the peasants pause,
While many a tale their mute attention draws;
And, as the younger swains with active feet
Pace the loose weeds, and the flat tombstone mete,
What curse shall seize the guilty wretch they tell
Who drags the monster from his midnight cell,
And, smit by love of all-alluring gold,
Presumes to stir the deadly, tainted mold.

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From climes, where noxious exhalations steam
O'er aguey flats, by Nile's redundant stream,
It came.—The mildew'd cloud, of yellow hue,
Drops from its putrid wings the blistering dew.
The peasants mark the strange discolour'd air,
And from their homes retreat in wild despair;
Each friend they seek, their hapless fate to tell;—
But hostile lances still their flight repel.
Ah! vainly wise, who soon must join the train,
To seek the help your friends implor'd in vain!
To heaths and swamps the cultur'd field returns;
Unheard-of deeds retiring virtue mourns:
For, mix'd with fell diseases, o'er the clime
Rain the foul seeds of every baleful crime;
Fearless of fate, devoid of future dread,
Pale wretches rob the dying and the dead:
The sooty raven, as he flutters by,
Avoids the heaps where naked corses lie;
The prowling wolves, that round the hamlet swarm,
Tear the young babe from the frail mother's arm;
Full gorg'd the monster, in the desert bred,
Howls long and dreary o'er the unburied dead.

Two beauteous maids the dire infection shun,
Where Dena's valley fronts the southern sun;

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While friendship sweet, and love's delightful power,
With fern and rushes thatch'd their summer-bower.
When spring invites the sister-friends to stray,
One graceful youth, companion of their way,
Bars their retreat from each obtrusive eye,
And bids the lonely hours unheeded fly,
Leads their light steps beneath the hazel spray,
Where moss-lin'd boughs exclude the blaze of day,

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And ancient rowans mix their berries red
With nuts, that cluster brown above their head.
He, mid the writhing roots of elms, that lean
O'er oozy rocks of ezlar, shagg'd and green,
Collects pale cowslips for the faithful pair,
And braids the chaplet round their flowing hair,
And for the lovely maids alternate burns,
As love and friendship take the sway by turns.
Ah! hapless day, that from this blest retreat
Lur'd to the town his slow, unwilling feet!
Yet, soon return'd, he seeks the green recess,
Wraps the dear rivals in a fond caress;
As heaving bosoms own responsive bliss,
He breathes infection in one melting kiss;
Their languid limbs he bears to Dena's strand,
Chafes each soft temple with his burning hand.
Their cheeks to his the grateful virgins raise,
And fondly bless him, as their life decays;
While o'er their forms he bends with tearful eye,
And only lives to hear their latest sigh.
A veil of leaves the redbreast o'er them threw,
Ere thrice their locks were wet with evening dew.
There the blue ring-dove coos with ruffling wing,
And sweeter there the throstle loves to sing;
The woodlark breathes in softer strain the vow;
And love's soft burthen floats from bough to bough.

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But thou, sweet minstrel of the twilight vale!
O! where art thou, melodious nightingale?
On their green graves shall still the moonbeams shine,
And see them mourn'd by every song but thine?
That song, whose lapsing tones so sweetly float,
That love-sick maidens sigh at every note!

Oh! by the purple rose of Persia's plain,
Whose opening petals greet thine evening strain,
Whose fragrant odours oft thy song arrest,
And call the warbler to her glowing breast,—
Let pity claim thy love-devoted lay,
And wing, at last, to Dena's vale thy way!

Sweet bird! how long shall Teviot's maids deplore
Thy song, unheard along her woodland shore?
In southern groves thou charm'st the starry night,
Till darkness seems more lovely far than light;
But still, when vernal April wakes the year,
Nought save the echo of thy song we hear.

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The lover, lingering by some ancient pile,
When moonlight meads in dewy radiance smile,
Starts at each woodnote wandering through the dale,
And fondly hopes he hears the nightingale.
Oh! if those tones, of soft enchanting swell,
Be more than dreams, which fabling poets tell;
If e'er thy notes have charm'd away the tear
From beauty's eye, or mourn'd o'er beauty's bier;
Waste not the softness of thy notes in vain,
But pour in Dena's vale thy sweetest strain!

Dena! when sinks at noon the summer breeze,
And moveless falls the shadework of the trees,
Bright in the sun thy glossy beeches shine,
And only Ancram's groves can vie with thine;
Where Ala, bursting from her moorish springs,
O'er many a cliff her smoking torrent flings,
And broad, from bank to bank, the shadows fall
From every Gothic turret's mouldering wall,
Each ivied spire, and sculpture-fretted court;
Where plumy templars held their gay resort,
Spread their cross-banners in the sun to shine,
And call'd green Teviot's youth to Palestine.

348

Sad is the wail that floats o'er Alemoor's lake,
And nightly bids her gulfs unbottom'd quake,
While moonbeams, sailing o'er her waters blue,
Reveal the frequent tinge of blood-red hue.
The water-birds with shrill discordant scream
Oft rouse the peasant from his tranquil dream:
He dreads to raise his slow unclosing eye,
And thinks he hears an infant's feeble cry.
The timid mother, clasping to her breast
Her starting child, by closer arms carest,
Hushes with soothing voice his murmuring wail,
And sighs to think of poor Eugenia's tale.

By alders circled, near the haunted flood,
A lonely pile, Eugenia's dwelling stood;

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Green woodbine wander'd o'er each mossy tower,
The scented apple spread its painted flower;
The flower, that in its lonely sweetness smil'd,
And seem'd to say, “I grew not always wild!”
In this retreat, by memory's charm endear'd,
Her lovely boy the fair Eugenia rear'd,
Taught young affection every fondling wile,
And smil'd herself to see her infant smile.

But, when the lisping prattler learn'd to frame
His faultering accents to his father's name,
(That hardy knight, who first from Teviot bore
The crosier'd shield to Syria's palmy shore,)
Oft to the lake she led her darling boy
Mark'd his light footsteps with a mother's joy
Spring o'er the lawn with quick elastic bound,
And playful wheel in giddy circles round,
To view the thin blue pebble smoothly glide
Along the surface of the dimpling tide:
How sweet, she thought it still, to hear him cry,
As some red-spotted daisy met his eye,
When stooping low, to touch it on the lee,—
“The pretty flower! see, how it looks at me!”

Bright beam'd the setting sun; the sky was clear,
And sweet the concert of the woods to hear;

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The hovering gale was steep'd in soft perfume;
The flowery earth seem'd fairer still to bloom;
Returning heifers low'd from glade to glade;
Nor knew the mother that her boy had stray'd.
Quick from a brake, where tangled sloethorns grew,
The dark-wing'd erne impetuous glanc'd to view;
He darting stoop'd, and from the willowy shore
Above the lake the struggling infant bore;
Till, scar'd by clamours that pursued his way,
Far in the wave he dropp'd his helpless prey.
Eugenia shrieks, with frenzied sorrow wild,
Caresses on her breast her lifeless child,
And fondly hopes, contending with despair,
That heaven for once may hear a mother's prayer.
In her torn heart distracting fancies reign,
And oft she thinks her child revives again;
Fond fluttering hope awhile suspends her smart:—
She hears alone the throb that rends her heart,
And, clinging to the lips, as cold as snow,
Pours the wild sob of deep, despairing woe.

From Ala's banks to fair Melrose's fane,
How bright the sabre flash'd o'er hills of slain,
(I see the combat through the mist of years)
When Scott and Douglas led the Border spears!

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The mountain-streams were bridg'd with English dead;
Dark Ancram's heath was dyed with deeper red;
The ravag'd abbey rung the funeral knell,
When fierce Latoun and savage Evers fell;
Fair bloom'd the laurel-wreath, by Douglas plac'd
Above the sacred tombs by war defac'd.
Hail, dauntless chieftain! thine the mighty boast,
In scorn of Henry and his southern host,
To venge each ancient violated bust,
And consecrate to fame thy father's dust.

So, when great Ammon's son to Ister's banks
Led in proud banner'd pomp his Grecian ranks,
(Bright blaz'd their faulchions at the monarch's nod,
And nations trembled at the earthly god)
Full in his van he saw the Scythian rear
With fierce insulting shout the forward spear:
“No fears,” he cried, “our stubborn hearts appal,
“Till heaven's blue starry arch around us fall:
“These ancient tombs shall bar thy onward way;
“This field of graves thy proud career shall stay.”

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Deserted Melrose! oft with holy dread
I trace thy ruins mouldering o'er the dead;
While, as the fragments fall, wild fancy hears
The solemn steps of old departed years,
When beam'd young Science in these cells forlorn,
Beauteous and lonely as the star of morn.
Where gorgeous panes a rainbow-lustre threw,
The rank green grass is cobwebb'd o'er with dew;
Where pealing organs through the pillar'd fane
Swell'd clear to heaven devotion's sweetest strain,
The bird of midnight hoots with dreary tone,
And sullen echoes through the cloisters moan.

Farewell, ye moss-clad spires! ye turrets gray,
Where Science first effus'd her orient ray!
Ye mossy sculptures, on the roof emboss'd,
Like wreathing icicles congeal'd by frost!
Each branching window, and each fretted shrine,
Which peasants still to fairy hands assign!
May no rude hand your solemn grandeur mar,
Nor waste the structure long rever'd by war!

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From Eildon's cairns no more the watch-fire's blaze,
Red as a comet, darts portentous rays;
The fields of death, where mailed warriors bled,
The swain beholds with other armies clad,
When purple streamers flutter high in air,
From each pavilion of the rural Fair.
The rural Fair! in boy-hood's days serene,
How sweet to fancy was the novel scene,
The merry bustle, and the mix'd uproar,
While every face a jovial aspect wore,
The listening ear, that heard the murmurs run,
The eye, that gaz'd, as it would ne'er have done!

The crafty pedlars, first, their wares dispose,
With glittering trinkets in alluring rows;
The toy-struck damsel to her fondling swain
Simpers, looks kind, and then looks coy again;
Pleas'd, half-unwilling, he regards the fair,
And braids the ribbon round her sun-burnt hair.

Proud o'er the gazing group his form to rear,
Bawls from his cart the vagrant auctioneer;

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While many an oft-repeated tale he tells,
And jokes, adapted to the ware he sells.

But when the fife and drum resound aloud,
Each peopled booth resigns its motley crowd.
A bunch of roses dangling at his breast,
The youthful ploughman springs before the rest,
Throngs to the flag that flutters in the gale,
And eager listens to the serjeant's tale,
Hears feats of strange and glorious peril done,
In climes illumin'd by the rising sun,
Feels the proud helmet nodding o'er his brow,
And soon despises his paternal plough.
His friends to save the heedless stripling haste;
A weeping sister clings around his waist;
Fierce hosts unmarshall'd mix with erring blows,
And saplings stout to glittering swords oppose,
With boisterous shouts, and hubbub hoarse and rude,
That faintly picture days of ancient feud.

Broad Eildon's shiver side like silver shines,
As in the west the star of day declines:
While o'er the plains the twilight, vast and dun,
Stalks on to reach the slow-retiring sun,
Bright twinkling ringlets o'er the vallies fly,
Like infant stars that wander from the sky.

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In thin and livid coruscations roll
The frosty lightnings of the wintry pole;
Lines of pale light the glimmering concave strew,
Now loosely flaunt with wavering sanguine hue,
Now o'er the cope of night, heavy and pale,
Shoots, like a net, the yellow chequer'd veil;
The peasants wondering see the streamers fly,
And think they hear them hissing through the sky;
While he, whom hoary locks and reverend age,
And wiser saws, proclaim the rural sage,

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Prophetic tells that still, when wars are near,
The skies portentous signs of carnage wear.
Ere dark Culloden call'd her clans around,
To spread for death a mighty charnel-ground,
While yet unpurpled with the dews of fight,
Their fate was pictur'd on the vault of night.
So Scotia's swains, as fancy's dreams prevail,
With looks of mimic wisdom shape the tale.
But, mid the gloomy plains of Labradore,
(Save the slow wave that freezes on the shore,
Where scarce a sound usurps the desert drear,
Nor wild-wood music ever hails the year,)
The Indian, cradled in his bed of snow,
Sees heaven's broad arch with flickering radiance glow,
And thinks he views along the peopled sky
The shades of elks and rein-deer glancing by,
While warriors, parted long, the dance prepare,
And fierce carousal o'er the conquer'd bear.

By every thorn along the woodland damp,
The tiny glow-worm lights her emerald lamp;
Like the shot-star, whose yet unquenched light
Studs with faint gleam the raven vest of night.
The fairy ring-dance now round Eildon-tree
Moves to wild strains of elfin minstrelsy:

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On glancing step appears the fairy queen;
The printed grass beneath springs soft and green;
While hand in hand she leads the frolic round,
The dinning tabor shakes the charmed ground;
Or, graceful mounted on her palfrey gray,
In robes that glister like the sun in May,
With hawk and hound she leads the moonlight ranks
Of knights and dames to Huntley's ferny banks,
Where Rymour, long of yore, the nymph embrac'd,
The first of men unearthly lips to taste.

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Rash was the vow, and fatal was the hour,
Which gave a mortal to a fairy's power!
A lingering leave he took of sun and moon;
(Dire to the minstrel was the fairy's boon!)
A sad farewell of grass and green-leav'd tree,
The haunts of childhood doom'd no more to see.
Through winding paths that never saw the sun,
Where Eildon hides his roots in caverns dun,
They pass,—the hollow pavement, as they go,
Rocks to remurmuring waves that boil below.
Silent they wade, where sounding torrents lave
The banks, and red the tinge of every wave;
For all the blood that dyes the warrior's hand
Runs through the thirsty springs of fairyland.
Level and green the downward region lies,
And low the ceiling of the fairy skies;
Self-kindled gems a richer light display
Than gilds the earth, but not a purer day.
Resplendent crystal forms the palace-wall;
The diamond's trembling lustre lights the hall.

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But where soft emeralds shed an umber'd light,
Beside each coal-black courser sleeps a knight;
A raven plume waves o'er each helmed crest,
And black the mail which binds each manly breast,
Girt with broad faulchion, and with bugle green—
Ah! could a mortal trust the fairy queen?
From mortal lips an earthly accent fell,
And Rymour's tongue confess'd the numbing spell:
In iron sleep the minstrel lies forlorn,
Who breath'd a sound before he blew the horn.

So Vathek once, as eastern legends tell,
Sought the vast dome of subterranean hell,
Where, ghastly in their cedar-biers enshrin'd,
The fleshless forms of ancient kings reclin'd,
Who, long before primeval Adam rose,
Had heard the central gates behind them close.

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With jarring clang the hebon portals ope,
And closing toll the funeral knell of hope.
A sable tap'stry lin'd the marble wall,
And spirits curs'd stalk'd dimly through the hall:
There, as he view'd each right hand ceaseless prest
With writhing anguish to each blasted breast,
Blue o'er his brow convulsive fibres start,
And flames of vengeance eddy round his heart;
With a dire shriek he joins the restless throng,
And vaulted hell return'd his funeral-song.

Mysterious Rymour! doom'd by fate's decree
Still to revisit Eildon's lonely tree,
Where oft the swain at dawn of Hallow-day
Hears thy black barb with fierce impatience neigh!
Say, who is he, with summons strong and high,
That bids the charmed sleep of ages fly,
Rolls the long sound through Eildon's caverns vast,
While each dark warrior rouses at the blast,
His horn, his faulchion grasps with mighty hand,
And peals proud Arthur's march from fairyland?
Where every coal-black courser paws the green,
His printed step shall evermore be seen:
The silver shields in moony splendour shine:—
Beware, fond youth! a mightier hand than thine,

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With deathless lustre in romantic lay
Shall Rymour's fate, and Arthur's fame display.
O Scott! with whom, in youth's serenest prime,
I wove with careless hand the fairy rhyme,
Bade chivalry's barbaric pomp return,
And heroes wake from every mouldering urn!
Thy powerful verse, to grace the courtly hall,
Shall many a tale of elder time recall,
The deeds of knights, the loves of dames proclaim,
And give forgotten bards their former fame.
Enough for me, if fancy wake the shell,
To eastern minstrels strains like thine to tell,
Till saddening memory all our haunts restore,
The wild-wood walks by Esk's romantic shore,
The circled hearth, which ne'er was wont to fail
In cheerful joke, or legendary tale,
Thy mind, whose fearless frankness nought could move,
Thy friendship, like an elder brother's love.
While from each scene of early life I part,
True to the beatings of this ardent heart,
When, half-deceas'd, with half the world between,
My name shall be unmention'd on the green,
When years combine with distance, let me be,
By all forgot, remember'd yet by thee!

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III. PART III.

Heureux qui dans le sein de ses dieux domestiques
Se dèrobe au fracas des tempêtes publiques,
Et, dans un doux abri, trompant tous les regards,
Cultive ses jardins, les vertus et les arts!
Delille.

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Blest are the sons of life's sequester'd vale:
No storms of fate their humble heads assail.
Smooth as the riv'let glides along the plain,
To lose its noiseless waters in the main,
Unheard, unnoted, moves the tranquil stream
Of rural life, that haunts each waking dream;
When fond regret for all I leave behind,
With sighs unbidden, lingers o'er my mind.

Again, with youth's sensations wild, I hear
The sabbath-chimes roll sweetly on mine ear,
And view with solemn gait and serious eye
Long moving lines of peasants churchward hie.
The rough-ton'd bell, which many a year hath seen,
And drizzling mists have long since crusted green,

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Wide o'er the village flings its muffled sound:
With quicken'd pace they throng the burial ground;
As each selects his old paternal seat,
Bright flash the sparkles round their iron feet.
From crowded pews, arrang'd in equal row,
The dirge-like music rises soft and slow;
Uncultur'd strains! which yet the warmth impart
Of true devotion to the peasant's heart.

I mark the preacher's air, serene and mild:
In every face he sees a listening child,
Unfolds with reverend air the sacred book,
Around him casts a kind paternal look,
And hopes, when all his mortal toils are past,
This filial family to join at last.
He paints the modest virtues of the swains,
Content and happy on their native plains,
Uncharm'd by pomp, by gold's refulgent glare,
Or fame's shrill clarion pealing through the air,
That bids the hind a heart untainted yield
For laurels, crimson'd in the gory field.
“Beyond this life, and life's dark barrier-stream,
“How bright the rays of light celestial gleam,
“Green fields of bliss, and heavens of cloudless blue,
“While Eden spreads her flowery groves anew!

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“Farewell the sickening sigh, that virtue owes
“To mortal life's immedicable woes,
“Sweet pity's tear, that loves to fall unseen,
“Like dews of eve on meads of tender green!
“The trees of life, that on the margin rise
“Of Eden's stream, shall calm the sufferer's sighs,
“From the dark brow the wrinkle charm away,
“And soothe the heart whose pulses madly play;
“Till, pure from passion, free from earthly stain,
“One pleasing memory of the past remain,
“Full tides of bliss in ceaseless circles roll,
“And boundless rapture renovate the soul.”

When mortals, vainly wise, renounce their God,
To vaunt their kindred to the crumbling clod,
Bid o'er their graves the blasted hemlock bloom,
And woo the eternal slumber of the tomb,
The long, long night, unsooth'd by fancy's dream;—
Unheard the vultures, o'er their bones that scream—
Though mimic pity half conceals their fear,
Aw'd, to the good man's voice they lend an ear.
But, as the father speaks, they wondering find
New doubts, new fears, infest the obdurate mind;
Wild scenes of woe with ghastly light illume
The sullen regions of the desert tomb;

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His potent words the mental film dispart,
Pierce the dark crust that wraps the atheist's heart,
And stamp in characters of livid fire
The fearful doom of heaven's avenging ire.
But, when he saw each cherish'd bosom-sin,
Like nestling serpents, gnaw the breast within,
To sooth the soften'd soul his doctrine fell,
Like April-drops that nurse the primrose-bell,
Whose timid beauty first adorns the mead,
When spring's warm showers to winter's blights succeed.

As home the peasants move with serious air,
For sober talk they mingle, pair and pair;
Though quaint remark unbend the stedfast mien,
And thoughts less holy sometimes intervene,
No burst of noisy mirth disturbs their walk;
Each seems afraid of worldly things to talk,
Save yon fond pair, who speak with meeting eyes;—
The sacred day profaner speech denies.

Some love to trace the plain of graves, alone,
Peruse the lines that crowd the sculptur'd stone,
And, as their bosoms heave at thoughts of fame,
Wish that such homely verse may save their name,
Hope that their comrades, as the words they spell,
To greener youth their ploughman-skill may tell,

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And add, that none sung clearer at the ale,
Or told at winter's eve a merrier tale,
When drowsy shepherds round the embers gaze
At tiny forms that tread the mounting blaze,
And songs and jokes the laughing hours beguile,
And borrow sweetness from the damsels' smile.
Vain wish! the letter'd stones, that mark his grave,
Can ne'er the swain from dim oblivion save:
Ere thrice yon sun his annual course has roll'd,
Is he forgotten, and the tales he told.
At fame so transient, peasants, murmur not!
In one great book your deeds are not forgot:
Your names, your blameless lives, impartial fate
Records, to triumph o'er the guilty great,
When each unquiet grave upheaves the dead,
And awful blood-drops stain the laurell'd head.

See, how each barbarous trophy wastes away!
All, save great Egypt's pyramids, decay.
Green waves the harvest, and the peasant-boy
Stalls his rough herds within the towers of Troy;
Prowls the sly fox, the jackall rears her brood,
Where once the towers of mighty Ilium stood.
And you, stern children of the northern sun,
Each stubborn Tartar, and each swarthy Hun,

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Toumen, and Mothe, who led your proud Monguls
And pil'd in mountain-heaps your foemen's skulls!
Broad swarm'd your bands o'er every peopled clime,
And trode the nations from the rolls of time.
Where is your old renown?—On Sibir's plain,
Nameless and vast, your tombs alone remain.
How soon the fame of Niger's lord decay'd,
Whose arm Tombuto's golden sceptre sway'd!
Dark Izkia! name, by dusky hosts rever'd,
Who first the pile of negro-glory rear'd!
O'er many a realm beneath the burning zone
How bright his ruby-studded standard shone!
How strong that arm the glittering spear to wield,
While sable nations gather'd round his shield!
But chief when, conquest-crown'd, his radiant car
From Niger's banks repuls'd the surge of war,

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When rose convuls'd in clouds the desert gray,
And Arab lances gleam'd in long array!
At every shout a grove of spears was flung,
From cany bows a million arrows sprung;
While, prone and panting, on the sandy plain
Sunk the fleet barb, and welter'd mid the slain.
Niger, exulting o'er her sands of gold,
Down her broad wave the Moorish warriors roll'd;
While each dark tribe, along her sylvan shore,
Gaz'd on the bloody tide, and arms unseen before.—
Unknown the grave where Izkia's ashes lie:—
Thy fame has fled, like lightning o'er the sky.
E'en he, who first, with garments roll'd in blood,
Rear'd the huge piles by Nile's broad moon-horn'd flood,
Swore that his fame the lapse of time should mock,
Grav'd on the granite's everlasting rock,
Sleeps in his catacomb, unnam'd, unknown;—
While sages vainly scan the sculptur'd stone.

So fades the palm by blighting blood-drops stain'd,
The laurel-wreath by ruffian war profan'd;
So fades his name, whom first the nations saw
Ordain a mortal's blind caprice for law,
The fainting captive drag to slavery's den,
And truck for gold the souls of free-born men.

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But hope not, tyrants! in the grave to rest,
(The blood, the tears of nations unredress'd,)
While sprites celestial mortal woes bemoan,
And join the vast creation's funeral groan!
For still, to heaven when fainting nature calls,
On deeds accurs'd the darker vengeance falls.

Nor deem the negro's sighs and anguish vain,
Who hopeless grinds the harden'd trader's chain;
As, wafted from his country far away,
He sees Angola's hills of green decay.
The dry harmattan flits along the flood,
To parch his veins, and boil his throbbing blood.
In dreams he sees Angola's plains appear;
In dreams he seems Angola's strains to hear;
And when the clanking fetter bursts his sleep,
Silent and sad he plunges in the deep.

Stout was the ship, from Benin's palmy shore
That first the freight of barter'd captives bore:

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Bedimm'd with blood, the sun with shrinking beams
Beheld her bounding o'er the ocean-streams;
But, ere the moon her silver horns had rear'd,
Amid the crew the speckled plague appear'd.
Faint and despairing on their watery bier,
To every friendly shore the sailors steer;
Repell'd from port to port they sue in vain,
And track with slow unsteady sail the main.
Where ne'er the bright and buoyant wave is seen
To streak with wandering foam the sea-weeds green,
Towers the tall mast, a lone and leafless tree;
Till, self-impell'd, amid the waveless sea,
Where summer breezes ne'er were heard to sing,
Nor hovering snow-birds spread the downy wing,
Fix'd as a rock, amid the boundless plain,
The yellow steam pollutes the stagnant main;

374

Till far through night the funeral flames aspire,
As the red lightning smites the ghastly pyre.

Still doom'd by fate, on weltering billows roll'd,
Along the deep their restless course to hold,
Scenting the storm, the shadowy sailors guide
The prow, with sails oppos'd to wind and tide.
The spectre-ship, in livid glimpsing light,
Glares baleful on the shuddering watch at night,
Unblest of God and man!—Till time shall end,
Its view strange horror to the storm shall lend.

Land of my fathers!—though no mangrove here
O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear,
Nor scaly palm her finger'd scions shoot,
Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit,
Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree—
Land of dark heaths and mountains! thou art free.

Untainted yet, thy stream, fair Teviot! runs,
With unatoned blood of Gambia's sons:
No drooping slave, with spirit bow'd to toil,
Grows, like the weed, self-rooted to the soil,
Nor cringing vassal on these pansied meads
Is bought and barter'd, as the flock he feeds.

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Free, as the lark that carols o'er his head,
At dawn the healthy ploughman leaves his bed,
Binds to the yoke his sturdy steers with care,
And whistling loud directs the mining share;
Free, as his lord, the peasant treads the plain,
And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain;
Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right,
And vain of Scotia's old unconquer'd might.

Dear native vallies! may ye long retain
The charter'd freedom of the mountain swain!
Long mid your sounding glades in union sweet
May rural innocence and beauty meet!
And still be duly heard at twilight calm
From every cot the peasant's chaunted psalm!
Then, Jedworth! though thy ancient choirs shall fade,
And time lay bare each lofty colonnade,
From the damp roof the massy sculptures die,
And in their vaults thy rifted arches lie,
Still in these vales shall angel harps prolong
By Jed's pure stream a sweeter even-song,
Than long processions once with mystic zeal
Pour'd to the harp and solemn organ's peal.

O softly, Jed! thy sylvan current lead
Round every hazel copse and smiling mead,

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Where lines of firs the glowing landscape screen,
And crown the heights with tufts of deeper green.
While, mid the cliffs, to crop the flowery thyme,
The shaggy goats with steady footsteps climb,
How wantonly the ruffling breezes stir
The wavering trains of tinsel gossamer,
In filmy threads of floating gold, which slide
O'er the green upland's wet and sloping side,
While, ever varying in the beating ray,
The fleeting net-work glistens bright and gay!
To thee, fair Jed! a holier wreath is due,
Who gav'st thy Thomson all thy scenes to view,
Bad'st forms of beauty on his vision roll,
And mould to harmony his ductile soul;
Till fancy's pictures rose as nature bright,
And his warm bosom glow'd with heavenly light.

In March, when first, elate on tender wing,
O'er frozen heaths the lark essays to sing;
In March, when first, before the lengthening days,
The snowy mantle of the earth decays,

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The wreaths of crusted snows are painted blue,
And yellowy moss assumes a greener hue,—
How smil'd the bard, from winter's funeral urn
To see more fair the youthful earth return!

When morn's wan rays with clearer crimson blend,
And first the gilded mists of spring ascend,
The sun-beams swim through April's silver showers,
The daffodils expand their yellow flowers,
The lusty stalk with sap luxuriant swells,
And, curling round it, smile the bursting bells,
The blowing king-cup bank and valley studs,
And on the rosiers nod the folded buds;—
Warm beats his heart, to view the mead's array,
When flowers of summer hear the steps of May.

But, when the wintry blast the forest heaves,
And shakes the harvest of the ripen'd leaves;
When brighter scenes the painted woods display
Than fancy's fairy pencil can pourtray,
He pensive strays the sadden'd groves among,
To hear the twittering swallow's farewell-song.
The finch no more on pointed thistles feeds,
Pecks the red leaves, or crops the swelling seeds;
But water-crows by cold brook-margins play,
Lave their dark plumage in the freezing spray,

378

And, wanton as from stone to stone they glide,
Dive at their beckoning forms beneath the tide.
He hears at eve the fetter'd bittern's scream,
Ice-bound in sedgy marsh, or mountain stream,
Or sees, with strange delight, the snow-clouds form
When Ruberslaw conceives the mountain storm;
Dark Ruberslaw,—that lifts his head sublime,
Rugged and hoary with the wrecks of time!
On his broad misty front the giant wears
The horrid furrows of ten thousand years;
His aged brows are crown'd with curling fern,
Where perches, grave and lone, the hooded Erne,
Majestic bird! by ancient shepherds styl'd
The lonely hermit of the russet wild,
That loves amid the stormy blast to soar,
When through disjointed cliffs the tempests roar,
Climbs on strong wing the storm, and, screaming high,
Rides the dim rack that sweeps the darken'd sky.

Such were the scenes his fancy first refin'd,
And breath'd enchantment o'er his plastic mind,
Bade every feeling flow to virtue dear,
And form'd the poet of the varied year.

Bard of the Seasons! could my strain, like thine,
Awake the heart to sympathy divine,

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Sweet Osna's stream, by thin-leav'd birch o'erhung,
No more should roll her modest waves unsung.—
Though now thy silent waters, as they run,
Refuse to sparkle in the morning sun,
Though dark their wandering course, what voice can tell
Who first for thee shall strike the sounding shell,
And teach thy waves, that dimly wind along,
To tune to harmony their mountain-song!
Thus Meles roll'd a stream unknown to fame,
Not yet renown'd by Homer's mighty name;
Great sun of verse, who self-created shone,
To lend the world his light, and borrow none!

Through richer fields, her milky wave that stain,
Slow Cala flows o'er many a chalky plain;
With silvery spikes of wheat, in stately row,
And golden oats, that on the uplands grow,
Gray fields of barley crowd the water edge,
Drink the pale stream, and mingle with the sedge.

Pure blows the summer breeze o'er moor and dell,
Since first in Wormiswood the serpent fell:

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From years in distance lost his birth he drew,
And with the ancient oaks the monster grew,
Till venom, nurs'd in every stagnant vein,
Shed o'er his scaly sides a yellow stain,
Save where uprear'd his purfled crest was seen,
Bedropt with purple blots and streaks of green.
Deep in a sedgy fen, conceal'd from day,
Long ripening, on his oozy bed he lay;
Till, as the poison-breath around him blew,
From every bough the shrivell'd leaflet flew,
Gray moss began the wrinkled trees to climb,
And the tall oaks grew old before their time.

On his dark bed the grovelling monster long
Blew the shrill hiss, and launch'd the serpent prong,
Or, writh'd on frightful coils, with powerful breath
Drew the faint herds to glut the den of death,
Dragg'd with unwilling speed across the plain
The snorting steed, that gaz'd with stiffen'd mane,
The forest bull, that lash'd with hideous roar
His sides indignant, and the ground uptore.

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Bold as the chief who, mid black Lerna's brake,
With mighty prowess quell'd the water-snake,
To rouse the monster from his noisome den,
A dauntless hero pierc'd the blasted fen.
He mounts, he spurs his steed; in bold career,
His arm gigantic wields a fiery spear;
With aromatic moss the shaft was wreath'd,
And favouring gales around the champion breath'd;
By power invisible the courser drawn,
Now quick, and quicker, bounds across the lawn;
Onward he moves, unable now to pause,
And fearless meditates the monster's jaws,
Impels the struggling steed, that strives to shun,
Full on his wide unfolding fangs to run;
Down his black throat he thrusts the fiery dart,
And hears the frightful hiss that rends his heart;
Then, wheeling light, reverts his swift career.
The writhing serpent grinds the ashen spear;
Roll'd on his head, his awful volum'd train
He strains in tortur'd folds, and bursts in twain.
On Cala's banks, his monstrous fangs appal
The rustics pondering on the sacred wall,
Who hear the tale the solemn rites between,
On summer sabbaths in the churchyard green.

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On Yeta's banks the vagrant gypsies place
Their turf-built cots; a sun-burn'd swarthy race!
From Nubian realms their tawny line they bring,
And their brown chieftain vaunts the name of king.
With loitering steps from town to town they pass,
Their lazy dames rock'd on the panier'd ass.
From pilfer'd roots or nauseous carrion fed,
By hedge-rows green they strew the leafy bed,
While scarce the cloak of taudry red conceals
The fine-turn'd limbs, which every breeze reveals:
Their bright black eyes through silken lashes shine,
Around their necks their raven tresses twine;
But chilling damps and dews of night impair
Its soft sleek gloss, and tan the bosom bare.
Adroit the lines of palmistry to trace,
Or read the damsel's wishes in her face,
Her hoarded silver-store they charm away,
A pleasing debt, for promis'd wealth to pay.

But in the lonely barn, from towns remote,
The pipe and bladder opes its screaking throat,
To aid the revels of the noisy rout,
Who wanton dance, or push the cups about:
Then for their paramours the maddening brawl,
Shrill, fierce, and frantic, echoes round the hall.

383

No glimmering light to rage supplies a mark,
Save the red firebrand, hissing through the dark;
And oft the beams of morn, the peasants say,
The blood-stain'd turf, and new-form'd graves display.
Fell race, unworthy of the Scotian name!
Your brutal deeds your barbarous line proclaim;
With dreadful Galla's link'd in kindred bands,
The locust brood of Ethiopia's sands,
Whose frantic shouts the thunder blue defy,
And launch their arrows at the glowing sky.
In barbarous pomp, they glut the inhuman feast
With dismal viands man abhors to taste;
And grimly smile, when red the goblets shine,
When mantles red the shell—but not with wine.

Ye sister-streams, whose mountain waters glide
To lose your names in Teviot's crystal tide,
Not long through greener fields ye wander slow,
While heavens of azure widen as ye grow!
For soon, where scenes of sweeter beauty smile
Around the mounds of Roxburgh's ruin'd pile,
No more the mistress of each lovely field,
Her name, her honours Teviot soon must yield.

Roxburgh! how fallen, since first in Gothic pride
Thy frowning battlements the war defied,

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Call'd the bold chief to grace thy blazon'd halls,
And bade the rivers gird thy solid walls!
Fallen are thy towers, and, where the palace stood,
In gloomy grandeur waves yon hanging wood;
Crush'd are thy halls, save where the peasant sees
One moss-clad ruin rise between the trees;
The still-green trees, whose mournful branches wave
In solemn cadence o'er the hapless brave.
Proud castle! Fancy still beholds thee stand,
The curb, the guardian of this Border land,
As when the signal-flame, that blaz'd afar,
And bloody flag, proclaim'd impending war,
While in the lion's place the leopard frown'd,
And marshall'd armies hemm'd thy bulwarks round.

Serene in might, amid embattled files,
From Morven's hills, and the far Western Isles,
From barrier Tweed, and Teviot's Border tide,
See through the host the youthful monarch ride!
In streaming pomp, above each mailed line,
The chiefs behold his plumy helmet shine,
And, as he points the purple surge of war,
His faithful legions hail their guiding star.

From Lothian's plains, a hardy band uprears
In serried ranks a glittering grove of spears:

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The Border chivalry more fierce advance;
Before their steeds projects the bristling lance;
The panting steeds that, bridled in with pain,
Arch their proud crests, and ardent paw the plain:
With broad claymore and dirk the Island clan
Clang the resounding targe, and claim the van,
Flash their bright swords as stormy bugles blow,
Unconscious of the shaft and Saxon bow.

Now sulphurous clouds involve the sickening morn,
And the hoarse bombal drowns the pealing horn;
Crash the disparted walls, the turrets rock,
And the red flame bursts through the smouldering smoke.
But, hark! with female shrieks the vallies ring!
The death-dirge sounds for Scotia's warrior-king:
Fallen in his youth, ere on the listed field
The tinge of blood had dyed his silver shield;
Fallen in his youth, ere from the banner'd plain
Return'd his faulchion, crimson'd with the slain.
His sword is sheath'd, his bow remains unstrung,
His shield unblazon'd, and his praise unsung:

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The holly's glossy leaves alone shall tell,
How on these banks the martial monarch fell.

Lo! as to grief the drooping squadrons yield,
And quit with tarnish'd arms the luckless field,
His gallant consort wipes her tears away,
Renews their courage, and restores the day.
“Behold your king!” the lofty heroine cried,
“He seeks his vengeance where his father died.
“Behold your king!”—Rekindling fury boils
In every breast;—the Saxon host recoils:—
Wide o'er the walls the billowy flames aspire,
And streams of blood hiss through the curling fire.

Teviot, farewell! for now thy silver tide
Commix'd with Tweed's pellucid stream shall glide
But all thy green and pastoral beauties fail
To match the softness of thy parting vale.
Bosom'd in woods where mighty rivers run,
Kelso's fair vale expands before the sun:
Its rising downs in vernal beauty swell,
And fring'd with hazel winds each flowery dell:
Green spangled plains to dimpling lawns succeed,
And Tempe rises on the banks of Tweed.
Blue o'er the river Kelso's shadow lies,
And copse-clad isles amid the waters rise;

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Where Tweed her silent way majestic holds,
Float the thin gales in more transparent folds.
New powers of vision on the eye descend,
As distant mountains from their bases bend,
Lean forward from their seats to court the view,
While melt their soften'd tints in vivid blue.
But fairer still, at midnight's shadowy reign,
When liquid silver floods the moonlight plain,
And lawns, and fields, and woods of varying hue
Drink the wan lustre, and the pearly dew;
While the still landscape, more than noontide bright,
Glistens with mellow tints of fairy light.

Yet, sure, these pastoral beauties ne'er can vie
With those, which fondly rise to Memory's eye,
When, absent long, my soul delights to dwell
On scenes in early youth she lov'd so well.
'Tis fabling Fancy, with her radiant hues,
That gilds the modest scenes which Memory views;
And softer, finer tints she loves to spread,
For which we search in vain the daisied mead,
In vain the grove, the riv'let's mossy cell—
'Tis the delusive charm of Fancy's spell.

389

IV. PART IV.

Mervcilleuses histoires racontées autour du foyer, tendres epanchemens du cœur, longues habitudes d'aimer si nécessaires à la vie; vous avez rempli les journees de ceux qui n'ont point quitte leur pays natal. Leurs tombeaux sont dans leur patrie, avec le soleil couchant, les pleurs de leurs amis et les charmes de la religion. Atala.

391

Once more, inconstant shadow! by my side
I see thee stalk with vast gigantic stride,
Pause when I stop, and where I careless bend
My steps, obsequiously their course attend:
So faithless friends, that leave the wretch to mourn,
Still with the sunshine of his days return.
Yet oft, since first I left these vallies green,
I, but for thee, companionless had been.
To thee I talk'd, nor felt myself alone,
While summer-suns and living moon-beams shone.
Oft, while an infant, playful in the sun,
I hop'd thy silent gambols to outrun,
And, as I view'd thee ever at my side,
To overleap thy hastening figure tried.

392

Oft, when with flaky snow the fields were white,
Beneath the moon I started at thy sight,
Eyed thy huge stature with suspicious mien,
And thought I had my evil genius seen.
But when I left my father's old abode,
And thou the sole companion of my road,
As sad I paus'd, and fondly look'd behind,
And almost deem'd each face I met unkind,
While kindling hopes to boding fears gave place,
Thou seem'dst the ancient spirit of my race.
In startled Fancy's ear I heard thee say,
“Ha! I will meet thee after many a day,
“When youth's impatient joys, too fierce to last,
“And fancy's wild illusions, all are past;
“Yes! I will come, when seenes of youth depart,
“To ask thee for thy innocence of heart,
“To ask thee, when thou bidst this light adieu,
“Ha! wilt thou blush thy ancestors to view?”

Now, as the sun descends with westering beam,
I see thee lean across clear Teviot's stream:
Through thy dim figure, fring'd with wavy gold,
Their gliding course the restless waters hold;
But, when a thousand waves have roll'd away,
The incumbent shadow suffers no decay.

393

Thus, wide through mortal life delusion reigns;
The substance changes, but the form remains:
Or, if the substance still remains the same,
We see another form, and hear another name.

So, when I left sweet Teviot's woodland green,
And hills, the only hills mine eyes had seen,
With what delight I hop'd to mark anew
Each well-known object rising on my view!
Ah fruitless hope! when youth's warm light is o'er,
Can ought to come its glowing hues restore?
As lovers, absent long, with anguish trace
The marks of time on that familiar face,
Whose bright and ripening bloom could once impart
Such melting fondness to the youthful heart,
I sadly stray by Teviot's pastoral shore,
And every change with fond regret deplore.
No more the black-cock struts along the heath,
Where berries cluster blue the leaves beneath,

394

Spreads the jet wing, or flaunts the dark-green train,
In labour'd flight the tufted moors to gain,
But, far remote, on flagging plume he flies,
Or shuts in death his ruddy sparkling eyes.
No more the screaming bittern, bellowing harsh,
To its dark bottom shakes the shuddering marsh;
Proud of his shining breast and emerald crown,
The wild-drake leaves his bed of eider-down,
Stretches his helming neck before the gales,
And sails on winnowing wing for other vales.

Where the long heaths in billowy roughness frown,
The pine, the heron's ancient home, goes down,
Though wintry storms have toss'd its spiry head,
Since first o'er Scotia's realm the forests spread.

The mountain-ash, whose crimson berries shine;
The flaxen birch, that yields the palmy wine;
The guine, whose luscious sable cherries spring,
To lure the blackbird mid her boughs to sing;
The shining beech, that holier reverence claims,
Along whose bark our fathers carv'd their names;
Yield to the ponderous axe, whose frequent stroke
Re-echoes loudly from the ezlar rock,
While frighted stock-doves listen, silent long,
Then from the hawthorn crowd their gurgling song.

395

Green downs ascending drink the moorish rills,
And yellow corn-fields crown the heathless hills,
Where to the breeze the shrill brown linnet sings,
And prunes with frequent bill his russet wings.
High and more high the shepherds drive their flocks,
And climb with timid step the hoary rocks;
From cliff to cliff the ruffling breezes sigh,
Where idly on the sun-beat steeps they lie,
And wonder, that the vale no more displays
The pastoral scenes that pleas'd their early days.

No more the cottage roof, fern-thatch'd and gray,
Invites the weary traveller from the way,
To rest, and taste the peasant's simple cheer,
Repaid by news and tales he lov'd to hear;
The clay-built wall, with woodbine twisted o'er,
The house-leek, clustering green above the door,
While through the sheltering elms, that round them grew,
The winding smoke arose in columns blue;—
These all have fled; and from their hamlets brown
The swains have gone, to sicken in the town,
To pine in crowded streets, or ply the loom;
For splendid halls deny the cottage room.
Yet on the neighbouring heights they oft convene,
With fond regret to view each former scene,

396

The level meads, where infants wont to play
Around their mothers, as they pil'd the hay,
The hawthorn hedge-row, and the hanging wood,
Beneath whose boughs their humble cottage stood.

Gone are the peasants from the humble shed,
And with them too the humble virtues fled.
No more the farmer, on these fertile plains,
Is held the father of the meaner swains,
Partakes as he directs the reaper's toil,
Or with his shining share divides the soil,
Or in his hall, when winter nights are long,
Joins in the burthen of the damsel's song,
Repeats the tales of old heroic times,
While Bruce and Wallace consecrate the rhymes.
These all are fled—and, in the farmer's place,
Of prouder look, advance a dubious race,
That ape the pride of rank with awkward state,
The vice, but not the polish of the great,
Flaunt, like the poppy mid the ripening grain,
A nauseous weed, that poisons all the plain.
The peasant, once a friend, a friend no more,
Cringes, a slave, before the master's door:
Or else, too proud where once he lov'd to fawn,
For distant climes deserts his native lawn,

397

And fondly hopes beyond the western main
To find the virtues here belov'd in vain.

So the red Indian, by Ontario's side,
Nurs'd hardy on the brindled panther's hide,
Who, like the bear, delights his woods to roam,
And on the maple finds at eve a home,
As fades his swarthy race, with anguish sees
The white man's cottage rise beneath his trees,
While o'er his vast and undivided lawn
The hedge-row and the bounding trench are drawn,
From their dark beds his aged forests torn,
While round him close long fields of reed-like corn.
He leaves the shelter of his native wood,
He leaves the murmur of Ohio's flood,

398

And forward rushing in indignant grief,
Where never foot has trod the falling leaf,
He bends his course, where twilight reigns sublime
O'er forests silent since the birth of time;
Where roll on spiral folds, immense and dun,
The ancient snakes, the favourites of the sun,
Or in the lonely vales serene repose;
While the clear carbuncle its lustre throws,

399

From each broad brow, star of a baleful sky,
Which luckless mortals only view to die!
Lords of the wilderness since time began,
They scorn to yield their ancient sway to man.

Long may the Creek, the Cherokee, retain
The desert woodlands of his old domain,
Ere Teviot's sons, far from their homes beguil'd,
Expel their wattled wigwams from the wild!
For ah! not yet the social virtues fly,
That wont to blossom in our northern sky,
And in the peasant's free-born soul produce
The patriot glow of Wallace and of Bruce;
(Like that brave band, great Abercromby led
To fame or death, by Nile's broad swampy bed,
To whom the unconquer'd Gallic legions yield
The trophied spoils of many a stormy field:)
Not yet our swains, their former virtues lost,
In dismal exile roam from coast to coast.
But soon, too soon, if lordly wealth prevail,
The healthy cottage shall desert the dale,
The active peasants trust their hardy prime
To other skies, and seek a kinder clime.
From Teviot's banks I see them wind their way:
“Tweedside,” in sad farewell, I hear them play:—

400

The plaintive song, that wont their toils to cheer,
Sounds to them doubly sad, but doubly dear;—
As, slowly parting from the osier'd shore,
They leave these waters to return no more.
But, ah! where'er their wandering steps sojourn,
To these lov'd shores their pensive thoughts shall turn,
There picture scenes of innocent repose,
When garrulous, at waning age's close,
They to their children shall securely tell
The hazards which in foreign lands befell.

Teviot! while o'er thy sons I pour the tear,
Why swell thy murmurs sudden on my ear?
Still shall thy restless waters hold their way,
Nor fear the fate that bids our race decay!
Still shall thy waves their mazy course pursue,
Till every scene be chang'd that meets my view:
And many a race has trac'd its narrow span,
Since first thy waters down these vallies ran!
Ye distant ages, that have past away,
Since dawn'd the twilight of creation's day!

401

Again to Fancy's eye your course unroll,
And let your visions soothe my pensive soul!

And lo! emerging from the mist of years,
In shadowy pomp a woodland scene appears,
Woods of dark oak, that once o'er Teviot hung,
Ere on their swampy beds her mosses sprung.
On these green banks the ravening wolf-dogs prowl,
And fitful to the hoarse night-thunder howl,
Or, hunger-gnawn, by maddening fury bold,
Besiege the huts, and scale the wattled fold.
The savage chief, with soul devoid of fear,
Hies to the chace, and grasps his pliant spear,
Or, while his nervous arm its vigour tries,
The knotted thorn a massy club supplies.
He calls his hounds; his moony shield afar
With clanging boss convokes the sylvan war;
The tainted steps his piercing eyes pursue
To some dark lair which sapless bones bestrew:
His foamy chaps the haggard monster rears,
Champs his gaunt jaws which clotted blood besmears,
Growls surly, rolls his eyes that sparkle fire,
While hounds and hunters from his fangs retire;
Till, writhing on the tough transfixing lance,
With boisterous shouts the shrinking rout advance;

402

His shaggy fur the chieftain bears away,
And wears the spoils on every festive day.

Not his the puny chace, that from her lair
Urges in safe pursuit the timorous hare,
Detects her mazes as she circling wheels,
And venturous treads on her pursuers' heels;
Through fields of grain the laggard harriers guides,
Or, plunging through the brake, impetuous rides,
Whoops the shrill view-halloo, to see her scud
The plain, and drinks the tremulous scream of blood.

Hark! the dark forest rings with shrill alarms:
Another foe invites the chieftains' arms.
Where Teviot's damsels late in long array
Led the light dance beneath the moonlight spray,
Lords of the earth, the Roman legions wheel
Their glittering files, and stamp with gory heel,
Bathe the keen javelin's edge in purple dew;
While Death smiles dimly o'er the faulchion blue.
Wake the hoarse trumpet, swell the song of war,
And yoke the steed to the careering car,
With azure streaks the warrior's visage stain,
And let the arrowy clouds obscure the plain!
The bards, as o'er their sky-blue vestures flow
Their long redundant locks of reverend snow,

403

Invoke their ancestors of matchless might,
To view their offspring in the toil of fight.

“Let the wide field of slain be purpled o'er,
“One red capacious drinking-cup of gore!
“Blest are the brave that for their country die!
“On viewless steeds they climb the waste of sky;
“Embrued in blood on eagle's wings they soar,
“Drink as they rise the battle's mingled roar:
“Their deeds the bards on sculptur'd rocks shall grave,
“Whose marble page shall northern tempests brave.
“E'en Time's slow wasting foot shall ne'er erase
“The awful chronicle of elder days:
“Then drink the pure metheglin of the bee,
“The heath's brown juice, and live or perish free!”

In vain!—for, wedg'd beneath the arch of shields,
Where'er the legions move, the combat yields;
Break the dark files, the thronging ranks give way,
And o'er the field the vacant chariots stray.
Woe to the tribes who shun the faulchion's stroke,
And bend their necks beneath the captive's yoke!
The rattling folds of chains, that round them fall,
They madly grind against the dungeon wall.
Die! cowards, die! nor wait your servile doom,
Dragg'd in base triumph through the streets of Rome!

404

The night descends: the sounding woods are still:
No more the watchfire blazes from the hill:—
The females now their dusky locks unbind,
To float dishevell'd in the midnight wind:
Inspir'd with black despair they grasp the steel,
Nor fear to act the rage their bosoms feel:
Then maids and matrons dare a fearful deed,
And recreant lovers, sons, and husbands, bleed:
They scan each long-lov'd face with ghastly smile,
And light with bloody hands the funeral pile,
Then, fierce retreat to woods and wilds afar,
To nurse a race that never shrunk from war.

Long ages, next, in sullen gloom go by,
And desert still these barrier-regions lie;
While oft the Saxon raven, pois'd for flight,
Receding owns the British dragon's might:

405

Till, rising from the mix'd and martial breed,
The nations see an iron race succeed.
Fierce as the wolf, they rush'd to seize their prey;
The day was all their night, the night their day;
Or, if the night was dark, along the air
The blazing village shed a sanguine glare.
Theirs was the skill with venturous pace to lead
Along the sedgy marsh the floundering steed,
To fens and misty heaths conduct their prey,
And lure the bloodhound from his scented way.
The chilly radiance of the harvest-moon
To them was fairer than the sun at noon;
For blood pursuing, or for blood pursued,
The palac'd courtier's life with scorn they view'd,
Pent, like the snail, within the circling shell;
While hunters lov'd beneath the oak to dwell,
Rous'd the fleet roe, and twang'd their bows of yew,
While staghounds yell'd, and merry bugles blew.

Not theirs the maiden's song of war's alarms,
But the loud clarion, and the clang of arms,

406

The trumpet's voice, when warring hosts begin
To swell impatient battle's stormy din,
The groans of wounded on the blood-red plain,
And victor-shouts exulting o'er the slain.
No wailing shriek, no useless female tear,
Was ever shed around their battle-bier;
But heaps of corses on the slippery ground
Were pil'd around them, for their funeral mound.

So rose the stubborn race, unknown to bow;
And Teviot's sons were, once, like Erin's now:—

407

Erin, whose waves a favour'd region screen!
Green are her vallies, and her mountains green;
No mildews hoar the soft sea-breezes bring,
Nor breath envenom'd blasts the flowers of spring,
But rising gently o'er the wave she smiles;
And travellers hail the emerald queen of isles.

408

Tall and robust, on Nature's ancient plan,
Her mother-hand here frames her favourite man:
His form, which Grecian artists might admire,
She bids awake and glow with native fire;
For, not to outward form alone confin'd,
Her gifts impartial settle on his mind.
Hence springs the lightning of the speaking eye,
The quick suggestion, and the keen reply,
The powerful spell, that listening senates binds,
The sparkling wit of fine elastic minds,
The milder charms, which feeling hearts engage,
That glow unrivall'd in her Goldsmith's page.

But kindred vices, to these powers allied,
With ranker growth their shaded lustre hide.
As crops, from rank luxuriance of the soil,
In richest fields defraud the farmer's toil,
And when, from every grain the sower flings
In earth's prolific womb, a thousand springs,
The swelling spikes in matted clusters grow,
And greener stalks shoot constant from below,
Debarr'd the fostering sun; till, crude and green,
The milky ears mid spikes matur'd are seen:
Thus, rankly shooting in the mental plain,
The ripening powers no just proportion gain;

409

The buoyant wit, the rapid glance of mind,
By taste, by genuine science unrefin'd,
For solid views the ill-pois'd soul unfit,
And bulls and blunders substitute for wit.
As, with swift touch, the Indian painter draws
His ready pencil o'er the trembling gauze,
While, as it glides, the forms in mimic strife
Seem to contend which first shall start to life;
But careless haste presents each shapeless limb,
Awkwardly clumsy, or absurdly slim:
So rise the hotbed embryos of the brain,
Formless and mix'd, a crude abortive train,
Vigorous of growth, with no proportion grac'd,
The seeds of genius immatur'd by taste.

Such, sea-girt Erin, are thy sons confest!
And such, ere order lawless feud redrest,
Were Teviot's sons; who now, devoid of fear,
Bind to the rush by night the theftless steer.
Fled is the banner'd war, and hush'd the drum;
The shrill-ton'd trumpet's angry voice is dumb;
Invidious rust corrodes the bloody steel;
Dark and dismantled lies each ancient peel:
Afar, at twilight gray, the peasants shun
The dome accurst where deeds of blood were done.

410

No more the staghounds, and the huntsman's cheer,
From their brown coverts rouse the startled deer:
Their native turbulence resign'd, the swains
Feed their gay flocks along these heaths and plains;
While, as the fiercer passions feel decay,
Religion's milder mood assumes its sway.

And lo, the peasant lifts his glistening eye,
When the pale stars are sprinkled o'er the sky!
In those fair orbs, with friends departed long,
Again he hopes to hymn the choral song;
While on his glowing cheek no more remains
The trace of former woes, of former pains.
As o'er his soul the vision rises bright,
His features sparkle with celestial light;
To his tranc'd eye, the mighty concave bends
Its azure arch to earth, and heaven descends.

Cold are the selfish hearts, that would control
The simple peasant's grateful glow of soul,
When, raising with his hands his heart on high,
The sacred tear-drops trembling in his eye,
With firm untainted zeal, he swears to hold
The reverend faith his fathers held of old.—
Hold firm thy faith! for, on the sacred day,
No sabbath-bells invite thy steps to pray;

411

But, as the peasants seek the churchyard's ground,
Afar they hear the swelling bugle's sound,
With shouts and trampling steeds approaching near,
And oaths and curses murmuring in the rear.
Quick they disperse, to moors and woodlands fly,
And fens, that hid in misty vapours lie:
But, though the pitying sun withdraws his light,
The lapwing's clamorous whoop attends their flight,
Pursues their steps, where'er the wanderers go,
Till the shrill scream betrays them to the foe.

Poor bird! where'er the roaming swain intrudes
On thy bleak heaths and desart solitudes,
He curses still thy scream, thy clamorous tongue,
And crushes with his foot thy moulting young:
In stern vindictive mood, he still recalls
The days, when, by the mountain water-falls,
Beside the streams with ancient willows gray,
Or narrow dells, where drifted snow-wreaths lay,
And rocks that shone with fretted ice-work hung,
The prayer was heard, and sabbath-psalms were sung.

Of those dire days the child, untaught to spell,
Still learns the tale he hears his father tell;
How from his sheltering hut the peasant fled,
And in the marshes dug his cold damp bed;

412

His rimy locks by blasts of winter tost,
And stiffened garments rattling in the frost.

In vain the feeble mother strove to warm
The shivering child, close cradled on her arm;
The cold, that crept along each freezing vein,
Congeal'd the milk the infant sought to drain.

Still, as the fearful tale of blood goes round,
From lips comprest is heard a muttering sound;
Flush the warm cheeks, the eyes are bright with dew,
And curses fall on the unholy crew;
Spreads the enthusiast glow:—With solemn pause,
An ancient sword the aged peasant draws,
Displays its rusty edge, and weeps to tell,
How he that bore it for religion fell,
And bids his offspring consecrate the day,
To dress the turf that wraps the martyr's clay.

So, when by Erie's lake the Indians red
Display the dismal banquet of the dead,

413

While streams descend in foam, and tempests rave,
They call their fathers from the funeral cave,
In that green mount, where virgins go, to weep
Around the lonely tree of tears and sleep.
Silent they troop, a melancholy throng,
And bring the ancient fleshless shapes along,
The painted tomahawks, embrown'd with rust,
And belts of wampum, from the sacred dust,
The bow unbent, the tall unfurbish'd spear,
Mysterious symbols! from the grave they rear.
With solemn dance and song the feast they place,
To greet the mighty fathers of their race:
Their robes of fur the warrior youths expand,
And silent sit, the dead on either hand;

414

Eye with fix'd gaze the ghastly forms, that own
No earthly name, and live in worlds unknown;
In each mysterious emblem round them trace
The feuds and friendships of their ancient race;
With awful reverence from the dead imbibe
The rites, the customs, sacred to the tribe,
The spectre-forms in gloomy silence scan,
And swear to finish what their sires began.

By fancy rapt, where tombs are crusted gray,
I seem by moon-illumin'd graves to stray,
Where, mid the flat and nettle-skirted stones,
My steps remove the yellow crumbling bones.
The silver moon, at midnight cold and still,
Looks sad and silent, o'er yon western hill;
While large and pale the ghostly structures grow,
Rear'd on the confines of the world below.
Is that dull sound the hum of Teviot's stream?
Is that blue light the moon's, or tomb-fire's gleam,
By which a mouldering pile is faintly seen,
The old deserted church of Hazel-dean,
Where slept my fathers in their natal clay,
Till Teviot's waters roll'd their bones away?

415

Their feeble voices from the stream they raise—
“Rash youth! unmindful of thy early days,
“Why didst thou quit the peasant's simple lot?
“Why didst thou leave the peasant's turf-built cot,
“The ancient graves, where all thy fathers lie,
“And Teviot's stream, that long has murmur'd by?
“And we—when death so long has clos'd our eyes,—
“How wilt thou bid us from the dust arise,
“And bear our mouldering bones across the main
“From vales, that knew our lives devoid of stain?
“Rash youth, beware! thy home-bred virtues save,
“And sweetly sleep in thy paternal grave!”

THE END.

University of Virginia Library

ODE TO PHANTASY.

WRITTEN IN 1796.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

ON PARTING WITH A FRIEND ON A JOURNEY.

WRITTEN IN 1797.

ON AN OLD MAN DYING FRIENDLESS.

WRITTEN IN 1798.

WRITTEN AT ST. ANDREWS,

IN 1798.

TO RUIN.

WRITTEN IN 1798.

MELANCHOLY.

WRITTEN IN 1798.

TO THE YEW.

WRITTEN IN 1799.

ODE, ADDRESSED TO MR. GEO. DYER, ON SCOTTISH SCENERY AND MANNERS.

WRITTEN IN 1799.

I

II

III

IV

LOVE.

WRITTEN IN 1800.

WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF SKY,

IN 1800.

TO THE SETTING SUN.

WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF IONA, IN 1800.

SERENITY OF CHILDHOOD.

THE MEMORY OF THE PAST.

MACGREGOR.

WRITTEN IN GLENORCHY, NEAR THE SCENE OF THE MASSACRE OF THE MACGREGORS.

THE ELFIN KING.

SCOTTISH MUSIC,

AN ODE.

ODE ON VISITING FLODDEN.

LORD SOULIS.

THE COUT OF KEELDAR.

THE MERMAID.

THE MERMAID.

ON THE SABBATH MORNING.

ODE, TO THE SCENES OF INFANCY.

WRITTEN IN 1801.

SPRING, AN ODE.

WRITTEN WHILE RECOVERING FROM SICKNESS.

ODE

TO THE EVENING STAR.

GREENLAND ELEGY.

A FATHER ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON.

THE WAIL OF ALZIRA.

A NEGRO SONG.

EPISTLE TO A LADY,

FROM A DANCING BEAR.

THE FAN.

ADDRESSED TO A LADY IN 1802.

HEADACH.

TO A LADY.

WRITTEN IN 1802.

TO AURELIA.

WRITTEN IN 1802.

SONNET. WRITTEN AT WOODHOUSELEE IN 1802.

ELEGY ON A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WEST INDIES.

DIRGE.

ON A YOUNG BOY.

THE CELTIC PARADISE,

OR GREEN ISLE OF THE WESTERN WAVES.

A LOVE TALE.

A FRAGMENT.