The Poetical Remains of the late Dr. John Leyden with Memoirs of his Life, by the Rev. James Morton |
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| I. |
| II. | PART II. |
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 | The Poetical Remains of the late Dr. John Leyden |  |
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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.
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.
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,
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.
And from young April dries the gelid tear,
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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,
And fays forsook the purer fields above,
To hail the daisy, flower of faithful love.
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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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.
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:
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.
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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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.
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,
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.
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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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;
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.
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
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!
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.
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!
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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.
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?
Beneath the circling fern he bows his head,
That weaves a wreath of triumph o'er the dead.
Oh, where is he? the victor Douglas where?
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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.
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.
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!
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,
Where first its course, as aged swains have told,
It stay'd, concenter'd in a vase of gold.
Shunn'd by the swain, with loathsome weeds o'ergrown!
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With scaly, sapless lichens crusted o'er:
Beneath the base, where starving hemlocks creep,
The yellow pestilence is buried deep,
342
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.
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.
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;
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,
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.
Where Dena's valley fronts the southern sun;
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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,
345
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!
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!
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.
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!
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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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.
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.
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;
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.
A lonely pile, Eugenia's dwelling stood;
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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!”
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;
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.
And sweet the concert of the woods to hear;
350
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!
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.
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!
351
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.”
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.”
352
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.
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!
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!
353
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!
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.
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;
While many an oft-repeated tale he tells,
And jokes, adapted to the ware he sells.
Bawls from his cart the vagrant auctioneer;
354
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.
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.
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.
355
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,
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.
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,
356
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:
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.
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.
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.
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:
357
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.
358
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.
359
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.
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.
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.
360
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,
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!
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,
361
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!
| The Poetical Remains of the late Dr. John Leyden | |