Part 17

"All night the witch sang, and the castle grew Up from the rock, with tower and turret crown'd: All night she sang--when fell the morning dew 'Twas finish'd round and round.

"From out the morning ambers opening wide, A galley, many-oar'd and dragon-beak'd, Came, bearing bridegroom Sigurd, happy-eyed, Bride Hilda, brilliant-cheek'd.

"And in the witch's castle, magic-built, They dwelt in bridal sweetness many a year, Till tumult rose in Norway, blood was spilt,-- Then Sigurd grasp'd his spear.

"The Islesmen murmur'd 'gainst the Norseman's tax; Jarl Sigurd led them--many a skull he cleft, Ere, 'neath his fallen standard, battle-axe Blood-painted to the heft,

"He lay at sunset propp'd up by his slain, (Leader and kerne that he had smitten down,) Stark, rigid; in his haut face scorn and pain, Fix'd in eternal frown.

"When they brought home the bloody man, the sight Blanch'd Hilda to her hair of bounteous gold; That day she was a happy bride, that night A woman gray and old.

"The dead man left his eyes beneath the brows Of Hilda, in a child whose speech Prattled of sword, spear, buckler, idle rows Of galleys on the beach.

"And Hilda sang him songs of northern lands, Weird songs of foamy wraith and roaming sail, Songs of gaunt wolves, clear icebergs, magic brands, Enchanted shirts of mail.

"The years built up a giant broad and grave, With florid locks, and eyes that look'd men through; A passion for the long lift of the wave From roaming sires he drew.

"Amongst the craggy islands did he rove, And, like an eagle, took and rent his prey; Oft, deep with battle-spoil, his galleys clove Homeward their joyous way.

"He towering, full-arm'd, in the van, with spear Outstretch'd, and hair blown backward like a flame: While to the setting sun his oarsmen rear The glory of his name.

"Once, when the sea his battle galleys cross'd, His mother, sickening, turn'd from summer light, And faced death as the Norse land, clench'd with frost, Faces the polar night.

"At length his masts came raking through the mist: He pour'd upon the beach his wild-eyed bands: The fierce, fond, dying woman turn'd and kiss'd His orphan-making hands,

"And lean'd her head against his mighty breast In pure content, well knowing so to live One single hour was all that death could wrest Away, or life could give;

"And murmur'd as her dying fingers took Farewell of cheek and brow, then fondly drown'd Themselves in tawny hair--'I cannot brook To sleep here under ground.

"My women through my chambers weep and wail: I would not waste one tear-drop though I could: When they brought home that lordly length of mail With bold blood stain'd and glued,

"I wept out all my tears. Amongst my kind I cannot sleep; so upon Marsco's head, Right in the pathway of the Norway wind, See thou and make my bed!

"The north wind blowing on that lonely place Will comfort me. Kiss me, my Torquil! I Feel the big hot tears plashing on my face. How easy 'tis to die!'

"The farewell-taking arms around him set Clung closer; and a feeble mouth was raised, Seeking for his in darkness--ere they met The eyeballs fix'd and glazed.

"Dearer that kiss, by pain and death forestall'd, Than ever yet touch'd lip! Beside the bed The Norseman knelt till sunset, then he call'd The dressers of the dead,

"Who, looking on her face, were daunted more Than when she, living, flash'd indignant fires; For in the gathering gloom the features wore A look that was her sire's.

"And upward to a sea-o'erstaring peak With lamentation was the Princess borne, And, looking northward, left with evening meek, And fiery-shooting morn."

In this wise ran the story full of breaks: And brooding o'er that subtle sense of death That sighs through all our happy days, that shakes All raptures of our breath,

Methought I saw the ancient woman bow'd By sorrow in her witch-built home--and still The radiant billows of autumnal cloud Flow'd on the monstrous hill.

EDENBAIN.

Young Edenbain canter'd Across to Kilmuir, The road was rough, But his horse was sure. The mighty sun taking His splendid sea-bath, Made golden the greenness Of valley and strath.

He cared not for sunset, For gold rock nor isle: O'er his dark face their flitted A secretive smile. His cousin, the great London merchant was dead, Edenbain was his heir-- "I'll buy lands," he said.

"Men fear death. How should I! We live and we learn-- I' faith, death has done me The handsomest turn. Young, good-looking, thirty-- (Hie on, Roger, hie!) I'll taste every pleasure That money can buy.

"Duntulm and Dunsciach May laugh at my birth. Let them laugh! Father Adam Was made out of earth. What are worm-eaten castles And ancestry old, 'Gainst a modern purse stuff'd With omnipotent gold?"

He saw himself riding To kirk and to fair, Hats lifting, arms nudging, "That's Edenbain there!" He thought of each girl He had known in his life, Nor could fix on which sweetness To pluck for a wife.

Home Edenbain canter'd, With pride in his heart, When sudden he pull'd up His horse with a start. The road, which was bare As the desert before, Was cover'd with people A hundred and more.

'Twas a black creeping funeral; And Edenbain drew His horse to the side of The roadway. He knew In the cart rolling past That a coffin was laid--- But whose? the harsh outline Was hid by a plaid.

The cart pass'd. The mourners Came marching behind: In front his own father, Greyheaded, stone-blind; And far-removed cousins, His own stock and race, Came after in silence, A cloud on each face.

Together walk'd Mugstot And fiery-soul'd Ord, Whom six days before He had left at his board. Behind came the red-bearded Sons of Tormore With whom he was drunk Scarce a fortnight before.

"Who is dead? Don't they know me?" Thought young Edenbain, With a weird terror gathering In heart and in brain. In a moment the black Crawling funeral was gone, And he sat on his horse On the roadway alone.

"'Tis the second sight," cried he; "'Tis strange that I miss Myself 'mong the mourners! Whose burial is this? "My God! 'tis my own!" And the blood left his heart, As he thought of the dead man That lay in the cart.

The sun, ere he sank in His splendid sea-bath, Saw Edenbain spur through The golden-green strath. Past a twilighted shepherd At watch rush'd a horse, With Edenbain dragged At the stirrup a corse.

PEEBLES.

I lay in my bedroom at Peebles With my window curtains drawn, While there stole over hill of pasture and pine The unresplendent dawn.

And through the deep silence I listen'd, With a pleased, half-waking heed, To the sound which ran through the ancient town-- The shallow-brawling Tweed.

For to me 'twas a realisation Of dream; and I felt like one Who first sees the Alps, or the Pyramids, World-old, in the setting sun;

First, crossing the purple Campagna, Beholds the wonderful dome Which a thought of Michael Angelo hung In the golden air of Rome.

And all through the summer morning I felt it a joy indeed To whisper again and again to myself, This is the voice of the Tweed.

Of Dryburgh, Melrose, and Neidpath, Norham Castle brown and bare, The merry sun shining on merry Carlisle, And the Bush aboon Traquair,

I had dream'd: but most of the river, That, glittering mile on mile, Flow'd through my imagination, As through Egypt flows the Nile.

Was it absolute truth, or a dreaming That the wakeful day disowns, That I heard something more in the stream, as it ran, Than water breaking on stones?

Now the hoofs of a flying mosstrooper, Now a bloodhound's bay, half caught, The sudden blast of a hunting horn, The burr of Walter Scott?

Who knows? But of this I am certain, That but for the ballads and wails That make passionate dead things, stocks and stones, Make piteous woods and dales,

The Tweed were as poor as the Amazon, That, for all the years it has roll'd, Can tell but how fair was the morning red, How sweet the evening gold.

JUBILATION OF SERGEANT M'TURK ON WITNESSING THE HIGHLAND GAMES.

INVERNESS, 1864.

Hurrah for the Highland glory! Hurrah for the Highland fame! For the battles of the great Montrose, And the pass of the gallant Graeme! Hurrah for the knights and nobles That rose up in their place, And perill'd fame and fortune For Charlie's bonny face!

Awa frae green Lochaber He led his slender clans: The rising skirl o' our bagpipes fley'd Sir John at Prestonpans. Ance mair we gather'd glory In Falkirk's battle stoure, Ere the tartans lay red-soak'd in bluid On black Drumossie Moor.

An' when the weary time was owre, When the head fell frae the neck, Wolfe heard the cry, "They run, they run!" On the heights aboon Quebec. At Ticonderoga's fortress We fell on sword and targe: Hurt Moore was lifted up to see "His Forty-second" charge.

An' aye the pipe was loudest, An' aye the tartans flew, The first frae bluidy Maida To bluidier Waterloo. We have sail'd owre many a sea, my lads, We have fought 'neath many a sky, And it's where the fight has hottest raged That the tartans thickest lie.

We landed, lads, in India, When in our bosom's core One bitter memory burn'd like hell-- The shambles at Cawnpore. Weel ye mind our march through the furnace-heats, Weel ye mind the heaps of slain, As we follow'd through his score of fights Brave "Havelock the Dane."

Hurrah for the Highland glory! Hurrah for the Highland names! God bless you, noble gentlemen! God love you, bonny dames! And sneer not at the brawny limbs, And the strength of our Highland men-- When the bayonets next are levell'd, They may all be needed then.

These verses I had no sooner copied out in my best hand than, looking up, I found that the rain had ceased from sheer fatigue, and that great white vapours were rising up from the damp valleys. Here was release at last--the beleaguering army had raised the siege; and, better than all, pleasant as the sound of Blucher's cannon on the evening of Waterloo, I heard the sound of wheels on the boggy ground: and just when the stanched rain-clouds were burning into a sullen red at sunset, I had the Brians, father and son, in my bothy, and pleasant human intercourse. They came to carry me off with them.

[Sidenote: Blaavin.]

I am to stay with Mr M'Ian to-night. A wedding has taken place up among the hills, and the whole party have been asked to make a night of it. The mighty kitchen has been cleared for the occasion; torches are stuck up, ready to be lighted; and I already hear the first mutterings of the bagpipes' storm of sound. The old gentleman wears a look of brightness and hilarity, and vows that he will lead off the first reel with the bride. Everything is prepared; and even now the bridal party are coming down the steep hill-road. I must go out to meet them. To-morrow I return to my bothy to watch; for the weather has become fine now, the sunny mists congregating on the crests of Blaavin--Blaavin on which the level heaven seems to lean.

END OF VOLUME I.