PART II.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

Gem of the crimson-coloured Even, Companion of retiring day, Why at the closing gates of Heaven, Belovèd star dost thou delay?

So fair thy pensile beauty burns, When soft the tear of twilight flows; So due thy plighted love returns, To chambers brighter than the rose,

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love, So kind a star thou seem’st to be, Sure some enamoured orb above Descends and burns to meet with thee.

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour, When all unheavenly passions fly, Chased by the soul-subduing power Of Love’s delicious witchery.

O! sacred to the fall of day, Queen of propitious stars appear, And early rise and long delay, When Caroline herself is here!

Shine on her chosen green resort, Whose trees the sunward summit crown, And wanton flowers that well may court An angel’s feet to tread them down.

Shine on her sweetly-scented road, Thou star of evening’s purple dome, That lead’st the nightingale abroad, And guid’st the pilgrim to his home.

Shine, where my charmer’s sweeter breath Embalms the soft exhaling dew, Where dying winds a sigh bequeath To kiss the cheek of rosy hue.

Where, winnowed by the gentle air, Her silken tresses darkly flow, And fall upon her brow so fair, Like shadows on the mountain snow.

Thus, ever thus, at day’s decline, In converse sweet, to wander far, O bring with thee my Caroline, And thou shalt be my ruling star!

FIELD FLOWERS.

Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you ’tis true, Yet, wildings of nature I dote upon you, For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teemed around me with faery delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of birchen glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon’s note, Made music that sweetened the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June: Of old ruinous castles ye tell, Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell.

E’en now what affections the violet awakes; What loved little islands twice seen in their lakes, Can the wild water-lily restore; What landscapes I read in the primrose’s looks, And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks In the vetches that tangled their shore.

Earth’s cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear Had scathed my existence’s bloom; Once I welcome you more in life’s passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age, And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

LINES ON THE VIEW FROM ST. LEONARD’S.

Hail to thy face and odours, glorious Sea! ’Twere thanklessness in me to bless thee not, Great beauteous Being! in whose breath and smile My heart beats calmer, and my very mind Inhales salubrious thoughts. How welcomer Thy murmurs than the murmurs of the world! Though like the world thou fluctuatest, thy din To me is peace, thy restlessness repose. E’en gladly I exchange yon spring-green lanes With all the darling field-flowers in their prime, And gardens haunted by the nightingales’ Long trills and gushing ecstacies of song For these wild headlands and the sea-mew’s clang—

With thee beneath my windows, pleasant Sea, I long not to o’erlook earth’s fairest glades And green savannahs—Earth has not a plain So boundless or so beautiful as thine; The eagle’s vision cannot take it in: The lightning’s wing too weak to sweep its space Sinks half-way o’er it like a wearied bird: It is the mirror of the stars, where all Their hosts within the concave firmament, Gay marching to the music of the spheres, Can see themselves at once.

Nor on the stage Of rural landscape are there lights and shades Of more harmonious dance and play than thine. How vividly this moment brightens forth, Between grey parallel and leaden breadths. A belt of hues that stripes thee many a league, Flushed like the rainbow, or the ringdove’s neck, And giving to the glancing sea-bird’s wing The semblance of a meteor.

Mighty sea! Cameleon-like thou changest, but there’s love In all thy change, and constant sympathy With yonder Sky—thy Mistress; from her brow Thou tak’st thy moods and wear’st her colours on Thy faithful bosom; morning’s milky white, Noon’s sapphire, or the saffron glow of eve; And all thy balmier hours, fair Element, Have such divine complexion—crispèd smiles, Luxuriant heavings, and sweet whisperings, That little is the wonder Love’s own Queen From thee of old was fabled to have sprung—

Creation’s common! which no human power Can parcel or enclose; the lordliest floods And cataracts that the tiny hands of man Can tame, conduct, or bound, are drops of dew To thee that couldst subdue the Earth itself, And brook’st commandment from the Heavens alone For marshalling thy waves—

Yet, potent sea! How placidly thy moist lips speak e’en now Along yon sparkling shingles. Who can be So fanciless as to feel no gratitude That power and grandeur can be so serene, Soothing the home-bound navy’s peaceful way, And rocking e’en the fisher’s little bark As gently as a mother rocks her child?—

The inhabitants of other worlds behold Our orb more lucid for thy spacious share On earth’s rotundity; and is he not A blind worm in the dust, great Deep, the man Who sees not or who seeing has no joy In thy magnificence? What though thou art Unconscious and material, thou canst reach The inmost immaterial mind’s recess, And with thy tints and motion stir its chords To music, like the light on Memnon’s lyre!

The Spirit of the Universe in thee Is visible; thou hast in thee the life— The eternal, graceful, and majestic life— Of nature and the natural human heart Is therefore bound to thee with holy love.

Earth has her gorgeous towns; the earth-circling sea Has spires and mansions more amusive still— Men’s volant homes that measure liquid space On wheel or wing. The chariot of the land With pained and panting steeds and clouds of dust Has no sight-gladdening motion like these fair Careerers with the foam beneath their bows, Whose streaming ensigns charm the waves by day Whose carols and whose watch-bells cheer the night, Moored as they cast the shadows of their masts In long array, or hither flit and yond Mysteriously with slow and crossing lights, Like spirits on the darkness of the deep.

There is a magnet-like attraction in These waters to the imaginative power That links the viewless with the visible, And pictures things unseen. To realms beyond Yon highway of the world my fancy flies, When by her tall and triple mast we know Some noble voyager that has to woo The trade-winds and to stem the ecliptic surge. The coral groves—the shores of conch and pearl, Where she will cast her anchor and reflect Her cabin-window lights on warmer waves, And under planets brighter than our own: The nights of palmy isles, that she will see Lit boundless by the fire-fly—all the smells Of tropic fruits that will regale her—all The pomp of nature, and the inspiriting Varieties of life she has to greet, Come swarming o’er the meditative mind.

True, to the dream of Fancy, Ocean has His darker hints; but where’s the element That chequers not its usefulness to man. With casual terror? Scathes not Earth sometimes Her children with Tartarean fires, or shakes Their shrieking cities, and, with one last clang Of bells for their own ruin, strews them flat As riddled ashes—silent as the grave? Walks not Contagion on the Air itself? I should—old Ocean’s Saturnalian days And roaring nights of revelry and sport With wreck and human woe—be loth to sing; For they are few and all their ills weigh light Against his sacred usefulness, that bids Our pensile globe revolve in purer air. Here Morn and Eve with blushing thanks receive Their fresh’ning dews, gay fluttering breezes cool Their wings to fan the brow of fevered climes, And here the Spring dips down her emerald urn For showers to glad the earth.

Old Ocean was Infinity of ages ere we breathed Existence—and he will be beautiful When all the living world that sees him now Shall roll unconscious dust around the sun. Quelling from age to age the vital throb In human hearts, Death shall not subjugate The pulse that swells in _his_ stupendous breast, Or interdict his minstrelsy to sound In thund’ring concert with the quiring winds; But long as Man to parent Nature owns Instinctive homage, and in times beyond The power of thought to reach, bard after bard Shall sing thy glory, BEATIFIC SEA!

LINES ON POLAND.

And have I lived to see thee sword in hand Uprise again immortal Polish Land!— Whose flag brings more than chivalry to mind, And leaves the tri-color in shade behind;— A theme for uninspirèd lips too strong; That swells my heart beyond the power of song:— Majestic men, whose deeds have dazzled faith, Ah! yet your fate’s suspense arrests my breath; Whilst, envying bosoms bared to shot and steel, I feel the more that fruitlessly I feel. Poles! with what indignation I endure Th’ half-pitying servile mouths that call you poor; Poor! is it England mocks you with her grief, That hates, but dares not chide, th’ _Imperial Thief_? France with her soul beneath a Bourbon’s thrall, And Germany that has no soul at all,— States quailing at the giant overgrown, Whom dauntless Poland grapples with alone? No, ye are rich in fame e’en whilst ye bleed: _We_ cannot aid you—_we_ are poor indeed!

In Fate’s defiance—in the world’s great eye, Poland has won her Immortality! The Butcher, should he reach her bosom now, Could tear not Glory’s garland from her brow; Wreathed, filleted, the victim falls renowned, And all her ashes would be holy ground!

But turn, my soul, from presages so dark: Great Poland’s spirit is a deathless spark That’s fanned by Heaven to mock the Tyrant’s rage: She, like the eagle, will renew her age, And fresh historic plumes of Fame put on,— Another Athens after Marathon,— Where eloquence shall fulmine, arts refine, Bright as her arms that now in battle shine. Come—should the heavenly shock my life destroy And shut its flood-gates with excess of joy; Come but the day when Poland’s fight is won— And on my grave-stone shine the morrow’s sun— The day that sees Warsaw’s cathedral glow With endless ensigns ravished from the foe,— Her women lifting their fair hands with thanks, Her pious warriors kneeling in their ranks, The scutcheoned walls of high heraldic boast, The odorous altar’s elevated host, The organ sounding through the aisle’s long glooms, The mighty dead seen sculptured o’er their tombs; (John, Europe’s saviour—Poniatowski’s fair Resemblance—Kosciusko’s shall be there;) The tapered pomp—the halleluiah’s swell, Shall o’er the soul’s devotion cast a spell, Till visions cross the rapt enthusiast’s glance, And all the scene becomes a waking trance. Should Fate put far—far off that glorious scene, And gulfs of havoc interpose between, Imagine not, ye men of every clime, Who act, or by your sufferance share the crime— Your brother Abel’s blood shall vainly plead Against the “_deep damnation_” of the deed. Germans ye view its horror and disgrace With cold phosphoric eyes and phlegm of face. Is Allemagne profound in science, lore, And minstrel art?—her shame is but the more To doze and dream by governments oppressed, The spirit of a book-worm in each breast. Well can ye mouth fair Freedom’s classic line, And talk of Constitutions o’er your wine: But all your vows to break the tyrant’s yoke Expire in Bacchanalian song and smoke: Heavens! can no ray of foresight pierce the leads And mystic metaphysics of your heads, To show the self-same grave, Oppression delves For Poland’s rights, is yawning for yourselves!

See, whilst the Pole, the vanguard aid of France, Has vaulted on his barb and couched the lance, France turns from her abandoned friends afresh,[88] And soothes the Bear that prowls for patriot flesh, Buys, ignominious purchase! short repose, With dying curses and the groans of those That served, and loved, and put in her their trust. Frenchmen! the dead accuse you from the dust— Brows laurelled—bosoms marked with many a scar For France—that wore her Legion’s noblest star, Cast dumb reproaches from the field of Death On Gallic honour; and this broken faith Has robbed you more of Fame—the life of life,— Than twenty battles lost in glorious strife!

And what of England—Is she steeped so low In poverty, crest-fallen, and palsied so, That we must sit much wroth, but timorous more, With murder knocking at our neighbour’s door!— Not murder masked and cloaked with hidden knife, Whose owner owes the gallows life for life; But _Public Murder!_—that with pomp and gaud, And royal scorn of Justice walks abroad To wring more tears and blood than e’er were wrung By all the culprits Justice ever hung! We read the diademed Assassin’s vaunt, And wince, and wish we had not hearts to pant With useless indignation—sigh, and frown, But have not hearts to throw the gauntlet down.

If but a doubt hung o’er the grounds of fray, Or trivial rapine stopped the world’s highway; Were this some common strife of States embroiled;— Britannia on the spoiler and the spoiled Might calmly look, and, asking time to breathe, Still honourably wear her olive wreath But this is Darkness combating with Light: Earth’s adverse Principles for empire fight: Oppression, that has belted half the globe, Far as his knout could reach or dagger probe, Holds reeking o’er our brother freemen slain That dagger—shakes it at us in disdain; Talks big to Freedom’s states of Poland’s thrall, And, trampling one, contemns them one and all.

My Country! colours not thy once proud brow At this effront?—Hast thou not fleets enow With Glory’s streamer, lofty as the lark, Gay fluttering o’er each thunder-bearing bark, To warm th’ Insulter’s seas with barb’rous blood, And interdict his flag from Ocean’s flood? E’en now far off the sea-cliff, where I sing, I see, my Country, and my Patriot King! Your ensign glad the deep. Becalmed and slow A war-ship rides; while Heaven’s prismatic bow Uprisen behind her on th’ horizon’s base, } Shines flushing through the tackle, shrouds, and stays, } And wraps her giant form in one majestic blaze. } My soul accepts the omen; Fancy’s eye Has sometimes a veracious augury: The Rainbow types Heaven’s promise to my sight; The Ship, Britannia’s interposing Might!

But if there should be none to aid you, Poles, Ye’ll but to prouder pitch wind up your souls, Above example, pity, praise or blame, To sow and reap a boundless field of Fame. Ask aid no more from Nations that forget Your championship—old Europe’s mighty debt. Though Poland (Lazarus-like) has burst the gloom, She rises not a beggar from the tomb: In Fortune’s frown, on Danger’s giddiest brink, Despair and Poland’s name must never link. All ills have bounds—plague, whirlwind, fire, and flood: E’en power can spill but bounded sums of blood. States caring not what freedom’s price may be, May late or soon, but must at last be free; For body-killing tyrants cannot kill The public soul—the hereditary will That downward as from sire to son it goes, By shifting bosoms more intensely glows: Its heir-loom is the heart, and slaughtered men Fight fiercer in their orphans o’er again. Poland recasts—though rich in heroes old,— Her men in more and more heroic mould: Her Eagle-ensign best among mankind Become, and types her eagle-strength of mind: Her praise upon my faltering lips expires: Resume it, younger bards, and nobler lyres!

[88] The fact ought to be universally known, that France was indebted to Poland for not being invaded by Russia. When the Duke Constantine fled from Warsaw, he left papers behind him proving that the Russians, after the Parisian events in July, meant to have marched towards Paris, if the Polish insurrection had not prevented them.

LINES ON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS.

In the deep blue of eve, Ere the twinkling of stars had begun, Or the lark took his leave Of the skies and the sweet setting sun,

I climbed to yon heights, Where the Norman encamped him of old,[89] With his bowmen and knights, And his banner all burnished with gold.

At the Conqueror’s side There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand, In pavilion wide; And they chaunted the deeds of Roland.

Still the ramparted ground With a vision my fancy inspires, And I hear the trump sound, As it marshalled our Chivalry’s sires.

On each turf of that mead Stood the captors of England’s domains, That ennobled her breed And high-mettled the blood of her veins.

Over hauberk and helm As the sun’s setting splendour was thrown, Thence they looked o’er a realm— And to-morrow beheld it their own.

[89] What is called the East Hill at Hastings is crowned with the works of an ancient camp; and it is more than probable it was the spot which William I. occupied between his landing, and the battle which gave him England’s crown. It is a strong position: the works are easily traced.

LINES WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF LA PEROUSE’S VOYAGES.

Loved Voyager! whose pages had a zest More sweet than fiction to my wond’ring breast, When, rapt in fancy, many a boyish day I tracked his wanderings o’er the watery way, Roamed round the Aleutian isles in waking dreams, Or plucked the _fleur-de-lys_ by Jesso’s streams— Or gladly leaped on that far Tartar strand, Where Europe’s anchor ne’er had bit the sand, Where scarce a roving wild tribe crossed the plain, Or human voice broke nature’s silent reign; But vast and grassy deserts feed the bear, And sweeping deer-herds dread no hunter’s snare. Such young delight his real records brought, His truth so touched romantic springs of thought, That all my after-life—his fate and fame Entwined romance with La Perouse’s name.

Fair were his ships, expert his gallant crews, And glorious was th’ emprize of La Perouse,— Humanely glorious! Men will weep for him, When many a guilty martial fame is dim: He ploughed the deep to bind no captive’s chain— Pursued no rapine—strewed no wreck with slain, And, save that in the deep themselves lie low, His heroes plucked no wreath from human woe. ’Twas his the earth’s remotest bounds to scan, Conciliating with gifts barbaric man— Enrich the world’s contemporaneous mind, And amplify the picture of mankind. Far on the vast Pacific—midst those isles, O’er which the earliest morn of Asia smiles, He sounded and gave charts to many a shore And gulf of Ocean new to nautic lore; Yet he that led Discovery o’er the wave, Still finds himself an undiscovered grave. He came not back,—Conjecture’s cheek grew pale, Year after year—in no propitious gale, His lilied banner held its homeward way, And Science saddened at her martyr’s stay.

An age elapsed—no wreck told where or when The chief went down with all his gallant men, Or whether by the storm and wild sea flood He perished, or by wilder men of blood— The shudd’ring Fancy only guess’d his doom, And Doubt to Sorrow gave but deeper gloom.

An age elapsed—when men were dead or grey, Whose hearts had mourned him in their youthful day Fame traced on Mannicōlo’s shore at last The boiling surge had mounted o’er his mast. The islesmen told of some surviving men, But Christian eyes beheld them ne’er again. Sad bourne of all his toils—with all his band— To sleep, wrecked, shroudless, on a savage strand! Yet what is all that fires a hero’s scorn Of death?—the hope to live in hearts unborn: Life to the brave is not its fleeting breath, But worth—foretasting fame, that follows death. That worth had La Perouse—that meed he won; He sleeps—his life’s long stormy watch is done. In the great deep, whose boundaries and space He measured, Fate ordained his resting-place; But bade his fame, like th’ Ocean rolling o’er His relics—visit every earthly shore. Fair Science on that Ocean’s azure robe, Still writes his name in picturing the globe, And paints—(what fairer wreath could Glory twine?) His watery course—a world-encircling line.

THE POWER OF RUSSIA.

So all this gallant blood has gushed in vain! And Poland by the Northern Condor’s beak And talons torn, lies prostrated again. O, British patriots, that were wont to speak Once loudly on this theme, now hushed or meek! O, heartless men of Europe—Goth and Gaul! Cold, adder-deaf to Poland’s dying shriek;— That saw the world’s last land of heroes fall— The brand of burning shame is on you all—all—all!

But this is not the drama’s closing act; Its tragic curtain must uprise anew. Nations, mute accessaries to the fact! That Upas-tree of power, whose fostering dew Was Polish blood, has yet to cast o’er you The lengthening shadow of its head elate— A deadly shadow, darkening nature’s hue. To all that’s hallowed, righteous, pure, and great, Wo! wo! when they are reached by Russia’s withering hate.

Russia, that on his throne of adamant, Consults what nation’s breast shall next be gored: He on Polonia’s Golgotha will plant His standard fresh; and, horde succeeding horde, On patriot tomb-stones he will whet the sword, For more stupendous slaughters of the free. Then Europe’s realms, when their best blood is poured, Shall miss thee, Poland! as they bend the knee, All—all in grief, but none in glory likening thee.

Why smote ye not the giant whilst he reeled? O, fair occasion, gone for ever by! To have locked his lances in their northern field, Innocuous as the phantom chivalry That flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky! Now wave thy pennon, Russia, o’er the land Once Poland; build thy bristling castles high; Dig dungeon’s deep; for Poland’s wrested brand Is now a weapon new to widen thy command—

An awful width! Norwegian woods shall build His fleets; the Swede his vassal, and the Dane: The glebe of fifty kingdoms shall be tilled To feed his dazzling, desolating train, Camped sumless, ’twixt the Black and Baltic main: Brute hosts, I own; but Sparta could not write, And Rome, half-barbarous, bound Achaia’s chain: So Russia’s spirit, midst Sclavonic night, Burns with a fire more dread than all your polished light.

But Russia’s limbs (so blinded statesmen say) Are crude, and too colossal to cohere. O, lamentable weakness! reckoning weak The stripling Titan, strengthening year by year. What implement lacks he for war’s career, That grows on earth, or in its floods and mines, (Eighth sharer of the inhabitable sphere) Whom Persia bows to, China ill confines, And India’s homage waits, when Albion’s star declines?

But time will teach the Russ, e’en conquering Has handmaid arts: ay, ay, the Russ will woo All sciences that speed Bellona’s car, All murder’s tactic arts, and win them too; But never holier Muses shall imbue His breast, that’s made of nature’s basest clay: The sabre, knout, and dungeon’s vapour blue His laws and ethics: far from him away Are all the lovely nine that breath but freedom’s day.

Say, e’en his serfs, half humanised, should learn Their human rights,—will Mars put out his flame In Russian bosoms? no, he’ll bid them burn A thousand years for nought but martial fame, Like Romans:—yet forgive me, Roman name! Rome could impart what Russia never can; Proud civic rights to salve submission’s shame. Our strife is coming; but in freedom’s van The Polish Eagle’s fall is big with fate to man.

Proud bird of old! Mohammed’s moon recoiled Before thy swoop: had we been timely bold, That swoop, still free, had stunned the Russ, and foiled Earth’s new oppressors, as it foiled her old. Now thy majestic eyes are shut and cold: And colder still Polonia’s children find The sympathetic hands, that we outhold. But, Poles, when we are gone, the world will mind, Ye bore the brunt of fate, and bled for humankind.

So hallowedly have ye fulfilled your part, My pride repudiates e’en the sigh that blends With Poland’s name—name written on my heart. My heroes, my grief-consecrated friends! Your sorrow, in nobility, transcends Your conqueror’s joy: his cheek may blush; but shame Can tinge not yours, though exile’s tear descends; Nor would ye change your conscience, cause and name, For his, with all his wealth, and all his felon fame.

Thee, Niemciewitz,[90] whose song of stirring power The Czar forbids to sound in Polish lands; Thee, Czartoryski, in thy banished bower, The patricide, who in thy palace stands, May envy; proudly may Polonia’s bands Throw down their swords at Europe’s feet in scorn, Saying—“Russia, from the metal of these brands Shall forge the fetters of your sons unborn; Our setting star is your misfortune’s rising morn.”

[90] This venerable man, the most popular and influential of Polish poets, and president of the Academy of Warsaw, was in London when this poem was written; he was seventy-four years old; but his noble spirit was rather mellowed than decayed by age. He was the friend of Fox, Kosciusko, and Washington. Rich in anecdote like Franklin, he bore also a striking resemblance to him in countenance.

REULLURA.[91]

Star of the morn and eve, Reullura shone like thee, And well for her might Aodh grieve, The dark-attired Culdee.[92] Peace to their shades! the pure Culdees Were Albyn’s earliest priests of God, Ere yet an island of her seas By foot of Saxon monk was trod, Long ere her churchmen by bigotry Were barred from holy wedlock’s tie. ’Twas then that Aodh, famed afar, In Iona preached the word with power, And Reullura, beauty’s star, Was the partner of his bower.

But, Aodh, the roof lies low, And the thistle-down waves bleaching, And the bat flits to and fro Where the Gael once heard thy preaching, And fall’n is each columned aisle Where the chiefs and the people knelt. ’Twas near that temple’s goodly pile That honoured of men they dwelt. For Aodh was wise in the sacred law, And bright Reullura’s eyes oft saw The veil of fate uplifted. Alas, with what visions of awe Her soul in that hour was gifted—

When pale in the temple and faint, With Aodh she stood alone By the statue of an aged Saint! Fair sculptured was the stone, It bore a crucifix; Fame said it once had graced A Christian temple, which the Picts In the Britons’ land laid waste: The Pictish men, by St. Columb taught, Had hither the holy relic brought. Reullura eyed the statue’s face, And cried, “It is he shall come, Even he in this very place, To avenge my martyrdom.

“For, woe to the Gael people! Ulvfagre is on the main, And Iona shall look from tower and steeple On the coming ships of the Dane; And, dames and daughters, shall all your locks With the spoiler’s grasp entwine? No! some shall have shelter in caves and rocks, And the deep sea shall be mine. Baffled by me shall the Dane return, And here shall his torch in the temple burn, Until that holy man shall plough The waves from Innisfail.[93] His sail is on the deep e’en now, And swells to the southern gale.”

“Ah! knowest thou not, my bride,” The holy Aodh said, “That the Saint whose form we stand beside Has for ages slept with the dead?” “He liveth, he liveth,” she said again, “For the span of his life tenfold extends Beyond the wonted years of men. He sits by the graves of well-loved friends That died ere thy grandsire’s grandsire’s birth; The oak is decayed with old age on earth, Whose acorn-seed had been planted by him; And his parents remember the day of dread When the sun on the cross looked dim, And the graves gave up their dead.

“Yet preaching from clime to clime, He hath roamed the earth for ages, And hither he shall come in time When the wrath of the heathen rages, In time a remnant from the sword— Ah! but a remnant to deliver; Yet, bless’d be the name of the Lord! His martyrs shall go into bliss for ever. Lochlin,[94] appalled, shall put up her steel, And thou shalt embark on the bounding keel; Safe shalt thou pass through her hundred ships, With the Saint and a remnant of the Gael, And the Lord will instruct thy lips To preach in Innisfail.”

The sun, now about to set, Was burning o’er Tiriee, And no gathering cry rose yet O’er the isles of Albyn’s sea, Whilst Reullura saw far rowers dip Their oars beneath the sun, And the phantom of many a Danish ship, Where ship there yet was none. And the shield of alarm[95] was dumb, Nor did their warning till midnight come, When watch-fires burst from across the mair From Rona and Uist and Skye, To tell that the ships of the Dane And the red-haired slayers were nigh.

Our islesmen arose from slumbers, And buckled on their arms; But few, alas! were their numbers To Lochlin’s mailèd swarms. And the blade of the bloody Norse Has filled the shores of the Gael With many a floating corse, And with many a woman’s wail. They have lighted the islands with ruin’s torch, And the holy men of Iona’s church In the temple of God lay slain; All but Aodh, the last Culdee, But bound with many an iron chain, Bound in that church was he.

And where is Aodh’s bride? Rocks of the ocean flood! Plunged she not from your heights in pride, And mocked the men of blood? Then Ulvfagre and his bands In the temple lighted their banquet up, And the print of their blood-red hands Was left on the altar cup. ’Twas then that the Norseman to Aodh said, “Tell where thy church’s treasure’s laid, Or I’ll hew thee limb from limb.” As he spoke the bell struck three, And every torch grew dim That lighted their revelry.

But the torches again burnt bright, And brighter than before, When an aged man of majestic height Entered the temple door. Hushed was the revellers’ sound, They were struck as mute as the dead, And their hearts were appalled by the very sound Of his footstep’s measured tread. Nor word was spoken by one beholder, While he flung his white robe back on his shoulder And stretching his arm—as eath Unriveted Aodh’s bands, As if the gyves had been a wreath Of willows in his hands.

All saw the stranger’s similitude To the ancient statue’s form; The Saint before his own image stood, And grasped Ulvfagre’s arm. Then uprose the Danes at last to deliver Their chief, and shouting with one accord, They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver, They lifted the spear and sword, And levelled their spears in rows. But down went axes and spears and bows, When the Saint with his crosier signed, The archer’s hand on the string was stopt, And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind, Their lifted weapons dropt.

The Saint then gave a signal mute, And though Ulvfagre willed it not, He came and stood at the statue’s foot, Spell-riveted to the spot, Till hands invisible shook the wall, And the tottering image was dashed Down from its lofty pedestal. On Ulvfagre’s helm it crashed— Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain, It crushed as millstone crushes the grain. Then spoke the Saint, whilst all and each Of the Heathen trembled round, And the pauses amidst his speech Were as awful as the sound:

“Go back, ye wolves, to your dens,” he cried, “And tell the nations abroad, How the fiercest of your herd has died That slaughtered the flock of God. Gather him bone by bone, And take with you o’er the flood The fragments of that avenging stone That drank his heathen blood. These are the spoils from Iona’s sack, The only spoils ye shall carry back; For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword Shall be withered by palsy’s shock, And I come in the name of the Lord To deliver a remnant of his flock.”

A remnant was called together, A doleful remnant of the Gael, And the Saint in the ship that had brought him hither Took the mourners to Innisfail. Unscathed they left Iona’s strand, When the opal morn first flushed the sky, For the Norse dropt spear, and bow and brand, And looked on them silently; Safe from their hiding places came Orphans and mothers, child and dame: But alas! when the search for Reullura spread, No answering voice was given, For the sea had gone o’er her lovely head, And her spirit was in Heaven.

[91] Reullura, in Gaelic, signifies “beautiful star.”

[92] The Culdees were the primitive clergy of Scotland, and apparently her only clergy from the sixth to the eleventh century. They were of Irish origin, and their monastery on the island of Iona, or Icolmkill, was the seminary of Christianity in North Britain. Presbyterian writers have wished to prove them to have been a sort of Presbyters, strangers to the Roman Church and Episcopacy. It seems to be established that they were not enemies to Episcopacy;—but that they were not slavishly subjected to Rome like the clergy of later periods, appears by their resisting the Papal ordonnances respecting the celibacy of religious men, on which account they were ultimately displaced by the Scottish sovereigns to make way for more Popish canons.

[93] Ireland.

[94] Denmark.

[95] Striking the shield was an ancient mode of convocation to war among the Gael.

ODE TO THE GERMANS.

The Spirit of Britannia Invokes across the main, Her sister Allemania To burst the Tyrant’s chain: By our kindred blood she cries, Rise, Allemanians, rise, And hallowed thrice the band Of our kindred hearts shall be, When your land shall be the land Of the free—of the free!

With Freedom’s lion-banner Britannia rules the waves; Whilst your BROAD STONE OF HONOUR[96] Is still the camp of slaves. For shame, for glory’s sake, Wake, Allemanians, wake, And the tyrants now that whelm Half the world, shall quail and flee, When your realm shall be the realm Of the free—of the free!

MARS owes to you his thunder[97] That shakes the battle-field, Yet to break your bonds asunder No martial bolt has pealed Shall the laurelled land of art Wear shackles on her heart? No! the clock ye framed to tell By its sound, the march of time; Let it clang oppression’s knell O’er your clime—o’er your clime!

The press’s magic letters, That blessing ye brought forth,— Behold! it lies in fetters On the soil that gave it birth: But the trumpet must be heard, And the charger must be spurred; For you father Armin’s Sprite Calls down from heaven, that ye Shall gird you for the fight, And be free!—and be free!

[96] “Ehrenbreitstein” signifies, in German, “_the broad stone of honour_.”

[97] Gunpowder.

FLORINE.[98]

Could I bring back lost youth again, And be what I have been, I’d court you in a gallant strain, My young and fair Florine.

But mine’s the chilling age that chides Devoted rapture’s glow, And Love—that conquers all besides— Finds Time a conquering foe.

Farewell! we’re severed by our fate, As far as night from noon; You came into the world too late, And I depart so soon.

[98] Florine was the beautiful Miss O’Bryen. She married Mr. Huntley Gordon—Scott’s amanuensis for the MS of the Waverley Novels—and died soon after her wedding.

TRANSLATIONS.

SONG OF HYBRIAS THE CRETAN.

My wealth’s a burly spear and brand, And a right good shield of hides untanned, Which on my arm I buckle: With these I plough, I reap, I sow, With these I make the sweet vintage flow, And all around me truckle.

But your wights that take no pride to wield A massy spear and well-made shield, Nor joy to draw the sword: Oh, I bring those heartless, hapless drones, Down in a trice on their marrow-bones, To call me King and Lord.

FRAGMENT FROM THE GREEK OF ALCMAN.

The mountain summits sleep: glens, cliffs and caves, Are silent—all the black earth’s reptile brood— The bees—the wild beasts of the mountain wood: In depths beneath the dark red ocean’s waves Its monsters rest, whilst wrapt in bower and spray Each bird is hushed that stretched its pinions to the day.

MARTIAL ELEGY FROM THE GREEK OF TYRTÆUS.

How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand, In front of battle for their native land! But oh! what ills await the wretch that yields, A recreant outcast from his country’s fields! The mother whom he loves shall quit her home, An agèd father at his side shall roam; His little ones shall weeping with him go, And a young wife participate his woe; While scorned and scowled upon by every face, They pine for food, and beg from place to place.

Stain of his breed! dishonouring manhood’s form, All ills shall cleave to him:—Affliction’s storm Shall blind him wandering in the vale of years, Till, lost to all but ignominious fears, He shall not blush to leave a recreant’s name. And children, like himself, inured to shame.

But we will combat for our father’s land, And we will drain the life-blood where we stand To save our children:—fight ye side by side, And serried close, ye men of youthful pride, Disdaining fear, and deeming light the cost Of life itself in glorious battle lost.

Leave not our sires to stem the unequal fight, Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant might; Nor lagging backward, let the younger breast Permit the man of age (a sight unblessed) To welter in the combat’s foremost thrust, His hoary head dishevelled in the dust, And venerable bosom bleeding bare.

But youth’s fair form, though fallen, is ever fair And beautiful in death the boy appears, The hero boy, that dies in blooming years: In man’s regret he lives, and woman’s tears, More sacred than in life, and lovelier far, For having perished in the front of war.

SPECIMENS OF TRANSLATION FROM “MEDEA.”

Σκαιους δε λεγων κουδέν τι σοφους Τους προσθε βροτους ουκ αν αμαρτοις.

“Medea,” v. 194. p. 33. Glasg. edit.

Tell me, ye bards, whose skill sublime First charmed the ear of youthful Time, With numbers wrapt in heavenly fire, Who bade delighted echo swell The trembling transports of the lyre, The murmur of the shell— Why to the burst of Joy alone Accords sweet Music’s soothing tone? Why can no bard, with magic strain, In slumbers steep the heart of pain? While varied tones obey your sweep, The mild, the plaintive, and the deep. Bends not despairing Grief to hear Your golden lute, with ravished ear? Oh! has your sweetest shell no power to bind The fiercer pangs that shake the mind, And lull the wrath at whose command Murder bares her gory hand? When flushed with joy, the rosy throng Weave the light dance, ye swell the song! Cease, ye vain warblers! cease to charm The breast with other raptures warm! Cease! till your hand with magic strain In slumbers steep the heart of pain!

SPEECH OF THE CHORUS IN THE SAME TRAGEDY, TO DISSUADE MEDEA FROM HER PURPOSE OF PUTTING HER CHILDREN TO DEATH, AND FLYING FOR PROTECTION TO ATHENS.

O haggard queen! to Athens dost thou guide Thy glowing chariot, steeped in kindred gore; Or seek to hide thy damnèd parricide Where Peace and Mercy dwell for evermore?

The land where Truth, pure, precious, and sublime, Woos the deep silence of sequestered bowers, And warriors, matchless since the first of time, Rear their bright banners o’er unconquered towers!

Where joyous youth, to Music’s mellow strain, Twines in the dance with nymphs for ever fair, While Spring eternal on the lilied plain, Waves amber radiance through the fields of air.

The tuneful Nine (so sacred legends tell) First waked their heavenly lyre these scenes among; Still in your greenwood bowers they love to dwell, Still in your vales they swell the choral song!

But there the tuneful, chaste, Pierian fair, The guardian nymphs of green Parnassus, now Sprung from Harmonia, while her graceful hair Waved in bright auburn o’er her polished brow!

ANTISTROPHE I.

Where silent vales, and glades of green array, The murmuring wreaths of cool Cephisus lave, There, as the muse hath sung, at noon of day, The Queen of Beauty bowed to taste the wave;

And blest the stream, and breathed across the land The soft sweet gale that fans yon summer bowers; And there the sister Loves, a smiling band, Crowned with the fragrant wreaths of rosy flowers!

“And go,” she cries, “in yonder valleys rove, With Beauty’s torch the solemn scenes illume; Wake in each eye the radiant light of Love, Breathe on each cheek young Passion’s tender bloom!

“Entwine, with myrtle chains, your soft control, To sway the hearts of Freedom’s darling kind! With glowing charms enrapture Wisdom’s soul, And mould to grace ethereal Virtue’s mind.”

STROPHE II.

The land where Heaven’s own hallowed waters play, Where friendship binds the generous and the good, Say, shall it hail thee from thy frantic way, Unholy woman! with thy hands embrued

In thine own children’s gore? Oh! ere they bleed, Let Nature’s voice thy ruthless heart appal! Pause at the bold, irrevocable deed— The mother strikes—the guiltless babes shall fall!

Think what remorse thy maddening thoughts shall sting, When dying pangs their gentle bosoms tear! Where shalt thou sink, when lingering echoes ring The screams of horror in thy tortured ear?

No! let thy bosom melt to Pity’s cry,— In dust we kneel—by sacred Heaven implore— O! stop thy lifted arm, ere yet they die, Nor dip thy horrid hands in infant gore!

ANTISTROPHE II.

Say, how shalt thou that barbarous soul assume, Undamped by horror at the daring plan? Hast thou a heart to work thy children’s doom? Or hands to finish what thy wrath began?

When o’er each babe you look a last adieu, And gaze on Innocence that smiles asleep, Shall no fond feeling beat to Nature true, Charm thee to pensive thought—and bid thee weep?

When the young suppliants clasp their parent dear, Heave the deep sob, and pour the artless prayer,— Ay! thou shall melt;—and many a heart-shed tear Gush o’er the hardened features of despair!

Nature shall throb in every tender string,— Thy trembling heart the ruffian’s task deny;— Thy horror-smitten hands afar shall fling The blade, undrenched in blood’s eternal dye.

CHORUS.

Hallowed Earth! with indignation Mark, oh mark, the murderous deed! Radiant eye of wide creation, Watch the damnèd parricide!

Yet, ere Colchia’s rugged daughter Perpetrate the dire design, And consign to kindred slaughter Children of thy golden line!

Shall thy hand, with murder gory, Cause immortal blood to flow! Sun of Heaven!—arrayed in glory Rise, forbid, avert the blow!

In the vales of placid gladness Let no rueful maniac range; Chase afar the fiend of Madness, Wrest the dagger from Revenge!

Say, hast thou, with kind protection, Reared thy smiling race in vain, Fostering Nature’s fond affection, Tender cares, and pleasing pain?

Hast thou, on the troubled ocean, Braved the tempest loud and strong, Where the waves, in wild commotion, Roar Cyanean rocks among?

Didst thou roam the paths of danger, Hymenean joys to prove? Spare, O sanguinary stranger, Pledges of thy sacred love!

Shall not Heaven, with indignation, Watch thee o’er the barbarous deed? Shalt thou cleanse, with expiation, Monstrous, murderous parricide?

THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE.[99]

The sunset sheds a horizontal smile O’er Highland frith and Hebridean isle, While, gay with gambols of its finny shoals, The glancing wave rejoices as it rolls With streamered busses, that distinctly shine All downward, pictured in the glassy brine; Whose crews, with faces brightening in the sun, Keep measure with their oars, and all in one Strike up th’ old Gaelic song.—Sweep, rowers, sweep! The fisher’s glorious spoils are in the deep.

Day sinks—but twilight owes the traveller soon, To reach his bourne, a round unclouded moon, Bespeaking long undarkened hours of time; False hope—the Scots are stedfast—not their clime. A war-worn soldier from the western land, Seeks Cona’s vale by Ballihoula’s strand; The vale by eagle-haunted cliffs o’erhung, Where Fingal fought and Ossian’s harp was strung.— Our veteran’s forehead, bronzed on sultry plains, Had stood the brunt of thirty fought campaigns; He well could vouch the sad romance of wars, And count the dates of battles by his scars; For he had served where o’er and o’er again Britannia’s oriflamme had lit the plain Of glory—and victorious stamped her name On Oudenarde’s and Blenheim’s fields of fame. Nine times in battlefield his blood had streamed, Yet vivid still his veteran blue eye gleamed; Full well he bore his knapsack—unoppressed— And marched with soldier-like erected crest: Nor sign of ev’n loquacious age he wore, Save when he told his life’s adventures o’er; Some tired of these; for terms to him were dear Too tactical by far for vulgar ear; As when he talked of rampart and ravine, And trenches fenced with gabion and fascine— But when his theme possessed him all and whole, He scorned proud puzzling words and warmed the soul; Hushed groups hung on his lips with fond surprise, That sketched old scenes—like pictures to their eyes:— The wide war-plain, with banners glowing bright, And bayonets to the farthest stretch of sight; The pause, more dreadful than the peal to come From volleys blazing at the beat of drum— Till all the field of thundering lines became Two level and confronted sheets of flame. Then to the charge, when Marlbro’s hot pursuit Trode France’s gilded lilies underfoot; He came and kindled—and with martial lung Would chant the very march their trumpets sung.—

The old soldier hoped, ere evening’s light should fail, To reach a home, south-east of Cona’s vale; But looking at Bennevis, capped with snow, He saw its mists come curling down below, And spread white darkness o’er the sunset glow;— Fast rolling like tempestuous Ocean’s spray, Or clouds from troops in battle’s fiery day— So dense, his quarry ’scaped the falcon’s sight, The owl alone exulted, hating light.

Benighted thus our pilgrim groped his ground, Half ’twixt the river’s and the cataract’s sound. At last a sheep-dog’s bark informed his ear Some human habitation might be near; Anon sheep-bleatings rose from rock to rock,— ’Twas Luath hounding to their fold the flock. Ere long the cock’s obstreperous clarion rang, And next, a maid’s sweet voice, that spinning sang: At last amidst the greensward (gladsome sight!) A cottage stood, with straw roof golden bright.

He knocked, was welcomed in; none asked his name, Nor whither he was bound, nor whence he came; But he was beckoned to the stranger’s seat, Right side the chimney fire of blazing peat. Blest Hospitality makes not her home In wallèd parks and castellated dome; She flies the city’s needy greedy crowd, And shuns still more the mansions of the proud;— The balm of savage or of simple life, A wild flower cut by culture’s polished knife!

The house, no common sordid shieling cot, Spoke inmates of a comfortable lot. The Jacobite white rose festooned their door; The windows sashed and glazed, the oaken floor, The chimney graced with antlers of the deer, The rafters hung with meat for winter cheer, And all the mansion indicated plain Its master a superior shepherd swain.

Their supper came—the table soon was spread With eggs and milk and cheese and barley bread. The family were three—a father hoar, Whose age you’d guess at seventy years or more, His son looked fifty—cheerful like her lord, His comely wife presided at the board; All three had that peculiar courteous grace Which marks the meanest of the Highland race; Warm hearts that burn alike in weal and woe, As if the north wind fanned their bosoms’ glow!

But wide unlike their souls: old Norman’s eye Was proudly savage ev’n in courtesy. His sinewy shoulders—each, though aged and lean, Broad as the curled Herculean head between, His scornful lip, his eyes of yellow fire, And nostrils that dilated quick with ire. With ever downward-slanting shaggy brows, Marked the old lion you would dread to rouse. Norman, in truth, had led his earlier life In raids of red revenge and feudal strife; Religious duty in revenge he saw, Proud Honour’s right and Nature’s honest law. First in the charge and foremost in pursuit, Long-breathed, deep-chested, and in speed of foot A match for stags—still fleeter when the prey Was man, in persecution’s evil day; Cheered to that chase by brutal bold Dundee, No Highland hound had lapped more blood than he. Oft had he changed the covenanter’s breath From howls of psalmody to howls of death: And though long bound to peace, it irked him still His dirk had ne’er one hated foe to kill.

Yet Norman had fierce virtues, that would mock Cold-blooded tories of the modern stock, Who starve the breadless poor with fraud and cant;— He slew and saved them from the pangs of want. Nor was his solitary lawless charm Mere dauntlessness of soul and strength of arm; He had his moods of kindness now and then, And feasted ev’n well-mannered lowland men Who blew not up his Jacobitish flame, Nor prefaced with “pretender” Charles’s name. Fierce, but by sense and kindness not unwon, He loved, respected ev’n his wiser son; And brooked from him expostulations sage, When all advisers else were spurned with rage.

Far happier times had moulded Ronald’s mind, By nature too of more sagacious kind. His breadth of brow, and Roman shape of chin, Squared well with the firm man that reigned within. Contemning strife as childishness, he stood With neighbours on kind terms of neighbourhood, And whilst his father’s anger nought availed, _His_ rational remonstrance never failed. Full skilfully he managed farm and fold, Wrote, ciphered, profitably bought and sold: And, blessed with pastoral leisure, deeply took Delight to be informed, by speech or book, Of that wide world beyond his mountain home, Where oft his curious fancy loved to roam. Oft while his faithful dog ran round his flock, He read long hours when summer warmed the rock: Guests who could tell him aught were welcomed warm, Even pedlars’ news had to his mind a charm; That like an intellectual magnet-stone Drew truth from judgments simpler than his own.

His soul’s proud instinct sought not to enjoy Romantic fictions, like a minstrel boy; Truth, standing on her solid square, from youth He worshipped—stern uncompromising truth. His goddess kindlier smiled on him, to find A votary of her light in land so blind; She bade majestic History unroll Broad views of public welfare to his soul, Until he looked on clannish feuds and foes With scorn, as on the wars of kites and crows; Whilst doubts assailed him, o’er and o’er again, If men were made for kings or kings for men. At last, to Norman’s horror and dismay, He flat denied the Stuarts’ right to sway.

No blow-pipe ever whitened furnace fire, Quick as these words lit up his father’s ire; Who envied even old Abraham for his faith, Ordained to put his only son to death. He started up—in such a mood of soul The white bear bites his showman’s stirring pole; He danced too, and brought out, with snarl and howl, “O Dia! Dia! and Dioul! Dioul!”[100]

But sense foils fury—as the blowing whale Spouts, bleeds, and dyes the waves without avail— Wears out the cable’s length that makes him fast, But, worn himself, comes up harpooned at last— E’en so, devoid of sense, succumbs at length Mere strength of zeal to intellectual strength. His son’s close logic so perplexed his pate, Th’ old hero rather shunned than sought debate; Exhausting his vocabulary’s store Of oaths and nicknames, he could say no more, But tapp’d his mull,[101] rolled mutely in his chair, Or only whistled Killiecrankie’s air.

Witch legends Ronald scorned—ghost, kelpie, wraith, And all the trumpery of vulgar faith; Grave matrons ev’n were shocked to hear him slight Authenticated facts of second-sight— Yet never flinched his mockery to confound The brutal superstition reigning round.

Reserved himself, still Ronald loved to scan Men’s natures—and he liked th’ old hearty man; So did the partner of his heart and life— _Who_ pleased her Ronald, ne’er displeased his wife. His sense, ’tis true, compared with Norman’s son, Was commonplace—his tales too long outspun: Yet Allan Campbell’s sympathizing mind Had held large intercourse with human kind; Seen much, and gaily, graphically drew The men of every country, clime, and hue; Nor ever stooped, though soldier-like his strain, To ribaldry of mirth or oath profane.

All went harmonious till the guest began To talk about his kindred, chief and clan, And, with his own biography engrossed, Marked not the changed demeanour of each host; Nor how old choleric Norman’s cheek became Flushed at the Campbell and Breadalbane name. Assigning, heedless of impending harm, Their stedfast silence to his story’s charm, He touched a subject perilous to touch— Saying, “’Midst this well-known vale I wondered much To lose my way. In boyhood, long ago, I roamed and loved each pathway of Glencoe; Trapped leverets, plucked wild berries on its braes, And fished along its banks long summer days. But times grew stormy—bitter feuds arose, Our clan was merciless to prostrate foes. I never palliated my chieftain’s blame, But mourned the sin, and reddened for the shame Of that foul morn (Heaven blot it from the year!) Whose shapes and shrieks still haunt my dreaming ear. What could I do? a serf—Glenlyon’s page, A soldier sworn at nineteen years of age; T’ have breathed one grieved remonstrance to our chief, The pit or gallows[102] would have cured my grief. Forced, passive as the musket in my hand, I marched—when, feigning royalty’s command, Against the clan Macdonald, Stairs’s lord Sent forth exterminating fire and sword; And troops at midnight through the vale defiled, Enjoined to slaughter woman, man, and child. My clansmen many a year had cause to dread The curse that day entailed upon their head; Glenlyon’s self confessed the avenging spell— I saw it light on him. “It so befell:— A soldier from our ranks to death was brought, By sentence deemed too dreadful for his fault; All was prepared—the coffin and the cart Stood near twelve muskets, levelled at his heart. The chief, whose breast for ruth had still some room, Obtained reprieve a day before his doom;— But of the awarded boon surmised no breath. The sufferer knelt, blindfolded, waiting death,— And met it. Though Glenlyon had desired The musketeers to watch before they fired; If from his pocket they should see he drew A handkerchief—their volley should ensue; But if he held a paper in its place, It should be hailed the sign of pardoning grace:— He, in a fatal moment’s absent fit, Drew forth the handkerchief, and not the writ; Wept o’er the corpse, and wrung his hands in woe, Crying ‘Here’s thy curse again—Glencoe! Glencoe!’” Though thus his guest spoke feelings just and clear, The cabin’s patriarch lent impatient ear; Wroth that, beneath his roof, a living man Should boast the swine-blood of the Campbell clan, He hastened to the door—called out his son To follow; walked a space, and thus begun:— “You have not, Ronald, at this day to learn The oath I took beside my father’s cairn, When you were but a babe a twelvemonth born; Sworn on my dirk—by all that’s sacred, sworn To be revenged for blood that cries to Heaven— Blood unforgiveable, and unforgiven: But never power, _since then_, have I possessed To plant my dagger in a Campbell’s breast. Now, here’s a self-accusing partisan, Steeped in the slaughter of Macdonald’s clan; I scorn his civil speech and sweet-lipped show Of pity—he is still our house’s foe: I’ll perjure not myself—but sacrifice The caitiff ere to-morrow’s sun arise. Stand! hear me—you’re my son, the deed is just; And if I say—it must be done—it must: A debt of honour which my clansmen crave, Their very dead demand it from the grave.” Conjuring then their ghosts, he humbly prayed Their patience till the blood-debt should be paid.

But Ronald stopped him.—“Sir, Sir, do not dim Your honour by a moment’s angry whim; Your soul’s too just and generous, were you cool, To act at once the assassin and the fool. Bring me the men on whom revenge is due, And I will dirk them willingly as you! But all the real authors of that black Old deed are gone—you cannot bring them back. And this poor guest, ’tis palpable to judge, In all his life ne’er bore our clan a grudge; Dragged when a boy against his will to share That massacre, he loathed the foul affair. Think, if your hardened heart be conscience-proof, To stab a stranger underneath your roof! One who has broken bread within your gate— Reflect—before reflection comes too late,— Such ugly consequences there may be As judge and jury, rope and gallows-tree. The days of dirking snugly are gone by, Where could you hide the body privily, When search is made for’t?” “Plunge it in yon flood, That Campbells crimsoned with our kindred blood.” “Ay, but the corpse may float—” “Pshaw! dead men tell No tales—nor will it float if leaded well. I am determined!”—What could Ronald do? No house within ear-reach of his halloo, Though that would but have published household shame He temporized with wrath he could not tame, And said, “Come in, till night put off the deed, And ask a few more questions ere he bleed.”

They entered; Norman with portentous air Strode to a nook behind the stranger’s chair, And, speaking nought, sat grimly in the shade, With dagger in his clutch beneath his plaid. His son’s own plaid, should Norman pounce his prey, Was coiled thick round his arm, to turn away Or blunt the dirk. He purposed leaving free The door, and giving Allan time to flee, Whilst he should wrestle with (no safe emprise) His father’s maniac strength and giant size. Meanwhile he could nowise communicate The impending peril to his anxious mate; But she, convinced no trifling matter now Disturbed the wonted calm of Ronald’s brow, Divined too well the cause of gloom that lowered, And sat with speechless terror overpowered. Her face was pale, so lately blithe and bland, The stocking knitting-wire shook in her hand. But Ronald and the guest resumed their thread Of converse, still its theme that day of dread. “Much,” said the veteran, “much as I bemoan That deed, when half a hundred years have flown, Still on one circumstance I can reflect That mitigates the dreadful retrospect. A mother with her child before us flew, I had the hideous mandate to pursue; But swift of foot, outspeeding bloodier men, I chased, o’ertook her in the winding glen, And showed her palpitating, where to save Herself and infant in a secret cave; Nor left them till I saw that they could mock Pursuit and search within that sheltering rock.”

“Heavens!” Ronald cried, in accents gladly wild, “That woman was my mother—I the child! Of you unknown by name she late and air,[103] Spoke, wept, and ever blessed you in her prayer, Ev’n to her death; describing you withal A well-looked florid youth, blue-eyed and tall.” They rose, exchanged embrace: the old lion then Upstarted, metamorphosed, from his den; Saying, “Come and make thy home with us for life, Heaven-sent preserver of my child and wife. I fear thou’rt poor, that Hanoverian thing Rewards his soldiers ill.”—“God save the king!” With hand upon his heart, old Allan said, “I wear his uniform, I eat his bread, And whilst I’ve tooth to bite a cartridge, all For him and Britain’s fame I’ll stand or fall.”

“Bravo!” cried Ronald. “I commend your zeal,” Quoth Norman, “and I see your heart is leal; But I have prayed my soul may never thrive If thou shouldst leave this house of ours alive. Nor shalt thou; in this home protract thy breath Of easy life, nor leave it till thy death.”

...

The following morn arose serene as glass, And red Bennevis shone like molten brass; While sunrise opened flowers with gentle force, The guest and Ronald walked in long discourse. “Words fail me,” Allan said, “to thank aright Your father’s kindness shown me yesternight; Yet scarce I’d wish my latest days to spend A fireside fixture with the dearest friend: Besides, I’ve but a fortnight’s furlough now, To reach Macallin More,[104] beyond Lochawe. I’d fain memorialize the powers that be, To deign remembrance of my wounds and me; My life-long service never bore the brand Of sentence—lash—disgrace or reprimand. And so I’ve written, though in meagre style, A long petition to his Grace Argyle; I mean, on reaching Innerara’s shore, To leave it safe within his castle door.” “Nay,” Ronald said, “the letter that you bear Entrust it to no lying varlet’s care; But say a soldier of King George demands Access, to leave it in the Duke’s own hands. But show me, first, the epistle to your chief, ’Tis nought, unless succinctly clear and brief; Great men have no great patience when they read, And long petitions spoil the cause they plead.”

That day saw Ronald from the field full soon Return; and when they all had dined at noon, He conned th’ old man’s memorial—lopped its length, And gave it style, simplicity, and strength; ’Twas finished in an hour—and in the next Transcribed by Allan in perspicuous text.

At evening, he and Ronald shared once more A long and pleasant walk by Cona’s shore. “I’d press you,” quoth his host—(“I need not say How warmly) ever more with us to stay; But Charles intends, ’tis said, in these same parts To try the fealty of our Highland hearts. ’Tis my belief, that he and all his line Have—saving to be hanged—no right divine; From whose mad enterprise can only flow To thousands slaughter, and to myriads woe. Yet have they stirred my father’s spirit sore, He flints his pistols—whets his old claymore— And longs as ardently to join the fray As boy to dance who hears the bagpipe play. Though calm one day, the next, disdaining rule, He’d gore your red coat like an angry bull: I told him, and he owned it might be so, Your tempers never could in concert flow. But ‘Mark,’ he added, ‘Ronald! from our door Let not this guest depart forlorn and poor; Let not your souls the niggardness evince Of lowland pedlar, or of German prince; He gave you life—then feed him as you’d feed Your very father were he cast in need.’ He gave—you’ll find it by your bed to-night, A leathern purse of crowns, all sterling bright: You see I do you kindness not by stealth. My wife—no advocate of squandering wealth— Vows that it would be parricide, or worse, Should we neglect you—here’s a silken purse, Some golden pieces through the network shine, ’Tis proffered to you from her heart and mine. But come I no foolish delicacy, no! We own, but cannot cancel what we owe— This sum shall duly reach you once a year.” Poor Allan’s furrowed face, and flowing tear, Confessed sensations which he could not speak, Old Norman bade him farewell kindly meek.

At morn, the smiling dame rejoiced to pack With viands full th’ old soldier’s havresack. He feared not hungry grass[105] with such a load, And Ronald saw him miles upon his road.

A march of three days brought him to Lochfyne. Argyle, struck with his manly look benign, And feeling interest in the veteran’s lot, Created him a sergeant on the spot— An invalid, to serve not—but with pay (A mighty sum to him), twelve-pence a day. “But have you heard not,” said Macallin More, “Charles Stuart’s landed on Eriska’s shore, And Jacobites are arming?”—“What! indeed! Arrived! then I’m no more an invalid; My new-got halbert I must straight employ In battle.”—“As you please, old gallant boy: Your grey hairs well might plead excuse, ’tis true, But now’s the time we want such men as you.” In brief, at Innerara Allan stayed, And joined the banners of Argyle’s brigade.

Meanwhile, th’ old choleric shepherd of Glencoe Spurned all advice, and girt himself to go. What was’t to him that foes would poind their fold, Their lease, their very beds beneath them sold! And firmly to his text he would have kept, Though Ronald argued and his daughter wept. But ’midst the impotence of tears and prayer, Chance snatched them from proscription and despair Old Norman’s blood was headward wont to mount Too rapid from his heart’s impetuous fount; And one day, whilst the German rats he cursed, An artery in his wise sensorium burst. The lancet saved him: but how changed, alas, From him who fought at Killiecrankie’s pass! Tame as a spaniel, timid as a child, He muttered incoherent words and smiled; He wept at kindness, rolled a vacant eye, And laughed full often when he meant to cry. Poor man! whilst in this lamentable state, Came Allan back one morning to his gate, Hale and unburdened by the woes of eild, And fresh with credit from Culloden’s field. ’Twas feared at first, the sight of him might touch The old Macdonald’s morbid mind too much; But no! though Norman knew him and disclosed, Ev’n rallying memory, he was still composed; Asked all particulars of the fatal fight, And only heaved a sigh for Charles’s flight; Then said, with but one moment’s pride of air, “_It might not have been so had I been there!_” Few days elapsed till he reposed beneath His grey cairn, on the wild and lonely heath; Son, friends, and kindred of his dust took leave, And Allan, with the crape bound round his sleeve.

Old Allan now hung up his sergeant’s sword, And sat, a guest for life, at Ronald’s board. He waked no longer at the barrack’s drum, Yet still you’d see, when peep of day was come, Th’ erect tall red-coat, walking pastures round, Or delving with his spade the garden ground, Of cheerful temper, habits strict and sage, He reached, enjoyed a patriarchal age— Loved to the last by the Macdonalds. Near Their house, his stone was placed with many a tear; And Ronald’s self, in stoic virtue brave, Scorned not to weep at Allan Campbell’s grave.

[99] I received the substance of the tradition on which this poem is founded, in the first instance, from a friend in London, who wrote to Matthew N. Macdonald, Esq., of Edinburgh. He had the kindness to send me a circumstantial account of the tradition; and that gentleman’s knowledge of the Highlands, as well as his particular acquaintance with the district of Glencoe, leave me no doubt of the incident having really happened. I have not departed from the main facts of the tradition as reported to me by Mr. Macdonald; only I have endeavoured to colour the personages of the story, and to make them as distinctive as possible.

[100] God and the Devil—a favourite ejaculation of Highland saints.

[101] Snuff-horn.

[102] To hang their vassals, or starve them to death in a dungeon, was a privilege of the Highland chiefs who had hereditary jurisdictions.

[103] Scotch for late and early.

[104] The Duke of Argyle.

[105] When the hospitable Highlanders load a parting guest with provisions, they tell him he will need them, as he has to go over a great deal of _hungry grass_.

NOTES.

NOTES TO THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.