Part 3 — MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

I. Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day’s renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark’s crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on. II. Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime; As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath, For a time. III. But the might of England flushed To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rushed O’er the deadly space between. “Hearts of oak!” our captain cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. IV. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back;— Their shots along the deep slowly boom:— Then ceased—and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom. V. Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o’er the wave; “Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save:— So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England’s feet, And make submission meet To our King.” VI. Then Denmark blessed our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As death withdrew his shades from the day. While the sun looked smiling bright O’er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. VII. Now joy, Old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities’ blaze, While the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep. Elsinore! VIII. Brave hearts! to Britain’s pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died;— With the gallant good Riou:[70] Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o’er their grave! While the billow mournful rolls And the mermaid’s song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave!

I. Ye Mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To meet another foe! And sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. II. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave!— For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. III. Britannia needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep; Her march is o’er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below,— As they roar on the shore, When the stormy tempests blow: When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. IV. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger’s troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

Triumphal arch, that fill’st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art— Still seem as to my childhood’s sight, A midway station given For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven. Can all that Optics teach, unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamt of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow? When Science from Creation’s face Enchantment’s veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws! And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky. When o’er the green undeluged earth Heaven’s covenant thou didst shine, How came the world’s grey fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign. And when its yellow lustre smiled O’er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God. Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, The first made anthem rang On earth delivered from the deep, And the first poet sang. Nor ever shall the Muse’s eye Unraptured greet thy beam: Theme of primeval prophecy, Be still the poet’s theme! The earth to thee her incense yields, The lark thy welcome sings, When glittering in the freshened fields The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious is thy girdle cast O’er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirrored in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down! As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man.

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its Immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulph of Time! I saw the last of human mould, That shall Creation’s death behold, As Adam saw her prime! The Sun’s eye had a sickly glare, The Earth with age was wan, The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man! Some had expired in fight,—the brands Still rested in their bony hands; In plague and famine some! Earth’s cities had no sound nor tread; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb! Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood As if a storm passed by, Saying, “We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run, ’Tis Mercy bids thee go. For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow. “What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, The vassals of his will;— Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim discrownèd king of day: For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts. “Go, let oblivion’s curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recall Life’s tragedy again. Its piteous pageants bring not back, Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe; Stretched in disease’s shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe. “E’en I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death— Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,— The majesty of Darkness shall Receive my parting ghost! “This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By Him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of Victory,— And took the sting from Death! “Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up On Nature’s awful waste To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste— Go, tell the night that hides thy face, Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race, On Earth’s sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his Immortality, Or shake his trust in God!”

Pride of the British stage, A long and last adieu! Whose image brought the heroic age Revived to Fancy’s view Like fields refreshed with dewy light When the sun smiles his last Thy parting presence makes more bright Our memory of the past; And memory conjures feelings up That wine or music need not swell, As high we lift the festal cup To Kemble—fare thee well! His was the spell o’er hearts Which only Acting lends,— The youngest of the sister Arts, Where all their beauty blends: For ill can Poetry express Full many a tone of thought sublime, And Painting, mute and motionless, Steals but a glance of time. But by the mighty actor brought, Illusion’s perfect triumphs come,— Verse ceases to be airy thought, And Sculpture to be dumb. Time may again revive, But ne’er eclipse the charm, When Cato spoke in him alive, Or Hotspur kindled warm. What soul was not resigned entire To the deep sorrows of the Moor,— What English heart was not on fire With him at Agincourt? And yet a Majesty possessed His transport’s most impetuous tone, And to each passion of his breast The Graces gave their zone. High were the task—too high, Ye conscious bosoms here! In words to paint your memory Of Kemble and of Lear; But who forgets that white discrownèd head, Those bursts of Reason’s half-extinguished glare— Those tears upon Cordelia’s bosom shed, In doubt more touching than despair, If ’twas reality he felt? Had Shakespeare’s self amidst you been, Friends, he had seen you melt, And triumphed to have seen! And there was many an hour Of blended kindred fame, When Siddons’ auxiliar power And sister magic came. Together at the Muse’s side The tragic paragons had grown— They were the children of her pride, The columns of her throne, And undivided favour ran From heart to heart in their applause, Save for the gallantry of man, In lovelier woman’s cause. Fair as some classic dome, Robust and richly graced, Your Kemble’s spirit was the home Of genius and of taste:— Taste like the silent dial’s power, That when supernal light is given, Can measure inspiration’s hour And tell its height in Heaven. At once ennobled and correct, His mind surveyed the tragic page, And what the actor could effect, The scholar could presage. These were his traits of worth:— And must we lose them now! And shall the scene no more show forth His sternly pleasing brow! Alas, the moral brings a tear!— ’Tis all a transient hour below; And we that would detain thee here, Ourselves as fleetly go! Yet shall our latest age This parting scene review:— Pride of the British stage, A long and last adieu!

Well may sleep present us fictions, Since our waking moments teem With such fanciful convictions As make life itself a dream. Half our daylight faith’s a fable; Sleep disports with shadows too Seeming in their turn as stable As the world we wake to view. Ne’er by day did Reason’s mint Give my thoughts a clearer print Of assured reality, Than was left by Phantasy, Stamped and coloured on my sprite, In a dream of yesternight. In a bark, methought, lone steering, I was cast on Ocean’s strife; This, ’twas whispered in my hearing, Meant the sea of life. Sad regrets from past existence Came, like gales of chilling breath; Shadowed in the forward distance Lay the land of Death. Now seeming more, now less remote, On that dim-seen shore, methought, I beheld two hands a space Slow unshroud a spectre’s face; And my flesh’s hair upstood,— ’Twas mine own similitude. But my soul revived at seeing Ocean, like an emerald spark, Kindle, while an air-dropt being Smiling steered my bark. Heaven-like—yet he looked as human As supernal beauty can, More compassionate than woman Lordly more than man. And as some sweet clarion’s breath Stirs the soldier’s scorn of death— So his accents bade me brook The spectre’s eyes of icy look, Till it shut them—turned its head, Like a beaten foe, and fled. “Types not this,” I said, “fair spirit! That my death-hour is not come? Say, what days shall I inherit?— Tell my soul their sum.” “No,” he said, “yon phantom’s aspect, Trust me, would appal thee worse, Held in clearly measured prospect:— Ask not for a curse! Make not, for I overhear Thine unspoken thoughts as clear As thy mortal ear could catch The close-brought tickings of a watch— Make not the untold request That’s now revolving in thy breast. “’Tis to live again, remeasuring Youth’s years, like a scene rehearsed, In thy second life-time treasuring Knowledge from the first. Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver! Life’s career so void of pain, As to wish its fitful fever New begun again? Could experience, ten times thine, Pain from Being disentwine— Threads by Fate together spun? Could thy flight Heaven’s lightning shun? No, nor could thy foresight’s glance ’Scape the myriad shafts of Chance. “Would’st thou bear again Love’s trouble— Friendship’s death-dissevered ties; Toil to grasp or miss the bubble Of Ambition’s prize? Say thy life’s new guided action Flowed from Virtue’s fairest springs— Still would Envy and Detraction Double not their stings? Worth itself is but a charter To be mankind’s distinguished martyr.” I caught the moral, and cried, “Hail! Spirit! let us onward sail, Envying, fearing, hating none— Guardian Spirit, steer me on!”

Pledge to the much-loved land that gave us birth! Invincible romantic Scotia’s shore! Pledge to the memory of her parted worth! And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore! And be it deemed not wrong that name to give, In festive hours, which prompts the patriot’s sigh! Who would not envy such as Moore to live? And died he not as heroes wish to die? Yes, though too soon attaining glory’s goal, To us his bright career too short was given; Yet in a mighty cause his phœnix soul Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven! How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn For him!—How oft on far Corunna’s plain Shall British exiles weep upon his urn! Peace to the mighty dead!—our bosom thanks In sprightlier strains the living may inspire! Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia’s ranks, Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire! Triumphant be the thistle still unfurled, Dear symbol wild! on Freedom’s hills it grows, Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world, And Roman eagles found unconquered foes! Joy to the band[71] this day on Egypt’s coast, Whose valour tamed proud France’s tricolor, And wrenched the banner from her bravest host, Baptised Invincible in Austria’s gore! Joy for the day on red Vimeira’s strand, When, bayonet to bayonet opposed, First of Britannia’s host her Highland band Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed! Is there a son of generous England here Or fervid Erin?—he with us shall join, To pray that in eternal union dear, The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine! Types of a race who shall the invader scorn, As rocks resist the billows round their shore; Types of a race who shall to time unborn Their country leave unconquered as of yore!

Brave men who at the Trocadero fell— Beside your cannons conquered not, though slain, There is a victory in dying well For Freedom,—and ye have not died in vain, For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain To honour, ay embrace your martyred lot, Cursing the Bigot’s and the Bourbon’s chain, And looking on your graves, though trophied not, As holier, hallowed ground than priests could make the spot! What though your cause be baffled—freemen cast In dungeons—dragged to death, or forced to flee; Hope is not withered in affliction’s blast— The patriot’s blood’s the seed of Freedom’s tree; And short your orgies of revenge shall be, Cowled Demons of the Inquisitorial cell! Earth shudders at your victory,—for ye Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell, The baser, ranker sprung, Autochthones of Hell! Go to your bloody rites again—bring back The hall of horrors and the assessor’s pen, Recording answers shrieked upon the rack; Smile o’er the gaspings of spine-broken men;— Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den;— Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again, To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel No eye may search—no tongue may challenge or reveal! Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime Too proudly, ye oppressors!—Spain was free, Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime Been winnowed by the wings of Liberty; And these even parting scatter as they flee Thoughts—influences, to live in hearts unborn, Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key From Persecution—show her mask off-torn, And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn. Glory to them that die in this great cause! Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame, Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause:— No!—manglers of the martyr’s earthly frame! Your hangmen fingers cannot touch his fame. Still in your prostrate land there shall be some Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom’s vestal flame. Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb, But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.

Again to the battle, Achaians! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance; Our land, the first garden of Liberty’s tree— It has been, and shall yet be the land of the free: For the cross of our faith is replanted, The pale dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet’s slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers’ graves. Their spirits are hovering o’er us, And the sword shall to glory restore us. Ah! what though no succour advances, Nor Christendom’s chivalrous lances Are stretched in our aid—be the combat our own! And we’ll perish or conquer more proudly alone; For we’ve sworn by our Country’s assaulters, By the virgins they’ve dragged from our altars, By our massacred patriots, our children in chains, By our heroes of old and their blood in our veins. That living, we shall be victorious, Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious. A breath of submission we breathe not; The sword that we’ve drawn we will sheathe not! Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. Earth may hide—waves engulph—fire consume us, But they shall not to slavery doom us: If they rule, it shall be o’er our ashes and graves; But we’ve smote them already with fire on the waves, And new triumphs on land are before us, To the charge!—Heaven’s banner is o’er us. This day shall ye blush for its story, Or brighten your lives with its glory. Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair? Accursed may his memory blacken, If a coward there be that would slacken Till we’ve trampled the turban and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth. Strike home, and the world shall revere us As heroes descended from heroes. Old Greece lightens up with emotion Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean; Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring, And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon’s spring: Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness, That were cold and extinguished in sadness; Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white-waving arms, Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms, When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens.

When first the fiery-mantled sun His heavenly race began to run; Round the earth and ocean blue, His children four the Seasons flew. First, in green apparel dancing, The young Spring smiled with angel grace; Rosy Summer next advancing, Rushed into her sire’s embrace:— Her bright-haired sire, who bade her keep For ever nearest to his smiles, On Calpe’s olive-shaded steep, On India’s citron-covered isles: More remote and buxom-brown, The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne; A rich pomegranate gemmed her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone. But howling Winter fled afar, To hills that prop the polar star, And loves on deer-borne car to ride, With barren darkness by his side, Round the shore where loud Lofoden Whirls to death the roaring whale, Round the hall where Runic Odin Howls his war-song to the gale; Save when adown the ravaged globe He travels on his native storm, Deflowering Nature’s grassy robe, And trampling on her faded form:— Till light’s returning lord assume The shaft that drives him to his polar field, Of power to pierce his raven plume And crystal-covered shield. Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear The Lapland drum delights to hear, When frenzy with her blood-shot eye Implores thy dreadful deity, Archangel! power of desolation! Fast descending as thou art, Say, hath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart? Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer, And gently rule the ruined year; Nor chill the wanderer’s bosom bare, Nor freeze the wretch’s falling tear;— To shuddering Want’s unmantled bed Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead, And gently on the orphan head Of innocence descend. But chiefly spare, O, king of clouds! The sailor on his airy shrouds; When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, And spectres walk along the deep. Milder yet thy snowy breezes Pour on yonder tented shores, Where the Rhine’s broad billow freezes, Or the dark-brown Danube roars. Oh, winds of Winter! list ye there To many a deep and dying groan; Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. Alas! ev’n your unhallowed breath May spare the victim fallen low; But man will ask no truce to death,— No bounds to human woe.[72]

Britons! although our task is but to show The scenes and passions of fictitious woe, Think not we come this night without a part In that deep sorrow of the public heart, Which like a shade hath darkened every place, And moistened with a tear the manliest face! The bell is scarcely hushed in Windsor’s piles, That tolled a requiem from the solemn aisles, For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust, That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust. Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas! That e’en these walls, ere many months should pass, Which but return sad accents for her now, Perhaps had witnessed her benignant brow, Cheered by the voice you would have raised on high, In bursts of British love and loyalty. But, Britain! now thy chief, thy people mourn, And Claremont’s home of love is left forlorn:— There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt, The ’scutcheon glooms, and royalty hath felt A wound that every bosom feels its own,— The blessing of a father’s heart o’erthrown— The most beloved and most devoted bride Torn from an agonizèd husband’s side, Who “long as Memory holds her seat” shall view That speechless, more than spoken last adieu, When the fixed eye long looked connubial faith, And beamed affection in the trance of death. Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld, As with the mourner’s heart the anthem swelled; While torch succeeding torch illumed each high And bannered arch of England’s chivalry. The rich plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall, The sacred march, and sable-vested wall,— These were not rites of inexpressive show, But hallowed as the types of real woe! Daughter of England! for a nation’s sighs. A nation’s heart went with thine obsequies!— And oft shall time revert a look of grief On thine existence, beautiful and brief. Fair spirit! send thy blessing from above On realms where thou art canonised by love! Give to a father’s, husband’s bleeding mind, The peace that angels lend to human kind, To us who in thy loved remembrance feel A sorrowing, but a soul-ennobling zeal— A loyalty that touches all the best And loftiest principles of England’s breast! Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb— Still in the Muse’s breath thy memory bloom! They shall describe thy life—thy form portray; But all the love that mourns thee swept away, ’Tis not in language or expressive arts To paint—yet feel it, Britons in your hearts!

By strangers left upon a lonely shore, Unknown, unhonoured, was the friendless dead, For child to weep, or widow to deplore, There never came to his unburied head:— All from his dreary habitation fled. Nor will the lanterned fisherman at eve Launch on that water by the witches’ tower, Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower, For spirits of the dead at night’s enchanted hour. They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate! Whose crime it was, on life’s unfinished road To feel the stepdame buffetings of fate, And render back thy being’s heavy load. Ah! once, perhaps, the social passions glowed In thy devoted bosom—and the hand That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone To deeds of mercy. Who may understand Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown?— He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone.

’Twas the hour when rites unholy Called each Paynim voice to prayer, And the star that faded slowly Left to dews the freshened air. Day her sultry fires had wasted, Calm and sweet the moonlight rose; E’en a captive spirit tasted Half oblivion of his woes. Then ’twas from an Emir’s palace Came an Eastern lady bright: She, in spite of tyrants jealous, Saw and loved an English knight. “Tell me, captive, why in anguish Foes have dragged thee here to dwell, Where poor Christians as they languish Hear no sound of Sabbath bell?” “’Twas on Transylvania’s Bannat, When the Crescent shone afar, Like a pale disastrous planet O’er the purple tide of war— “In that day of desolation, Lady, I was captive made; Bleeding for my Christian nation By the walls of high Belgrade.” “Captive! could the brightest jewel From my turban set thee free?” “Lady no!—the gift were cruel, Ransomed, yet if reft of thee.” “Say, fair princess! would it grieve thee Christian climes should we behold?” “Nay, bold knight! I would not leave thee Were thy ransom paid in gold!” Now in heaven’s blue expansion Rose the midnight star to view, When to quit her father’s mansion Thrice she wept, and bade adieu! “Fly we then, while none discover! Tyrant barks, in vain ye ride!” Soon at Rhodes the British lover Clasped his blooming Eastern bride.

Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o’er:— “Oh, whither,” she cried, “hast thou wandered, my lover? Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore? “What voice did I hear? ’twas my Henry that sighed!” All mournful she hastened, nor wandered she far, When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried, By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar! From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming, And pale was his visage, deep marked with a scar! And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war! How smit was poor Adelaide’s heart at the sight! How bitter she wept o’er the victim of war! “Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful night, To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar?” “Thou shalt live,” she replied, “Heaven’s mercy relieving Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn!” “Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving! No light of the morn shall to Henry return! “Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true! Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!” His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, When he sunk in her arms—the poor wounded Hussar!

To him, whose loyal, brave, and gentle heart, Fulfilled the hero’s and the patriot’s part,— Whose charity, like that which Paul enjoined, Was warm, beneficent, and unconfined,— This stone is reared: to public duty true, The seaman’s friend, the father of his crew— Mild in reproof, sagacious in command, He spread fraternal zeal throughout his band, And led each arm to act, each heart to feel, What British valour owes to Britain’s weal. These were his public virtues:—but to trace His private life’s fair purity and grace, To paint the traits that drew affection strong From friends, an ample and an ardent throng, And, more, to speak his memory’s grateful claim On her who mourns him most, and bears his name— O’ercomes the trembling hand of widowed grief, O’ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief Save in religion’s high and holy trust, Whilst placing their memorial o’er his dust.

The brave Roland!—the brave Roland!— False tidings reached the Rhenish strand That he had fallen in fight; And thy faithful, bosom swooned with pain, O loveliest maiden of Allémayne! For the loss of thine own true knight. But why so rash has she ta’en the veil, In yon Nonnenwerder’s cloisters pale? For her vow had scarce been sworn, And the fatal mantle o’er her flung, When the Drachenfells to a trumpet rung— ’Twas her own dear warrior’s horn! Woe! woe! each heart shall bleed—shall break! She would have hung upon his neck, Had he come but yester-even; And he had clasped those peerless charms That shall never, never fill his arms, Or meet him but in heaven. Yet Roland the brave—Roland the true— He could not bid that spot adieu; It was dear still ’midst his woes; For he loved to breathe the neighbouring air, And to think she blessed him in her prayer, When the Halleluiah rose. There’s yet one window of that pile, Which he built above the Nun’s green isle; Thence sad and oft looked he (When the chant and organ sounded slow) On the mansion of his love below, For herself he might not see. She died!—He sought the battle plain; Her image filled his dying brain, When he fell and wished to fall: And her name was in his latest sigh, When Roland, the flower of chivalry, Expired at Roncevall.

Light rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn, Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing cheek from scorn. One night he dreamt he wooed her in their wonted bower of love, Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the birds sang sweet above. But the scene was swiftly changed into a churchyard’s dismal view, And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from love’s delicious hue. What more he dreamt, he told to none; but, shuddering, pale, and dumb, Looked out upon the waves, like one that knew his hour was come. ’Twas now the dead watch of the night—the helm was lashed a-lee, And the ship rode where Mount Ætna lights the deep Levantine sea; When beneath its glare a boat came, rowed by a woman in her shroud, Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud:— “Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders unforgiven! Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace with heaven!”— It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet her call, Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing serpent’s thrall. You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted from the sight, For the spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue with hideous light; Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her hand, And round they went, and down they went, as the cock crew from the land.

If any white-winged Power above My joys and griefs survey, The day when thou wert born, my love— He surely blessed that day. I laughed (till taught by thee) when told Of Beauty’s magic powers, That ripened life’s dull ore to gold, And changed its weeds to flowers. My mind had lovely shapes portrayed, But thought I earth had one Could make e’en Fancy’s visions fade Like stars before the sun? I gazed, and felt upon my lips The unfinished accents hang: One moment’s bliss, one burning kiss, To rapture changed each pang. And though as swift as lightning’s flash Those trancèd moments flew, Not all the waves of time shall wash Their memory from my view. But duly shall my raptured song, And gladly shall my eyes Still bless this day’s return, as long As thou shalt see it rise.

On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neighed, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden’s hills of stainèd snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. ’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph’rous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few, shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre.

O heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail? ’Tis the chief of Glenara[74] laments for his dear; And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier. Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud; Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud: Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around: They marched all in silence,—they looked on the ground. In silence they reached over mountain and moor, To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar; “Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn: Why speak ye no word!”—said Glenara the stern. “And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?” So spake the rude chieftain:—no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding a dagger displayed. “I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,” Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; “And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!” O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, ’Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn: “I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief: On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem; Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!” In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne— Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!

This wax returns not back more fair The impression of the gift you send, Than stamped upon my thoughts I bear The image of your worth, my friend! We are not friends of yesterday;— But poet’s fancies are a little Disposed to heat and cool (they say),— By turns impressible and brittle. Well! should its frailty e’er condemn My heart to prize or please you less, Your type is still the sealing gem, And mine the waxen brittleness. What transcripts of my weal and woe This little signet yet may lock,— What utterances to friend or foe, In reason’s calm or passion’s shock! What scenes of life’s yet curtained page May own its confidential die, Whose stamp awaits the unwritten page, And feelings of futurity! Yet wheresoe’er my pen I lift To date the epistolary sheet, The blest occasion of the gift Shall make its recollection sweet; Sent when the star that rules your fates Hath reached its influence most benign— When every heart congratulates, And none more cordially than mine. So speed my song—marked with the crest That erst the adventurous Norman[75] wore, Who won the Lady of the West, The daughter of Macaillain Mor. Crest of my sires! whose blood it sealed With glory in the strife of swords, Ne’er may the scroll that bears it yield Degenerate thoughts or faithless words! Yet little might I prize the stone, If it but typed the feudal tree From whence a scattered leaf, I’m blown In Fortune’s mutability. No!—but it tells me of a heart, Allied by friendship’s living tie; A prize beyond the herald’s art— Our soul-sprung consanguinity! Katherine! to many an hour of mine Light wings and sunshine you have lent; And so adieu, and still be thine The all-in-all of life—Content!

The last, the fatal hour is come, That bears my love from me; I hear the dead note of the drum, I mark the gallows’ tree! The bell has tolled; it shakes my heart; The trumpet speaks thy name; And must my Gilderoy depart To bear a death of shame? No bosom trembles for thy doom; No mourner wipes a tear; The gallows’ foot is all thy tomb, The sledge is all thy bier. Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then So soon, so sad to part, When first in Roslin’s lovely glen You triumphed o’er my heart? Your locks they glittered to the sheen, Your hunter garb was trim; And graceful was the ribbon green That bound your manly limb! Ah! little thought I to deplore Those limbs in fetters bound; Or hear, upon the scaffold floor, The midnight hammer sound. Ye cruel, cruel, that combined The guiltless to pursue; My Gilderoy was ever kind, He could not injure you! A long adieu! but where shall fly Thy widow all forlorn, When every mean and cruel eye Regards my woe with scorn? Yes! they will mock thy widow’s tears, And hate thine orphan boy; Alas! his infant beauty wears The form of Gilderoy. Then will I seek the dreary mound That wraps thy mouldering clay, And weep and linger on the ground, And sigh my heart away.

The ordeal’s fatal trumpet sounded, And sad pale Adelgitha came, When forth a valiant champion bounded, And slew the slanderer of her fame. She wept, delivered from her danger; But when he knelt to claim her glove— “Seek not,” she cried, “oh! gallant stranger, For hapless Adelgitha’s love. “For he is in a foreign far land Whose arm should now have set me free And I must wear the willow garland For him that’s dead, or false to me.” “Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!” He raised his vizor—At the sight She fell into his arms and fainted; It was indeed her own true knight!

’Tis not the loss of love’s assurance, It is not doubting what thou art, But ’tis the too, too long endurance Of absence, that afflicts my heart. The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish, When each is lonely doomed to weep, Are fruits on desert isles that perish, Or riches buried in the deep. What though, untouched by jealous madness, Our bosom’s peace may fall to wreck; The undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness, Is but more slowly doomed to break. Absence! is not the soul torn by it From more than light, or life, or breath? ’Tis Lethe’s gloom, but not its quiet,— The pain without the peace of death!

The Ritter Bann from Hungary Came back renowned in arms, But scorning jousts of chivalry And love and ladies’ charms. While other knights held revels, he Was wrapt in thoughts of gloom, And in Vienna’s hostelrie Slow paced his lonely room. There entered one whose face he knew,— Whose voice, he was aware, He oft at mass had listened to, In the holy house of prayer. ’Twas the Abbot of St. James’s monks, A fresh and fair old man: His reverend air arrested even The gloomy Ritter Bann. But seeing with him an ancient dame Come clad in Scotch attire, The Ritter’s colour went and came, And loud he spoke in ire. “Ha! nurse of her that was my bane, Name not her name to me; I wish it blotted from my brain: Art poor?—take alms, and flee.” “Sir Knight,” the Abbot interposed, “This case your ear demands;” And the crone cried, with a cross enclosed In both her trembling hands:— “Remember, each his sentence waits; And he that shall rebut Sweet Mercy’s suit, on him the gates Of Mercy shall be shut. “You wedded, undispensed by Church, Your cousin Jane in Spring; In Autumn, when you went to search For churchmen’s pardoning, “Her house denounced your marriage-band, Betrothed her to De Grey, And the ring you put upon her hand Was wrenched by force away. “Then wept your Jane upon my neck, Crying, ‘Help me, nurse, to flee To my Howel Bann’s Glamorgan hills;’ But word arrived—ah me!— “You were not there; and ’twas their threat, By foul means or by fair, To-morrow morning was to set The seal on her despair. “I had a son, a sea-boy, in A ship at Hartland Bay; By his aid from her cruel kin I bore my bird away. “To Scotland from the Devon’s Green myrtle shores we fled; And the Hand that sent the ravens To Elijah, gave us bread. “She wrote you by my son, but he From England sent us word You had gone into some far countrie, In grief and gloom he heard. “For they that wronged you, to elude Your wrath, defamed my child; And you—ay, blush, Sir, as you should— Believed, and were beguiled. “To die but at your feet, she vowed To roam the world; and we Would both have sped and begged our bread, But so it might not be. “For when the snow-storm beat our roof, She bore a boy, Sir Bann, Who grew as fair your likeness proof As child e’er grew like man. “’Twas smiling on that babe one morn While heath bloomed on the moor, Her beauty struck young Lord Kinghorn As he hunted past our door. ‘She shunned him, but he raved of Jane, And roused his mother’s pride; Who came to us in high disdain,— ‘And where’s the face,’ she cried, “‘Has witched my boy to wish for one So wretched for his wife?— Dost love thy husband? Know, my son Has sworn to seek his life.’ “Her anger sore dismayed us, For our mite was wearing scant, And unless that dame would aid us, There was none to aid our want. “So I told her, weeping bitterly, What all our woes had been; And though she was a stern ladie, The tears stood in her een. “And she housed us both, when, cheerfully, My child to her had sworn, That even if made a widow, she Would never wed Kinghorn.”—— Here paused the nurse, and then began The Abbot, standing by:— “Three months ago a wounded man To our abbey came to die. “He heard me long, with ghastly eyes And hand obdurate clenched, Speak of the worm that never dies, And the fire that is not quenched. “At last by what this scroll attests He left atonement brief, For years of anguish to the breasts His guilt had wrung with grief. “‘There lived,’ he said, ‘a fair young dame Beneath my mother’s roof; I loved her, but against my flame Her purity was proof. “‘I feigned repentance, friendship pure: That mood she did not check, But let her husband’s miniature Be copied from her neck. “‘As means to search him, my deceit Took care to him was borne Nought but his picture’s counterfeit, And Jane’s reported scorn. “‘The treachery took: she waited wild; My slave came back and lied Whate’er I wished; she clasped her child, And swooned, and all but died. “‘I felt her tears for years and years Quench not my flame, but stir; The very hate I bore her mate Increased my love for her. “‘Fame told us of his glory, while Joy flushed the face of Jane; And while she blessed his name, her smile Struck fire into my brain. “‘No fears could damp; I reached the camp, Sought out its champion; And if my broad-sword failed at last, ’Twas long and well laid on. “‘This wound’s my meed, my name’s Kinghorn, My foe’s the Ritter Bann.’—— The wafer to his lips was borne, And we shrived the dying man. “He died not till you went to fight The Turks at Warradein; But I see my tale has changed you pale.”— The Abbot went for wine; And brought a little page who poured It out, and knelt and smiled:— The stunned knight saw himself restored To childhood in his child; And stooped and caught him to his breast, Laughed loud and wept anon, And with a shower of kisses pressed The darling little one. “And where went Jane?”—“To a nunnery, Sir— Look not again so pale— Kinghorn’s old dame grew harsh to her.”— “And has she ta’en the veil?”— “Sit down, Sir,” said the priest, “I bar Rash words.”—They sat all three, And the boy played with the knight’s broad star, As he kept him on his knee. “Think ere you ask her dwelling-place,” The Abbot further said; “Time draws a veil o’er beauty’s face More deep than cloister’s shade. “Grief may have made her what you can Scarce love perhaps for life.” “Hush, Abbot,” cried the Ritter Bann, “Or tell me where’s my wife.” The priest undid two doors that hid The inn’s adjacent room, And there a lovely woman stood, Tears bathed her beauty’s bloom. One moment may with bliss repay Unnumbered hours of pain; Such was the throb and mutual sob Of the Knight embracing Jane.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray. When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart), “Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away; And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.” Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly loved me, although I was poor; When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray. When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey, And he licked me for kindness—my poor dog Tray. Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case, Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face; But he died at my feet on a cold winter day, And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray. Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind Can I find one to guide me, so faithful, and kind; To my sweet native village, so far, far away, I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.

Star that bringest home the bee, And sett’st the weary labourer free! If any star shed peace, ’tis thou, That send’st it from above, Appearing when Heaven’s breath and brow Are sweet as hers we love. Come to the luxuriant skies, Whilst the landscape’s odours rise, Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard, And songs, when toil is done, From cottages whose smoke unstirred Curls yellow in the sun. Star of love’s soft interviews, Parted lovers on thee muse; Their remembrancer in Heaven Of thrilling vows thou art, Too delicious to be riven By absence from the heart.

Men of England! who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on land and flood:— By the foes ye’ve fought uncounted, By the glorious deeds ye’ve done, Trophies captured—breaches mounted, Navies conquered—kingdoms won! Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, If the patriotism of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same. What are monuments of bravery, Where no public virtues bloom? What avail in lands of slavery, Trophied temples, arch, and tomb? Pageants!—Let the world revere us For our people’s rights and laws, And the breasts of civic heroes Bared in Freedom’s holy cause. Yours are Hampden’s, Russell’s glory, Sydney’s matchless shade is yours,— Martyrs in heroic story, Worth a hundred Agincourts! We’re the sons of sires that baffled Crowned and mitred tyranny:— They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights—so will we!

Never wedding, ever wooing, Still a love-lorn heart pursuing, Read you not the wrong you’re doing In my cheek’s pale hue? All my life with sorrow strewing, Wed, or cease to woo. Rivals banished, bosoms plighted, Still our days are disunited; Now the lamp of hope is lighted, Now half quenched appears, Damped, and wavering, and benighted, Midst my sighs and tears. Charms you call your dearest blessing, Lips that thrill at your caressing, Eyes a mutual soul confessing, Soon you’ll make them grow Dim, and worthless your possessing Not with age, but woe!

Drink ye to her that each loves best. And if you nurse a flame That’s told but to her mutual breast, We will not ask her name. Enough, while memory tranced and glad Paints silently the fair, That each should dream of joys he’s had, Or yet may hope to share. Yet far, far hence be jest or boast From hallowed thoughts so dear; But drink to them that we love most, As they would love to hear.

When Napoleon was flying From the field of Waterloo, A British soldier dying To his brother bade adieu! “And take,” he said, “this token To the maid that owns my faith, With the words that I have spoken In affection’s latest breath.” Sore mourned the brother’s heart, When the youth beside him fell; But the trumpet warned to part, And they took a sad farewell. There was many a friend to lose him, For that gallant soldier sighed; But the maiden of his bosom Wept when all their tears were dried.

O leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree Though bush or floweret never grow My dark unwarming shade below; Nor summer bird perfume the dew Of rosy blush, or yellow hue; Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive The ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot to me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour. Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made; And on my trunk’s surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground, By all that Love has whispered here, Or Beauty heard with ravished ear; As Love’s own altar honour me: Spare woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Earl March looked on his dying child, And smit with grief to view her— “The youth,” he cried, “whom I exiled, Shall be restored to woo her.” She’s at the window many an hour His coming to discover; And her love looked up to Ellen’s bower, And she looked on her lover— But ah! so pale, he knew her not, Though her smile on him was dwelling. “And am I then forgot—forgot?”— It broke the heart of Ellen. In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, Her cheek is cold as ashes; Nor love’s own kiss shall wake those eyes To lift their silken lashes.

Hark! from the battlements of yonder tower[76] The solemn bell has tolled the midnight hour! Roused from drear visions of distempered sleep, Poor Broderick[77] wakes—in solitude to weep! “Cease, Memory, cease,” the friendless mourner cried, “To probe the bosom too severely tried! Oh! ever cease, my pensive thoughts, to stray Through the bright fields of Fortune’s better day When youthful Hope, the music of the mind, Tuned all its charms, and Errington was kind! “Yet, can I cease, while glows this trembling frame, In sighs to speak thy melancholy name? I hear thy spirit wail in every storm! In midnight shades I view thy passing form! Pale as in that sad hour when doomed to feel, Deep in thy perjured heart, the bloody steel! “Demons of Vengeance! ye at whose command I grasped the sword with more than woman’s hand. Say ye, did Pity’s trembling voice control, Or horror damp the purpose of my soul? No! my wild heart sat smiling o’er the plan, Till Hate fulfilled what baffled Love began! “Yes; let the clay-cold breast that never knew One tender pang to generous Nature true, Half-mingling pity with the gall of scorn, Condemn this heart, that bled in love forlorn! “And ye, proud fair, whose soul no gladness warms, Save Rapture’s homage to your conscious charms! Delighted idols of a gaudy train, Ill can your blunter feelings guess the pain, When the fond faithful heart, inspired to prove Friendship refined, the calm delight of love, Feels all its tender strings with anguish torn, And bleeds at perjured Pride’s inhuman scorn! “Say, then, did pitying Heaven condemn the deed, When Vengeance bade thee, faithless lover! bleed? Long had I watched thy dark foreboding brow, What time thy bosom scorned its dearest vow! Sad, though I wept the friend, the lover changed, Still thy cold look was scornful and estranged, Till from thy pity, love, and shelter thrown, I wandered hopeless, friendless, and alone! “Oh! righteous Heaven! ’twas then my tortured soul First gave to wrath unlimited control! Adieu the silent look! the streaming eye! The murmured plaint! the deep heart-heaving sigh Long-slumbering Vengeance wakes to better deeds; He shrieks, he falls, the perjured lover bleeds! Now the last laugh of agony is o’er, And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more! “’Tis done! the flame of hate no longer burns Nature relents, but, ah! too late returns! Why does my soul this gush of fondness feel? Trembling and faint, I drop the guilty steel! Cold on my heart the hand of terror lies, And shades of horror close my languid eyes! “Oh!’twas a deed of Murder’s deepest grain, Could Broderick’s soul so true to wrath remain? A friend long true, a once fond lover fell!— Where Love was fostered could not Pity dwell? “Unhappy youth! while yon pale crescent glows To watch on silent nature’s deep repose, Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb, Foretells my fate, and summons me to come! Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand, Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand! “Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame Forsake its languid melancholy frame! Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close, Welcome the dreamless night of long repose! Soon may this woe-worn spirit seek the bourne Where, lulled to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn!”

Oh, how hard it is to find The one just suited to our mind; And if that one should be False, unkind, or found too late, What can we do but sigh at fate, And sing, Woe’s me—Woe’s me! Love’s a boundless burning waste, Where Bliss’s stream we seldom taste, And still more seldom flee Suspense’s thorns, Suspicion’s stings; Yet somehow Love a something brings That’s sweet—e’en when we sigh, “Woe’s me!”

Our bosoms we’ll bare for the glorious strife, And our oath is recorded on high, To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life, Or crushed in its ruins to die! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land! ’Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trust— God bless the green Isle of the brave! Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers’ dust, It would rouse the old dead from their grave! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land! In a Briton’s sweet home shall a spoiler abide, Profaning its loves and its charms? Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side? To arms! oh, my Country, to arms! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land! Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen!—No! His head to the sword shall be given— A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe, And his blood be an offering to Heaven! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye’s sad devotion, For it rose o’er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of “Erin go bragh!”[79] “Sad is my fate!” said the heart-broken stranger; “The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of ‘Erin go bragh!’ “Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit the sea-beaten shore; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace—where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They die to defend me, or live to deplore! “Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild-wood? Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. “Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers! ‘Erin go bragh!’ Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields,—sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,— Erin mavournin[80]—Erin go bragh!’”

A chieftain to the Highlands bound, Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry! And I’ll give thee a silver pound, To row us o’er the ferry.” “Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?” “O, I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle, And this Lord Ullin’s daughter. “And fast before her father’s men Three days we’ve fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. “His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?” Outspoke the hardy Highland wight “I’ll go, my chief—I’m ready; It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady: “And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So though the waves are raging white, I’ll row you o’er the ferry.” By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking;[81] And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armèd men, Their trampling sounded nearer. “O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries, “Though tempests round us gather; I’ll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.” The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,— When, oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o’er her. And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing. For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover: One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover. “Come back! come back!” he cried in grief, “Across this stormy water: And I’ll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!—oh my daughter!” Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing: The waters wild went o’er his child— And he was left lamenting.

Soul of the Poet! wheresoe’er, Reclaimed from earth, thy genius plume Her wings of immortality: Suspend thy harp in happier sphere, And with thine influence illume The gladness of our jubilee. And fly like fiends from secret spell, Discord and strife, at Burns’s name, Exorcised by his memory; For he was chief of bards that swell The heart with songs of social flame, And high delicious revelry. And Love’s own strain to him was given, To warble all its ecstasies With Pythian words unsought, unwilled— Love, the surviving gift of Heaven, The choicest sweet of Paradise, In life’s else bitter cup distilled. Who that has melted o’er his lay To Mary’s soul, in Heaven above, But pictured sees, in fancy strong, The landscape and the livelong day That smiled upon their mutual love? Who that has felt forgets the song? Nor skilled one flame alone to fan: His country’s high-souled peasantry What patriot-pride he taught!—how much To weigh the inborn worth of man! And rustic life and poverty Grow beautiful beneath his touch. Him, in his clay-built cot,[82] the muse Entranced, and showed him all the forms Of fairy-light and wizard gloom (That only gifted Poet views), The Genii of the floods and storms, And martial shades from Glory’s tomb. On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse The swain whom Burns’s song inspires? Beat not his Caledonian veins, As o’er the heroic turf he ploughs, With all the spirit of his sires, And all their scorn of death and chains? And see the Scottish exile tanned By many a far and foreign clime, Bend o’er his home-born verse, and weep In memory of his native land, With love that scorns the lapse of time, And ties that stretch beyond the deep. Encamped by Indian rivers wild, The soldier resting on his arms, In Burns’s carol sweet recalls The scenes that blessed him when a child, And glows and gladdens at the charms Of Scotia’s woods and waterfalls. O deem not, midst this worldly strife, An idle art the Poet brings: Let high Philosophy control And sages calm the stream of life, ’Tis he refines its fountain-springs, The nobler passions of the soul. It is the muse that consecrates The native banner of the brave, Unfurling at the trumpet’s breath, Rose, thistle, harp; ’tis she elates To sweep the field or ride the wave, A sunburst in the storm of death. And thou, young hero, when thy pall Is crossed with mournful sword and plume, When public grief begins to fade, And only tears of kindred fall, Who but the Bard shall dress thy tomb, And greet with fame thy gallant shade? Such was the soldier—Burns, forgive That sorrows of mine own intrude In strains to thy great memory due. In verse like thine, oh! could he live, The friend I mourned—the brave, the good— Edward that died at Waterloo![83] Farewell, high chief of Scottish song! That couldst alternately impart Wisdom and rapture in thy page, And brand each vice with satire strong, Whose lines are mottoes of the heart, Whose truths electrify the sage. Farewell! and ne’er may Envy dare To wring one baleful poison drop From the crushed laurels of thy bust: But while the lark sings sweet in air, Still may the grateful pilgrim stop, To bless the spot that holds thy dust.

Our bugles sang truce—for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array, Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track: ’Twas Autumn,—and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life’s morning march, when my bosom was young I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart, Stay, stay with us,—rest, thou art weary and worn; And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;— But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.