THE BALLAD OF AGE AND YOUTH.

I left yon stately castle on the height, The ancient halls of lordly Ravenslee, Wherein was met, in grandeur all bedight, Of knights and dames a gallant companie; For I was in a misanthropic mood, And deemed that gay galaverie false and vain, And wished to lie or loiter in some wood, And give my fancy her unbridled rein.

I left them all in flush of pleasure's sport, Some knights with damoiselles gone forth to woo, Some listing gleemen in the ballion court, Some deep in ombre, some at lanterloo, Some gone a-hawking with the merlyon, Some at their noon-meat sipping Spanish wine, Some conning old romances on the lawn, And all to meet in hall at hour of dine.

II.

Down in Dalmossie dell I sought a nook Beneath a thick and widely-spreading tree, And there I sat to con my little book, My book of old black-letter grammarie. All stillness in that deep and lonely dell Save hum of bumble-bee on nimble wing, Or zephyr sporting round the wild blue bell, While fancy feigned some tiny tinkle-ring.

Lo! come from yonder sheiling by the burn An aged pair whom Time claimed as his own— Their clothes all brown, and sere and sadly worn, But brushed and clean, and tentily put on. I noted well the signs of their great eild, Their shrunken limbs, their locks of snowy hair, The wobbling walk, the bowing, bending bield, The wrinkled cheeks, and looks of dule and care.

I thought on hapless man—with changing face, Each day more furrowed as he wears along. He looks into the glass to cry Alace! Alace for that spring time that's past and gone! He looks askance, and sees young eyes that lour On him, so comely once, unsightly grown: The faded roses make a scented bower, But aged man seems spurned by man alone.

Yet happy he who, changing with advance, Has bright and golden hopes beyond the sun; He can give back their saucy, pitying glance, Who set such wondrous price their youth upon. Their night will come in turn, yea, comes apace, Without, mayhap, the hope of brighter day, When age-worn looks will don their native grace, And feel no more this world's despised decay.

III.

That aged pair sat down upon the green, While each the other helped to softest seat, I watched their ways, myself by them unseen, And heard their quivering words, so kindly sweet, As still of golden days when they were young, Of youth's green summer time they spoke and wept, And soft in wailing song there came along These words, which I in memory long have kept:

THE SONG OF AGE.[A]

"The trees they are high, John, the leaves they are green, The days are awa that you and I have seen; The days are awa that we have seen; And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again, Summer again, summer again, And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again.

"There was joy at our marriage—a dance on the green, They a' roosed the light of my bonnie blue een, My bonnie blue een, where tears may now be seen; And oh! that we were to be married again, Married again, married again, And oh! that we were to be married again.

"The grass it is wet, John, the wind it is keen, Our claes they are worn, and our shune they are thin; Our shune they are thin, and the waters come in; And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again, Summer again, summer again, And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again.

"There was joy in our youth, John, at wish's command, We danced and we sang, and we ilka gate ran, But now dule and sorrow's on ilka hand; And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again, Summer again, summer again, And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again.

"There's graves in yon howf, John, and hillocks o' green, Where our bairns lie sleeping that left us alane, And they're waiting for us till we gae to creep in; And alas! for youth's bonnie green summer again, Summer again, summer again, And alas! for youth's bonnie green summer again."

When she had crooned her chant, I heard him say, With sobbing voice and deep heart-heaving sigh, "Dry up thae tears, my Jean, for things away, Time's but a watch-tick in eternity; We darena sing of earth, but lift our prayer To Him whose promises are never vain, That we may dwell in yonder Eden fair, And see youth's summer blooming green again."

Then rose a prayer to Bethel's Lord and King That He would lead them through this vale of woe, And to the promised land his children bring, Where Babel's streams in living waters flow. They left: again all silence in the dell Save hum of bumble-bee on nimble wing, Or zephyr sporting round the wild blue bell, While fancy feigned some tiny tinkle-ring.

[Footnote A: Some readers may recognise in the old woman's song portions of an ancient ditty that used to be chanted in a wailing cadence in several parts of Scotland. I suspect the song as a whole is lost—the more to be regretted for its sweet simplicity and melodious wail (so far as judged in the fragments), which in a modern song would be viewed as weakness or affectation. Indeed, the modes of thought and feeling that belong to what is called advanced civilisation are impatient of these things except as rude relics of yet untutored minds; and the pleasure with which they are accepted has in it perhaps a grain of pity for those that didn't know better than produce them. Yet, as regards mere poetical feeling at least, the nearer the fountainhead the purer the water.]

IV.

And is not youth, thought I, a vulgar thing, When lording over WISDOM'S ancient reign? What may avail the brilliancy of spring If autumn yields no hoards of garnered grain? Experience is the daughter of old Time, Mother of Wisdom, last and noblest born, Who comes as Faith to help our waning prime, To cheer the night of age and light the morn.

I sought at eve the castle on the height, The ancient halls of lordly Ravenslee, Oh! contrast great! gay scene of youth's delight— The spinette, galliard, mirth's galaverie! I thought upon the couple in the wood, And how that singing, dancing, laughing train Would one day sigh in Time's avenging mood, "Alas! for youth's green summer time again."

XI.

THE LEGEND OF CRAIGULLAN.[A]

[Footnote A: This legend has been referred to several Scotch families—one in Fife in particular, the name of which it would be imprudent to mention.]

Yonder the halls of old Craigullan! To weird doom for ever true; The moaning winds are sad and sullen, The screech-owl hoots too-hoo! too-hoo! The lazy burn-clock drones around, The wing-mouse flaps the choking air, The croaking frog hops on the ground, For weird fate is working there.

Each wing had once a goodly tower Of stately beild, both broad and high; In every tower a lady's bower, Bedecked with silken tapestry; In every bower a lovely maid, Her youth and beauty all in vain; And with each maid a keeper staid To watch the wanderings of her brain.

'Twas said that those who went that way Would hear some shrill and piercing wail Come from these towers, and die away As borne upon the passing gale; Yet none could say from whom it came, Far less divine the reason why; And Superstition, with her dream, Could only whisper mystery— Unholy spirits haunting nigh, And screaming in the midnight hour, Presage of vengeance from on high For deeds done in Craigullan's tower.

If Superstition has her dream, She also has her waking hour; Nor ever man, howe'er supreme, Can free him from her mystic power. And it was told, in whispering way, That once Craigullan led his hounds Out forth upon a Sabbath day Within the church bells' sacred sounds; And as he rode, by fury fired, A woman, pregnant, overthrown Beneath his horse's hoofs, expired, And, dying, shrieked this malison: From this day forth, till time shall cease, May madness haunt Craigullan's race!

The words struck on a sceptic's ear: Would woman's curse his pleasure stay? He blew his horn both loud and clear, And with his hounds he hied away. He conned no more the weird reve Which all conspired to prove untrue, For he had healthy daughters five, Who up in maiden beauty grew— Clorinda, Isobel, and Jane— Such was the order of their birth— And Florabel and Clementine, All lovely, gay, and full of mirth.

But man is blind, with all his power, And gropes through life his darksome way; Nor ever thinks the evil hour May come within the brightest day.

As custom went, a noble throng Hath filled Craigullan's ancient hall, Amidst th' inspiring dance and song, Clorinda is admired of all. The sun with his enlivening light Brings out the viper and the rose, And joy that cheers will oft excite Dark Mania from her long repose. Amidst the dance and music there— The dance which she so proudly led— A maniac shriek has rent the air— Clorinda falls, her reason fled.

In vain shall passing time essay To soothe the dire domestic pain; Fair Isobel becomes the prey Of that same demon of the brain. When autumn winds were sighing low, When birds were singing on the tree, Amidst their song she met the foe, And sank beneath the fell decree.

Nor yet the sibyl leaf all read, Dark Nemesis is grim and sullen; She bends again her vengeful head— Woe! woe! to old Craigullan. The next by fatal count of Time, The next by her foreboding fears—- Jane falls, like those in early prime— She falls amidst a mother's tears.

Nor finished yet the weird spell, Wrought out by some high powers divine. The victim next is Florabel, The fairest of Craigullan's line. The shadow fell upon her bloom, Grew darker as the period neared, As if the terror of her doom Wrought out the issue which it feared.

If Superstition has her dreams, Proud reason has her mystic day; And who shall harmonize the themes In this world's dark and dreary way? If Clementine is yet forgot, Is the relief to her a gain? She fears the demon in each thought, In every fancy of the brain. If once a cheerful thought shall rise, The dreaded enemy is near; If once her heaving bosom sighs, The vengeful demon will appear. In vain she seeks the greenwood grove, In vain she hears the merlin sing, In vain she seeks her flower alcove, In vain for her the roses spring. If holy peace she tries to seek, She hears Clorinda's maniac song, Or Florabel's ecstatic shriek, Sounding the stilly woods among.

What though Sir Walter seeks her bower, And pleads his suit on bended knee With all a lover's magic power, That she his lady-love shall be? He does not know her secret pain; She dare not whisper in his ear; She dare not trust that she is sane; She loves him, but she loves with fear.

This is her madness. Who shall know If she with reason, they without, Which have the greater load of woe? Her sisters have not sense to doubt. This is the world's madness too: We seek for truth, and seek in vain. While madly we the false pursue, Who shall decide that he is sane?

And still the halls of old Craigullan To weird doom are ever true; The moaning winds are sad and sullen, The grey owl hoots too-hoo! too-hoo!

XII.

THE HERMIT OF THE HILLS.

"Intruder, thou shalt hear my tale," the solitary said, While far adown beneath our feet the fiery levin played; The thunder-clouds our carpet were—we gazed upon the storm, Which swept along the mountain sides in many a fearful form.

I sat beside the lonely man, on Cheviot's cloudless height; Above our heads was glory, but beneath more glorious night; For the sun was shining over us, but lightnings flashed below, Like the felt and burning darkness of unutterable woe.

"I love, in such a place as this," the desolate began, "To gaze upon the tempests wild that separate me from man; To muse upon the passing things that agitate the world— View myself as by a whirlwind to hopeless ruin hurled.

"My heart was avaricious once, like yours the slave of feeling— Perish such hearts! vile dens of crime! man's selfishness concealing; For self! damned self's creation's lord!—man's idol and his god! Twas torn from me, a blasted, bruised, a cast off, worthless load.

"Some say there's wildness in my eyes, and others deem me crazed, They, trembling, turn and shun my path—for which let Heaven be praised! They say my words are blasphemy—they marvel at my fate, When 'tis my happiness to know they pity not, but hate.

"My father fell from peace and wealth the day that I was born— My mother died, and he became his fellow-gambler's scorn; I know not where he lived or died—I never heard his name— An orphan in a workhouse, I was thought a child of shame.

"Some friend by blood had lodged me there, and bought my keeper too, Who pledged his oath he would conceal what of my tale he knew. Death came to him—he called on me the secret to unfold, But died while he was uttering the little I have told.

"My soul was proud, nor brooked restraint—was proud, and I was young; And with an eager joyancy I heard his flattering tongue Proclaim me not of beggars born—yea, as he speaking died, I—greedy—mad to know the rest—stood cursing by his side.

"I looked upon the homely garb that told my dwelling-place— It hung upon me heavily—a token of disgrace! I fled the house—I went to sea—was by a wretch impressed, The stamp of whose brutality is printed on my breast.

"Like vilest slave he fettered me, my flesh the irons tore— Scourged, mocked, and worse than buried me upon a lifeless shore, Where human foot had never trod—upon a barren rock, Whose caves ne'er echoed to a sound save billows as they broke.

"'Twas midnight; but the morning came. I looked upon the sea, And a melancholy wilderness its waters were to me; The heavens were black as yonder cloud that rolls beneath our feet, While neither land nor living thing my eager eyes could meet.

"I naked sat upon the rock; I trembled—strove to pray; Thrice did I see a distant sail, and thrice they bore away. My brain with hunger maddening, as the steed the battle braves, Headlong I plunged from the bare rock and buffeted the waves.

"Methought I saw a vessel near, and bitter were my screams, But they died within me echoless as voices in our dreams; For the winds were howling round me, and the suffocating gush Of briny horrors rioted, the cry of death to crush.

"My senses fled. I lifelessly upon the ocean slept; And when to consciousness I woke, a form before me wept. Her face was beautiful as night; but by her side there stood A group, whose savage glances were more dismal than the flood.

"They stood around exultingly; they snatched me from the wave— Stole me from death—to torture me, to sell me as a slave. She who stood o'er me weeping was a partner of my chains. We were sold, and separation bled my heart with deeper pains.

"I knew not what her birth had been, but loved her with a love Which nor our tyrant's cruelty nor mockery could move. I saw her offered to a Moor—another purchased me; But, Heavens! my arms once fetterless, ere midnight I was free!

"Memory, with eager eye, had marked her master's hated door— I grasped a sabre, reached the house, and slew the opposing Moor. I bore her rapidly away; a boat was on the beach— We put to sea—saw morning dawn 'yond our pursuers' reach

"I gazed upon her silently—I saw her sink to sleep, As darkness gathered over us upon the cheerless deep; I saw her in her slumber start—unconsciously she spoke— Oh death!—she called upon his name who left me on the rock!

"Then there was madness in my breast and fury in my brain— She never heard that name from me, yet uttered it again! I started forth and grasped her hand—'Are we pursued?' she cried— I trembled in my agony, and speechless o'er her sighed.

"I ventured not to speak of love in such an awful hour, For hunger glistened in our eyes, and grated to devour The very rags that covered us! My pangs I cannot tell, But in that little hour I felt the eternity of hell.

"For the transport of its tortures did in that hour surround Two beings on the bosom of a shoreless ocean found; As we gazed upon each other, with a dismal longing look, And jealousy, but not from love, our tortured bosoms shook.

"I need but add that we were saved, and by a vessel borne Again toward our native land to be asunder torn. The maiden of my love was rich—was rich—and I was poor; A soulless menial shut on me her wealthy guardian's door.

"She knew it not, nor would I tell—tell! by the host of heaven, My tongue became the sepulchre of sound!—my heart was riven. I fled society and hope; the prison of my mind A world of inexpressible and guilty thoughts confined.

"She was not wed—my hope returned; ambition my soul, Sweeping round me like a fury, while the beacon and the goal Of desire, ever turbulent and sleepless, was to have The hand that mine had rescued from the fetters of a slave.

"I was an outcast on the earth, but braved my hapless lot; And while I groaned impatiently, weak mortals heard it not. A host of drear, unholy dreams did round my pillow haunt, While my days spent in loneliness were darkened o'er with want.

"At length blind fortune favoured me—my breast to joy awoke; And then he who had left me on the isolated rock, I met within a distant land; nor need I further tell, But that we met as equals there, and my antag'nist fell.

"Awhile I brooded on his death; and gloomily it brought A desolateness round me, stamping guilt on every thought. I trembling found how bloodily my vengeance was appeased, At what vile price my bosom was of jealousy released.

"For still the breathing of his name by her I lov'd had rung In remembrance, like the latest sound that falleth from the tongue Of those best loved and cherished, when upon the bed of death They bequeath to us their injuries to visit in our wrath.

"But soon these griefs evanished, like a passing summer storm, And a gush of hope like sunshine flashed around me, to deform The image of repentance, while the darkness of remorse Retreated from its presence with a blacker with'ring curse.

"I hurried home in eagerness—-the leaden moments fled; My burning tale of love was told—was told—and we were wed. A tumult of delightfulness had rapt my soul in flame, But on that day—my wedding day—a mourning letter came.

"Joy died on ev'ry countenance—she, trembling, broke the seal— Screamed—glanced on me! and lifeless fell, unable to reveal The horrid tale of death that told her new-made husband's guilt— The hand which she that day had wed, her brother's blood had spilt.

"That brother in his mother's right another name did bear: Twas him I slew—all shrank from me in horror and in fear; They seized me in my bridal dress—my bride still senseless lay— I spoke not while they pinioned me and hurried me away.

"They lodged me in a criminal cell, by iron gratings barred, And there the third day heavily a funeral bell I heard. A sable crowd my prison passed—they gazed on it with gloom: It was my bride—my beautiful—they followed to the tomb!

"I was acquitted; but what more had I with life to do? I cursed my fate—my heart—the world—and from its creatures flew. Intruder, thou hast heard my tale of wretchedness and guilt— Go, mingle with a viler world, and tell it if thou wilt."