CHEVIOT

A FRAGMENT

1799

Go sit old Cheviot's crest below,

And pensive mark the lingering snow
In all his scaurs abide,

And slow dissolving from the hill
In many a sightless, soundless rill,.
Feed sparkling Bowmont's tide.

Fair shines the stream by bank and lea,
As wimpling to the eastern sea

She seeks Till's sullen bed,

Indenting deep the fatal plain

Where Scotland's noblest, brave in vain,

Around their monarch bled.

And westward hills on hills you see,
Even as old Ocean's mightiest sea

Heaves high her waves of foam,

Dark and snow-ridged from Cutsfeld's wold To the proud foot of Cheviot rolled,

Earth's mountain billows come.

FREDERICK AND ALICE1

1801

FREDERICK leaves the land of France,

Homeward hastes his steps to measure, Careless casts the parting glance

On the scene of former pleasure.

Joying in his prancing steed,

Keen to prove his untried blade, Hope's gay dreams the soldier lead Over mountain, moor, and glade.

Helpless, ruined, left forlorn,

Lovely Alice wept alone,

Mourned o'er love's fond contract torn, Hope, and peace, and honour flown.

Mark her breast's convulsive throbs!
See, the tear of anguish flows! -
Mingling soon with bursting sobs,
Loud the laugh of frenzy rose.

Wild she cursed, and wild she prayed;
Seven long days and nights are o'er:

1 See Note 16.

Death in pity brought his aid,
As the village bell struck four.

Far from her, and far from France, Faithless Frederick onward rides; Marking blithe the morning's glance Mantling o'er the mountains' sides.

Heard ye not the boding sound,
As the tongue of yonder tower,
Slowly to the hills around

Told the fourth, the fated hour?

Starts the steed and snuffs the air,

Yet no cause of dread appears;

Bristles high the rider's hair,

Struck with strange mysterious fears.

Desperate, as his terrors rise,

In the steed the spur he hides;

From himself in vain he flies;

Anxious, restless, on he rides.

Seven long days and seven long nights,
Wild he wandered, woe the while!
Ceaseless care and causeless fright
Urge his footsteps many a mile.

Dark the seventh sad night descends;
Rivers swell and rain-streams pour,

While the deafening thunder lends
All the terrors of its roar.

Weary, wet, and spent with toil,

Where his head shall Frederick hide?

Where, but in yon ruined aisle,

By the lightning's flash descried.

To the portal, dank and low,

Fast his steed the wanderer bound:

Down a ruined staircase slow,

Next his darkling way he wound.

Long drear vaults before him lie!

Glimmering lights are seen to glide!

'Blessed Mary, hear my cry!

Deign a sinner's steps to guide!'

Often lost their quivering beam,

Still the lights move slow before, Till they rest their ghastly gleam Right against an iron door.

Thundering voices from within,
Mixed with peals of laughter, rose;

As they fell, a solemn strain

Lent its wild and wondrous close!

Midst the din he seemed to hear

Voice of friends, by death removed;

Well, he knew that solemn air,

'T was the lay that Alice loved.

Hark! for now a solemn knell

Four times on the still night broke; Four times at its deaden'd swell, Echoes from the ruins spoke.

As the lengthened clangors die,
Slowly opes the iron door!
Straight a banquet met his eye,

But a funeral's form it wore!

Coffins for the seats extend;

All with black the board was spread;

Girt by parent, brother, friend,

Long since number'd with the dead!

Alice, in her grave-clothes bound,
Ghastly smiling, points a seat;
All arose with thundering sound;
All the expected stranger greet.