Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

His unblest feet his native seat, 'Mid Eske's fair woods, regain; Thro' woods more fair no stream more sweet

Rolls to the eastern main.

And lords to meet the pilgrim came,

And vassals bent the knee; For all 'mid Scotland's chiefs of fame, Was none more famed than he.

And boldly for his country, still,

In battle he had stood,

Ay, even when on the banks of Till
Her noblest pour'd their blood.
Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet!
By Eske's fair streams that run,
O'er airy steep, through copsewood
deep,

Impervious to the sun.

There the rapt poet's step may rove,
And yield the muse the day;
There Beauty, led by timid Love,
May shun the tell-tale ray;

From that fair dome, where suit is paid,
By blast of bugle free,

To Auchendinny's hazel glade,

And haunted Woodhouselee. Who knows not Melville's beechy grove, And Roslin's rocky glen, Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,

And classic Hawthornden ?

Yet never a path, from day to day,
The pilgrim's footsteps range,

Save but the solitary way

To Burndale's ruin'd grange.

A woful place was that, I ween,
As sorrow could desire;

For nodding to the fall was each crum. bling wall,

And the roof was scathed with fire.

It fell upon a summer's eve,

While, on Carnethy's head, The last faint gleams of the sun's low beams

Had streak'd the grey with red;
And the convent bell did vespers tell,

Newbattle's oaks among,
And mingled with the solemn knell
Our Ladye's evening song:

The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell,
Came slowly down the wind,
And on the pilgrim's ear they fell,

As his wonted path he did find.
Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was,
Nor ever raised his eye,

Until he came to that dreary place,
Which did all in ruins lie.

He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fire,

With many a bitter groanAnd there was aware of a Gray Friar, Resting him on a stone.

"Now, Christ thee save!" said the Gray Brother;

"Some pilgrim thou seemest to be." But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze, Nor answer again made he.

"O come ye from east, or come ye from west,

Or bring reliques from over the sea; Or come ye from the shrine of St. James the divine,

Or St. John of Beverley?"— "I come not from the shrine of St. James the divine,

Nor bring reliques from over the sea; I bring but a curse from our father, the Pope,

[ocr errors]

Which for ever will cling to me."

Now, woful pilgrim, say not so !

But kneel thee down to me,

And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly

sin,

That absolved thou mayst be.""And who art thou, thou Gray Brother, That I should shrive to thee,

When He, to whom are given the keys of earth and heaven,

Has no power to pardon me?"— "O I am sent from a distant clime,

Five thousand miles away, And all to absolve a foul, foul crime, Done here 'twixt night and day." The pilgrim kneel'd him on the sand, And thus began his saye— When on his neck an ice-cold hand Did that Gray Brother laye.

GG

THE RESOLVE.

IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH POEM.

[1809.]

Published anonymously in the Edinburgh Annual Register of 1808.

My wayward fate I needs must plain,
Though bootless be the theme:
I loved, and was beloved again,

Yet all was but a dream;

For, as her love was quickly got,
So it was quickly gone;

No more I'll bask in flame so hot,
But coldly dwell alone.

Not maid more bright than maid was
e'er

My fancy shall beguile,

By flattering word, or feigned tear,
By gesture, look, or smile :

No more I'll call the shaft fair shot
Till it has fairly flown,

Nor scorch me at a flame so hot;
I'll rather freeze alone.
Each ambush'd Cupid I'll defy,

In cheek, or chin, or brow,
And deem the glance of woman's eye
As weak as woman's vow:
I'll lightly hold the lady's heart,
That is but lightly won;
I'll steel my breast to beauty's art,
And learn to live alone.

The flaunting torch soon blazes out,

The diamond's ray abides;
The flame its glory hurls about,
The gem its lustre hides:

Such gem I fondly deem'd was mine,
And glow'd a diamond stone,
But, since each eye may see it shine,
I'll darkling dwell alone.

No waking dream shall tinge my
thought

With dyes so bright and vain,
No silken net, so slightly wrought,
Shall tangle me again :

No more I'll pay so dear for wit,
I'll live upon mine own,
Nor shall wild passion trouble it,—
I'll rather dwell alone.

And thus I'll hush my heart to rest,—
"Thy loving labour's lost;
Thou shalt no more be wildly blest,

To be so strangely crost :
The widow'd turtles mateless die,
The phoenix is but one;

They seek no loves-no more will I-
I'll rather dwell alone."

NORA'S VOW.

AIR-" Cha teid mis a chaoidh." *

WRITTEN FOR ALBYN'S ANTHOLOGY.

[1816.] +

In the original Gaelic, the lady makes protestations that she will not go with the Red Earl's son, until the swan should build in the cliff, and the eagle in the lakeuntil one mountain should change places with another, and so forth. It is but fair to add, that there is no authority for supposing that she altered her mind-except the vehemence of her protestation.

[merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small]
[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND.

[1814.]

O, DREAD was the time, and more dreadful the omen,
When the brave on Marengo lay slaughter'd in vain,
And beholding broad Europe bow'd down by her foemen,
Pitt closed in his anguish the map of her reign!
Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave spirit
To take for his country the safety of shame;

O, then in her triumph remember his merit,

And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Round the husbandman's head, while he traces the furrow,
The mists of the winter may mingle with rain,
He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow,
And sigh while he fears he has sow'd it in vain ;
He may die ere his children shall reap in their gladness,
But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim;
And their jubilee-shout shall be soften'd with sadness,
While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Though anxious and timeless his life was expended,

In toils for our country preserved by his care,
Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations ascended,
To light the long darkness of doubt and despair;
The storms he endured in our Britain's December,
The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ercame,
In her glory's rich harvest shall Britain remember,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Nor forget his grey head, who, all dark in affliction,
Is deaf to the tale of our victories won,
And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection,
The shout of his people applauding his Son;
By his firmness unmoved in success and disaster,

By his long reign of virtue, remember his claim !
With our tribute to Pitt join the praise of his Master,
Though a tear stain the goblet that flows to his name.

Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure,
The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid,
To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright treasure,
The wisdom that plann'd, and the zeal that obey'd!
Fill Wellington's cup till it beam like his glory,
Forget not our own brave Dalhousie and Græme;
A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their story,
And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame.

PHAROS LOQUITUR.

"On the 30th July, 1814, Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Erskine, and Mr. Duff, Commissioners, along with Mr. (now Sir) Walter Scott, and the writer, visited the Lighthouse; the Commissioners being then on one of their voyages of Inspection, noticed in the Introduction. They breakfasted in the Library, when Sir Walter, at the entreaty of the party, upon inscribing his name in the Album, added these interesting lines."-STEVENSON'S Account of the Bell Rock Lighthouse. 1824

FAR in the bosom of the deep,

O'er these wild shelves my watch I keep ;
A ruddy gem of changeful light,
Bound on the dusky brow of night,
The seaman bids my lustre hail,
And scorns to strike his timorous sail.

MR. KEMBLE'S FAREWELL ADDRESS,

ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH STAGE.

These lines first appeared, April 5, 1817, in a weekly sheet, called "The Sale Room," conducted and published by Messrs. Ballantyne and Co. at Edinburgh. I In a note prefixed, Mr. James Ballantyne says, "The character fixed upon, with happy propriety, for Kemble's closing scene, was Macbeth, in which he took his final leave of Scotland on the evening of Saturday, the 29th March, 1817. He had laboured under a severe cold for a few days before, but on this memorable night the physical annoyance yielded to the energy of his mind. 'He was,' he said, in the green-room, immediately before the curtain rose, 'determined to leave behind him the most perfect specimen of his art which he had ever shown;' and his success was complete. At the moment of the tyrant's death the curtain fell by the universal acclamation of the audience. The applauses were vehement and prolonged; they ceased-were resumed-rose again--were reiterated-and again were hushed. In a few minutes the curtain ascended, and Mr. Kemble came forward in the dress of Macbeth (the audience by a consentaneous movement rising to receive him), to deliver his farewell. Mr. Kemble delivered these lines with exquisite beauty, and with an effect that was evidenced by the tears and sobs of many of the audience. His own emotions were very conspicuous. When his farewell was closed, he lingered long on the stage, as if unable to retire. The house again stood up, and cheered him with the waving of hats and long shouts of applause. At length, he finally retired, and, in so far as regards Scotland, the curtain dropped upon his professional life for ever.”

As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound,
Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground-
Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns,

And longs to rush on the embattled lines,

So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear,

Can scarce sustain to think our parting near;

To think my scenic hour for ever past,

And that those valued plaudits are my last.

Why should we part, while still some powers remain,
That in your service strive not yet in vain?
Cannot high zeal the strength of youth supply,
And sense of duty fire the fading eye;
And all the wrongs of age remain subdued
Beneath the burning glow of gratitude?
Ah, no! the taper, wearing to its close,
Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows;
But all too soon the transient gleam is past,
It cannot be renew'd, and will not last;
Even duty, zeal, and gratitude can wage
But short-lived conflict with the frosts of age.
Yes! It were poor, remembering what I was,
To live a pensioner on your applause,

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »