|
THE cock warm roosting 'mid his feathered mates,
|
|
Now lifts his beak and snuffs the morning air, |
|
Stretches his neck and claps his heavy wings, |
|
Gives three hoarse crows, and glad his task is done, |
|
Low chuckling turns himself upon the roost, |
|
Then nestles down again into his place. |
|
The labouring hind, ∗who on his bed of straw
|
|
Beneath his home-made coverings, coarse but warm, |
|
Locked in the kindly arms of her who spun them, |
― 2 ―
|
|
Dreams of the gain that next year's crop should bring; |
|
Or at some fair, disposing of his wool, |
|
Or by some lucky and unlooked-for bargain, |
|
Fills his skin purse with store of tempting gold, |
|
Now wakes from sleep at the unwelcome call, |
|
And finds himself but just the same poor man |
|
As when he went to rest. |
|
He hears the blast against his window beat |
|
And wishes to himself he were a laird, |
|
That he might lie a-bed. It may not be: |
|
He rubs his eyes and stretches out his arms; |
|
Heigh ho! heigh ho! he drawls with gaping mouth, |
|
Then, most unwillingly creeps from his lair, |
|
And without looking-glass puts on his clothes. |
|
With rueful face he blows the smothered fire, |
|
And lights his candle at the reddening coal; |
|
First sees that all be right among his cattle, |
|
Then hies him to the barn with heavy tread, |
|
Printing his footsteps on the new-fallen snow. |
|
From out the heaped-up mow he draws his sheaves, |
|
Dislodging the poor red-breast from his shelter |
― 3 ―
|
|
Where all the live-long night he slept secure; |
|
But now, affrighted, with uncertain flight, |
|
Flutters round walls, and roof, to find some hole |
|
Through which he may escape. |
|
Then whirling o'er his head, the heavy flail |
|
Descends with force upon the jumping sheaves, |
|
While every rugged wall and neighbouring cot |
|
The noise re-echoes of his sturdy strokes. |
|
The family cares call next upon the wife |
|
To quit her mean but comfortable bed. |
|
And first she stirs the fire and fans the flame, |
|
Then from her heap of sticks for winter stored |
|
An armful brings; loud crackling as they burn, |
|
Thick fly the red sparks upward to the roof, |
|
While slowly mounts the smoke in wreathy clouds. |
|
On goes the seething pot with morning cheer, |
|
For which some little wistful folk await, |
|
Who, peeping from the bed-clothes, spy well pleased, |
|
The cheery light that blazes on the wall, |
|
And bawl for leave to rise. |
|
Their busy mother knows not where to turn, |
― 4 ―
|
|
Her morning's work comes now so thick upon her. |
|
One she must help to tie his little coat, |
|
Unpin another's cap, or seek his shoe |
|
Or hosen lost, confusion soon o'er-mastered! |
|
When all is o'er, out to the door they run |
|
With new-combed sleeky hair and glistening faces, |
|
Each with some little project in his head. |
|
His new-soled shoes one on the ice must try; |
|
To view his well-set trap another hies, |
|
In hopes to find some poor unwary bird, |
|
(No worthless prize) entangled in his snare; |
|
While one, less active, with round rosy cheeks, |
|
Spreads out his purple fingers to the fire, |
|
And peeps most wishfully into the pot. |
|
But let us leave the warm and cheerful house |
|
To view the bleak and dreary scene without, |
|
And mark the dawning of a Winter day. |
|
The morning vapour rests upon the heights |
|
Lurid and red, while growing gradual shades |
|
Of pale and sickly light spread o'er the sky. |
|
Then slowly from behind the southern hills |
― 5 ―
|
|
Enlarged and ruddy comes the rising sun, |
|
Shooting askance the hoary waste his beams |
|
That gild the brow of every ridgy bank, |
|
And deepen every valley with a shade. |
|
The crusted window of each scattered cot, |
|
The icicles that fringe the thatched roof, |
|
The new-swept slide upon the frozen pool, |
|
All keenly glance, new kindled with his rays; |
|
And even the rugged face of scowling Winter |
|
Looks somewhat gay. But only for a time |
|
He shews his glory to the brightening earth, |
|
Then hides his face behind a sullen cloud. |
|
The birds now quit their holes and lurking sheds, |
|
Most mute and melancholy, where through night, |
|
All nestling close to keep each other warm, |
|
In downy sleep they had forgot their hardships; |
|
But not to chant and carol in the air, |
|
Or lightly swing upon some waving bough, |
|
And merrily return each other's notes; |
|
No; silently they hop from bush to bush, |
|
Can find no seeds to stop their craving want, |
― 6 ―
|
|
Then bend their flight to the low smoking cot, |
|
Chirp on the roof, or at the window peck, |
|
To tell their wants to those who lodge within. |
|
The poor lank hare flies homeward to his den, |
|
But little burthened with his nightly meal |
|
Of withered colworts from the farmer's garden; |
|
A wretched scanty portion, snatched in fear; |
|
And fearful creatures, forced abroad by hunger, |
|
Are now to every enemy a prey. |
∗ Hind does not perfectly express the condition of the person
here intended, who is somewhat above a common labourer,—the
tenant of a very small farm, which he cultivates with his own
hands, a few cows, perhaps a horse, and some six or seven sheep,
being all the wealth he possessed. A class of men very common
in the west of Scotland, ere political economy was thought of.
|
The husbandman lays by his heavy flail, |
|
And to the house returns, where for him wait |
|
His smoking breakfast and impatient children, |
|
Who, spoon in hand, and ready to begin, |
|
Toward the door cast many an eager look |
|
To see their Dad come in. |
|
Then round they sit, a cheerful company; |
|
All quickly set to work, and with heaped spoons |
|
From ear to ear besmear their rosy cheeks. |
|
The faithful dog stands by his master's side |
|
Wagging his tail and looking in his face; |
|
While humble puss pays court to all around, |
― 7 ―
|
|
And purs and rubs them with her furry sides, |
|
Nor goes this little flattery unrewarded. |
|
But the laborious sit not long at table; |
|
The grateful father lifts his eyes to heaven |
|
To bless his God, whose ever bounteous hand |
|
Him and his little ones doth daily feed, |
|
Then rises satisfied to work again. |
|
Strutting before, the cock leads forth his train, |
|
And chuckling near the barn-door 'mid the straw, |
|
Reminds the farmer of his morning's service. |
|
His grateful master throws a liberal handful; |
|
They flock about it, while the hungry sparrows, |
|
Perched on the roof, look down with envious eye, |
|
Then, aiming well, amidst the feeders light, |
|
And seize upon the feast with greedy bill, |
|
Till angry partlets peck them off the field. |
|
But at a distance, on the leafless tree, |
|
All woe-begone, the lonely blackbird sits; |
|
The cold north wind ruffles his glossy feathers; |
|
Full oft he looks, but dare not make approach, |
|
Then turns his yellow beak to peck his side |
|
And claps his wings close to' his sharpened breast. |
|
The wandering fowler from behind the hedge, |
|
Fastens his eye upon him, points his gun, |
|
And firing wantonly, as at a mark, |
|
Of life bereaves him in the cheerful spot |
|
That oft hath echoed to his summer's song. |
|
In scattered groups the little idle boys |
|
With purple fingers moulding in the snow |
|
Their icy ammunition, pant for war; |
|
And drawing up in opposite array, |
|
Send forth a mighty shower of well-aimed balls, |
|
Each tiny hero tries his growing strength, |
|
And burns to beat the foe-men off the field. |
|
Or on the well-worn ice in eager throngs, |
|
After short race, shoot rapidly along, |
|
Trip up each other's heels and on the surface |
|
With studded shoes draw many a chalky line. |
|
Untired and glowing with the healthful sport |
|
They cease not till the sun hath run his course |
|
And threatening clouds, slow rising from the north, |
― 10 ―
|
|
Spread leaden darkness o'er the face of heaven; |
|
Then by degrees they scatter to their homes, |
|
Some with a broken head or bloody nose, |
|
To claim their mother's pity, who most skilful! |
|
Cures all their troubles with a bit of bread. |
|
The night comes on apace— |
|
Chill blows the blast and drives the snow in wreaths; |
|
Now every creature looks around for shelter, |
|
And whether man or beast, all move alike |
|
Towards their homes, and happy they who have |
|
A house to skreen them from the piercing cold! |
|
Lo, o'er the frost a reverend form advances! |
|
His hair white as the snow on which he treads, |
|
His forehead marked with many a care-worn furrow, |
|
Whose feeble body bending o'er a staff, |
|
Shews still that once it was the seat of strength, |
|
Though now it shakes like some old ruined tower. |
|
Clothed indeed, but not disgraced with rags, |
|
He still maintains that decent dignity |
|
Which well becomes those who have served their country. |
― 11 ―
|
|
With tottering steps he gains the cottage door: |
|
The wife within, who hears his hollow cough, |
|
And pattering of his stick upon the threshold, |
|
Sends out her little boy to see who's there. |
|
The child looks up to mark the stranger's face, |
|
And, seeing it enlightened with a smile, |
|
Holds out his tiny hand to lead him in. |
|
Round from her work, the mother turns her head, |
|
And views them, not ill pleased. |
|
The stranger whines not with a piteous tale, |
|
But only asks a little to relieve |
|
A poor old soldier's wants. |
|
The gentle matron brings the ready chair |
|
And bids him sit to rest his weary limbs, |
|
And warm himself before her blazing fire. |
|
The children full of curiosity, |
|
Flock round, and with their fingers in their mouths |
|
Stand staring at him, while the stranger, pleased, |
|
Takes up the youngest urchin on his knee. |
|
Proud of its seat, it wags its little feet, |
|
And prates and laughs and plays with his white locks. |
|
But soon a change comes o'er the soldier's face; |
― 12 ―
|
|
His thoughtful mind is turned on other days, |
|
When his own boys were wont to play around him, |
|
Who now lie distant from their native land |
|
In honourable but untimely graves: |
|
He feels how helpless and forlorn he is, |
|
And big, round tears course down his withered cheeks. |
|
His toilsome daily labour at an end, |
|
In comes the wearied master of the house, |
|
And marks with satisfaction his old guest, |
|
In the chief seat, with all the children round him. |
|
His honest heart is filled with manly kindness, |
|
He bids him stay and share their homely meal, |
|
And take with them his quarters for the night. |
|
The aged wanderer thankfully accepts, |
|
And by the simple hospitable board, |
|
Forgets the by-past hardships of the day. |
|
Some idle neighbours now come dropping in, |
|
Draw round their chairs and widen out the circle; |
|
And every one in his own native way, |
|
Does what he can to cheer the social group. |
|
Each tells some little story of himself, |
|
That constant subject upon which mankind |
|
Whether in court or country, love to dwell. |
|
How, at a fair, he saved a simple clown |
|
From being tricked in buying of a cow; |
|
Or laid a bet on his own horse's head |
|
Against his neighbour's bought at twice his price, |
|
Which failed not to repay his better skill; |
|
Or on a harvest day bound in an hour |
|
More sheaves of corn than any of his fellows, |
|
Though e'er so stark, could do in twice the time; |
|
Or won the bridal race with savoury bruise |
|
And first kiss of the bonny bride, though all |
― 14 ―
|
|
The fleetest youngsters of the parish strove |
|
In rivalry against him. |
|
But chiefly the good man, by his own fire, |
|
Hath privilege of being listened to, |
|
Nor dare a little pratling tongue presume |
|
Though but in play, to break upon his story. |
|
The children sit and listen with the rest; |
|
And should the youngest raise its lisping voice, |
|
The careful mother, ever on the watch, |
|
And ever pleased with what her husband says, |
|
Gives it a gentle tap upon the fingers, |
|
Or stops its ill-timed prattle with a kiss. |
|
The soldier next, but not unasked, begins |
|
His tale of war and blood. They gaze upon him, |
|
And almost weep to see the man so poor |
|
So bent and feeble, helpless and forlorn, |
|
Who has undaunted stood the battle's brunt |
|
While roaring cannons shook the quaking earth, |
|
And bullets hissed round his defenceless head. |
|
Thus passes quickly on the evening hour, |
|
Till sober folks must needs retire to rest, |
|
Then all break up, and, by their several paths, |
― 15 ―
|
|
Hie homeward, with the evening pastime cheered |
|
Far more, belike, than those who issue forth |
|
From city theatre's gay scenic show, |
|
Or crowded ball-room's splendid moving maze. |
|
But where the song and story, joke and gibe |
|
So lately circled, what a solemn change |
|
In little time takes place! |
|
The sound of psalms, by mingled voices raised |
|
Of young and old, upon the night-air borne, |
|
Haply to some benighted traveller, |
|
Or the late parted neighbours on their way, |
|
A pleasing notice gives that, those whose sires |
|
In former days on the bare mountain's side, |
|
In deserts, heaths, and caverns, praise and prayer, |
|
At peril of their lives, in their own form |
|
Of covenanted worship offered up, |
|
In peace and safety in their own quiet home |
|
Are—(as in quaint and modest phrase is termed) |
|
Are now engaged in evening exercise.∗
|
nothing regarding
family worship was mentioned: a great omission, for which I
justly take shame to myself. "The Evening exercise," as it was
called, prevailed in every house over the simple country parts of
the West of Scotland; and I have often heard the sound of it
passing through the twilight air, in returning from a late walk.
|
THE dark-blue clouds of night, in dusky lines
|
|
Drawn wide and streaky o'er the purer sky, |
|
Wear faintly morning purple on their skirts. |
|
The stars that full and bright shone in the west, |
|
But dimly twinkle to the stedfast eye, |
|
And seen and vanishing and seen again, |
|
Like dying tapers winking in the socket, |
|
Are by degrees shut from the face of heaven; |
|
The fitful lightning of the summer cloud, |
|
And every lesser flame that shone by night; |
|
The wandering fire that seems, across the marsh, |
|
A beaming candle in a lonely cot, |
|
Cheering the hopes of the benighted hind, |
|
Till, swifter than the very change of thought, |
― 18 ―
|
|
It shifts from place to place, eludes his sight, |
|
And makes him wondering rub his faithless eyes; |
|
The humble glow-worm and the silver moth, |
|
That cast a doubtful glimmering o'er the green,— |
|
All die away. |
|
For now the sun, slow moving in his glory, |
|
Above the eastern mountains lifts his head; |
|
The webs of dew spread o'er the hoary lawn, |
|
The smooth, clear bosom of the settled pool, |
|
The polished ploughshare on the distant field, |
|
Catch fire from him and dart their new got beams |
|
Upon the gazing rustic's dazzled sight. |
|
The wakened birds upon the branches hop, |
|
Peck their soft down, and bristle out their feathers, |
|
Then stretch their throats and trill their morning song, |
|
While dusky crows, high swinging over head, |
|
Upon the topmost boughs, in lordly pride, |
|
Mix their hoarse croaking with the linnet's note, |
|
Till in a gathered band of close array, |
|
They take their flight to seek their daily food. |
― 19 ―
|
|
The villager wakes with the early light, |
|
That through the window of his cot appears, |
|
And quits his easy bed; then o'er the fields |
|
With lengthened active strides betakes his way, |
|
Bearing his spade or hoe across his shoulder, |
|
Seen glancing as he moves, and with good will |
|
His daily work begins. |
|
The sturdy sun-burnt boy drives forth the cattle, |
|
And, pleased with power, bawls to the lagging kine |
|
With stern authority, who fain would stop |
|
To crop the tempting bushes as they pass. |
|
At every open door, in lawn or lane, |
|
Half naked children, half awake are seen |
|
Scratching their heads and blinking to the light, |
|
Till, rousing by degrees, they run about, |
|
Roll on the sward and in some sandy nook |
|
Dig caves, and houses build, full oft defaced |
|
And oft begun again, a daily pastime. |
|
The housewife, up by times, her morning cares |
|
Tends busily; from tubs of curdled milk |
|
With skilful patience draws the clear green whey |
|
From the pressed bosom of the snowy curd, |
― 20 ―
|
|
While her brown comely maid, with tucked-up sleeves |
|
And swelling arm, assists her. Work proceeds, |
|
Pots smoke, pails rattle, and the warm confusion |
|
Still more confused becomes, till in the mould |
|
With heavy hands the well-squeezed curd is placed. |
|
So goes the morning till the powerful sun, |
|
High in the heavens, sends down his strengthened beams, |
|
And all the freshness of the morn is fled. |
|
The idle horse upon the grassy field |
|
Rolls on his back; the swain leaves off his toil, |
|
And to his house with heavy steps returns, |
|
Where on the board his ready breakfast placed |
|
Looks most invitingly, and his good mate |
|
Serves him with cheerful kindness. |
|
Upon the grass no longer hangs the dew; |
|
Forth hies the mower with his glittering scythe, |
|
In snowy shirt bedight and all unbraced. |
|
He moves athwart the mead with sideling bend, |
|
And lays the grass in many a swathey line; |
― 21 ―
|
|
In every field in every lawn and meadow |
|
The rousing voice of industry is heard; |
|
The hay-cock rises and the frequent rake |
|
Sweeps on the fragrant hay in heavy wreaths. |
|
The old and young, the weak and strong are there, |
|
And, as they can, help on the cheerful work. |
|
The father jeers his awkward half-grown lad, |
|
Who trails his tawdry armful o'er the field, |
|
Nor does he fear the jeering to repay. |
|
The village oracle and simple maid |
|
Jest in their turns and raise the ready laugh; |
|
All are companions in the general glee; |
|
Authority, hard favoured, frowns not there. |
|
Some, more advanced, raise up the lofty rick, |
|
Whilst on its top doth stand the parish toast |
|
In loose attire and swelling ruddy cheek. |
|
With taunts and harmless mockery she receives |
|
The tossed-up heaps from fork of simple youth, |
|
Who, staring on her, takes his aim awry, |
|
While half the load falls back upon himself. |
|
Loud is her laugh, her voice is heard afar; |
|
The mower busied on the distant lawn, |
― 22 ―
|
|
The carter trudging on his dusty way, |
|
The shrill sound know, their bonnets toss in the air |
|
And roar across the field to catch her notice: |
|
She waves her arm to them, and shakes her head, |
|
And then renews her work with double spirit. |
|
Thus do they jest and laugh away their toil |
|
Till the bright sun, now past his middle course, |
|
Shoots down his fiercest beams which none may brave. |
|
The stoutest arm feels listless, and the swart |
|
And brawny-shouldered clown begins to fail. |
|
But to the weary, lo—there comes relief! |
|
A troop of welcome children o'er the lawn |
|
With slow and wary steps approach, some bear |
|
In baskets oaten cakes or barley scones, |
|
And gusty cheese and stoups of milk or whey. |
|
Beneath the branches of a spreading tree, |
|
Or by the shady side of the tall rick, |
|
They spread their homely fare, and seated round, |
|
Taste every pleasure that a feast can give. |
|
Heavy and slow, so pass the sultry hours, |
|
Till gently bending on the ridge's top |
|
The drooping seedy grass begins to wave, |
|
And the high branches of the aspin tree |
|
Shiver the leaves and gentle rustling make. |
|
Cool breathes the rising breeze, and with it wakes |
― 24 ―
|
|
The languid spirit from its state of stupor. |
|
The lazy boy springs from his mossy lair |
|
To chase the gaudy butterfly, who oft |
|
Lights at his feet as if within his reach, |
|
Spreading upon the ground its mealy wings, |
|
Yet still eludes his grasp, and high in air |
|
Takes many a circling flight, tempting his eye |
|
And tiring his young limbs. |
|
The drowzy dog, who feels the kindly air |
|
That passing o'er him lifts his shaggy ear, |
|
Begins to stretch him, on his legs half-raised, |
|
Till fully waked with bristling cocked-up tail, |
|
He makes the village echo to his bark. |
|
But let us not forget the busy maid, |
|
Who by the side of the clear pebbly stream |
|
Spreads out her snowy linens to the sun, |
|
And sheds with liberal hand the crystal shower |
|
O'er many a favourite piece of fair attire, |
|
Revolving in her mind her gay appearance, |
|
So nicely tricked, at some approaching fair. |
|
The dimpling half-checked smile and muttering lip |
― 25 ―
|
|
Her secret thoughts betray. With shiny feet, |
|
There, little active bands of truant boys |
|
Sport in the stream and dash the water round, |
|
Or try with wily art to catch the trout, |
|
Or with their fingers grasp the slippery eel. |
|
The shepherd-lad sits singing on the bank |
|
To while away the weary lonely hours, |
|
Weaving with art his pointed crown of rushes, |
|
A guiltless easy crown, which, having made, |
|
He places on his head, and skips about, |
|
A chaunted rhyme repeats, or calls full loud |
|
To some companion lonely as himself, |
|
Far on the distant bank; or else delighted |
|
To hear the echoed sound of his own voice, |
|
Returning answer from some neighbouring rock, |
|
Or roofless barn, holds converse with himself. |
|
The village, lone and silent through the day, |
|
Receiving from the fields its merry bands, |
|
Sends forth its evening sound, confused but cheerful; |
|
Yelping of curs, and voices stern and shrill, |
|
And true-love ballads in no plaintive strain, |
|
By household maid at open window sung; |
|
And lowing of the home-returning kine, |
|
And herd's dull droning trump and tinkling bell, |
|
Tied to the collar of the master-sheep, |
|
Make no contemptible variety |
|
To ears not over nice. |
|
With careless lounging gait the favoured youth |
|
Upon his sweetheart's open window leans, |
|
Diverting her with joke and harmless taunt. |
― 27 ―
|
|
Close by the cottage door with placid mien, |
|
The old man sits upon his seat of turf. |
|
His staff with crooked head laid by his side, |
|
Which oft some tricky youngling steals away, |
|
And straddling o'er it, shews his horsemanship |
|
By raising clouds of sand; he smiles thereat, |
|
But seems to chide him sharply: |
|
His silver locks upon his shoulders fall, |
|
And not ungraceful is his stoop of age. |
|
No stranger passes him without regard, |
|
And neighbours stop to wish him a good e'en, |
|
And ask him his opinion of the weather. |
|
They fret not at the length of his remarks |
|
Upon the various seasons he remembers; |
|
For well he knows the many divers signs |
|
That do foretell high winds, or rain, or drought, |
|
Or aught that may affect the rising crops. |
|
The silken-clad who courtly breeding boast, |
|
Their own discourse still sweetest to their ear, |
|
May at the old man's lengthened story fret, |
|
Impatiently, but here it is not so. |
|
From every chimney mounts the curling smoke, |
|
Muddy and grey, of the new evening fire; |
|
On every window smokes the family supper, |
|
Set out to cool by the attentive housewife, |
|
While cheerful groups, at every door convened, |
|
Bawl 'cross the narrow lane the parish news, |
|
And oft the bursting laugh disturbs the air. |
|
But see who comes to set them all agape; |
|
The weary-footed pedlar with his pack; |
|
Stiffly he bends beneath his bulky load, |
|
Covered with dust, slip-shod and out at elbows; |
|
His greasy hat set backwards on his head; |
|
His thin straight hair, divided on his brow, |
|
Hangs lank on either side his glistening cheeks, |
|
And woe-begone yet vacant is his face. |
|
His box he opens and displays his ware. |
|
Full many a varied row of precious stones |
|
Cast forth their dazzling lustre to the light, |
|
And ruby rings and china buttons, stamped |
|
With love devices, the desiring maid |
|
And simple youth attract; while streaming garters, |
|
Of many colours, fastened to a pole, |
― 29 ―
|
|
Aloft in air their gaudy stripes display, |
|
And from afar the distant stragglers lure. |
|
The children leave their play and round him flock; |
|
Even sober, aged grand-dame quits her seat, |
|
Where by the door she twines her lengthened threads, |
|
Her spindle stops, and lays her distaff by, |
|
Then joins with step sedate the curious throng. |
|
She praises much the fashions of her youth, |
|
And scorns each useless nonsense of the day; |
|
Yet not ill-pleased the glossy riband views, |
|
Unrolled and changing hues with every fold, |
|
Just measured out to deck her grand-child's head. |
|
Now red but languid the last beams appear |
|
Of the departed sun, across the lawn, |
|
Gilding each sweepy ridge on many a field, |
|
And from the openings of the distant hills |
|
A level brightness pouring, sad though bright; |
|
Like farewell smiles from some dear friend they seem, |
|
And only serve to deepen the low vale, |
|
And make the shadows of the night more gloomy. |
― 30 ―
|
|
The varied noises of the cheerful village |
|
By slow degrees now faintly die away, |
|
And more distinctly distant sounds are heard |
|
That gently steal adown the river's bed, |
|
Or through the wood come on the ruffling breeze. |
|
The white mist rises from the meads, and from |
|
The dappled skirting of the sober sky |
|
Looks out with steady gleam the evening star. |
|
The lover, skulking in some neighbouring copse, |
|
(Whose half-seen form, shewn through the dusky air |
|
Large and majestic, makes the traveller start, |
|
And spreads the story of a haunted grove,) |
|
Curses the owl, whose loud ill-omened hoot |
|
With ceaseless spite takes from his listening ear |
|
The well-known footsteps of his darling maid, |
|
And fretful chases from his face the night-fly, |
|
That, buzzing round his head, doth often skim |
|
With fluttering wings across his glowing cheek; |
|
For all but him in quiet balmy sleep |
|
Forget the toils of the oppressive day; |
|
Shut is the door of every scattered cot, |
|
And silence dwells within. |
|
The prospects of my youth are crost, |
|
My health is flown, my vigour lost; |
|
My soothing friends augment my pain, |
|
And cheerless is my native plain; |
|
Dark o'er my spirits hangs the gloom, |
|
And thy disdain has fixed my doom. |
― 63 ―
|
|
But light waves ripple o'er the sea |
|
That soon shall bear me far from thee; |
|
And, wheresoe'er our course is cast, |
|
I know will bear me to my rest. |
|
Full deep beneath the briny wave, |
|
Where lie the venturous and brave, |
|
A place may be for me decreed; |
|
But, should the winds my passage speed, |
|
Far hence upon a foreign land, |
|
Whose sons perhaps with friendly hand |
|
The stranger's lowly tomb may raise, |
|
A broken heart will end my days. |
|
THE light winds on the streamers play
|
|
That soon shall bear me far away; |
|
My comrades give the parting cheer, |
|
And I alone have lingered here. |
|
Now dearest Phill, since it will be, |
|
And I must bid farewell to thee— |
|
Since every cherished hope is flown, |
|
Send me not from thee with a frown, |
|
But kindly let me take thy hand, |
|
And bid God bless me in a foreign land. |
|
No more I'll loiter by thy side, |
|
Well pleased thy gamesome taunts to bide; |
|
Nor lover's gambols lightly try |
|
To make me graceful in thine eye; |
― 66 ―
|
|
Nor sing a merry roundelay |
|
To cheer thee at the close of day. |
|
Yet ne'ertheless though we must part, |
|
I'll have thee still within my heart; |
|
Still to thy health my glass I'll fill, |
|
And drink it with a right good-will. |
|
Far hence upon a foreign shore, |
|
There will I keep an open door, |
|
And there my little fortune share |
|
With all who ever breathed my native air. |
|
And he who once thy face hath seen, |
|
Or ever near thy dwelling been, |
|
Shall freely push the flowing bowl |
|
And be the master of the whole. |
|
And every woman, for thy sake, |
|
Shall of my slender store partake, |
|
Shall in my home protection find, |
|
Thou fairest of a fickle kind! |
|
O dearly, dearly have I paid, |
|
Thou little, haughty, cruel maid! |
|
To give that inward peace to thee |
|
Which thou hast ta'en away from me. |
― 67 ―
|
|
Soft hast thou slept with bosom light, |
|
While I have watched the weary night; |
|
And now I cross the surgy deep |
|
That thou mayest still untroubled sleep. |
|
But in thine eyes what do I see |
|
That looks as though they pitied me? |
|
I thank thee, Phillis; be not sad, |
|
I leave no blame upon thy head. |
|
To gain thy gentle heart I strove, |
|
But ne'er was worthy of thy love. |
|
And yet, perhaps, when I shall dwell |
|
Far hence, thou'lt sometimes think how well— |
|
I dare not stay, since we must part, |
|
To expose a fond and foolish heart; |
|
Where'er it goes, it beats for you, |
|
God bless ye, Phill, adieu! adieu! |
|
FAIR Nymph, who dost my fate controul
|
|
And reignest Mistress of my soul, |
|
Where thou all bright in beauty's ray |
|
Hast held a long tyrannic sway! |
|
They who the hardest rule maintain, |
|
In their commands do still refrain |
|
From what impossible must prove, |
|
Yet thou hast bade me cease to love. |
|
Ah! when the magnet's power is o'er, |
|
The needle then will point no more, |
|
And when no verdure clothes the spring, |
|
The tuneful birds forget to sing; |
― 72 ―
|
|
But thou, all sweet and heavenly fair, |
|
Wouldst have thy swain from love forbear. |
|
In pity let thine own dear hand |
|
A death's-wound to this bosom send: |
|
This tender heart of purest faith |
|
May then resign thee with its breath; |
|
And in the sun-beam of thine eye |
|
A proud and willing victim die. |
|
BESIDE a spreading elm, from whose high boughs
|
|
Like knotted tufts the crow's light dwelling shows, |
|
Skreened from the northern blast and winter-proof, |
|
Snug stands the parson's barn with thatched roof. |
|
At chaff-strewed door where in the morning ray |
|
The gilded mots in mazy circles play, |
|
And sleepy Comrade in the sun is laid, |
|
More grateful to the cur than neighb'ring shade: |
|
In snowy shirt, unbraced, brown Robin stood, |
|
And leant upon his flail in thoughtful mood. |
|
His ruddy cheeks that wear their deepest hue, |
|
His forehead brown that glist'ning drops bedew, |
|
His neck-band loose and hosen rumpled low, |
|
A careful lad, nor slack at labour, shew. |
― 75 ―
|
|
Nor scraping chickens chirping in the straw, |
|
Nor croaking rook o'er-head, nor chattering daw, |
|
Loud-breathing cow among the juicy weeds, |
|
Nor grunting sow that in the furrow feeds, |
|
Nor sudden breeze that stirs the quaking leaves |
|
And makes disturbance 'mong the scattered sheaves, |
|
Nor floating straw that skims athwart his nose |
|
The deeply musing youth may discompose. |
|
For Nelly fair, and blythest village maid, |
|
Whose tuneful voice beneath the hedge-row shade, |
|
At early milking o'er the meadow borne, |
|
E'er cheered the ploughman's toil at rising morn; |
|
The neatest maid that e'er in linen gown |
|
Bore cream and butter to the market town; |
|
The tightest lass that e'er at wake or fair |
|
Footed the ale-house floor with lightsome air, |
|
Since Easter last had Robin's heart possest, |
|
And many a time disturbed his nightly rest. |
|
Full oft returning from the loosened plough, |
|
He slacked his pace, and knit his careful brow; |
|
And oft, ere half his thresher's task was o'er, |
|
Would muse with arms across at cooling door. |
― 76 ―
|
|
His mind thus bent, with downcast eyes he stood, |
|
And leant upon his flail in thoughtful mood. |
|
His soul o'er many a soft remembrance ran |
|
And muttering to himself the youth began. |
|
"Ah! happy is the man whose early lot |
|
Hath made him master of a furnished cot; |
|
Who trains the vine that round his window grows, |
|
And after setting sun his garden hoes; |
|
Whose wattled pales his own enclosure shield, |
|
Who toils not daily in another's field. |
|
Where'er he goes, to church or market town, |
|
With more respect he and his dog are known, |
|
With brisker face at pedlar's booth he stands, |
|
And takes each tempting gew-gaw in his hands, |
|
And buys at will or ribands, gloves, or beads, |
|
And willing partners to the green he leads: |
|
And oh! secure from toils that cumber life, |
|
He makes the maid he loves an easy wife. |
|
Ah! Nelly! canst thou with contented mind |
|
Become the help-mate of a labouring hind, |
― 77 ―
|
|
And share his lot, whate'er the chances be, |
|
Who hath no dower but love to fix on thee? |
|
Yes; gayest maid may meekest matron prove, |
|
And things of little note betoken love. |
|
When from the Church thou cam'st at eventide, |
|
And I and red-haired Susan by thy side, |
|
I pulled the blossoms from the bending tree, |
|
And some to Susan gave and some to thee; |
|
Thine were the fairest, and thy smiling eye |
|
The difference marked, and guessed the reason why. |
|
When on that holiday we rambling strayed, |
|
And passed Old Hodge's cottage in the glade; |
|
Neat was the garden dressed, sweet humm'd the bee, |
|
I wished the Cot and Nelly made for me; |
|
And well, methought, thy very eyes revealed, |
|
The self-same wish within thy breast concealed. |
|
When, artful, once I sought my love to tell, |
|
And spoke to thee of one who loved thee well, |
|
You saw the cheat, and jeering homeward hied, |
|
Yet secret pleasure in thy looks I spied. |
|
Ay, gayest maid may meekest matron prove, |
|
And smaller signs than these betoken love." |
|
"How simple is the lad, and reft of skill, |
|
Who thinks with love to fix a woman's will! |
|
Who every Sunday morn to please her sight, |
|
Knots up his neck-cloth gay and hosen white; |
|
Who for her pleasure keeps his pockets bare, |
|
And half his wages spends on pedlar's ware; |
|
When every niggard clown or dotard old, |
|
Who hides in secret nooks his oft-told gold, |
|
Whose field or orchard tempts, with all her pride, |
|
At little cost may win her for his bride! |
|
While all the meed her silly lover gains, |
|
Is but the neighbours' jeering for his pains. |
|
On Sunday last, when Susan's banns were read, |
|
And I astonished sat with hanging head, |
|
Cold grew my shrinking frame, and loose my knee, |
|
While every neighbour's eye was fixed on me. |
|
Ah Sue! when last we worked at Hodge's hay, |
|
And still at me you mocked in wanton play— |
|
When last at fair, well pleased by chapman's stand, |
|
You took the new-bought fairing from my hand— |
|
When at old Hobb's you sung that song so gay, |
|
'Sweet William,' still the burthen of the lay, — |
― 81 ―
|
|
I little thought, alas! the lots were cast, |
|
That thou shouldst be another's bride at last: |
|
And had, when last we tripped it on the green, |
|
And laughed at stiff-back'd Rob, small thoughts I ween, |
|
Ere yet another scanty month was flown |
|
To see thee wedded to the hateful clown; |
|
Ay, lucky churl! more gold thy pockets line; |
|
But did these shapely limbs resemble thine, |
|
I'd stay at home and tend the household geer, |
|
Nor on the green with other lads appear. |
|
Ay, lucky churl! no store thy cottage lacks, |
|
And round thy barn thick stand the sheltered stacks, |
|
But did such features coarse my visage grace, |
|
I'd never budge the bonnet from my face. |
|
Yet let it be; it shall not break my ease! |
|
He best deserves who doth the maiden please. |
|
Such silly cause no more shall give me pain, |
|
Nor ever maiden cross my rest again. |
|
Such grizzled suitors with their taste agree, |
|
And the black fiend may have them all for me! |
|
Now through the village rise confused sounds, |
|
Hoarse lads, and children shrill, and yelping hounds. |
|
Straight every housewife at her door is seen, |
|
And pausing hedgers on their mattocks lean. |
|
At every narrow lane and alley's mouth, |
|
Loud-laughing lasses stand and joking youth. |
|
A bridal band tricked out in colours gay, |
|
With minstrels blythe before to cheer the way, |
|
From clouds of curling dust that onward fly, |
|
In rural splendour breaks upon the eye. |
|
As in their way they hold so gayly on, |
|
Caps, beads, and buttons, glancing to the sun, |
|
Each village wag with eye of roguish cast, |
|
Some maiden jogs and vents the ready jest; |
|
While village toast the passing belles deride, |
|
And sober matrons marvel at their pride. |
|
But William, head erect with settled brow, |
|
In sullen silence viewed the passing show; |
|
And oft he scratched his pate with careless grace, |
|
And scorned to pull the bonnet o'er his face; |
|
But did with steady look unaltered wait, |
|
Till hindmost man had passed the Churchyard gate, |
― 83 ―
|
|
Then turned him to his cot with visage flat, |
|
Where honest Lightfoot on the threshold sat. |
|
Up leaped the kindly beast his hand to lick, |
|
And for his pains received an angry kick. |
|
Loud shuts the door with harsh and thundering din; |
|
The echoes round their circling course begin. |
|
From cot to cot, church tower, and rocky dell, |
|
It grows amain with wide progressive swell, |
|
And Lightfoot joins the coil with loud and piteous yell. |
|
WHERE ancient broken wall encloses round,
|
|
From tread of lawless feet, the hallowed ground, |
|
And sombre yews their dewy branches wave, |
|
O'er many a graven stone and mounded grave; |
|
Where Parish Church, confusedly to the sight, |
|
With deeper darkness prints the shades of night, |
|
In garb deranged and loose, with scattered hair, |
|
His bosom open to the nightly air, |
|
Lone, o'er a new-heaped grave poor Basil bent, |
|
And to himself began his simple plaint. |
|
"Alas, how cold thy home, how low thou art, |
|
Who wert the pride and mistress of my heart! |
|
The fallen leaves now rustling o'er thee pass, |
|
And o'er thee waves the dank and dewy grass, |
― 85 ―
|
|
The new-laid sods and twisted osier tell, |
|
How narrow is the space where thou must dwell. |
|
Now rough and wintry winds may on thee beat, |
|
Chill rain, and drifting snow, and summer's heat; |
|
Each passing season's rub, for woe is me! |
|
Or gloom or sunshine is the same to thee. |
|
Ah Mary! lovely was thy slender form, |
|
And bright thy cheerful brow that knew no storm. |
|
Thy steps were graceful on the village green, |
|
As though thou hadst some courtly lady been. |
|
At Church or market still the gayest lass, |
|
Each youngster slacked his speed to see thee pass. |
|
At early milking tuneful was thy lay, |
|
And sweet thy homeward song at close of day; |
|
But sweeter far, and every youth's desire, |
|
Thy cheerful converse by the evening fire. |
|
Alas! no more thou'lt foot the village sward, |
|
No song of thine shall ever more be heard, |
|
And they full soon will trip it on the green, |
|
As blythe and gay as thou hadst never been. |
|
Around the evening fire with little care, |
|
Will neighbours sit and scarcely miss thee there; |
― 86 ―
|
|
And when the sober parting hour comes round, |
|
Will to their rest retire, and slumber sound. |
|
But Basil cannot rest; his days are sad, |
|
And long his nights upon the weary bed. |
|
Yet still in broken dreams thy form appears, |
|
And still my bosom proves a lover's fears. |
|
I guide thy footsteps through the tangled wood; |
|
I catch thee sinking in the boisterous flood; |
|
I shield thy bosom from the threatened stroke; |
|
I clasp thee falling from the headlong rock; |
|
But ere we reach the dark and dreadful deep, |
|
High heaves my troubled breast, I wake and weep. |
|
At every wailing of the midnight wind, |
|
Thy lowly dwelling comes into my mind. |
|
When rain beats on my roof, wild storms abroad, |
|
I think upon thy bare and beaten sod; |
|
I hate the comfort of a sheltered home, |
|
And hie me forth, o'er pathless fields to roam. |
|
"O Mary! loss of thee hath fixed my doom, |
|
This world around me is a weary gloom, |
|
Dull heavy musings lead my mind astray, |
|
I cannot sleep by night, nor work by day. |
― 87 ―
|
|
Or wealth or pleasure dullest hinds inspire, |
|
But cheerless is their toil who nought desire; |
|
Let happier friends divide my farmer's stock, |
|
Cut down my grain, and shear my little flock; |
|
For now my only care on earth will be |
|
Here every Sunday morn to visit thee, |
|
And in the holy Church with heart sincere |
|
And humble mind our worthy Curate hear; |
|
He best can tell, when earthly woes are past, |
|
The surest way to meet with thee at last. |
|
I'll thus a while a weary life abide, |
|
Till wasting time hath laid me by thy side; |
|
For now on earth there is no place for me, |
|
Nor peace nor slumber till I rest with thee." |
|
Loud from the lofty spire, with piercing knell, |
|
Solemn and awful, toll'd the parish bell, |
|
A later hour than rustics deem it meet |
|
That Churchyard ground be trod by mortal feet. |
|
The wailing lover started at the sound, |
|
And raised his head and cast his eyes around. |
― 88 ―
|
|
The gloomy pile in strengthened horror lowered, |
|
Large and majestic every object towered; |
|
Dun through the gloom, they shewed like forms unknown, |
|
And tall and ghastly, rose each whitened stone; |
|
Aloft the dismal screech-owl 'gan to sing, |
|
And past him skimm'd the bat with flapping wing. |
|
The fears of nature woke within his breast, |
|
He left the hallowed spot of Mary's rest, |
|
And sped his way the Churchyard wall to gain, |
|
Then check'd his fear and stopp'd and would remain. |
|
But shadows round a deeper horror wear; |
|
A deeper silence falls upon his ear; |
|
An awful stillness broods upon the scene, |
|
His fluttering heart recoils, he turns again. |
|
With hasty steps he measures back the ground, |
|
And leaps with summoned force the Churchyard bound; |
|
Then home, with shaking limbs and quickened breath, |
|
His footsteps urges from the place of death. |
. In this sense the word is often applied in Scotland.
|
From nearer clouds bright burst more vivid gleams, |
|
As instantly in closing darkness lost; |
|
Pale sheeted flashes cross the wide expanse |
|
While over boggy moor or swampy plain, |
|
A streaming cataract of flame appears, |
|
To meet a nether fire from earth cast up, |
|
Commingling terribly; appalling gloom |
|
Succeeds, and lo! the rifted centre pours |
|
A general blaze, and from the war of clouds, |
|
Red, writhing falls the embodied bolt of heaven. |
|
Then swells the roiling peal, full, deep'ning, grand, |
― 97 ―
|
|
And in its strength lifts the tremendous roar, |
|
With mingled discord, rattling, hissing, growling; |
|
Crashing like rocky fragments downward hurled, |
|
Like the upbreaking of a ruined world, |
|
In awful majesty the explosion bursts |
|
Wide and astounding o'er the trembling land. |
|
Mountain, and cliff, repeat the dread turmoil, |
|
And all to man's distinctive senses known, |
|
Is lost in the immensity of sound. |
|
Peal after peal, succeeds with waning strength, |
|
And hushed and deep each solemn pause between. |
|
Upon the lofty mountain's side |
|
The kindled forest blazes wide; |
|
Huge fragments of the rugged steep |
|
Are tumbled to the lashing deep; |
|
Firm rooted in his cloven rock, |
|
Crashing falls the stubborn oak. |
|
The lightning keen in wasteful ire |
|
Darts fiercely on the pointed spire, |
|
Rending in twain the iron-knit stone, |
|
And stately towers to earth are thrown. |
― 98 ―
|
|
No human strength may brave the storm, |
|
Nor shelter skreen the shrinking form, |
|
Nor castle wall its fury stay, |
|
Nor massy gate impede its way: |
|
It visits those of low estate, |
|
It shakes the dwellings of the great, |
|
It looks athwart the vaulted tomb, |
|
And glares upon the prison's gloom. |
|
Then dungeons black in unknown light, |
|
Flash hideous on the wretches' sight, |
|
And strangely groans the downward cell, |
|
Where silence deep is wont to dwell. |
|
Nor was that creature styled the lord of earth |
|
Without his fear: that secret worst of fears, |
|
The mind unknowing what it has to dread. |
|
Fenced in the seeming safety of his home, |
|
Man's sometime-haughty spirit sank within him, |
|
And dark uncertainty of ill unseen |
|
Encreased the sombre gloom of Tora's Halls. |
― 104 ―
|
|
The sullen watch did lean upon their arms, |
|
With quickened breath half-check'd and listening ear, |
|
In expectation of some unknown thing. |
|
Each smothered in his breast his untold fears, |
|
And wished within himself the hours might speed, |
|
But that the night with tenfold horror came, |
|
To close the frightful day. |
|
No cheerful converse graced the evening board, |
|
Slow went the goblet round, each face was grave; |
|
And ere the first dark watch fulfilled its term, |
|
All were retired to rest in Tora's Halls. |
|
Sleep came, and closed full many a weary eye, |
|
But not that gentle kindly visitor, |
|
That oft-times bringeth to the poor man's cot, |
|
More wealth than e'er enjoyed his haughty lord; |
|
Or to the couch of the dejected lover |
|
Brings true love-knots, and kind remembrances, |
|
And cheering glances, making him by night |
|
The favoured man he fain would be by day; |
|
Nor yet that haggard tyrant of the night, |
― 105 ―
|
|
Who comes oft-times to shake the ill man's bed, |
|
Tearing him from his heaps of silk and down, |
|
To hang his quivering carcase o'er the gulf, |
|
Or through the air by foul fiends goaded on, |
|
Bears him with dizzy, furious speed along; |
|
But she, stiff shrouded in her blackest weed, |
|
And swathed with leaden bands, awful and still, |
|
Who by the couch of the condemned wretch, |
|
Harassed and spent, before the morning breaks, |
|
Whose setting sun he never shall behold, |
|
Oft takes her stand, and scarce is known from death. |
|
Long had his warlike father ruled the land, |
|
Whose vengeful bloody sword no scabbard knew. |
|
Wild was his fury in the field of battle, |
|
And dreadful was his wrath to nations round, |
|
But kind and glowing yearned his manly heart, |
|
To the brave hardy sons of his blue hills. |
|
He owned a friend and brother of the field, |
|
In each broad-chested brawny warrior, |
|
Who followed to the fight his daring steps. |
|
One deed of fame, done by a son of Curdmore, |
|
He prized more than the wealth of peaceful realms, |
|
And dealt them death and ruin in his love. |
|
Unshaped and rude the state, and knew no law, |
|
Save that plain sense which nature gives to all, |
|
Of right and wrong within the monarch's breast; |
|
And when no storm of passion shook his soul, |
|
It was a court of mildest equity. |
|
One distant nation only in the field, |
|
Could meet his boasted arms with equal strength. |
|
Impetuous, rushing from their mountains rude, |
|
Oft had they striven like two adverse winds, |
― 107 ―
|
|
That bursting from their pent and narrow glens, |
|
On the wide desert meet,—in wild contention |
|
Tossing aloft in air dun clouds of sand, |
|
Tearing the blasted herbage from its bed, |
|
And bloating the clear face of beauteous heaven |
|
With the dissevered fragments of the earth, |
|
Till spent their force, low growling they retire, |
|
And for a time within their caverns keep, |
|
Gathering new force with which they issue forth |
|
To rage and roar again.—So held they strife. |
|
But even while Corvan gloried in his might, |
|
Death came and laid him low. |
|
His spear was hung high in the sombre hall, |
|
Whose lofty walls with darkening armour clad, |
|
Spoke to the valiant of departed heroes, |
|
A fellow now to those which rest ungrasped, |
|
Unburnished, and know no master's hand. |
|
A hardy people, scattered o'er the hills, |
|
And wild uncultivated plains of Curdmore, |
|
Depending more upon to-morrow's chace, |
|
Than on the scanty produce of their fields, |
― 108 ―
|
|
Where the proud warrior, as debased by toil, |
|
Throws down unwillingly his boasted weapons, |
|
To mar the mossy earth with his rude tillage, |
|
Bedding his dwarfish grain in tracks less deep, |
|
Than he would plough the bosom of a foe; |
|
A people rude but generous now looked up, |
|
With wistful and expecting eyes, to Allener, |
|
The son of their beloved, their only hope. |
|
The general burthen, though but new to care, |
|
Was laid on him. His heart within him whispered |
|
That he was left in rough and perilous times, |
|
Like elder brother of a needy race, |
|
To watch and care for all, and it was thoughtful; |
|
Sombre and thoughtful as unjoyous age. |
|
But never had he felt his mind so dark, |
|
As in this heavy and mysterious hour. |
|
With drooping head and arms crossed o'er his breast, |
|
His spirit all collected in itself, |
|
As it had ceased to animate the body, |
|
He sat, when like pent air from a dank cave, |
― 109 ―
|
|
He felt a cold and shivering wind pass o'er him, |
|
And from his sinking bosom raised his head. |
|
A thick and mazy mist had filled the chamber, |
|
Thro' which the feeble lamp its blue flame showed |
|
With a pale moony circlet compassed round, |
|
As when the stars through dank unwholesome air |
|
Show thro' the night their blunted heads, enlarged, |
|
Foretelling plagues to some affrighted land. |
|
When, lo! a strange light, breaking thro' the gloom, |
|
Struck his astonished mind with awe and wonder. |
|
It rose before him in a streamy column, |
|
As, seen upon the dim benighted ocean, |
|
By partial moon-beams through some severed cloud, |
|
The towering, wan, majestic waterspout |
|
Delights and awes the wondering mariner. |
|
Soul-awed within himself shrunk Curdmore's king; |
|
Thick beat his fluttering heart against his breast, |
|
As towards him the moving light approached, |
|
While opening by degrees its beamy sides, |
|
A mighty phantom showed his awful form, |
― 110 ―
|
|
Gigantic, far above the sons of men. |
|
A robe of watery blue in wreathy folds, |
|
Did lightly float o'er his majestic limbs: |
|
Firm in their strength more than was ever pictured, |
|
Of fabled heroes in their fields of war. |
|
One hand was wide outstretchd in threatened act, |
|
As if to draw down vengeance from the skies, |
|
The other, spread upon his ample breast, |
|
Seemed to betoken what restrained its fellow. |
|
Thus far to mortal eye he stood revealed, |
|
But misty vapour shrouded all above, |
|
Save that a ruddy glow did oft break through |
|
With hasty flash, according with the vehemence |
|
And agitation of the form beneath, |
|
Speaking the terrors of that countenance, |
|
The friendly darkness veiled. |
|
Commotions strange disturbed the heaving earth. |
|
A hollow muffled rumbling from beneath, |
|
Rolled deeply in its dark and secret course. |
|
The castle trembled on its rocky base; |
|
And loosened fragments from the nodding towers, |
|
Fell on the flinty ground with hideous crash. |
|
"Thou creature, set o'er creatures like thyself, |
|
To bear the rule for an appointed season, |
|
Bethink thee well, and commune with thy heart. |
|
If one man's blood can mark the unblest front, |
|
And visit with extreme of inward pangs |
|
The dark breast of the secret murderer, |
|
Canst thou have strength all singly in thyself, |
|
To bear the blood of thousands on thy head, |
|
And wrongs which cry to heaven and shall be heard? |
|
Kings to the slaughter lead their people forth, |
|
And home return again with thinned bands, |
|
Bearing to every house its share of mourning, |
|
Whilst high in air they hang their trophied spoils, |
|
And call themselves the heroes of the earth. |
|
"Thy race is stained with blood: such were thy fathers: |
|
But they are passed away and have their place, |
|
And thou still breathest in thy weeds of clay, |
|
Therefore to thee their doom is veiled in night. |
|
Yet mayst thou be assured, that mighty Power |
|
Who gave to thee thy form of breathing flesh, |
|
Of such like creatures as thyself endowed, |
|
Although innumerable on this earth, |
|
Doth knowledge take, and careth for the least, |
|
And will prepare his vengeance for the man |
|
Whose wasteful pride uproots what he hath sown. |
|
And now he sets two paths before thy choice, |
|
Which are permitted thee: even thou thyself |
|
Mayst fix thy doom,—a doom which cannot change. |
|
Wilt thou draw out securely on thy throne |
|
A life of such content and happiness |
|
As thy wild country and rude people yield, |
|
Laying thee late to rest in peaceful age, |
|
Where thy forefathers sleep; thy name respected, |
|
Thy children after thee to fill thy seat? |
|
Or wilt thou, as thy secret thoughts incline, |
― 113 ―
|
|
Across the untried deep conduct thy bands, |
|
Attack the foe on their unguarded coast, |
|
O'ercome their strength at little cost of blood, |
|
And raise thy trophies on a distant shore, |
|
Where none of all thy race have footing gained,— |
|
Gaining for Curdmore wealth, and power, and fame, |
|
But not that better gain, content and happiness? |
|
Wealth, power, renown, thou mayest for Curdmore earn, |
|
But mayest not live to see her rising state: |
|
For far from hence, upon that hostile shore, |
|
A sepulchre which owns no kindred bone, |
|
Gapes to receive thee in the pride of youth. |
|
This is the will of Heaven: then choose thy fate, |
|
Weak son of earth, I leave thee to thy troubles; |
|
A little while shall make us more alike, |
|
A spirit shalt thou be when next we meet. |
|
But neither hill, nor vale, nor wood, nor stream, |
|
Nor yet the sun high riding in his strength, |
― 115 ―
|
|
That beauty gave to all, cheered Allener, |
|
Who wist not when it rose, nor when it set. |
|
Silent but troubled in his lofty chamber |
|
Two days he sat and shunned the searching eyes, |
|
The sidelong looks of many a friendly chief. |
|
Oft in his downcast eye the round tear hung, |
|
Whilst by his side he clenched his trembling hand, |
|
As if to rouse the ardour of his soul. |
|
His seat beneath him shook,—high heaved his breast, |
|
And burst the bracings of its tightened vestment. |
|
The changing passions of his troubled soul |
|
Passed with dark speed across his varied face; |
|
Each passing shadow followed by a brother, |
|
Like clouds across the moon in a wild storm: |
|
So warred his doubtful mind, till by degrees |
|
The storm subsided, calmer thoughts prevailed; |
|
Slow wore the gloom away like morning mist; |
|
A gleam of joy spread o'er his lightened visage, |
|
And from his eye-balls shot that vivid fire, |
― 116 ―
|
|
Which kindles in the bosoms of the brave, |
|
When the loud trumpet calls them forth to battle. |
|
"Gird on mine armour," said the rising youth, |
|
"I am the son of Corvan!" |