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V 
 
 THE YALE OF ESK, 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY WILLIAM PARK, 
 
 ESK.DALEMUIR. 
 
 EDINBURGH : 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD. 
 
 M.DCCC. XXXIII. 
 

 
 Edinburgh ” 
 
 Printed by A. Balfour & Co. Niddry Street. 
 
T>3l 1 8 v 
 
 THIS VOLUME OF POEMS 
 
 IS RESPECTFULLY 
 DEDICATED 
 TO 
 
 MAJOR-GENERAL SIR JOHN MALCOLM, 
 
 G. C. B., K. L. S., F. R. S. 
 
 &C. &C. &C. 
 
 BY HIS 
 
 GRATEFUL HUMBLE SERVANT, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 

 
PREFACE. 
 
 The following pieces of verse, severaLof which have 
 already been printed in various periodicals, were writ- 
 ten by a person of small pretensions to learning, or 
 natural abilities, and only during intervals of relax- 
 ation from manual labour. The writer is at the 
 same time aware, that with these circumstances his 
 readers have no concern, and that his productions 
 must stand or fall by their own merits or defects. He 
 presents them to the Public, trusting that, however 
 faulty they may be in other respects, they will be 
 found to contain nothing which can either hurt the 
 feelings of individuals, or injure the interests of reli- 
 gion and morality. 
 
 WILLIAM PARK. 
 
 Eskdalemuir Bridgend, 
 
 April 1833. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates 
 
 https://archive.org/details/valeofeskotherpoOOpark 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Preface, . v 
 
 The Vale of Esk, 1 
 
 An Evening in the late Miss M. Malcolm’s Museum, 22 
 
 Epistle to a Friend, ...... 35 
 
 David’s Elegy on Saul and Jonathan, ... 45 
 
 Castle-O’er, 48 
 
 The Triumph of Plenty, 56 
 
 Burn and Byken, a Ballad, 74 
 
 Verses addressed to a Tooth, .... 80 
 
 Winkyn Worde’s Skulle, ..... 84 
 
 The Legend of the Swearer’s Skin, . . . 91 
 
 Ode to the Muckle Pot o’ Skelfhill, . . . 106 
 
 Farewell to Snuff, 110 
 
 Ode to the Condor, 115 
 
Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 To a Sea-Bird, 
 
 
 Page 
 
 119 
 
 The Ignis Fatuus, 
 
 
 121 
 
 Verses on the Death of Bolivar, 
 
 
 124 
 
 The Fall of Warsaw, ..... 
 
 
 127 
 
 The Patriot’s Song, 
 
 
 129 
 
 What is Life ? 
 
 
 132 
 
 Verses on hearing the Song of the Thrush, 
 
 
 134 
 
 Sonnet to Eskdalemuir Pen, 
 
 
 137 
 
 The Stone of Blood, 
 
 
 138 
 
 Ode to Poverty, 
 
 
 141 
 
 ’Twas a calm Summer Eve, 
 
 
 145 
 
 An Evening Thought, .... 
 
 
 147 
 
 Recollections of Youth, .... 
 
 
 149 
 
 Reflections in a Church- Yard, 
 
 
 151 
 
 Farewell to Summer, 
 
 
 155 
 
 Verses on the Death of a Pious and Benevolent Lady, 
 
 158 
 
 The Song of Moses, 
 
 
 161 
 
 The Gadfly, 
 
 
 165 
 
 Acrostic, 
 
 
 169 
 
 Notes , 
 
 
 171 
 
 Appendix, 
 
 
 189 
 
THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 While frequent on Tweed and on Tay 
 Their harps all the Muses have strung, 
 
 Should a river more limpid than they — 
 
 The wcod-fringed Esk flow unsung ?-^-Logan. 
 
 I. 
 
 Yale of the pastoral Esk — my native vale ! 
 
 Ye breezy hills, and thou transparent stream, 
 
 A down whose willowy banks at twilight pale 
 I wander, musing on some mazy dream ; 
 
 Where oft, with spirit unperplex’d and hale, 
 
 I stray’d in youth, ere care became my theme. — 
 Transparent stream, high hills and healthful fields, 
 Receive the homage which my fancy yields ! 
 
 i r. 
 
 O, could I from the distant past recal 
 
 The fairy scenes that caught my youthful view ! 
 O, could I weave again the golden pall 
 My fond imagination o’er thee threw, 
 
 Lov’d valley ! ere I tasted sorrow’s gall, 
 
 While yet my heart was young, and life was new,— 
 My verse should like thy vernal morning glow, 
 
 And like thy waters, musically flow. 
 
£ 
 
 THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 III. 
 
 Sweet vale ! thou’rt fairer far in wisdom’s sight 
 Than the green isles that stud th’ Ionian sea, 
 Though breezes there are bland and skies are bright. 
 And juicy clusters tremble on the tree ; 
 
 And mighty voices from the tomb invite 
 
 The traveller to the shores which once were free: (!) 
 No weeping minstrel, happy vale ! is thine, 
 
 To tell the woes of a degenerate line. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Not the dividing Rhine — not Danube’s flood, 
 
 That rivals ocean in its mighty swell, 
 
 Rolling ’mong storied scenes and fields of blood 
 Where millions fought, and tens of thousands fell, 
 And washing ancient walls and ruins rude — 
 
 Temple and tower, and batter’d citadel — 
 
 Not Danube’s flood may claim a loftier strain 
 Than the pure waters of my native plain. 
 
 v. 
 
 From their remotest source to Solway’s tide, 
 Beauty in every hue and shape we see ; 
 
 Fair is the sunshine on the moorland wide, 
 
 And rich the velvet robe of lawn and lea ; 
 Graceful the grove waves all its plumes of pride* 
 The hazel-skirted runlet wanders free ; 
 
 The simple cot, and wealth’s more sumptuous pile 
 Rise on each hand, and bid the landscape smile. 
 
THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Deep is the dell whence, fresh and undefll'd, 
 
 The infant Esk bounds on his course away ; ( 2 ) 
 Around the new-born stream, in grandeur wild, 
 
 The guardian mountains lift their summits grey, — 
 Rock upon rock majestically pil'd, 
 
 Heaven's architecture that shall mock decay, 
 
 And stand erect with undiminish'd grace 
 When pyramids are shaken to their base. 
 
 VIT. 
 
 Nature puts forth her mightiest efforts there ; 
 
 Cavern and crag return the thunder’s roar, 
 Athwart the gloomy glen the lightnings glare, 
 
 And, like the dashing sea-wave on the shore, 
 Beats on the peak that rises bold and bare, 
 
 The dark, dense cloud with all its floods in store,— 
 The cloud is rent, heaven's windows open wide, 
 
 And maddening torrents tear the mountain's side. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 There walks the thoughtful shepherd : well he knows 
 The signs and silent language of the sky : [snows, 
 
 When wakes the north wind, fraught with Arctic 
 He, the chief priest in nature's temple high, 
 
 Can hear the Eolian trumpet ere it blows, 
 
 And trace the storm-track with prophetic eye ; 
 While nightly from their wanderings on the wold 
 He guides his flock, and shuts the sheltering fold. 
 
4 
 
 THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 IX. 
 
 I pass'd his cottage-home beneath the steep ; 
 
 'Twas summer-eve, and all around was calm, 
 Save that the waterfall's wild anthem, deep 
 And solemn as the music of a psalm, 
 
 Burst forth at intervals with powerful sweep, 
 Borne on the half-awaken'd breeze of balm : — - 
 My spell-bound spirit in that tranquil hour, 
 Religious Solitude ! confessed thy power. 
 
 x. 
 
 Nor turn we from these upland deserts far 
 Till monuments of ancient days appear ; 
 
 The imposing vestiges of Roman war — (3) 
 
 The deep- cut foss, the rampire's triple tier : 
 
 For o'er these fields had roll'd the conqueror's car. 
 And on that ridge had flash'd the hostile spear, 
 JCre knowledge to the youthful Isle reveal'd 
 The treasures in her awful depths conceal'd, 
 
 XI. 
 
 And, mark ye ! on the river's eastern shore (4) 
 Yon circular stones, by antiquarian sage 
 Pronounc'd a temple, where foul rites of yore 
 Were wont the wrath of demons to assuage : 
 
 Oft have its precincts reek'd with human gore ; 
 
 Nor might or hoary hairs, or tender age, 
 
 Or birth, or beauty for the victim plead 
 By blinded superstition doom'd to bleed. 
 
THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 XII. 
 
 I’ve listened to, and half believe, the tale 
 
 That when their yearly carnival comes round, 
 
 Lit by the moon-beam, bands of spectres pale, 
 
 In priestly vestments, and with mitres crowned, 
 Meet at the mossy pillars of the dale, 
 
 And utter many a wild and wailing sound, 
 
 Till at the signal of approaching dawn 
 The visionary pageant is withdrawn. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Yet are there scenes of holier interest still, ( 5 ) 
 
 On which a seraph with delight may look ; — 
 
 The cloven crag, the hollow of the hill, 
 
 The hawthorn shade, the mazes of the brook. 
 Where the bold servant of his Master’s will, 
 
 The martyr, who the paths of sin forsook. 
 
 And trode in virtue’s rough and narrow way. 
 
 Found rest and refuge in the evil day. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Weary with watching, and with hunger faint, 
 
 From friendship’s and from home’s endearments 
 Tempted and tried, yet still without a taint [driven, 
 Of that iniquity ’gainst which he’d striven. 
 
 From his cold couch the persecuted saint 
 Lifted his hope-illumined eye to heaven, 
 
 Where, though the world might goodness disregard, 
 A kingdom should his constancy reward. 
 
6 
 
 THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Feelings of awe associate with the place, 
 
 As if the spirit of devotion clave 
 Still to its former haunts, and loved to trace 
 
 Through the blue mist the wanderings of the wave. 
 Or listen to its roarings round the base 
 
 Of the rude rock that guards the darksome cave 
 Beneath whose pall of foam, old legends say, 
 
 In lonely state the Pictish monarch lay. ( 6 ) 
 
 xvi. # 
 
 Though silence broods o'er the sequestered spot — 
 Only the billows speak — once 'twas not so ; 
 
 The consecrated cairn and rounded moat 
 Commemorate events of joy and woe, 
 
 Which ever mingle in the human lot, 
 
 And throw their light and shade on all below — * 
 Sepulchral heap and grassy mound declare 
 That good and ill — that life and death were there. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Leave we the relics sacred to repose, 
 
 To solemn thought and the forgotten dead, 
 And onward as the unfettered river flows, 
 
 The widening valley smiles, the hills recede. 
 The woodland in the gleam of summer glows, 
 And many a happy mansion rears its head, 
 While on its airy site the school appears, ( 7 ) 
 And calls my spirit back to former years. 
 
THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 7 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And where are they who in youth's merry morn 
 Of all its little toils with me partook ? 
 
 Who for the nestling searched the prickly thorn, 
 And snared the finny tenant of the brook ? 
 
 Or, with dejected mien and look forlorn, 
 
 Suffered the “ master's” merited rebuke, 
 
 As mental stores he taught them to provide 
 Ere they embarked on life’s tempestuous tide ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 They nobly burst obscurity's strong bar, (8) [bays ; 
 
 And wreathed their temples round with learning's 
 Or rushed amid the revelry of war, 
 
 And shared their leader's perils and his praise ; 
 Or, wafted o'er the waves of ocean, far 
 From the calm Eden of their early days, 
 
 They float the wealth of Ophir's isles along — 
 Heedless of me, and of my idle song. 
 
 xx. 
 
 Or, have they, strangers to the path of fame, 
 
 Striven with the ills that poverty beset, 
 
 And triumphed in the strife ? 'twas theirs to tame 
 More stubborn foes than warrior ever met : 
 Though pompous titles blend not with their name, 
 And though they own nor crest nor coronet, 
 
 The spirit which their humble hopes upheld 
 Is that which states hath saved and tyrants quelled. 
 
8 
 
 THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 But 5 ah ! what names are these on which the eye 
 Rests, as it reads the records of the tomb ? 
 
 Here the companions of my boyhood lie — 
 
 Plants of fair promise, blighted in the bloom : 
 Their hearts were light as mine, their aims more high, 
 Yet I am left behind to mourn their doom. 
 
 The taught this token of remembrance crave, 
 
 And duty bids me mark the teacher’s grave. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Of homely manners, but unyielding mind, 
 
 Caustic and prompt the war of wit to wage, 
 Nature his character at once defined, 
 
 Which asked not for the aid of lettered page ; 
 
 In classic skill yet was he nought behind 
 The literary leaders of the age. — 
 
 Such the preceptor was to whom I owe 
 What little lore these humble verses show. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 With pondering on the past my heart is sore — 
 
 O, soothe it with thy song, thou rushing river ! 
 Tho’ change hath stamped his footsteps on thy shore. 
 Thy stream is clear, its murmur soft as ever ; 
 
 And still the breeze-bent osiers, as before, 
 
 In the bright mirror of thy bosom quiver ; 
 
 The granite cliff to slow T decay may yield — 
 
 Time reaps no harvests on thy virgin field. 
 
THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 9 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Unceasingly along thy verdant banks 
 
 The beauteous and sublime for notice call — 
 
 The copse that clothes the mountain’s swelling flanks, 
 The cultur’d farm, the high baronial hall 
 Shaded and shielded by the forest-ranks — 
 
 Gigantic ash and fir upright and tall, 
 
 And fairer still, the grotto of the glen, 
 
 Whose garnish’d courts employ’d my feeble pen. ( 9 ) 
 
 xxv. 
 
 Yet would I linger in Baldarran’s bowers (it)) 
 
 When wakeful birds give welcome to the day ; 
 
 Yet would I gaze upon Daldarran’s towers, 
 
 And intertwine their story with my lay ; 
 
 For o’er them all their pristine grandeur lowers, 
 Whereas coeval things have pass’d away, 
 
 And left them a connecting link between 
 The present hour and ages that have been. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Methinks it were a happiness to roam, 
 
 Even to the most forlorn, at dusk or dawn, 
 
 In the thick woods that skirt the Ducal dome, (1 i) 
 And to inhale the fragrance of the lawn. 
 
 (Perhaps the owner of the princely home 
 
 By nature’s matchless beauties thither drawn, 
 
 On Esk’s green margin his abode may form, 
 
 And to the scene impart another charm.) 
 
10 
 
 THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Adieu ye decorated hills ! adieu 
 
 Ye shades where meditation hath her seat f 
 Adown the valley’s flowery avenue, 
 
 Where kindred streams in happy union meet* 
 The graceful spire is rising on my view, (12) 
 
 I hear the murmur of the busy street, 
 
 And, hark ! the acclamations of a crowd, 
 
 The shout of joy, tumultuous, long and loud. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Fd shun the field of party-strife ; it hath 
 No charm adapted to my spirit’s frame, 
 
 And rather climb the shepherd’s lonely path, 
 
 As patriots mount the pinnacle of fame, 
 
 And look on hill and hamlet, stream and strath. 
 Above, around, below, a fitter aim 
 For him who, with the sweat upon his brow’, 
 
 Is doom’d to urge the team and guide the plough. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 More lovely scene than this I gaze upon 
 Ne’er smiled before the poet’s ardent eye 
 In youthful Hellas, abject now and lone, 
 
 Her fame a phantom, and her song a sigh. 
 Fancy disporting in the sunny zone, 
 
 Clad in her summer robe of golden dye 
 Of od’rous bower and fairy grot, may tell, 
 
 Theme of my lay, thou needest not her spell ! 
 
THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 11 
 
 XXX. 
 
 From the deep shade of oaks, a solemn fane, 
 
 The Druid Esk emerges to bestow 
 Paternal benedictions on the plain, 
 
 And wealth and beauty from his bounty flow ; 
 Anon the gloom of groves he seeks again, 
 
 Like wisdom hastening to the house of woe. 
 
 Calm and contemplative ere he dismiss 
 His being to the watery abyss. 
 
 xxxr. 
 
 From the retiring prospect let me turn 
 The silvery current of the Ewis to trace ; 
 
 A hundred fountains fill his sparkling urn, 
 
 And aid him with their vigour in the race ; 
 
 A hundred hills, by time and torrents worn 
 Into fantastic forms, the dale embrace, 
 
 And lift their heads to meet the morning ray, 
 
 Bold as the Alps, but lovelier far than they. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Where birchen boughs the fragrant bud unfold. 
 
 The hermit Wauchope rolls his “ yellow wave,^ 1 
 Circling the silent spot, where rose of old 
 The palace-fort held by the pious brave, (1*3) 
 
 The champions of chivalry, enroll'd [save 
 
 ? Mong the proud chiefs whose faith was pledged to 
 From Moslem insult and domestic shame, 
 
 The red-cross banner and the Christian name. 
 
12 
 
 THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Hillock and hollow still describe the wall 
 
 Where scutcheons waved, and battle-trophies grim 
 And still the storied tissue of the hall 
 Is mimick’d by the grassy tendrils slim ; 
 
 But mournfully the forest-echoes fall, 
 
 And neither martial shout nor vesper hymn, 
 
 Nor beadsman’s prayer to patron saint preferred, 
 Nor Ave-Maria in the dale is heard. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Yet still the place is hallowed ; for the dead 
 Of many generations slumber there : 
 
 There rest in peace the holy men who fed 
 The faithful flocks committed to their care ; 
 
 And oft, as if by stealth, with noiseless tread, 
 
 The sad in soul to the fresh grave repair, 
 
 To wet with sorrow’s drops their kindred clay, 
 
 The tribute which affection loves to pay. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 And there it was that Mickle strung the lyre, (14) 
 The bard, ye grateful dalesmen ! was your own : 
 How sweet the sounds he wakened on the wire 
 When Pollio was not, and he wept alone ! 
 
 How loud he sung of Gama’s conflict dire 
 With spirts of the deep, and seas unknown ! 
 Those tones of warlike rage and melting woe 
 Still round the poet’s home their magic throw. 
 
THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 13 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 If there is music in commingling streams, 
 
 If there is majesty in waving woods, 
 
 If there is rapture in poetic dreams 
 Woven amid the sylvan solitudes, 
 
 Whose leafy curtan bars the mid-day beams, 
 
 If there is grace in nature’s loveliest moods, 
 
 Then let Arcadia’s vaunted triumph cease, 
 
 For all her charms are thine, sweet vale of peace ! 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Yes, peace and plenty, blest retreat ! are thine ; 
 
 They well repay the rustic’s patient toil, 
 
 Though the fat olive and the fruitful vine 
 Abjure thy clime and seek another soil : 
 
 The years are past when, thronging Discord’s shrine. 
 Thy sons were sworn to battle and to broil, 
 
 And courted at the expense of order’s laws 
 The chieftain’s favour and the bard’s applause. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Might I unroll thine annals dark and rude. 
 
 And search each record of the “ olden time,” 
 When pride untamed and the long-cherished feud 
 Gave birth to deeds of courage and of crime. 
 
 Full many a tale of rapine and of blood, 
 
 The burden of some ancient minstrel’s rhyme,, 
 Finds a narrator in the cottage sire, 
 
 Or busy matron by the cheerful fire. 
 
14 
 
 THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Red blazed the beacon-flame on Liddal’s side — (15) 
 The Cumbrian foemen had begun the foray, 
 
 And loud the spoilers’’ frantic shouts replied 
 In the deep midnight to the wail of sorrow : 
 
 Esk poured his yeomen forth in harnessed pride 
 To render retribution on the morrow : 
 
 Vengeance received its due, and Liddal’s water, 
 Crimsoned with gore, gave witness to the slaughter. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Kinsman or clansman fettered and immured 
 By the revengeful foe in dungeon deep, (16) 
 Seem’d a disgrace too dark to be endured 
 By the bold Borderer, panting still to reap 
 Perilous renown : though ponderous bolts secured 
 The portals of the insulated Areep, 
 
 The adventurous youth lightly the wall o’erleapt, 
 And freed the captive while the warder slept. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 When the black Douglas bands — such is the tale — 
 Against their king and country were array’d, (17) 
 And many a pennon floated on the gale, 
 
 And glittered in the sunlight many a blade, 
 
 The slogan blast gave warning to the vale, 
 
 Vassal and chief the signal-sound obeyed ; 
 
 At day-break to the fight the warriors rushed, 
 
 And evening beheld rebellion crushed. 
 
THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 15 
 
 XLII. 
 
 And oft the dalesman tell, with shame and grief, 
 
 Of the disastrous doings of that morn, (IB) 
 
 When on their eastern border Branxholm's chief 
 Winded in wrath his doom-denouncing horn : 
 Fierce was the struggle on the plain, though brief. 
 The plea of right by numbers down was borne, 
 Judgment unmollified by mercy dealt, 
 
 And lordly strangers in the valley dwelt. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 But ages have swept by, and concord bland 
 Woos to her temple-gate and opes the bar; 
 
 No sound of strife is heard upon the strand, 
 
 The sword is sheathed and mute the trump of war; 
 Yet did ye mount the steed and bare the brand (19) 
 When frowned the Gallic victor from afar, 
 
 Sons of the vale ! ye waited for the shock, 
 
 And stood around your homes — a living rock. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 And ye who left your glens and mountains hoar 
 When duty called you, or when valour led. 
 Ye faced the foe on many a foreign shore. 
 
 And for your country's independence bled : 
 Where'er the breeze Britannia's banner bore, 
 Where'er the cause of human kind was pled, 
 Or in the fateful breach, or on the wave, 
 
 Ye gained a name among the bravest brave. 
 
 3 
 
16 
 
 THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 When the historic muse from by-gone time 
 Recals the glories of the ocean isle, 
 
 And writes her triumphs won in every clime 
 In words more during that the marble pile, 
 ’Twill be recorded on the roll sublime 
 
 Of warrior-chiefs and patriots void of guile, 
 
 That they who stood in honour’s foremost ranks 
 Drew their first breath, fair Esk ! upon thy banks* 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Not only did they hasten to the field 
 
 Where hosts for mutual havoc were arrayed ; 
 
 To them in peril’s hour their chief appealed, 
 
 And called their skilful counsels to his aid : (20) 
 The nitrous train, in the deep mine concealed, 
 Burst at their bidding from its ambuscade, 
 
 Upon the foe its sudden fury spent, 
 
 And the foundations of his bulwark rent. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 And he who, labouring for the public good, 
 
 Held intercourse with oriental kings ; 
 
 Whose genius pierced the murky clouds that brood 
 Over the fount whence eastern story springs ; 
 
 He to whose name the Brahmin, shy and proud, 
 The tribute of his veneration brings — 
 
 His actions in their native lustre shine ; 
 
 They ask no laudatory lay of mine. 
 
THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 17 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Nor need I notice in these strains uncouth 
 Him who was sent by merit to preside 
 In academic chambers of the south — 
 
 The friend of future nobles, and their guide : 
 Though distant from the dwelling of his youth, 
 
 And courted by the sons of power and pride, 
 
 Full well I ween, his frequent thoughts revert 
 To scenes which long ago engaged his heart. 
 
 xlix. 
 
 And why enumerate those set apart 
 
 By science to promote her splendid reign ? 
 
 Or mention make of him whose mystic art 
 Can bind the billows with metallic chain ? 
 
 Or them who charm the ear and win the heart 
 With reason^ might and rhetoric's flowing strain ? 
 To thee, secluded vale ! their birth they owe, 
 
 But on the world at large their lives bestow\ 
 
 L. 
 
 Ye wise and brave ! your glory, like a star, 
 
 Reflects its radiance in your native stream ; 
 
 Your homes, your hills, your deeds in peace and war, 
 In after-times shall form the poet’s theme. 
 
 66 Yale of the Esk.” — The words in climes afar 
 Have proved a ready passport to esteem. 
 
 Sons of untitled sires ! Ywas yours to gain 
 What wealth and high descent sued for in vain, 
 
18 
 
 THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Of brighter summers other vales may boast, 
 
 Of richer harvests bending in the breeze, 
 
 Of commerce gliding swiftly to their coast, 
 
 Fraught with the produce of the land and seas ; 
 But treasures which the virtuous value most — 
 Mind putting forth her noblest energies, 
 
 Truth unalloyed, honour without a blot, 
 
 Are found, lone vale ! even in thy lowliest cot. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Honour to palaces may bid farewell, 
 
 And virtue from the public view retire ; 
 Devotion, waxing faint, may cease to swell 
 The poet’s lay, and dignify the lyre ; 
 
 Yet virtue in the rural shade shall dwell, 
 
 Honour the unambitious breast inspire, 
 
 And meek devotion, till she leave the earth, 
 
 Will love to linger on the peasant's hearth. 
 
 lixi. 
 
 Lov'd vale ! I've seen thee in the flush of spring, 
 When all thy woods were green and fields were gay 
 I've heard thy farthest glens with gladness ring 
 On the still evening of a summer's day ; 
 
 I've marked thy fruits in autumn ripening, 
 
 And watch'd the season's subsequent decay, — 
 Pleased with each change, I even loved thee more 
 When all thy hills the weeds of winter wore. 
 
THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 19 
 
 LIV. 
 
 The Laplander, when from his home remov'd, 
 
 Of every comfort deems himself forsaken ; 
 
 And longings for his father-land, belov'd 
 
 Though bleak and barren, in his soul awaken. 
 
 The mighty principle hath oft been prov’d, 
 
 And in the feeling breast remains unshaken. 
 
 No spot on the wide earth so lovely seems 
 
 As that which form'd the scene of childhood's dreams. 
 
 LV. 
 
 The children of the valley who have gone 
 On errands of benevolence to mankind — 
 
 To grace the senate and to guard the throne, 
 
 To plant the seeds of knowledge in the mind — 
 When all their toils are o'er, and laurels won, 
 And camps and courts and cities left behind — - 
 Shall seek repose and solace in the shade, 
 
 Where in the joyous morn of life they stray’d. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 So, with the dawn, from his strong dwelling-place 
 Up-springs the eagle, and exulting, soars 
 Higher than human eye his path may trace — 
 Above the region where the thunder roars ; 
 
 His stretching pinions mete the bounds of space. 
 The fields of light his quenchless eye explores ; 
 But when the vivifying ray subsides 
 Down on his native rock he calmly glides. 
 
20 
 
 THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 LV1I. 
 
 Nor shall the good, the gifted be forgot, 
 
 Who left the Valley, never to return, 
 
 And died in distant lands, where there was not 
 A friend or brother o'er their bier to mourn. 
 Though in some lone, unmonumented spot 
 Oblivion may rankle round their urn, 
 
 Long shall affection tell their moving tale, 
 Long shall their names be sacred in the vale. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Thou land of all my joys, of all my care — 
 Land of the lofty thought and generous deed 
 Still may thy sons the gifts of fortune share, 
 And ever in the steps of wisdom tread ; 
 
 Long may thy plains the smile of plenty wear ; 
 
 Long may thy mountain-flocks securely feed 
 And baffled be the foe who seeks thy harm, 
 With slanderous tongue or with uplifted arm. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 And O ! may he whose glory gilds the pole, 
 And lights the planets in their ample sphere 
 Who reins the ocean-surges while they roll, 
 And curbs the whirlwind in its wild career ; 
 Whose word can calm the tumult of the soul, 
 And with celestial hope the bosom cheer — 
 Command his angels round the Vale to stand, 
 And hold it in the hollow of his hand. 
 
THE VALE OF ESIv. 
 
 21 
 
 Then, though destruction's shaft may fly by day, 
 And deadliest plagues, sprung from the womb of 
 ' night, 
 
 May rise with all their terrors in array, 
 
 And onward march a sinful world to smite ; 
 Though from the city joy should pass away, 
 
 And music's voice no more to mirth invite — 
 Though woes abound, thou shall escape them all., 
 Yale of my home ! no ill shall thee befall. 
 
AN EVENING IN THE LATE MISS WILHELMlNA 
 Malcolm's museum, burnfoot. 
 
 Miss W. Malcolm’s Museum, the subject of the following 
 Poem, is usually called the “ Cottage.** It is built on the steep 
 bank of a small rivulet which runs into the Esk, close by the site 
 of an ancient <c Birn,” xxne of the remnants of Border warfare, 
 Xvhich are not uncommon in the district of Eskdale. The open- 
 ing verses of the poem contain an attempted description of the sur- 
 rounding scenery. It is unnecessary here to give any account of the 
 large collection of interesting curiosities which the cottage con- 
 tains ; but a few explanatory notes are subjoined, where the sub- 
 ject of the author’s reflections is only obscurely alluded to, rather 
 than distinctly mentioned. 
 
 Delightful cot ! embosom'd in the Wood, 
 
 Where Contemplation dwells with Solitude, 
 
 To thee these unpretending strains belong — - 
 Be thou the subject of my artless song. 
 
 In such a place of rest on summer CvC 
 ’Twere sw r eet the web by fancy spun to weave, 
 
 When Nature’s varied beauties bloom around, 
 
 And all thy banks, fair Esk ! seem fairy ground 
 The frowning mountain rising high and hoar, 
 
 By wintry torrents cloven to its core ; 
 
 The tuneful woodland rob’d in richest green ; 
 
 The valley forest-girt, and dimly seen ; 
 
Miss W . malcolm’s museum. 23 
 
 The fragrant fields, the music-murmuring brook ; 
 The wild-flower blushing in each shelter’d nook ; 
 
 The river hastening to its southern goal — 
 
 Such sights, such sounds give rapture to the soul. 
 
 But rather let me spend the evening hour 
 In musing on thy wonders, magic bower ! 
 
 Beneath thy roof what splendid proofs are plac’d 
 Of manly enterprise, and female taste ! 
 
 How many distant lands have lent their aid 
 To deck thy walls, sweet Cottage of the shade ! 
 From high Imaus, where the glacier gleams, 
 
 To Andes, gilt by freedom’s morning beams ; 
 
 From cliffs of Thule, winter’s throne of gloom, 
 
 To Lybian wilds, swept by the fell Simoon: 
 
 The records of antiquity’s dark day ; 
 
 The elegance which modern years display ; 
 
 The tribute of bright realms where Science smiles ; 
 The offerings of ocean’s loneliest isles ; 
 
 The boasted workmanship of Art divine, 
 
 And Nature’s rarest gifts, rich Bower ! are thine. 
 
 The Laplander, whose landmark is the pole, 
 
 And o’er whose cavern’d home rude tempests roll ; 
 The naked negro, nursling of the sun ; 
 
 The huntsman in Columbia’s forest dun ; 
 
 The passionless Hindoo, the fierce Malay, 
 
 The sordid son of mercantile Cathay, 
 
 The Persian proud, the renovated Greek, 
 
 Whose classic soil far-wandering pilgrims seek,— 
 
24 miss w. Malcolm’s museum. 
 
 Earth’s numerous tribes, the fettered and the free, 
 Temple of Concord ! seem to meet in thee. 
 
 Strange thing it is to see in Scottish bower 
 A fragment of the wreck of Babel’s tower, (l) 
 That wonder of the world’s primeval day, 
 
 The den where mighty Nimrod rent his prey. 
 What fund of thought that simple stone supplies ! 
 Fame’s eldest born in dusky vision rise ; 
 
 The massive monument of impious pride 
 
 That awed the earth, and the high heaven defied. 
 
 Frowns to the fancy o’er Euphrates’ banks, 
 
 A rallying mark for Ham’s disparted ranks. 
 
 How many centuries of change have pass’d 
 Since first its shade o’er Shinar’s plain was cast ! 
 How many crowns have crumbled to decay ! 
 
 How many living forms return’d to clay ! 
 
 In speech united, and in aim combin’d, 
 
 Boundless ambition fir’d the human-kind ; 
 
 Their might surmounting every mortal bar, 
 
 ’Gainst the Supreme they wag’d their guilty war : 
 The Ruler of the sky look’d down, and saw 
 The foul dishonour cast upon his law ; 
 
 He spake, rebellion ceas’d, and men were driven 
 In wide dispersion to the winds of heaven. 
 
 Ah, mighty Babylon ! how fallen — how low l 
 The joyous queen hath drain’d the cup of woe : 
 
 W here are her walls of strength, her stately towers. 
 Her lofty portals, her aerial bowers ! 
 
miss w. Malcolm's museum. 25 
 
 Their very ruins whelm'd in ruin lie, 
 
 Asham'd to meet th' inquisitorial eye : 
 
 The silence of her tomb no voices break 
 Save those which feelings of dismay awake ; 
 
 The owls of night their doleful notes prolong 
 Where peal'd the plaudits of the loyal throng ; 
 
 And where the sun of regal splendour shone 
 The wild beasts of the desert make their moan. 
 
 These forms which hold the symbols of command. 
 Of senseless stone fram'd by the artist's hand, (2) 
 From the abyss of distant years recall 
 The pageantry of Khosroo's capital ; 
 
 The martial shew, the banquet and the feast, 
 
 And all the pomp of the voluptuous east. 
 
 Birth-place of fancy, and romantic dreams, 
 
 Where Poesy hath found her loftiest themes ! 
 
 Land of delights ! of every charm possest, 
 
 Save liberty, to heighten all the rest ; 
 
 Swift as the whirlwind's flight the spoiler came, 
 
 The champion, not of freedom, but of fame ; 
 
 Three battle-fields check'd not his red career, 
 
 And Iran fell before his lifted spear. 
 
 Must royalty repel aggression's shock ? 
 
 Then let it rest on Freedom's living rock : 
 
 Unstable is the power that tyrants rear ; 
 
 That throne shall fall whose chief support is fear. 
 
 Lo ! the false gods who homage claim'd erewhile 
 In gorgeous temples on the shores of Nile ; ( 3 ) 
 
 c 
 
26 miss w. Malcolm's museum. 
 
 The deities whom Egypt’s cruel lord 
 In blindness of idolatry ador’d. 
 
 Proud prince ! o’er learning’s earliest home he reign’d, 
 But folly’s fatal spell his soul enchain’d : 
 
 Twas his the circling seasons to divide, 
 
 Twas his to rein the river’s rolling tide ; 
 
 Yet nought of the great Governor he knew 
 Who bade the sun his measur'd course pursue. 
 Whose bounty s well’d the fructifying wave, 
 
 And plenty to the plains of Goshen gave. 
 
 Brief was the time when Truth’s unsullied ray 
 Flash’d o’er the nations universal day ; 
 
 Her star had set in superstition’s cloud, 
 
 And men to falsehood vile allegiance vow’d. 
 
 Then was it, under tyranny’s misrule, 
 
 That Israel’s tribes were train’d in misery’s school ; 
 Th’ oppressor shut his ear to pity’s tale, 
 
 Nor might the prophet’s warning voice avail, 
 
 Till the Omnipotent to judgment rose, 
 
 And pour’d down all his plagues upon his foes, 
 Cover’d the gods of Egypt with disgrace, 
 
 And forth in triumph led his chosen race. 
 
 Though now the sons of Jacob sackcloth wear, 
 Because their heritage is waste and bare, 
 
 Yet is the welcome era on the wing 
 When Zion with a shout shall hail her king ; 
 
 When all her outcasts from afar shall come. 
 
 And on her holy mountain find a home r 
 
miss \v. Malcolm’s museum. 27 
 
 But not again shall independence smile 
 On hoary Memphis, or the shores of Nile ; 
 
 Egypt hath fall’n no more to rise, her name 
 Is blotted from the register of fame ; 
 
 The stranger’s banner o’er her fields shall wave, 
 
 And ever shall her soil sustain the slave. 
 
 Dark was the doom pronounc’d on Hammon’s line, 
 And still beneath its pressure million’s pine, — 
 
 The tribes that tenant Afric’s arid soil, — 
 
 Children of crime and ever-during toil — 
 
 Bright*is the summer of their glowing zone, 
 
 But there the sun of science never shone ; 
 
 And that more potent Sun, whose healing ray 
 Can cheer the soul, and dissipate dismay, 
 
 (Whose holy light our happier land o’erflows) 
 
 Above their dim horizon never rose. 
 
 No peaceful arts their sullen minds employ — 
 
 In slaughter skill’d, ingenious to destroy, 
 Well-pleas’d to discord’s revels they resort ; 
 
 Their business strife, barbarity their sport. 
 
 Even in this peace-pervaded solitude 
 I, shuddering, view their instruments of blood ; 
 
 The ponderous club to deal the deadly blow, 
 
 The quiver, and the tough elastic bow, 
 
 The feather’d shaft with barbed iron tipt, 
 
 And in the venom of the aspic dipt. 
 
 But see afar, in Senegal’s deep bay, 
 
 A ruthless band more savage still than they ! 
 
28 
 
 miss w. Malcolm’s museum. 
 
 Von bark whose pennon woos the fragrant breeze' 
 Comes not to lighten human miseries : 
 
 The sons of gain have Heaven’s denouncements dar’d 
 1 hey crowd the strand, for blackest crimes prepar’d. 
 Marking their prey upon the upland spread, 
 
 As hell-fiends watch the dying sinner’s bed : 
 
 And now the worse than death-doom’d ones are torn 
 From home, from hope, and o’er the billows borne. 
 O, that some spirit, ardent and sublime, 
 
 Might, phoenix-like, arise in Afric’s clime ! 
 
 Some genius form’d on virtue’s noblest plan — 
 
 Born to assert the sacred rights of man ! * 
 
 In council wise, invincible in war, 
 
 A Washington or greater Bolivar. (4) 
 
 O ! for some heart, some hand untaught to yield, 
 Angola’s future destinies to wield ; 
 
 To prop with giant strength the sinking cause 
 Of nature, and avenge her broken laws ; 
 
 To launch the bolts of patriot-ire abroad, 
 
 And scatter freedom’s foes — the foes of God ! 
 
 Or, rather you, ye heralds of the cross ! 
 
 Who spurn the earth, and count its riches dross, 
 Upheld by Him whose arm is strong to save, 
 
 Impart those succours that the needy crave ; 
 Proclaim the message of the Prince of Peace, 
 
 And Mammon’s reign, and Moloch’s rites shall cease 
 
 On the dim canvass here would fancy trace 
 The tale of Mexico’s imperial race, ( 5 ) 
 
mSS W. MALCOLM^ MUSEUM. 
 
 29 
 
 Presented in apt symbols to the eye, — 
 
 Rude forms of animals that walk or fly; — 
 
 The language taught in nature’s simple school 
 Prior to art or arbitrary rule. 
 
 Haply the record tells of triumphs won, 
 
 Of deeds by Roman daring ne’er outdone ; 
 
 But vainly the inquiring mind essays 
 
 The search of truth in doubt’s perplexing maze. 
 
 Had science, — rather than remorseless war. 
 
 And avarice, to worthy deeds a bar— 
 
 Enthusiastic, left her native shore 
 The western world to visit and explore. 
 
 Then should the brave who slumber with the base 
 Among immortal names have held a place, 
 
 And proud events, that mark the march of time, 
 Have shed their lustre through Columbia’s clime. 
 The love of gold — -society’s worst bane, 
 
 Impell’d the fierce Castilian o’er the main. 
 
 His bosom against fear and pity steel’d, 
 
 And all the demon in his soul reveal’d 4 
 
 And thrones were stricken down, and kingdoms rent. 
 
 And ruin overspread a continent. 
 
 Th’ intruders triumph’d, but their boast was small ; 
 Their victory proved the prelude to their fall ; 
 
 Fate’s whelming surge that round the Andes boil’d 
 In fury on Iberia’s shore recoil’d ; 
 
 The crown of pride is trodden in the dust, 
 
 And awe-struck nations own the Almighty just. 
 
30 
 
 MISS W. MALCOLM S MUSEUM. 
 
 Mark here a mouldering relic from the urn 
 Of him who freedom earn\l at Bannockburn ! ( 6 ) 
 Nor is there aught besides in this sweet bower 
 That o’er the patriot's heart can hold such power : 
 To the frail token from the tomb obtain'd 
 How many lofty sentiments are chain'd ! 
 
 Its spell can visions of the past awake, — 
 
 The brave of other years their slumbers brake ; 
 
 Their changeless hatred of the tyrant's sway, 
 
 Their firmness unimpeach'd in peril’s day, 
 
 Their noble purpose, “ Albyn shall be free !" 
 
 The battle-field, the shout of victory, 
 
 Glory's bright blaze o'er Scotland’s mountains cast — 
 More of the present seems than of the past. 
 
 Let hireling slaves the despot's power proclaim, 
 
 And columns raise to force ephemeral fame ; 
 
 Such purchas'd honours shall in shame depart, 
 
 But lives the Bruce in every freeman's heart. 
 
 When shall some kindred spirit burst the chain 
 That galls the slave on wild Sarmatia's plain ; 
 
 Or in th' Italian's bosom fan the fire 
 
 That warm'd to heroism his Roman sire ? ( 7 ) 
 
 Behold an object worthy to appear 
 By the pale ore that gleam'd on Bruce's bier ! 
 
 That ornamented vase, dug from thy soil, 
 
 Hellas ! bespeaks the artist’s pious toil : 
 
 In it repos'd the ashes of the brave 
 Whose blood had dyed the blue Egean wave, 
 
miss w. Malcolm’s museum. 
 
 31 
 
 On that remember'd morn when glorious Greece 
 Won on her wooden walls the wreath of Salamis. 
 
 Hard were the task, though pleasant, lovely Cot ! 
 Thy treasures in their full detail to note : 
 
 To thee the East hath render’d up her store, 
 
 To thee hath golden Burmah lent her lore ; ( 8 ) 
 Rich robes, whose lustre emulates the day, 
 
 Their airy texture from thy walls display ; 
 
 And costly trappings, once the pride of kings. 
 
 Amid thy garniture seem common things. 
 
 Even foemen to forsake their feuds agree, 
 
 And yield the weapons of their strife to thee ; 
 
 The blood-dim’d scimitar, and deadly cris 
 Innocuous hang in thy abode of peace ; 
 
 And the broad battle-axe, the Briton’s boast 
 In bygone years, hath all its terrors lost. 
 
 The breathing- stone that grac’d the Grecian dome, 
 The rich Mosaic from Pompeii’s tomb ; 
 
 Etruscan urn, and ancient Roman bust. 
 
 Are here depositecf— a sacred trust 
 
 Palace of thought ! thy varied scenes pourtray 
 The dawn of power, its progress, and decay ; 
 
 At this untroubled hour thou seem’st to me 
 A true compendium of man’s history. 
 
 Nor less thy wealth, enchanting Bower ! supplied 
 By nature’s hand from all her empire wide ; 
 
32 MISS w. Malcolm’s museum. 
 
 Whate’er, among the tribes that skim the deep, 
 Or those that haunt the forest or the steep, 
 Arrests attention, or excites surprise, 
 
 Here, under nice arrangement, meets the eyes. 
 But chiefly these in beauty’s garments drest, 
 The plumy children of the south and west, 
 
 That revell’d in the mangrove’s grateful shade, 
 And sung to soft repose the woodland maid. 
 
 The sparkling mineral, the painted shell, 
 
 The coral branch from ocean’s lowest cell, 
 
 The shining amber, dug from gelid cave, 
 
 The pearly gem, the produce of the wave, — 
 
 All from these teeming shelves aloud declare 
 The matchless skill that gave them form so fair. 
 
 Here order reigns ; and here the ardent mind 
 Semblance of that approaching age may find, 
 
 By holy bards in ecstacy descried, 
 
 When harmony shall human conduct guide ; 
 When kings from every clime shall disavow 
 Their rivalries, and in one temple^bow. 
 
 While some the cup of sordid pleasure drain, 
 And mix in folly’s unreflecting train, 
 
 To reason deaf, to nature’s beauties blind, 
 
 Void of the charms that grace the female mind, 
 Thy garnish’d courts, fair edifice ! may claim 
 For her who made them smile a nobler name. 
 
miss w . Malcolm's museum. 
 
 33 
 
 And they, whose names are grav'd on honour's pale. 
 The brothers who have left Esk’s fairy dale, 
 
 When from the toils of field and flood remov’d 
 To rural ease, and scenes in youth belov’d. 
 
 Oft shall some token, while they ponder here, 
 
 Recall the doings of their past career. 
 
 Farewell, sweet Bower ! for evening's shadows pale 
 Stoop from the sky, and darken all the vale ; 
 
 'Tis night, save that a feeble glimmering falls 
 Upon the warlike symbols round thy walls. 
 
 And lo ! the shades of ancient heroes come, 
 
 To make these solemn halls their nightly home : 
 
 On the thin haze that wraps the mountain's side, 
 Their awe-inspiring forms majestic glide ; 
 
 They come — the proud, the sceptred ones of old, 
 ’Mong their memorials watch and ward to hold : 
 Pre-eminent amid th’ aerial band 
 Appears the guardian spirit of his land, 
 
 The Bruce — well-pleased to witness what he won. 
 Descending un impair'd from sire to son. 
 
 * 
 
 Sweet Bower, farewell ! and cease my wandering 
 On fancy’s faithless current borne along, [song l 
 O'er fallen towers, and fetid fields of war, 
 
 Far from my theme — from Esk's green borders far. 
 So from some central mount, that to the skies 
 Lifts up its head, a river takes its rise ; 
 
34 
 
 miss w. Malcolm's museum. 
 
 At first a nameless brook ; anon become 
 A rivulet, it leaves its lofty home ; 
 
 And swelling still, divides the distant plain, 
 Before its waters mingle with the main ; 
 
 Yet the far- wandering stream, the infant rill 
 Receiv'd an impulse from its native hill. 
 
35 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, 
 
 SUGGESTED BY CERTAIN CIRCUMSTANCES IN THE 
 HISTORY OF HIS LIFE. 
 
 I ask no muse to guide my trembling hand. 
 
 Thy candour only, Pollio, I demand ; 
 
 Deem not my censure harsh, my motive vain, 
 Feeling may paint, but Friendship prompts the strain. 
 
 When from the top of Contemplation’s mount 
 We gaze on life, and balance the account 
 Of good and ill writ on its chequer’d page — 
 
 Youth’s towering hopes, and care-encumber’d age — - 
 ’Tis then with earnest accents we exclaim, 
 
 Spurn earth, immortals ! seek a nobler aim ! 
 
 Though doom’d a pilgrim, o'er life’s waste to roam, 
 Yet here, O weary man, thou may’st not have thy 
 home. 
 
 How many woes beset the feeling heart ! 
 
 What helpless numbers bear misfortune’s smart ! 
 
36 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 
 
 \\ hat scenes of sorrow meet the pitying eye ! — 
 Virtue degraded: — vice exalted high ; 
 
 Folly in luxury’s gaudy garb array’d, 
 
 And modest merit shivering in the shade ; 
 
 The brightest prospects in disorder lost, 
 
 And joys departed that were valued most. 
 
 I need not ask thee, Pollio, if thou hast 
 Experienc’d disappointment’s withering blast ; 
 
 If e’er adversity’s dark-rolling tide 
 Hath swept thy hopes of happiness aside ; 
 
 If schemes dear to thy heart, well-form’d and fair. 
 Have, like a vision, vanish’d into air. 
 
 Say, didst thou in anticipation, stand 
 With kindred souls, on Fancy’s fairy land ? 
 Where genius should increasing powers display, 
 Free as the light, and rapid as its ray ; 
 
 From scenes of care and trouble far remov’d, 
 Pleas’d with each object, and by all belov’d ; 
 
 Far from the den where Discord’s weapons ring, 
 Where dark Detraction points her poison’d sting, 
 Where Envy breathes her pestilential breath — 
 Foul as the grave, and fatal, too, as death, 
 
 Beyond the reach pf selfishness and guile ; 
 
 Where every face should wear a cheerful smile. 
 Alas ! to mortal man it is not given 
 ‘’To realize on earth the joys of heaven. 
 
 Twas thine to build an airy world of bliss, 
 
 But fate, relentless, call’d thee back to thisc 
 
 5 
 
EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 
 
 37 
 
 Perhaps the course thou purposed’st to steer 
 With Heaven’s wise government might interfere ; 
 Perhaps it led through danger’s noisome field, 
 Through paths where strong temptation lay conceal’d : 
 The acquisition of th’ ideal prize 
 Haply involv’d some awful compromise — 
 
 The barter of integrity for ease — 
 
 The dereliction or of truth or peace — 
 
 A sad adieu, a long, a last farewell 
 
 To the lov’d land where friends and kindred dwell. 
 
 If future honours sparkled in thine eye, 
 
 If pleasure woo’d thee with her syren-sigh, 
 
 If lust of power within thy bosom wrought, 
 
 If wealth allur’d thee — wealth oft dearly bought — 
 Then Heaven all-wise, the purpose would disown, 
 And lead thee in a way thou hadst not known. 
 
 Left to ourselves, alas ! where would we stray ? — 
 Let Providence decree, and man obey : 
 
 Cheerful obedience best promotes our views, 
 
 And disappointments ev’n may have their use. 
 Vicissitudes of fortune nerve the mind, 
 
 Correct our follies, and our passions bind ; 
 
 Teach our desires, our thoughts, our hopes to rise 
 Above this troubled scene, and centre in the skies. 
 
 So the extremes of temperature reveal 
 The latent virtues of the ductile steel, 
 
 Its fibres, soften’d by the breath of fire, 
 
 In the cool stream their proper strength acquire. 
 
38 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 
 
 Methinks, if erring mortals aught might know 
 Of perfect happiness, while here below, 
 
 ’Twere to be found in some lone isle afar, 
 
 Whose shores ne’er echoed back the shout of war ; 
 Where never yet Ambition’s footsteps trode, 
 
 Nor Tyranny in guilty triumph rode : 
 
 Free from fantastic Fashion’s galling chain, 
 
 Under Simplicity’s primeval reign ; 
 
 While Spring should ever on its vallies smile : — 
 ’Twere bliss to breathe the air of that lone isle. 
 
 Not that the raving tempest’s rage I fear, — 
 
 Its voice is music to the pensive ear ; 
 
 Not that stern winter's icy touch can chill 
 The glowing breast, and fancy’s frenzy still : 
 
 Dearer to me the gale whose ruthless wing 
 Despoils the grove, than softest sounding string ; 
 More dear the storm’s wild hymn, the cat’racts call, 
 Than peals of mirth that shake the banquet-hall. 
 
 In nature’s changing aspect still we trace 
 The lineaments of grandeur, or of grace ; 
 
 And all her varied works, when view’d aright, 
 Convey instruction, or afford delight. 
 
 ’Tis man, the suicide, that aims the blow 
 At his own peace, and wakes the wail of woe ; 
 
 He makes the wild a smile of pleasure wear, 
 
 Or turns Elysian bowers into a desert drear. 
 
 Twin of the tiger, fell unsparing man ! 
 
 ’Tis thine to thwart kind Providence’s plan ; 
 
EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 
 
 39 
 
 When nature lifts her fond parental voice, 
 
 And calls on all her children to rejoice, 
 
 Her fond parental call why wilt thou scorn, 
 
 And force aggriev’d humanity to mourn ! 
 
 ’Tis not the scourge that guilty nations fear, 
 Wide-wasting war, with famine in the rear ; 
 
 ’Tis not the heartless despot, thron’d in pride, 
 
 Ador’d by slaves, by poets deified ; 
 
 ’Tis not the fool, contemning sense and worth, 
 
 That calls these merited reproaches forth : 
 
 No; ’tis the moral murderer, whose aim 
 Is to calumniate, traduce, defame ; 
 
 The jealous, envious wretch, who frets to see 
 His neighbour wealthier, happier than he ; 
 
 The hypocrite, with timid eye askance 
 Shrunk back from virtue’s overpowering glance ; 
 
 The double man, whose heart with hate is wrung, 
 While honey’d speeches issue from his tongue : 
 
 Such are the foes of peace, the foes of truth ; 
 
 These ruffle age’s brow, and blight the bloom of youth. 
 War’s trumpet-tongue bids mustering hosts prepare, 
 But envy digs the pit and spreads the snare ; 
 Ambition stretches thousands on the plain, 
 
 But bloodier malice boasts her tens of thousands slain., 
 
 ’Tis no o’ercharged, distorted picture this — 
 
 I’ve shown the man of malice as he is ; 
 
 The dark description which my verse supplies, 
 Experience too fully verifies. 
 
40 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 
 
 Yet are there minds of happier, nobler frame, 
 
 Souls lighted up at honour’s ardent flame, 
 
 Who hold the maxims of the age in scorn, 
 
 And follow truth when by the world forsworn : 
 
 Sweet, verdant spots amid the moral waste 
 On which the traveller’s aching eye may rest ! 
 
 So smiles th’ oasis in Numidia’s land, 
 
 While all around is bare and barren sand ; 
 
 So shines the starlet through a parted cloud, 
 
 When heaven and earth are wrapt in midnight's 
 shroud. 
 
 My lay is plaintive, Pollio, yet excuse 
 The wanderings of the melancholy muse ; 
 
 Nor deem the gloomy aspect which she wears 
 Meant to repress thy hopes, or rouse thy fears : 
 Blame not thy destiny, nor mourn thy fate 
 Because thou mayst not pass Fame’s palace-gate : 
 
 For thee retirement all her sweets supplies, 
 
 Nature her pleasures, stript of art’s disguise. 
 
 What, though dark clouds o’erhang life’s dreary vale, 
 Where tempests beat, and human voices wail ; 
 Though griefs and pains the good man’s path sur- 
 round, 
 
 And thorny cares the feeling bosom wound ; 
 
 To the sad soul wisdom her law reveals, 
 
 Which from the high and haughty she conceals. 
 
 Are there not favour’d hours when pensive minds 
 Hold mystic converse with the subtle winds, 
 
EPISTLE TO A FKIEND. 
 
 41 
 
 Interrogate the visionary forms 
 
 That roam the wild, or revel in the storms, 
 
 And, when the thunders roll and lightnings fly, 
 
 Draw inspiration from the troubled sky ? 
 
 The melancholy man at twilight hour 
 Owns the sweet season's spirit-soothing power ; 
 
 Day’s empty pomp to him no peace affords, 
 
 The cloud of eve with sadness best accords : 
 
 When all th’ external world is hush’d to rest. 
 
 A calm congenial fills the mourner’s breast. 
 
 O ! then his thoughts, erewhile on sorrow bent, 
 Traverse uncurb’d creation’s wide extent ; 
 
 The thunder’s path where burning bolts career. 
 
 Each silver star in its resplendent sphere, 
 
 The chambers of the east, replete with light, 
 
 Unveil their glories to his mental sight, 
 
 Mounted on fancy’s wing, he soars away 
 To wilds of air where sparkling comets stray, 
 
 To worlds hid from the optic-aided eye, 
 
 Proclaiming loud their Lord’s immensity. 
 
 While gazing on the bright orbs as they roll, 
 
 He marks the master hand that moves the whole, 
 Discerns the great Lawgiver in his laws, 
 
 And traces causes to the parent cause. 
 
 O’erpower’d with the stupendous theme, he turns 
 His thoughts back on himself, and droops and 
 mourns ; — 
 
 Guilty of crimes which force an angel’s tears — 
 
 The slave of passion, and the sport of fears — ■ 
 
42 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 
 
 A creature of the dust, a child of clay — 
 
 Destined to tread life’s stage — and pass away. 
 
 Yet let not levity nor callous pride 
 Contemn the mourner, and his woes deride ; 
 
 Better to share his pleasure and his pain, 
 
 Than mingle recklessly in mirth’s gay train. 
 
 And he, who now beneath night's welcome pall, 
 Weaves the wild verse at friendship’s stirring call, — 
 Thick congregated clouds of sorrow shed 
 Their influence dire, and settle round his head ; 
 
 Save when some vision, bright as morning’s beam, 
 The gloom dispelling, casts a casual gleam. 
 
 Yes, moments come, when fancy’s meteor-light 
 Scatters the shadow of my mental night : 
 
 ’Tis hope triumphant over fell despair, 
 
 A triumph transient as the lightning’s glare ; 
 
 Full soon th’ illusive splendour dies away, 
 
 And all my soul is dark, without one cheering ray. 
 
 But wherefore talk of trouble, tears, and toil, 
 
 Of soaring fancy, or of nature’s smile ? 
 
 Poor is th’ enjoyment earth-born pleasure gives, 
 
 And light the woe from which the grave relieves ; 
 The wish that terminates with life is vain ; 
 
 Feeble the tie that death can rend in twain. 
 
 Fair is this earth, and fertile are its fields, 
 
 Ample the stores of wealth which ocean yields ; 
 
EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 
 
 43 
 
 Proud is the pageantry of high command ; 
 
 Much priz'd the boon bestow'd by royal hand ; 
 Grateful the meed of praise when nobly won, 
 
 The tribute due to generous actions done ; 
 
 And sweet the morning dream of love and youth > 
 When woman’s eye reflects the ray of truth : 
 
 Yet, why should pleasure's sparkling cup allure ?, 
 The draught when most refin'd, is still impure ; 
 Disgrace shall brand the coroneted chief, 
 
 And cold oblivion sear the laurel leaf : 
 
 Nor may imperial power, or India’s wealth, 
 
 Parry the stroke of fate, or purchase health, 
 
 Much less the conscience of the culprit calm, 
 
 Or, for the wounded soul procure the needful balm. 
 “ Vain and insipid" — Well might David’s son 
 Thus stigmatize the splendid race he'd run : 
 u All, all is vanity,” the preacher cries, 
 
 “ And, all is vanity," each fleeting hour replies. 
 
 Where then, among the works divine, oh ! where 
 Exists an object worthy of our care ? 
 
 Where shines the glorious prize, our being's end, 
 
 To which the longings of the soul may tend ? 
 
 There is, although by mortal eye unseen, 
 
 A sun without a cloud — a sky serene ; 
 
 There is a land which nought of sorrow knows, 
 
 A fount whence joy’s broad stream for ever flows ; 
 Society whose only tie is love, 
 
 For toil-worn travellers a rest above. 
 
44 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 
 
 To that fair clime, th' abode of life and light, 
 
 Thy soul, O man ! would wing its upward flight ; 
 An exile now on time's sin-troubled strand, 
 
 Thy hope, thy home is in the heavenly land. 
 
 So far’d the dove, commission'd from the bark 
 That bore the heaven-protected patriarch : 
 
 Our race's second sire had hop'd in vain ; 
 
 Still roll'd th’ unfathomable, shoreless main ; 
 
 No cheering land-mark rose above the deep ; 
 Down, down sunk Ararat's majestic steep ; 
 
 O'er all his hoary cliffs the billows curl’d, 
 
 And chaos frown'd where once had smil'd a world. 
 The bird of peace, bewilder'd and dismayed, 
 
 From the dark air the dreary scene surveyed, 
 
 Then to the only sanctuary of rest 
 
 Sped with assiduous wing, and palpitating breast. 
 
45 
 
 DAVID'S ELEGY 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF SAUL AND JONATHAN, 
 
 The strong are fallen in the ranks of war ; 
 
 Quench'd is the light that stream'd from Jacob's star : 
 The prince of Israel’s warriors, and the pride, 
 
 Dark Gilboa ! on thy day of havoc died. 
 
 O, tell it not in Gath, thou vaunting foe ! 
 
 Tell not in scorn the tale of Zion's woe ; 
 
 Proclaim not in proud Askelon abroad 
 How Israel fell, forsaken of his God. 
 
 Why should Philistia's dames their powers employ 
 In frantic strains of sacrilegious joy ? 
 
 Why should Astarte's hostile temple ring 
 With shouts of triumph o'er the fallen king ? 
 
 Ye pregnant clouds withhold th' expected shower ! 
 Nor fall, ye balmy dews, at evening hour ! 
 
 Pour not your fatness down, as from an urn, 
 
 On Gilboa's mount when vernal months return ; 
 Refuse to aid the labours of the swain, 
 
 Nor clothe the parched clod with waving grain. 
 
46 
 
 david’s elegy on the 
 
 For Israel’s monarch on thy battle-field, 
 Ensanguined Gilboa ! dropt his useless shield ; 
 
 That shield to heathen foes become a spoil, 
 
 As though it shone not with th’ anointing oil. 
 Through war’s thick cloud the sword of Saul had 
 gleam’d, 
 
 And noble blood its lustre oft had dimm’d ; 
 
 The shaft of Jonathan, with vengeance tipt, 
 
 The frequent field with battle’s wreck had heaped : 
 Their course was swifter than the eagle’s wing, 
 
 Their fury fateful as the lion’s spring : 
 
 In life united, deathless deeds they dar’d, 
 
 And one dark death of shame, alas ! they shared. 
 
 The harp, ye weeping maids of Shiloh ! take, 
 And bid its sadly-soothing sounds awake ; 
 
 At solemn eve, your olive-groves among, 
 
 Pour forth the sorrows of your souls in song : 
 
 Lament for Saul — he who from conquest bore 
 The gems and purple robes which once you wore ; 
 For now no more ye triumph with your chief. — 
 Wear, weeping maids ! the sombre garb of grief. 
 
 Where is the guardian of thy hallow’d land ? 
 
 O Israel ! Where thy patriotic band ? 
 
 How are thy generous sons — the good — the brave — 
 Toss’d like the foam on battle’s stormy wave ! 
 
 But chiefly thou — possessor of my breast, 
 
 O Jonathan ! my early friend — my best ! 
 
DEATH OF SAUL AND JONATHAN. 
 
 47 
 
 "Twas thine the power of sympathy to pro\e — 
 Stable as truth — stronger than woman’s love. 
 Firm was the tie our kindred souls that bound, 
 And fell the fate that such affection found : 
 
 Not valour could stern ruin’s stroke repel, 
 
 Nor virtue shield thee when thy country fell : 
 
 On thee my fondest thoughts I’ll still bestow ; 
 For thee my fruitless tears shall ever flow. 
 
 What canst thou boast ? thou desolated land ! 
 The shiver’d spear— the bloody, broken brand ; 
 Thy sons are fallen in the ranks of war, 
 
 And dark eclipse hath cover’d Israel’s star. 
 
48 
 
 CASTLE-O’ER. 
 
 “ On the farm of Yetbyre is a very complete encampment, of 
 an oval form, named Castle-o’er, or Overbie. The general opi- 
 nion is, that it is a Roman camp, which communicated with 
 those of Netherbie and Middlebie ; and that the difference of 
 form may have been occasioned by the situation, it being placed 
 on the top of a hill, where the square form could not be adhered 
 to. The name of Overbie, or Upper Station, favours this opinion. 
 There is scarcely a hill within sight of it, On which there is not 
 some vestige of an outer encampment. From Castle-o’er, a com- 
 munication, by encampments of this kind, can easily be traced 
 down the Esk to Netherbie, on the one hand, and down the 
 Water of Milk to Middlebie, on the other.” — (Sir John Sin- 
 clair’s Statistical Account of Scotland, vol. xi. p. 614. Art. 
 Parish of Eskdalemuir.) 
 
 The sun is set, and the autumnal wind 
 Strays o'er the dusky landscape unconfin’d ; 
 From the forsaken camp that crowns the hill 
 Its hymn is heard, fitful, and wild, and shrill, 
 As if a quire of pensive spirits there 
 Mingled their voices with the evening air. 
 While thus I listen, darkness deeper grows, 
 The shades in thicker folds around me close ; 
 
 The mountain-ridge presents an outline dun, 
 But in the valley Night hath victory won. 
 
castle-o’er. 
 
 49 
 
 While thoughtful, up the steep ascent I climb, 
 (Clomb by the warriors of the olden time,) 
 
 Far in the west the crescent moon peers forth, 
 Modest and meek, like unassuming worth ; 
 Again she hides her head ; the vapours dim, 
 Again condensing, shroud the welcome beam ; 
 Alternately the light and shade prevail, 
 
 As intervenes the haze, or sweeps the gale. 
 
 So mortal greatness and imperial power 
 Burst on the view, and blaze their little hour, 
 Till luxury, dark-lowering like a cloud, 
 
 In foul eclipse the fleeting splendour shroud. 
 
 Lo, now the trace of Roman might appears, 
 Magnificent amid the waste of years ! 
 
 How awful rise these ramparts on the sight, 
 Wrapt in the deep solemnity of night ! 
 
 Pregnant with proud defiance still they seem, 
 Like hoary warrior frowning in his dream ; 
 
 The gloomy pomp of arms they still display — - 
 Strong in their ruins — fresh in their decay. 
 
 Now Fancy comes, and summon'd by her spell. 
 The cohorts crowd their airy citadel ; 
 
 While from the hollow foss rings in her ear 
 The pickaxe of the toiling pioneer : 
 
 The hum of armies on the wind is borne. 
 
 The watchman silent treads, or winds his horn ; 
 The wavering smoke-clouds from the altar rise, 
 Fraught with the odours of the sacrifice, 
 
 D 
 
60 
 
 castle-o’er. 
 
 And lo ! the leader of the shadowy band 
 High on the dizzy rampart takes his stand; 
 
 The clouds are parted, and the moonbeam pale 
 Gleams on his glittering helm and burnish'd mail 
 He waves his faulchion, and the ranks around 
 W ait his behest with reverence profound. 
 
 The words were big with war : the howling blast 
 Echoed the awful accents as it past ; 
 
 While the close phalanx on the mount array'd 
 Murmur'd assent — and melted into shade. 
 
 Hence march'd of yore the iron legions forth 
 To quell the rising spirit of the north, 
 
 When Freedom, maddening at aggression's tale, 
 Flung her bright banner on the mountain-gale, 
 Lit up her signal-fires on cliff and tower, 
 
 And sternly waited battle's fateful hour. 
 
 Here too, return'd from all his perilous toils, 
 
 The weary veteran stor'd the hard-won spoils : 
 Free from the cares that civil life annoy, 
 
 He gave his heart to military joy, 
 
 When victory swell'd the lofty note of war 
 That Grampian echoes wafted from afar. 
 
 Then in the days of merriment and glee 
 He'd course the bounding red-deer on the lea ; 
 
 For the lean wolf the artful gin prepare, 
 
 And pierce the wild-boar in his miry lair : 
 
 He'd rouse the goat — the tenant of the rocks. 
 
 And from the thicket drag the milk-white ox, 
 
castle-o’er. 
 
 51 
 
 Entwine his horns with garlands from the grove, 
 
 And yield him up — a grateful gift to Jove. 
 
 Thus would the soldier spend his chequer'd life, 
 When glory call'd not to the field of strife : 
 
 Yet often would he gaze upon the goal 
 Whence started for the prize his ardent soul ; 
 
 Sweet scenes of youth would pass before his mind — 
 Bright visions of the land he left behind. 
 
 Where grandeur at the shrine of wisdom knelt. 
 Where all the magic power of song was felt. 
 
 Oft would he muse, far in the misty wild, 
 
 On his loCd home where sunbeams ever smil'd, 
 
 And sigh, amid the wintry tempest's roar, [shore. 
 For Tiber's cultur'd banks, and Latium's tranquil 
 Ah ! little deem'd he that, in after times, 
 
 The muses would forsake their native climes, 
 
 And find, with Art and Science in their train, 
 
 A peaceful home amid the northern main. 
 
 He wist not that each slope and sylvan glen 
 In his wide view — the haunts of barbarous men — 
 When centuries of change their course had run — 
 Should spread its yellow harvest to the sun. 
 
 Nor might he deem that Albion's arm should wield 
 Marcellus' sword, or heave Cunctator's shield ;(i) 
 
 Or firmly grasp the sceptre of command, 
 
 That soon should drop from Caesar's palsied hand. 
 
 UNIVERSITY 0? 
 
 ILLINOIS LIBRARY 
 AT URBAN*- 
 
52 
 
 castle-o’er. 
 
 Long, long, imperial Rome ! thy banner flew 
 Triumphant on these hills of dusky hue ; 
 
 Long the rude tribes that in these valleys stray’d 
 Their foreign lords reluctantly obey’d. 
 
 Ye who the progress of improvement trace 
 Through all its steps among the human race ! 
 
 Say not, our Isle a needful boon obtain’d 
 When polish’d conquerors her sons enchain’d : 
 ’Tis better far to range the greenwood free, 
 
 Than for a palace barter liberty. 
 
 The naked Briton, ignorant but brave, 
 Knowledge acquir’d — and knew himself a slave ; 
 The steer and steed came under his control, 
 
 But innate energy forsook his soul ; 
 
 The stranger’s splendid garb his limbs array’d, 
 But independence was the price he paid. 
 
 Yet fete the conquering arm of Rome confined 
 In the dark sky of power her star declin’d : 
 
 The world once more was destin’d to be free, 
 
 And the hoarse war- trump hail’d the jubilee. 
 From wall-girt China revolution’s flood 
 Roll’d to the farthest west its waves of blood ; 
 Forth from her fens and forests Scythia pour'd 
 Her warrior-shepherds — horde succeeding horde : 
 A hundred kings the roving myriads led, 
 
 The nations in a hundred battles bled 
 But not a name to glorious deeds allied 
 The city of the Scipios supplied ; 
 
castle-o’er. 
 
 53 
 
 Virtue and valour from afar had come 
 
 To win the wealth, and check the crimes of Rome. 
 
 As when the genial winds of April blow, 
 
 And sunbeams with increasing radiance glow, 
 
 The river, freed from winter’s deadening spell, 
 Comes leaping joyous down the woodland dell, 
 
 And beauty and fertility restores 
 
 To the pale turf that spreads along its shores ; — 
 
 So hope returning on seraphic wing, 
 
 Breathes o’er the ice-cold heart the balm of spring 
 So flowers of moral growth, fair as the morn, 
 
 The banks of freedom’s living stream adorn. 
 
 And hope re-kindled in the Briton’s eye — 
 
 For liberty may droop, but cannot die — 
 
 Again her bards the harp of heroes strung ; 
 
 Again her banner on the breeze was flung : 
 
 Chiefs of high name, the offspring of Fingal, 
 Muster their bands before the foeman’s wall ; 
 
 The hostile wall a feeble barrier forms 
 To foes unyielding as their mountain-storms ; 
 
 Its proudest height the bold avengers scale, 
 
 Or, with its wreck bestrew the level vale : 
 
 Onward they rush, to their great purpose staunch, 
 Resistless as the falling avalanche ; 
 
 The gory eagle with undazzled eye 
 No longer soars in victory’s cloudless sky : 
 
 No more the joys of conquest Rome may know-** 
 Fort after fort is yielded to the foe ; 
 
54 
 
 castle-o’er. 
 
 Nor may thy bulwarks, Corda ! stem the tide (2) 
 Of freedom rolling in its native pride ; 
 
 Thy trembling lords resign their lengthen’d sway, 
 And leave thee to Barbarians — or decay. 
 
 Such the eventful tale of former years ; 
 
 But now the Camp a milder aspect wears : 
 
 When with the dawn the shepherd wanders forth, 
 He treads where trode the conquerors of the earthy 
 And basks at noon, heedless and unconcerned, 
 
 On the green mound where heroes lie inurn’d. 
 
 No warlike splendour beams from Corda’s towers* 
 No revelry disturbs the silent hours, 
 
 Save when at shady eve the Fairy tribe 
 In rapid march the mystic ring describe ; 
 
 Or when creative fancy from the tomb 
 Calls up the steel-clad chivalry of Rome* 
 
 Y e sons of power ! whose voice goes forth a law, 
 Who from your thrones inspire the world with awe» 
 O ! could ye shut your ears to courtly praise, 
 
 And learn the lesson which this scene conveys ! 
 Where are the mighty at whose mandate rose 
 This massive wall to fetter Caesar’s foes ? — - 
 Or, if they dimly flit before the view 
 Across antiquity’s dark avenue, 
 
 Where are the daring youths of humbler name 
 Who left their household gods in quest of fame ? 4 
 In vain they follow’d glory’s upward path, 
 
 In vain they courted hardships, toils, and death ; 
 
castle-o’er. 
 
 Their name, their deeds that claim’d the poet’s lay, 
 By Time’s devouring stream are swept away. 
 
 Since change is stamp’d on every thing below, 
 
 And power, like ocean’s tide, must ebb and flow, 
 
 Is there a day of fast-approaching date, 
 
 Recorded in the secret book of fate, 
 
 When Britain’s flag, the pole-star of the brave, 
 
 On Calpe’s( ;3 ) war-worn cliffs shall cease to wave ? 
 When Britain’s host, no more to honour true, 
 
 To India’s sun-lit shores shall bid adieu? 
 
 When her bright-beaming star shall sink in shame, 
 And kings no longer tremble at her name ? 
 
 Or, may her sons avert impending doom ? 
 
 Shall future wreaths around their temples bloom ?— 
 Then let them wash away oppression’s stain. 
 
 And from the Ethiop’s neck unbind the chain ; 
 Justice demands the deed with voice austere, 
 
 While mercy drops the interceding tear. 
 
 October 1831, 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 
 The following allegorical rhymes were suggested by the pecu- 
 liar character of the season in which they were written, 1831. 
 The spring was dry and barren, boding scarcity of food, both for 
 man and beast : the summer, one of the best on record : the 
 harvest, very favourable and abundant. 
 
 On the mountains of Albyn, romantic and wild, 
 Where peace long had flourish’d, and happiness smil’d. 
 Like the voice of the tempest that booms from afar, 
 Was heard the hoarse murmur of armies and war. 
 
 In the loneliest, loveliest isle of the sea, 
 
 Over Albyn, the wave-washen soil of the free ; 
 
 O’er her forest-girt plains and her mountain-land gray 
 Had Plenty establish'd his fatherly sway ; 
 
 He had peopled the wide- spreading upland with flocks, 
 And sent forth to the valley the labouring ox ; 
 
 The bounty of autumn, the beauty of spring 
 Had increas’d under Plenty, the patriot king. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 
 57 
 
 But he left, in a frolic, the home of his youth, 
 
 To visit the vine-cover'd hills of the south : 
 
 By the Po and the Arno he wander'd a stranger, 
 
 Nor knew that the land which he lov'd was in danger; 
 He wist not that foemen their banners had planted 
 On fields where his footsteps in childhood had haunted. 
 
 There were signs in the heaven, and omens on earth, 
 Ere the ills that afflicted our land had their birth ; 
 An arch most stupendous, to science unknown, 
 
 Of a pale, lifeless hue, o'er the night-sky was thrown ; 
 Portentous of doom and disaster to man, 
 
 Our isle it embrac'd in its vapoury span. 
 
 When evening was come, and the valley was still, 
 The shepherd who guarded the fold on the hill 
 Had witness'd vast armies in uniform bright 
 Perform all the dread evolutions of fight ; 
 
 And swiftly would spread the astonishing tale 
 Of the warriors brac'd in serial mail. [deep. 
 
 There were moanings at midnight, unearthly and 
 Like the voice of the winds when they war with the 
 steep ; 
 
 And phantom processions of funeral woe 
 In the glimmering star-light mov'd solemn and slow. 
 Grim monsters were born, if fame truly reported, 
 With members mis-shapen and features distorted ; — - 
 What fear they excited, and mortal surprise, 
 
 When speech flow'd from their lips, — fire flash’d from 
 their eyes ! 
 
53 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 
 One wild warning they'd utter of forth-coming woes, 
 Then their mouths would be mute, and their eyelids 
 would close. 
 
 How soon were their sayings of mystery solv'd ! 
 
 How soon was our land in disorder involv'd ! 
 
 'Twas the lord of the Lybian wilderness — Thirst* 
 Who flew to the foray, the fiercest — the first ; 
 
 A proud, ardent spirit, sublim'd by the sun, 
 
 On perils and pains ’twas his pastime to run. 
 
 'Mong the men of the wild he had long been renown'd ; 
 The wreath of the victor his temples had bound ; 
 
 But stern was his bearing and harsh his control, 
 Unalter'd his purpose, unyielding his soul : 
 
 The rude Bedoween had come under his ban, 
 
 He had ruthlessly plunder'd the rich caravan ; 
 
 From the mouths of the Nile to the Moon's rocky belt 
 His fame had extended, his power had been felt ; 
 
 To Sheik and to Sultan, to Bey and Bashaw 
 His name was a terror, his mandate was law : 
 
 He mock'd at destruction, he jested with fear, 
 
 While he ran uncontroll'd his impetuous career ; 
 
 He had bask'd in the glow of the vertical beam, 
 
 He had bath'd in Zahara's illusory stream ; 
 
 He had breath'd the hot breath of the deadly Simoom, 
 When o'er him w T as spread its pavilion of gloom ; 
 Round his forehead had flicker'd the sulphurous flash, 
 And dear to his ear was the thunder's dread crash ; 
 On his couch had the blast of the wilderness blown, 
 And the whirlwind had swept round the base of his. 
 throne. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 
 59 
 
 In regions remote from the travellers ken 
 He had ransack'd the red dragon’s noxious den, 
 
 And with the pestilence walk’d hand in hand 
 Through valleys of salt and o’er mountains of sand. 
 But he heard — while he wept for a still wider sphere 
 To gild with his glory-r-to shroud with his fear — 
 He heard that the guardian of Albyn was gone, 
 
 And he came with his bands from the fiery zone, 
 (Rous’d up by ambition’s delirious dreams) 
 
 To conquer the land of green meadows and streams. 
 
 Nor, with Thirst and his furious warriors alone. 
 Must Albyn contend for her freedom and throne : 
 The forests and fields of the far-distant north 
 Their hordes, under Hunger, to battle sent forth— 
 Fell Hunger, familiar with strife from his youth, 
 Unaffected by fear, unacquainted with ruth ; 
 
 The prince of the pole’s hyperborean borders, 
 
 Where thron’d on an ice-berg he issued his orders. 
 His power was deep-rooted, despotic his sway, 
 
 And proud was the pomp of his warlike array ; 
 
 On the hills of his fame like a giant he strode, 
 
 While thousands of tremblers proclaim’d him a god ; 
 And bards, in the depth of their mystical lore, 
 
 Could trace his descent from the thunderer — Thor. 
 He had gather’d his laurels on Lapland’s bleak strand, 
 ’Mong Norway’s dark pines he had muster’d his band; 
 And his banner had flapped on the Doffrefeld high. 
 Like a ravenous bird in the pale wintry sky. 
 
60 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 
 ’Gainst the Briton, on daring discovery bent, 
 
 The tyrant had all his malignity spent ; 
 
 The sailor his haughty forbearance would crave, — 
 UnrivalFd he rode on the wild polar wave. 
 
 Green Erin beheld his array on her coast, 
 
 And her dastardly nobles deserted their post ; 
 
 They reck’d not though ruin’s broad wave o’er her 
 broke, 
 
 They parted with honour, and shrunk from the shock. 
 But for Albyn’s rich spoils he incessantly sigh’d — 
 Fair Albyn, of ocean the pearl and pride, 
 
 With her valleys in spring’s gayest garniture drest, 
 And her hills gently fann’d by the breeze of the west. 
 He thought on his kindred who slept in her clay, 
 
 He ponder’d on Largo’s disastrous day ; 
 
 And revenge bade him wash from the red page of story 
 The disgrace of his clime, and the Islanders’ glory. 
 He mutter’d a prayer o’ er his ancestor’s grave, 
 
 And he enter’d at midnight the sorcerer’s cave, 
 
 And the ministring fates, amid darkness and gloom, 
 Conferr’d on his sword its commission of doom. 
 
 Then darken’d the northern armada the main, 
 
 As of yore when it bore the piratical Dane ; 
 
 And Albyn forsaken, her terror avow’d, 
 
 When it lower’d o’er her shores like a storm-boding 
 cloud. 
 
 There was woe on the mountain, and war in the plain ; 
 
 The remonstrance of pity was utter’d in vain; 
 
 3 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 
 61 
 
 Stalk'd Hunger abroad like the angel of death, 
 
 With the wreck of humanity strewing his path ; 
 
 But chiefly his vengeance and malice accurs'd 
 On the city's broad mark, like a hurricane burst. 
 
 It irks me to mention the towns he attack'd — 
 
 How they yielded at once, or stood out and were sack'd: 
 Wherever the ill-omen'd Raven was rear'd, ( l ) 
 Dismay and despair 'mong the Islesmen appear'd ; 
 And the wailings of sorrow were heard in the street, 
 And the gloom of the grave shrouded gaiety's seat, 
 And fearful forebodings of exquisite woe 
 Abounded ; for fierce were the threats of the foe. 
 Thrice happy is he who surrenders his life 
 Amid valour's thick ranks in the battle's brief strife ! 
 But woe to the wretch who in darkness and chains 
 Must suffer captivity’s lengthening pains ! 
 
 And miseries unheard-of before, or elsewhere, 
 
 The captives of Hunger were destin'd to bear ; 
 
 The screw, and the rack, and the torturing wheel 
 To them would their manifold horrors reveal. 
 
 While city and borough by Hunger were batter’d. 
 The followers of Thirst, by agreement, were scatter'd — 
 Like a cloud of the morning by winds split asunder — ■» 
 In bands to the landward, for havock and plunder. 
 Descended from Ishmael the wild and the free, 
 
 Bold archers they were of the highest degree ; 
 
 Their shaft was unerring, and fatal its stroke, 
 
 And light was their march over mountain and rock 
 
62 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 
 Not the shepherd, though wary, and nimble of foot* 
 Might elude their keen glance, or escape their pursuit ; 
 The husbandman mus’d in the vale by the brook, 
 But deep disappointment appear’d in his look ; 
 
 The field of his labours lay trampled and bare — ■ 
 
 At morn had the ruthless marauders been there. 
 
 The fruits of the field and the flocks of the fold — 
 The wealth of the isle since the ages of old, 
 
 From the peer and the peasant were equally reft, 
 And the pittance, how poor, which the ravagers left ! 
 Before them the beauty of paradise shone, 
 
 Behind, stretch’d a wilderness, gloomy and lone ; 
 Even spring’s cheerful green disappear’d from the sod, 
 As if Attila’s steed on each hillock had trode. 
 
 But the spirit of freedom afar took her flight, 
 
 And whisper’d to Plenty in dreams of the night, 
 
 That the glory of Albyn was seiz’d for a spoil, 
 
 That the foot of a foe had polluted her soil. 
 
 Fla, Freedom ! thy call is indeed talismanic, 
 
 It is heard, and the tyrant confesses his panic ; 
 
 It comes like a spell o’er the soul of the slave, 
 
 And he starts from his chains, like the dead from the 
 grave. 
 
 From repose in the greenwood the wanderer awoke. 
 The fetters of pleasure asunder he broke ; 
 
 And lightly his bark bounded over the main, 
 
 As homeward he hasten’d his right to regain. 
 
The triumph of plenty. 
 
 63 
 
 All nature rejoic’d when the monarch return’d ; 
 (For nature his absence in sackcloth had mourn’d) 
 O’er her labours benevolence and beauty presided ; 
 Soft showers and bright sunshine the season divided; 
 At morn the lightbreeze ’mong the branches would play, 
 On earth’s bosom the dewdrops nocturnally lay : 
 
 The song of the bird was again in the bower, 
 
 And again the glad bee sipp’d the sweets of the flower; 
 And the beetle, whose music the city ne’er heard, 
 Humm’d her evening hymn in the ear of the bard. 
 
 The Lord of the Isle stood alone on the strand, 
 To his standard he summon’d the choice of the land, 
 Youth’s vigorous plants which the war-blast had spar’d, 
 When its fury the strength of the forest impair’d : 
 They march’d not in soldierly pomp to the field, 
 With war’s vulgar weapons — with sword and with 
 shield ; 
 
 They appear’d in the garb which plain husbandmen 
 wear, — 
 
 They brandish’d the sickle, the scythe, and the share; 
 Their arms were the same which in Rome’s better days 
 Had won Cincinnatus his chaplet of praise ; 
 
 The same which Loncarty’s stout champion bore, 
 When invasion’s red torrent he stemm’d on the shore. 
 Nor sallied the Switzer from mountain and rock, 
 When Freedom and Tell from their slumber awoke. 
 With more ardour and zeal, than the Islesmen display’d, 
 In surrounding their chief, when his signal was made: 
 
64 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 
 They were Albyn’s defenders, the true and the tried, 
 For adversity sweeps the false-hearted aside. 
 
 When the spring-tide of fortune o’er nations is flowing, 
 When, bright as the noon-blaze, their glory is glowing, 
 Then is merit’s chief meed to the patriot forbidden — 
 In the national splendour the hero is hidden ; 
 
 But when fortune abandons the helm of the state, 
 When friends are afar, and the foes at the gate ; 
 And hopes prove delusive, and perils are thickening, 
 And the heart of the boldest in secret is sickening ; 
 When ruin society’s framework is tearing, — 
 
 O ! then is the moment for heroes appearing ! 
 
 So Poland’s fresh laurels excel, all allow, 
 
 The wreath, Sobieski ! that shaded thy brow ; 
 
 The bird on that banner her pinion hath stretch'd 
 To a sphere that the Eagle of Rome never reach’d. 
 
 Joy beat in each bosom, hope beam’d in each eye — 
 The morning of Albyn’s deliverance was nigh ; 
 
 And the full swelling hearts of her sons found relief 
 In the song of affection which welcom’d their chief. 
 
 THE SONG OF WELCOME. 
 
 He is welcome to our homes, 
 
 He is welcome to our hearts. 
 
 He is welcome to our hills 
 And our valleys again ! 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 
 65 
 
 Let the grateful muses bring 
 Tuneful tribute to our king, 
 
 And our farthest mountains ring 
 With the rapturous strain ! 
 
 We had trouble, we had war, 
 
 When our leader wander’d far, 
 
 O’er the ocean’s wavy bar, 
 
 To fair Italy’s domain ; 
 
 But when darkest lower’d our night, 
 
 He return’d, like angel bright, 
 
 To install us in our right 
 And our freedom again. 
 
 There was sadness in the hall, 
 
 When our hopes were at the w r all, 
 
 And when under cruel thrall 
 We were doom’d to complain ; 
 
 Now our fears are fled away 
 Like the cloud before the ray, 
 
 Since Plenty shall bear sway 
 In his kingdom again. 
 
 The weapons which we wield 
 Have been tried in many a field, 
 Though there’s neither sword nor shield 
 To be found in our train : 
 
 Our fathers wore the same : 
 
 On their days of highest name, 
 
66 THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 
 And well emulate the fame 
 Of their war-deeds again. 
 
 Th’ invaders hearts shall quail 
 When they gaze with visage pale. 
 
 On our banner in the gale, 
 
 And our bands on the plain : — 
 
 When we've recompens’d our woes 
 On our proud insulting foes, 
 
 Then shall Janus’ temple close,. 
 
 Ne’er to open again. 
 
 He is welcome to our homes* 
 
 He is welcome to our hearts, 
 
 He is welcome to our hills 
 And our valleys again ! 
 
 Let the grateful muses bring, 
 
 Tuneful tribute to our king, 
 
 And let all our mountains ring 
 With the rapturous strain ! 
 
 In numbers like these would the bards of the Isle 
 Give vent to the feelings they cherish’d the while : 
 And already the half of their labour was done, 
 Already, in part, was the victory won. 
 
 The showers which had long been in ether suspended 
 Let loose from their springs, in profusion descended 
 Filling Albyn with gladness, but fruitful of woe 
 To the fiery sons of the African bow : 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 
 67 
 
 The bow lost its vigour, its tension the string, 
 
 The arrow was faithless and flagged on the wing ; 
 And despair, which in sighs from his bosom would burst 
 Parlyz'd the resolves and the efforts of Thirst. 
 Disappointed of conquest, though glutted with crime, 
 His spirits subdued by the damps of the clime, 
 
 The merited vengeance of Plenty he dreaded, — 
 From the Maelstrom of ruin he quickly receded, 
 And sped o'er the main with his volatile crew, 
 
 In the land of his birth his misrule to renew. 
 
 Even there, if the muse o'er the future may glance* 
 Shall the conquering standard of Plenty advance ; 
 Ere long shall the lords of the arid Karroo 
 To the bountiful monarch submissively bow. 
 
 Meanwhile the banditti of Hunger, enrag'd 
 Because their confederates were thus disengag’d. 
 Defied every foe, and prepar'd to abide 
 The battle that soon should their fortune decide. 
 Round the Raven's dread sign, 'mid the noxious swamp, 
 In its vapours envelop'd they planted their camp ; 
 Nor ever assembled, for frolic or fray, 
 
 A group more terrific, more fiend-like than they : 
 Not the dwellers in Pluto's death-shaded domain. 
 Nor Gorgon depicted in classical strain, 
 
 Nor grey wizards who troop in the shades of the night, 
 Such sensations of horror unmix'd might excite. 
 From the engines of torture that cover'd their rear 
 Issued harsh, creaking sounds, most appalling to hear; 
 
68 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 
 For the enemy still his invention would strain 
 To perfect each spring that might minister pain : 
 And to Thor he a whole human hecatomb vow’d — 
 Hosts of captives should bleed, were the Islesmen 
 subdued. 
 
 In the midst of his legions, all marshall’d for fight, 
 Walk’d their chief to and fro, like a spirit of night : 
 His big fleshless bones were in armour infolded 
 Which artificer skilful in magic had moulded, 
 
 (Who imparted to helmet and hauberk a charm 
 That should parry the blow of the powerfulest arm,) 
 His visage was wrapt in funereal gloom, 
 
 His voice was the hollow response of the tomb ; 
 
 From his eye no expression of dignity fell, 
 
 ’Twas lifeless and ray less, and sunk in its cell ; 
 
 Only hate o’er his features would sullenly flash, 
 
 And his teeth like the phrenzied demoniac he’d gnash ; 
 And his gestures, which brook'd neither curb nor 
 control, 
 
 Bespoke the fierce passions that harass'd his soul : 
 For still in his mind the presentiment wrought 
 That the last of his fields was about to be fought. 
 
 Not so the high-spirited chief of the Isle — 
 
 His face was adorn’d with a confident smile, 
 
 While the language of hope to his bands he address’d. 
 As attentive around him they eagerly pressed ; 
 a Your foe, my companions, is cruel and strong 
 Thus spoke the avenger of insult and wrong, 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 
 69 
 
 “ The nations have tamely come under his yoke, 
 u Their beauty and strength have been marr'd by his 
 stroke; 
 
 “ But you, happy Islanders ! sons of the sea ! 
 u You have always been great, independent, and free; 
 “ Yon host of intruders that darkens the dale, 
 
 “ Shall vanish before you, like dust in the gale. 
 u In the strife’s awful vortex, where dangers abound, 
 “ Your leader and lord will be constantly found ; 
 
 “ I left you, Vis true, but reproaches forbear, — 
 
 “ I am come every fault of the past to repair.'' 
 
 He ended ; and loud as the thunder's loud roar, 
 When it bursts o'erDuncarriden’s battlements hoar, ( 2 ) 
 Rung the joyous reply from the ranks all around, 
 Till the mountains sent back from their caverns the 
 Those echoes to Albyn were victory's omen, [sound ; 
 But they fell like a knell on the ear of the foemen. 
 
 When the ranks were replac'd, and the war-shout 
 was hush'd^ 
 
 Then forward the phalanx of Islanders rush'd ; 
 While gaz'd every eye on the banner-borne Sheaf, 
 That wav'd o’er the head of the patriot chief. 
 
 No helm clasp'd the temples of Plenty, nor brand 
 He wielded — an ox-goad he held in his hand ; 
 Convinc'd that the sword forms of valour no part, 
 That victory is won by the arm, — by the heart. 
 
 Some moments of silence elaps'd ; then arose 
 Shouts discordant and wild from the camp of the foes : 
 
7o 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 
 Their king, of his power and his panoply vain, 
 Look'd on Albyn's array with the scowl of disdain ; 
 And many a dire malediction he pour'd 
 On the sons of the Isle, and their generous lord : 
 For soon his opponent the tyrant descried, 
 
 And to combat him singly, he Plenty defied. 
 
 Not long unaccepted the challenge remain'd ; 
 
 The encounter he courted he promptly obtain’d. 
 Dividing the hosts was a moderate space, 
 
 In its centre the rivals in fame took their place ; 
 While motionless, round the arena, and mute, 
 
 Stood thousands to witness the deadly dispute. 
 
 What feelings the patriot's bosom beset, 
 
 Oh ! Albyn, what fears when the combatants met ! 
 The cheek of thy bravest grew death-like and pale 
 When Hunger came forward ensconc’d in his mail ; 
 Frowning fierce as Apollyon unchain'd in his den, 
 Gaunt, ghastly and grim as the ghost of the glen. 
 He swore by his sword and the gods of the Goths 
 To scatter the Islesmen, or crush them like moths; 
 And by all the bright orbs of his star-studded heavens 
 That the flesh of their chief should be food for the 
 ravens. 
 
 How bootless the speech he had boastingly spoken ! 
 How feeble the spell that was soon to be broken ! 
 
 On his forehead, no longer by sorcery defended, 
 
 A blow from the weapon of Plenty descended ; 
 
 The scourge of the nations fell — mortally w r ounded ; 
 And far o’er the war-field his armour resounded. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 
 While the Islanders gaz'd on their foe’s lifeless form. 
 As it lay like a tree overblown by the storm, 
 
 They exclaim’d, in the fervour of joy’s ardent fever, 
 So let all tyrants perish, for ever and ever ! 
 
 Not faster Philistia sought safety in flight 
 When the giant of Gath was struck down in the fight*. 
 Than fled to their ships the rude hordes of the north 
 When their terrible champion lay prone on the earth \ 
 While their whole apparatus of torture was seiz’d, — - 
 The sulferer was sooth’d and the captive releas’d ; 
 And many a vow the pale fugitives made, 
 
 That our island again they would never invade. 
 
 Long, long may the nymphs of remote Labrador 
 Wait for Hunger’s approach to their ice-girdled shore ! 
 And long may the Greenlander watch in his cave 
 For the tyrant’s proud march on the bridge of the wave ? 
 In the grave of his shame like an outcast he lies : — - 
 The mighty hath fallen, no more to arise. 
 
 The noon of the Sabbath was sultry and still, 
 
 Slow heav’d the thick cloud o’er the crest of the hill. 
 When the flash on the lowering horizon afar 
 To the elements gave the red signal of war. 
 
 The call is obey’d, all the thunders awaken 
 The hills to their rocky foundations are shaken ; 
 Heaven’s windows are open’d, and torrents of rain 
 Rush down on the mountains, and deluge the plain ; 
 
72 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 
 The stream of the vale, with new vigour supplied, 
 Sweeps o'er the broad harvests that wav'd in their pride. 
 And the sea-bird's wild scream with the tempest is 
 blending, 
 
 As if ocean his reign o'er the earth were extending ; 
 The worshippers tremble amid the commotion, 
 
 While they haste to their homes from the house of 
 devotion ; 
 
 The truths which the teacher had mildly reveal'd, 
 
 By the storm with the impress of terror are seal'd. 
 But the spirit who woke the tornado went forth 
 On his loud-sounding car o’er the skies of the north ; 
 The sunbeams again in our valley repos'd ; 
 
 The Sabbath in holy tranquillity clos'd ; 
 
 And only the tale of the tempest was told 
 By the hollow-ton’d river as onward it roll'd. 
 
 So mighty a change hath our land undergone, 
 
 Since Plenty was seated again on his throne ; 
 
 Our fears pass'd away like the thin summer cloud, 
 And long were our grateful rejoicings, and loud ; 
 
 By the aged the anthem of gladness was sung, 
 Responsive it flow'd from the lips of the young ; 
 
 Nor yet shall it cease the remotest posterity 
 Shall look back to the era of peace and prosperity ; 
 Full oft by his hearth shall the cottager tell 
 Of the fortunes that whilom his fathers befell ; 
 
 He shall tell to his sons, he shall tell with a tear, 
 The deeds that distinguish'd the wonderful year ; 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 
 73 
 
 While his thanks shall ascend to the Ruler of all, 
 Who sent a deliverer to save us from thrall ; 
 
 The hungry who fed with the choice of the wheat, 
 And render'd the triumph of Plenty complete. 
 
 E 
 
74 
 
 BURN AND BYKEN. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 The tragical story of Burn and Byken, though it is without a 
 date, and rests solely on tradition, is considered authentic. The 
 land from which the heroes of the tale, after the Scottish fashion, 
 derived their respective designations, are in the parish of Wester - 
 kirk, on the banks of the Esk, and about four or five miles ftom 
 Langholm. Burns’ family was a branch of the clan Beattison, 
 or Beattie, which anciently possessed the upper part of the dis- 
 trict of Eskdale. A great number of his descendants are still 
 residing in the same district. With respect to Byken’s name, 
 nothing farther can be ascertained, than that he bore the formid- 
 able soubriquet of Andrew JBraidsicord . 
 
 A large stone, at a pass in the range of hills which separates 
 Eskdale from Wauchopedale, and just at the point where the 
 farm of Craig and those of Caulfield and Cleughfoots meet, is 
 supposed to mark the spot where the rivals fought and fell. The 
 duel was followed by a law-suit between the families, which ter- 
 minated in the ruin of both parties, and the alienation of their 
 estates. 
 
 In lonely mansion, old and grey, 
 Far in the leafy wood, 
 
 Dwelt Burn, a long-descended chief, 
 With mind of haughty mood. 
 
BURN AND BYREN. 
 
 75 
 
 High on the hill frown'd Byken's tower. 
 Braving the wintry gale ; 
 
 Its lord look'd down with kingly pride 
 Upon his subject vale. 
 
 His hardy kinsmen, train’d and trtie, 
 
 Were under his control ; 
 
 But dark revenge dwelt in his breast, 
 
 And sullen was his soul. 
 
 Oft to the revel and the feast 
 With Burn lie had repair'd, 
 
 And oft the foray's dangerous toils 
 Together they had shar'd. 
 
 They stood in the day of civil broil, 
 
 On the war-field side by side, 
 
 When the Douglas' blood drench'd Arkinholm, 
 And the foam of the river dyed.(i) 
 
 And when fierce Musgrave's plundering bands 
 On Scotland urg'd their war, 
 
 To the tide of ruin as it roll'd 
 Their swords had prov'd a bar. 
 
 But woe to the wine-cup — bitter fount 
 Whence tears and sorrows flow ! 
 
 Pleasure may brighten round the brim, 
 
 But poison lurks below. 
 
70 
 
 BURN AND BYKENc 
 
 In friendship’s guise the chieftains met, 
 
 The noxious cup went round ; 
 
 Late was the hour — they boasted loud 
 Of courser and of hound. 
 
 Then follow’d fiercer words, and tones 
 Of stern defiance rung ; 
 
 And oft they grasp’d the weapon’s hilt 
 That in its scabbard hung. 
 
 They part in peace — to meet in war ; 
 
 Each shook his rival’s hand, 
 
 That hand which by the break of mom 
 Should strain the deadly brand. 
 
 Burn hasten’d to his woodland home. 
 
 His mind inflam’d with wine ; 
 
 He call’d his lady fair, a dame 
 Of Maxwell’s haughty line : 
 
 “ My word,” quoth Burn, 66 is deeply pledg’d 
 Whatever may betide, 
 
 To meet with Byken in red war, 
 
 At morn on yon mountain’s side.” 
 
 The morning came — its cheering rays 
 Through parting cloudlets stream’d ; 
 
 Labour was up — the mower’s scythe 
 Down in the meadow gleam’d. 
 
BURN AND BYKEN. 
 
 77 
 
 Rose Burn, forgetful of the past ; 
 
 Woo'd by the season's smile, 
 
 He, musing, wander'd where the hind 
 Pursued his peaceful toil. 
 
 Not so the lady of his love — 
 
 Alive to honour's call, 
 
 Sooner than share her lord’s disgrace 
 She'd spread his funeral pall. 
 
 Where is thy valour fled ?" she cried, 
 
 46 Where is thy plighted word ? 
 
 And wilt thou shrink from Byken’s arm ? 
 And dost thou fear his sword ?" 
 
 Ill might proud Burn abide reproach, 
 
 111 brook'd he taunt or jeer ; 
 
 His joys had been in battle-field, 
 
 His breast ne’er shelter’d fear. 
 
 Memory awoke — he turn’d his back 
 On swain and scented swathe, 
 
 To bear a part in other toils, 
 
 On the harvest-field of death. 
 
 The fearless dame of Maxwell’s race 
 Brac'd on his brand : — u Let Bum 
 Come back," she cried, “ with victory, 
 
 Or on his bier return." 
 
7B 
 
 BURN AND BYK'EN. 
 
 Then rush'd he away to the field of fight. 
 Like one imped'd by fate : 
 
 Th' appointed hour was already past. 
 
 And why should By ken wait ? 
 
 The sun rose high, and bright was the sky. 
 The bird was mute in the bower, 
 
 While Maxwell's daughter pensive sat 
 At noon in her wood-girt tower. 
 
 64 Away," she cried, “ ye swift of foot ! 
 Away, ye strong of arm ! 
 
 Go, seek your lord on yon mountain path ! 
 I fear he suffers harm." 
 
 And away they sped, a numerous train. 
 
 All bearing brand or bill, 
 
 To seek the master whom they lov'd, 
 
 On the foot-paths of the hill. 
 
 Borne on the mountain-breeze they heard 
 The raven's boding cry : — 
 
 For awful doings had been done, 
 
 Far from obtruding eye. 
 
 There Burn and Byken, each the chief, 
 The bravest of his race, 
 
 Calm as the sleeping infant, lay 
 In death's clay- cold embrace. 
 
BURN AND BYKEN. 
 
 79 
 
 The strife was o'er, and none might tell 
 The combat’s thrilling tale ; 
 
 But darkly was its story writ 
 On each warrior’s forehead pale. 
 
 The death-chill’d hand still grasp’d the brand, 
 And red was the trampled sod, 
 
 And still from many a gaping wound 
 The purple life-drops flow’d. 
 
 Well might the dame of the wood-girt tower 
 Accuse herself of crime ; 
 
 And long lament for her gallant lord, 
 
 Who fell in manhood’s prime. 
 
80 
 
 VERSES 
 
 ADDRESSED TO ONE OF THE HUMAN TEETH DUG OUT 
 OF THE CAIRN ON AJRSWOOD-MOSS, MAY 1828 . 
 
 Tooth of the olden time ! Td wish to learn 
 Thy living history ; what age and nation 
 Thou represen ted'st underneath the cairn, 
 
 Fruitful of antiquarian speculation ; 
 
 Nor are my queries an unmeaning sally — 
 
 Tooth is to tongue a neighbour and an ally. 
 
 Was it thy proud distinction, ancient tooth. 
 
 To ornament and arm a Roman jaw, 
 
 When the all-conquering legions of the south 
 Impos'd on us their language and their law ? 
 When death or bondage seem'd to overtake us, 
 
 Pray, didst thou gnash defiance on Galgacus ? 
 
 Was thy proprietor a sky-blue Piet, 
 
 Remarkable for longitude of arm ? 
 
 One of that tribe which kingly Kenneth kick'd 
 'From crown and kingdom, to their no small harm? 
 
VERSES ADDRESSED TO A TOOTH. 
 
 81 
 
 Well known they were, I wot, for uncouth grammar, 
 For painting, too, and throwing the sledge-hammer. 
 
 Perhaps thou art a tooth of Saxon breed, 
 
 (A heath'nish cruel race with yellow hair,) 
 
 And haply grinn’d within some helmed head, 
 
 With very transport, when the victim fair 
 Was seiz'd and slain, and sacrificed, and sodden, 
 And served up to bloody Thor and Woden. 
 
 Thou'rt not Druidical, I'm prone to think, 
 
 For near thy lonely tomb no forests grow ; 
 
 Nor, o'er thy bending river's grassy brink, 
 
 Hath the green oak its shade been known to throw, 
 Forming a fane of gloom for Druid sages, 
 
 Or all hath perish'd in the lapse of ages. 
 
 What was thy owner, then ? a warrior dire, 
 
 Who liv'd and died amid the din of battle ? 
 
 Was he some consequential feudal squire, 
 
 Who bought and sold his serfs like other cattle ? 
 Mayhap a bard, with soul of gentler quality, 
 
 Who sigh'd for, but obtain'd not, immortality. 
 
 If so, what funeral rites appeas’d his shade ? 
 
 Wak'd minstrelsy her wildest intonations? 
 
 Did silent sorrow many a breast pervade ? 
 
 Or rung the welkin wide with ululations. 
 
82 
 
 VERSES ADDRESSED TO A TOOTH 
 
 While rose in air the monumental stones, 
 
 A graceful cone — most venerable — of bones ? 
 
 Ah ! little thought the magnet of his times — 
 
 Th’ aspiring bard — the man of power — the hero — 
 That his renown should rise in these my rhymes 
 After ten centuries'’ repose at zero ; 
 
 And that his tooth, ejected from its socket, 
 
 Should tos& and tumble in my waistcoat pocket. 
 
 Having discuss’d these high concerns a little, 
 
 (I hope with some decorum and propriety) 
 
 There yet remain some minor points to settle, 
 Though not less interesting to society ; 
 
 Questions connected with domestic quiet 
 And happiness — I now allude to diet. 
 
 Much as I’ve sought thy lineage and descent, 
 
 Thou bony remnant of departed glory ! 
 
 I own I’m not less anxiously bent 
 
 To learn thy private, more immediate story — 
 What meats, or common or by way of cordial, 
 
 Have undergone thy masticating ordeal. 
 
 ’Twere an uncourteous question, “ Didst thou fare 
 On luxuries which modern teeth disable?” 
 
 Thy hardy frame and healthful looks declare 
 That no such trash e’er trifled on thy table : 
 
DUG OUT OF AIRSWOOD-MOSS. 
 
 * 83 
 
 Thine was the food of undegenerate ages, 
 
 Else never hadst thou figured in my pages. 
 
 ’Twas thine, heroic tooth ! ’twas thine to pierce 
 The red deer’s swelling sides with pride dilated ; 
 
 The wild boar’s head, terrific, grim, and fierce, 
 
 Thy eager, ardent onset too awaited ; 
 
 Then teeth with tusk in deadly conflict meeting, 
 
 Display’d the feats of true primeval eating. 
 
 5 T were equally uncivil to inquire 
 
 If aught thou knowest of the frightful ache ; 
 
 Thy fangs are sound as one could well desire, 
 
 Thy hard enamel smooth as frozen lake. 
 
 Thy triumph is twofold, O tooth sublime ! 
 
 Thou scorn’st alike tooth-ache and tooth of time. 
 
 And here thou art, a prodigy — a wonder — ■ 
 
 A monument of undecaying earth ; 
 
 Nor more of thee we’ll know till the last thunder 
 Shall from his slumbers call thy master forth ; 
 
 These puzzles which I grapple with in vain 
 
 Shall then be solv’d — and all thy case seem plain. 
 
84 
 
 WINKYN WORDED SKULLE, 
 
 A BOGLE STOItlE. 
 
 “ Rise up, rise up, Maijorie my maide. 
 
 An" busk yereseP wi’ speed ; 
 
 A yerrand ye maun rin for me 
 To the d walling place o' the deid. 
 
 “ Ye hae heard o' Winkyn Worde o' the glen. 
 The maister o' monie a charm ; — 
 
 Gin I had the wizard's withert skulle, 
 
 ’Twad keep my house frae harm. 
 
 “ It lies aneath the grey thruch-stane, 
 
 Aside the auld kirk wa', 
 
 Where the dew never dries off the nettle leaf, 
 
 An' the rain-drops heavilie fa’. 
 
 u The daurin' deed, if I rightlie read, 
 
 Maun be dune at the midnight houre ; 
 
 An’ by maiden her lane maun the taeken be taen, 
 Else it can ha'e nae power. 
 
 1 
 
WINKYN WORDe’s SKULLE. 
 
 85 
 
 u Haste, haste ye away, my maide Marjorie, 
 
 An" tell nane where ye’re gaun ; 
 
 Haste, haste ye away to the thruch-stane grey, 
 An’ bring Winkyn’s pow i’ yere haun’.” 
 
 0 ! dear laddie, the nicht is mirk, 
 
 The muin she’s i’ the w T ane ; 
 
 I daurna gang to the kirk-yard drear — 
 
 1 daurna gang my lane. 
 
 a The win’ sughs i’ the hie kirk-tower. 
 
 It tinkles the steeple bell : — 
 
 O ! the kirk-yard is a dowie place — 
 
 I daurna gang mysel’. 
 
 66 Loud yowl’d the grew at the yett yestreen, 
 
 The cock crew a’ nicht lang, 
 
 An’ the deid-licht pale twinklit doon o’ the dale — 
 O ! na, I daurna gang.” 
 
 64 Ye sail get a siller kaim, Marjorie, 
 
 An’ a braw new silken goon ; 
 
 Ye may catch the e’e o’ Patrick the laird 
 When ye gang to the market toon. 
 
 “ Gin ye hate i’ yere heart the thing that’s wrang, 
 An’ wish yere neebor weel, 
 
 Yere as safe i’ the nicht as i’ the braid daylicht 
 Frae the grips o’ ghaist or deil.” 
 
86 
 
 WINKYN WORDe’s SKULLE. 
 
 “ O ! laddie dear, yere words are gude ; 
 
 I’ve heard it said an’ sung, 
 
 That ’gainst the raaide o’ the halie mind 
 Nae dog wad muive its tongue. 
 
 “ The sinfu’ wight at the deid houre o’ nicht 
 Unsonsie sichts may see ; 
 
 But I never did harm to Winkyn Worde — 
 He winna fash wi me. 
 
 66 Nae ill gets harbour i’ my heart, 
 
 I hate the thocht that’s wrang ; 
 
 An’ what need I fear i’ the kirk-yard drear ? — 
 I’ the strength o’ gude I’ll gang.” 
 
 The blast blew snell, an the sleetie shower fell. 
 The storm rav’d loud o’er the lea ; 
 
 Ilk little bum roun’ scaur and crag 
 Ran rowin like a sea. 
 
 ’Twas the mirkest houre o’ a’ the twal, 
 
 No a stern i’ the lift could ane ken ; 
 
 Noucht yirthlie micht be asteer that nicht 
 But Marjorie o’ the glen. 
 
 Fast ran she doon by the big water-side. 
 
 That shuke a’ its banks an’ its braes 
 
 Wi 1 fearfu’ din as its waves of faem 
 Strave hard wi’ their rocky faes. 
 
WINKYN WORDE’s SKULLE. 
 
 87 
 
 Fast skreev’d she by the bogle brig, 
 
 An’ roun’ by the warlock knowe, 
 
 An’ doon the kirk loanin sae dowie and dark, 
 Where the stalwart ash-trees growe. 
 
 The fitfu’ blast frae the wiF nor-wast 
 Wail’d out its eerie moan ; 
 
 An’ she’d start an’ stare at the fire-flaucht’s glare 
 As she enter’d the kirk-yard lone. 
 
 She paus’d a wee at the black kirk-yett, 
 
 To reive the pow she was laith, 
 
 Lest Winkyn Worde or the Worrikow 
 Should cause her deidlie skaith ; 
 
 But the cheerin’ thouchts o’ Patrick the laird 
 Upheld her sinkin’ faith. 
 
 She brenyelt outowre the braid flat stanes 
 Where the deid lay i’ monie a raw ; 
 
 Nor miss’d she the way to the thruch-stane grey, 
 Aside the auld kirk wa.’ 
 
 For weel she kent the unloesome spat 
 Where the wizard’s banes were laid, 
 
 Aside the lang black coffin spaiks, 
 
 An’ the sexton’s shool an’ his spaid. 
 
 As she lootit doon by the grey thruch-stane, 
 
 An’ glaum t wi’ her haun’ underneath. 
 
88 
 
 WINKYN WORDE’s SKULLE. 
 
 The win’ fell lown, ’twas an eerie calm. 
 
 Ilk breeze held in his breath ; 
 
 An* the warslin’ taps o' the tall ash-trees 
 Grew a’ as still as death. 
 
 She raucht her out the fleshless skulle 
 Wi’ tremblin’ haun’, I ween ; 
 
 Her fingers held by the deep een-holes 
 Where the licht o’ life had been. 
 
 She turn’d her roun’ for the black kirk-yett, 
 But away she could na win, 
 
 For afore her stude auld Winkyn Worde, 
 Risen straucht up through the grun\ 
 
 He star’d in her face wi’ his een o’ glass, 
 
 An’ he heav’d his bainie haun ; — 
 
 Puir Marjorie’s heart grew cauld as lead, 
 
 An’ she shuke like a willie wan’. 
 
 “ That skulle is mine,” the phantom graen’d, 
 Wi" a voice unyirthlie ho we ; 
 
 An’ sune frae Marjorie’s powerless grip 
 Boon fell the unblest pow. 
 
 As it rowit on the swaird, loud leuch the ghaist 
 Till the auld aisle rang again ; — 
 
 She heard nae mair, she fell in a swarf 
 Aside the grey thruch-stane ; 
 
WINKYN WORDENS SKULLE. 
 
 89 
 
 Nor liftit her een till the blest daylicht 
 Shane blithe owre hill and plain. 
 
 Now Mess John he was a worthie man, 
 
 And a man o’ muckle thoucht ; 
 
 An" he lang'd for a waff o' the mornin' air, 
 
 As bukemen ever oucht. 
 
 He walkit, — 'twas his wont, — mang the wreck o' his 
 kin', 
 
 The saut tear fell frae his ee ; 
 
 Man's weird he mourn'd, for his thouchts were turn'd 
 To frail mortalitie. 
 
 He chancit on the spat whaur Marjorie lay, 
 
 An' he grippit her haun' sae cauld, — 
 
 She tauld her tale, an' the gude man gruwit 
 At the awsome tale she tauld. 
 
 He led her away to his ha' sae bein, 
 
 An' he set her doon wi' care ; 
 
 An’ a' his concern was a stork'nin' draught 
 For Marjorie to prepare. 
 
 For Mess John he was a skilfu' man, 
 
 Chirurgeon gude was he, 
 
 He weel could descrive ilk cramp and craze 
 That sets auld banes ajee. 
 
90 
 
 WINKYN WORDENS SKULLE. 
 
 For Marjorie's case a cure he got, 
 
 An' he mixed it up fu' sune ; — 
 
 She wat her lips, but nane could she drink, 
 Puir Marjorie's days were dune. 
 
 Let maiden ne’er do unlawful’ deid, 
 
 Or for reward or fee, 
 
 Nor darklins meet wi' ghaist or sprite. 
 
 Lest Marjorie's fate she dree. 
 
91 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE SWEARER’S 
 SKIN. 
 
 In the parish of Kilpatrick once 
 There dwelt a wicked wight, 
 
 Who with his horrid swearing did 
 The country folk affright. 
 
 And this was still his favourite oath, 
 His most familiar sin, 
 
 “If the story which I tell be false, 
 
 The devil take my skin /” 
 
 Long time he liv’d, long time he swore, 
 Still waxing worse and worse, 
 Though many a warning he had got 
 To quit such sinful course. 
 
 At last he died, — as better men 
 Had often died before, — 
 
 And six feet deep his grave was dug, 
 
 In front of the church-door. 
 
92 THE LEGEND OF THE SWEARER’S SKIN. 
 
 It was a fearful day, ’tis said, 
 
 On which the funeral pass’d ; 
 
 Some people most devoutly deem’d 
 That it would prove the last. 
 
 Trees were uprooted by the wind, 
 
 The rain in torrents pour’d, 
 
 Fleet flew the lightning’s deadly dart, 
 Th’ appalling thunder roar’d. 
 
 Nor ceas’d the elemental din, 
 
 Nor was the tempest stay’d, 
 
 Till in the craving womb of earth 
 The swearer’s corpse was laid. 
 
 The neighbours thought him well away, 
 And hop’d he’d ne’er come back ; 
 
 His wife rejoic'd, for many a time 
 He beat her blue and black. 
 
 And all the little boys and girls 
 Sung out in merry mood, 
 
 “ The naughty man who frighten’d us 
 Now lies below the sod.” 
 
 Now the parson of Kilpatrick was 
 A man of study deep ; 
 
 He spent those hours in watchfulness 
 That fools devote to sleep. 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE SWEARER'S SKIN. 
 
 93 
 
 'Mong nature’s awful mysteries, 
 
 His thoughts were wont to roam ; 
 
 Much of the present world he knew, 
 And much of that to come. 
 
 He look'd into the future with 
 A prophet's piercing eye ; 
 
 He read the fate of kingdoms in 
 The volume of the sky ; 
 
 He would trace the wiles of witchery to 
 Their darkest lurking place ; 
 
 And detect the secret mark of hell 
 Stamp'd on the wizard's face. 
 
 He'd talk’d with spirits good and bad, 
 The wandering ghost he'd laid ; 
 
 Nor of the father-fiend himself 
 Was he a whit afraid ; 
 
 Though oftentimes that spiteful sprite 
 Would take some startling form, — 
 
 A grunting hog, — a braying ass, — 
 
 His Reverence to alarm, 
 
 ’Twas all in vain ; he stood unmov’d, 
 Like Atlas on its base ; 
 
 And hurl'd upon the tempter's head 
 Derision and disgrace. 
 
94 THE LEGEND OF THE SWEARER’S SKIN. 
 
 The enemy of all that’s good 
 Fought shy, and kept aloof, 
 
 Whilst the indignant parson dealt 
 Well-merited reproof. 
 
 Kilpatrick’s parson pensive stood 
 By the swearer’s grave alone ; 
 
 (And a grave new clos’d is a dreary thing, 
 When the funeral train is gone.) 
 
 On the oaths that man of sin had sworn 
 He dwelt in thought profound ; 
 
 For well he knew such impious words 
 Ne’er fall void to the ground. 
 
 He marvelFd that he’d been allow’d 
 So long to live and thrive, 
 
 And that he died like other men, 
 
 And was not flayed alive. 
 
 Still he opin’d, the powers below 
 Would make their bargain good, 
 
 Else the motions of his inner man 
 He’d quite misunderstood. 
 
 But that the old serpent from his prey 
 For once might be debarr’d, 
 
 He purpos’d by the swearer’s grave 
 To keep strict watch and ward. 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE SWEARER^ SKIN. 95 
 
 He’d tried the strength of man’s sworn foe, 
 
 He knew his power to harm ; 
 
 But he wore a sword of virtue rare 
 That could his rage disarm. 
 
 ’Twas not a falchion flashing clear, 
 
 Far o’er the battle field, 
 
 (Weapon unmeet that were I ween 
 For priestly hand to wield.) 
 
 No ponderous, formidable brand 
 For parry or for thrust ; 
 
 ’Twas pointless as the peaceful share, 
 
 And redden’d o’er with rust : 
 
 The hostile arm in carnal strife 
 Might brave its fellest stroke, 
 
 But woe to th’ unembodied foe 
 Who should its rage provoke ! 
 
 Grav’d on its blade were words of power 
 Cull’d from the Holy Book ; — 
 
 The awful names of the Supreme 
 On which no fiend might look. 
 
 Thus arm’d, the parson walk’d into 
 The church at eventide, 
 
 The hottest brunt of Satan's war 
 Determin'd to abide. 
 
96 THE LEGEND OF THE SWEARERS SKIN. 
 
 Into the pulpit straight he stept, 
 
 And trimmed the evening lamp, 
 
 To prevent surprise, so ran the phrase, 
 
 By spies from the enemy’s camp. 
 
 Then solemnly he took the sword, 
 
 And round his station drew 
 
 A circle most mysterious which 
 No spirit might get through: 
 
 ’Twould stop the course of fiercest fiends, 
 Though it seem’d a simple thing ; 
 
 They’d sooner scale the starry arch 
 Than pass that mystic ring. 
 
 Nor might their eyes, though blaz’d the lamp, 
 On ought but darkness look, 
 
 Or gaze on the lone sentinel 
 In his spell-protected nook. 
 
 The parson thus prepar’d against 
 Whatever might befall, 
 
 Glanc’d through the window on the grave — 
 Then sat him down withal. 
 
 The hours mov’d on ; no sound was heard, 
 
 No living shape was seen 
 
 Within the temple's hallow’d walls ; — 
 Without, all was serene : 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE SWEARERS SKIN- 
 
 The stars gave forth their mellow light, 
 The winds slept in their caves, 
 
 And the balmy night-dews softly fell 
 Upon the field of graves. 
 
 Pensive and pale, when morn awoke 
 The parson walked abroad, 
 
 For still his mind was unrelieved 
 Of its prophetic load : 
 
 He spent the day in solitude 
 And cogitation deep ; 
 
 No food refresh’d his weary frame, 
 
 He kept his eyes from sleep ; 
 
 And when the tardy sun had sunk 
 Behind the mountains blue, 
 
 He hasten’d to the church again. 
 
 His vigils to renew. 
 
 Again he lighted up the lamp, 
 
 The lonesome hours to cheer ; 
 
 Again he trac’d the circular mark 
 That sinful spirits fear. 
 
 Silence prevail’d, and nature felt 
 The pleasures of repose, 
 
 Till midnight, when, as from a trance, 
 The frantic blast arose ; 
 
98 THE LEGEND OF THE SWEARER’S SKIN. 
 
 Quak'd to its core the church, as if 
 The many winds of heaven 
 
 On its devoted roof had met, 
 
 And for the mastery striven. 
 
 Yet cool the parson sat the while, 
 
 With watchful ear and eye ; 
 
 For the hideous howl of the tempest told 
 That the prince of the air was nigh. 
 
 But the blast had pass’d on its wild career 
 Not to return again, 
 
 And he heard a dreamy, dying hum 
 As it swept up the woodland glen. 
 
 Nor stirr’d there breath of air again 
 Till morning cheer’d the earth, 
 
 When the unwearied watchman from 
 His watch-tower sallied forth. 
 
 Another tedious day he spent 
 In rigid self-denial, 
 
 To fit his frame for what he deem’d 
 The final fiery trial : 
 
 Another day of thought intense, 
 
 Another night of travail 
 
 Would bring his labours to a close, 
 
 And Satan’s plot unravel : 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE SWEARERS SKIN. 
 
 And he who would with devils war 
 Must wisdom’s lesson cone, 
 
 Else the might of hell were an over-match 
 For the arm of flesh and bone. 
 
 Twilight return’d, and the dauntless man 
 Again to his post repair’d ; 
 
 He form’d anew the rampart-ring, 
 
 No prudent pains he spar’d : 
 
 And guarded well by holy spell, 
 
 Arm’d with the sword of power, 
 
 He felt as calm, as confident 
 As lady in her bower. 
 
 ’Twas midnight, and the demon-winds 
 Awoke in seven-fold wrath, 
 
 So that their former fury seem’d 
 Only the zephyr’s breath. 
 
 The church-yard trees of strongest growth 
 Like rotten reeds were shiver'd ; 
 
 The very earth, though ribb’d with rock, 
 Like leaf of aspen quiver’d : 
 
 And but for spell-craft’s potent aid 
 That warded off the harm, 
 
 The church itself had disappear’d 
 Like stubble in the storm. 
 
K)0 the: legend of the swearer's skin. 
 
 Increas'd the hurricane, till, crash ! 
 
 The church door open burst, 
 
 And in there rush'd (O horrible !) 
 
 A band of fiends accurst ; 
 
 Each horn'd and hoof'd like Highland ox. 
 After his hairy kind, 
 
 With bloody tusks and claws to boot, 
 
 And dragon tail behind. 
 
 In their fell grasp they held — a sight 
 The stoutest to astound — 
 
 The swearer's loathsome limbs — his face 
 Was dragg'd along the ground. 
 
 Contemptuously the lifeless man 
 They on the pavement threw, 
 
 And to their task of butchery 
 Applied the hellish crew : 
 
 With gnashing teeth and talons fierce 
 Upon their prey they leap'd, 
 
 And quickly from his carcass vile 
 The swearer's pelt was stripp’d. 
 
 Then many a wild, unearthly scream. 
 
 And many a ghastly grin 
 Express'd such joy as devils feel 
 While doing deeds of sin. 
 
SEQUEL TO THE SWEARER’S SKIN. 10-1 
 
 The viewless parson from his seat 
 Beheld their hellish sport, 
 
 And soon he check’d their mirth — he cut 
 Their fancied triumph short : 
 
 He brandish’d high the sword of power, 
 
 And he nam’d the Mighty name, 
 
 And away the foul infernals flew 
 In a flash of sulph’rous flame : 
 
 Away to their dreary, doleful den 
 They sped with wailing cries ; 
 
 But they left the skin, in their mortal fright — 
 
 The parson’s well-won prize. 
 
 SEQUEL TO THE SWEARER^ SKIN, 
 
 When the fiends had fled and the storm was stay'd, 
 And morning shew’d her face, 
 
 The priest with the prize which his prowess had won 
 Walk’d forth with a comely grace. 
 
 Kilpatrick’s anxious matrons throng’d 
 Around him and inquir’d 
 Much of the warfare he had wag’d ; 
 
 They trembled and admir’d : 
 
102 
 
 SEQUEL TO THE SWEARER^ SKIN* 
 
 But he himself could only sum 
 His glory’s full amount, 
 
 Or turn the trophy he had won 
 To profitable account. 
 
 Inside the church he stuck a peg 
 Into the mouldy wall, 
 
 And he hung the swearer’s skin thereon. 
 In view of one and all. 
 
 (So when the battle-day is past, 
 
 And victory’s anthem sung, 
 
 The captur’d banner, grim with gore, 
 High in the wall is hung.) 
 
 For Kilpatrick’s dalesmen, sooth to say. 
 In sottishness were sunk ; 
 
 They quarrelled daily with their wives, 
 They gambled, they got drunk. 
 
 But gazing on the skin, they felt 
 A salutary alarm ; 
 
 The prelude, so their teacher hop’d, 
 
 To radical reform. 
 
 Weekly the good man strove to make 
 His people think and feel, 
 
 And the dread memento from the wall 
 Supported each appeal. 
 
SEQUEL TO THE SWEARER’S SKIN. 
 
 103 
 
 When reason might not reach their hearts. 
 In cold indifference mail’d ; 
 
 When figure, trope, and syllogism, 
 
 Each in its turn had fail’d ; 
 
 The parson then by downright force 
 The victory would win ; 
 
 He rais’d his voice to passion’s tone, 
 
 And pointed to the skin; 
 
 u Ye stupid, stiff-neck’d, stubborn ones !” 
 Thus would he sharply chide, 
 
 u Perverse, instruction-hating race, 
 
 Behold that human hide !” 
 
 These accents on the hearers’ hearts 
 Fell like a thunder-stroke ; 
 
 Each hanging ear prick’d up amain, 
 
 Each drowsy eye awoke ; 
 
 And when attention flagg’d again, 
 
 And eyes began to close, 
 
 There needed but t’ administer 
 The spirit-stirring dose. 
 
 Instructed thus, Kilpatrick soon 
 All other parts excell’d ; 
 
 Wisdom and worth were duly priz’d, 
 
 Folly and fools expell’d. 
 
104 
 
 SEQUEL TO THE SWEARER’S SKIN. 
 
 But the parson from this weary world 
 (Too soon, alas !) departed, 
 
 Leaving Kilpatrick’s lovely vale 
 Forlorn and broken-hearted . 
 
 Upon the grey stone o’er his grave, 
 Smooth-flowing numbers tell 
 How his arm of might had put to flight 
 The banner’d bands of hell. 
 
 And pious hands have carv’d the sword, 
 Whose fame shall know no tarnish, 
 
 The sword with which the parson cut 
 The joints of Satan’s harness. 
 
 A new-light guide came next, and all 
 Into disorder threw : — 
 
 Hastening, as one may well suppose, 
 
 The premises to view. 
 
 u What monstrous-looking thing is that ?” 
 He cried, his eyes beholding 
 The shrivell’d skin : the answer set 
 The choleric man a-scolding. 
 
 “ Go, take that mark of folly down,’" 
 
 Such was his dire command, 
 u Go, tear it down, and see it burnt, 
 
 Yes, by the sexton’s hand.” 
 
SEQUEL TO THE SWEARER'S SKIN. 
 
 105 
 
 Rash, reckless man ! thy conduct told 
 On modesty and morals ; 
 
 Again men swore, and drank, and with 
 Their wives renew'd old quarrels. 
 
 Yet still Kilpatrick's patriarchs 
 Tell of the good old time, 
 
 When their parson in so strange a way 
 Curb'd the career of crime. 
 
 And still they charge the new-light priest 
 With sacrilege and sin ; 
 
 He did the devil service when 
 He burnt the swearer's skin. 
 
106 
 
 ODE TO “ THE MUCKLE POT O’ 
 SKELFHILL.” 
 
 “ The Muckle Pot o’ Skelfhill,” of considerable notoriety in 
 the traditionary history of the Border, was an immense cauldron^ 
 long preserved at the farm-house of Skelfhill, in the district of 
 Teviotdale. Besides the domestic uses to which it was more ob- 
 viously and naturally adapted, it was occasionally made subservi* 
 ent to purposes of a quite different nature ; some of which are 
 alluded to in the following stanzas. But the boiling alive of the 
 tyrannical Lord Soulis is the most remarkable circumstance con- 
 nected with its history. The Nine-stane Rig, where that dreadful 
 act of retribution was perpetrated, “ is a declivity, about one mile 
 in breadth, and four in length, descending upon the water of 
 Hermitage, from the range of hills which separates Liddesdale 
 and Teviotdale. It derives its name from one of those circles 
 of large stones, which are termed Druidical, nine of which re- 
 mained to a late period. Five of these stones are still visible ; 
 and two are particularly pointed out, as those which supported 
 the iron bar upon which the fatal cauldron was suspended.” See 
 Leyden s Ballad of Lord Soulis, in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish 
 Border . 
 
 Hail ! king of cauldrons, large and small tea-kettles, 
 Of culinary things of every name, 
 
 Whether of copper, or of coarser metals ; — 
 
 Fain would my humble muse diffuse thy fame : 
 
THE MUCKLE POT o' SKELFHILL. 
 
 107 
 
 Parent of brose — the paragon of victuals ! 
 
 Let Albyn loudly laud thee, and proclaim 
 Thy worth, thou fountain of all Scottish greatness, 
 From southern Solway to the coast of Caithness ! 
 
 I call'd thee u king, ” immortal pot ! nay, more ; 
 
 Thou wast a Patriot, staunch in freedom's cause : 
 When o'er the Border Soulis dominion bore, 
 
 And crush'd the dalesmen with his lordly paws, — 
 When vengeance rose, and down the tyrant tore, 
 'Twas thine to ope thy justice-dealing jaws, 
 
 And, swinging from two jaggy, jutting crags, 
 
 To boil the wizard's sinful flesh to rags. 
 
 But though the honours of the state were shar’d 
 By thee when in thy native, youthful vigour ; 
 And though the law, which traitors had impair’d. 
 Recover'd 'neath thy rule its righteous rigour, 
 
 Yet couldst thou bend on trifles thy regard, 
 
 And cut a very tolerable figure, 
 
 Apart from politics and civil strife, 
 
 Amid the usages of common life. 
 
 Well didst thou play thy part, I've heard it told, 
 When the huge haggis , emblem of fecundity' 
 Across thy ocean's billowy bosom roll'd, 
 
 Or, plung'd adown the fathomless profundity, 
 From thence again, resplendent to behold ! 
 Upheaving high its mountain-like rotundity ; 
 
108 THE MUCKLE POT 0** SKELFHILE* 
 
 As great leviathan upon the deep 
 
 In sportive mood will sometimes bounce and leap. 
 
 Careering on thy Phlegethontine wave* 
 
 When merry swains held rural festival, 
 
 Full oft was seen, like brigantine so brave, 
 
 The swarthy ram’s head, twisted horns and all, 
 Whilst ever and anon the spume would lave 
 
 Thy burning brim, and bubbling o’er, would fall 
 In unctuous splashes on the potent fire. 
 
 Eliciting fierce hiss and sputter dire. 
 
 So deep in Etna’s cavern’d womb, the forge 
 At which grim V ulcan’s sweaty workmen toil, 
 Chafes, foams, and eddies, the sulphureous surge, 
 And all is hideous uproar and turmoil ; 
 
 Till from the tortur’d mountain’s gaping gorge 
 Forth bursts the lava-tide, covering the soil 
 For many a league with barrenness and ashes, 
 Maugre processions, sainted bones and masses. 
 
 Far different duty too, in by-gone days, 
 
 ’Twas thine at times, great cauldron ! to perform 
 If we may trust what grave tradition says, 
 
 The weary chapman batter’d by the storm 
 Within thy concave found a resting place, 
 
 Much to his comfort, roomy, snug, and warm : 
 The blast might through the barn-yard wicket boom, 
 It harm'd not him who slumber’d in thy womb. 
 
THE MUCKLE POT o’ SKELFHILL. 109 
 
 Though now remov'd from place of power and trust, 
 Thou standest in thy might without a flaw ; 
 
 In vain shall wasting time, or envious rust 
 Attempt thy undecaying strength to gnaw ; 
 
 Still thou appear st majestic and august, 
 
 Filling beholders with a sort of awe, 
 
 After thy kind, a chieftain high and haughty, 
 Enjoying otium cum dignitate. 
 
 While toiling ants the slothful hand upbraid, 
 
 While reigns the elephant among mammalia, 
 While pensive poets court the twilight’s shade, 
 While history notes her Cannae and Pharsalia, 
 While British sails on every breeze are spread, 
 While loyal Scotland boasts her old regalia, 
 
 While broth and brose shall glide down Scottish 
 throats, 
 
 Thy name shall live, Napoleon of the Pots ! 
 
110 
 
 FAREWELL TO SNUFF, 
 
 ON ITS BEING CRIED DOWN AS A LUXURY BY THE 
 TEMPERANCE SOCIETY PEOPLE, 1830. 
 
 There is a sadness in the sound “ farewell” 
 
 Which shrouds in midnight-pall joy's transient 
 day; 
 
 It falls upon the spirit like a spell, 
 
 Or like a knell when clay returns to clay : 
 
 No other term in our vernacular tongue 
 Half so much sorrow from the heart hath wrung. 
 
 Farewell to fame, to freedom and to friends, 
 
 To lovers too — these griefs may all be borne ; 
 
 Yet is there still one woe which these transcends. 
 Felt to the full when thou art from us torn. 
 Fancy’s companion in her secret seat ! — 
 
 Thy vulgar name it irks me to repeat. 
 
 Thy inspirations oft my toils have cheer’d, 
 
 And oft the gloom of solitude dispell’d ; 
 
 Aided by thee I’ve edifices rear’d, 
 
 By fairy monarch’s palace ne’er excelled, 
 
 Mansions of splendour, gilt with beauty’s blaze, 
 Bas’d on the clouds and roof’d with sunny rays. 
 
FAREWELL TO SNUFF. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Oft when the muses had my suit denied, 
 
 And left me in despondency to pine, 
 
 Thou readily their places hast supplied, 
 
 And loosen’d from its source the liquid line, 
 
 Till couplet following couplet far and fast, 
 
 Roll’d on their tuneful way — a river vast. 
 
 Herald thou art of high imaginings ! 
 
 Thou journeyest where the germs of wit are stor’d, 
 Where science bursts from her mysterious springs, 
 Like those of Nile full hard to be explor’d : — 
 Bruce of the brain ! there needeth not apology 
 For dubbing thee Professor of phrenology. 
 
 Much could I speak of snuff-boxes and snuff ; 
 
 Much might be sung of kings who priz’d a pinch — 
 Napoleon, of whom we’ve heard enough, 
 
 And Prussian Frederick, heroes every inch ; 
 
 What was it, wise ones ! kept their swords from rust ? 
 Why, nothing but the u titilating dust.” 
 
 Napoleon ! when o’er Leipsic’s field of fight 
 The thunder-peals of war began to roll, 
 
 Thy box was empty, else the eagle’s flight 
 
 Had still been onward to fame’s farthest goal ; 
 
 But oh ! thou sought’st for snuff where it was not. 
 And — Caesar and his fortunes went to pot. 
 
112 
 
 FAREWELL TO SNUFF. 
 
 Snuff-box ! thy power extended wide and far ; 
 
 All sorts of people, in each varied station, 
 Accounted thee a pocket polar star 
 
 To light their course on every dark occasion, 
 When losses, cares, and crosses, in their strife, 
 Curdled the billows of the sea of life. 
 
 More than the gaudy, glittering, gorgeous gem 
 From far Golconda’s rocky entrails torn, 
 
 And stuck in state on kingly diadem, — 
 
 I priz’d my ratY/, though formed of humble horn. 
 Ha i while I felt it snug below my arm, 
 
 Mine eye would brighten and my spirits warm. 
 
 Sweet snuff ! dear snuff ! when now my feeble Muse, 
 Spent with her flight, began to droop the wing, 
 ’Twas thine new life and vigour to infuse C 1 ) 
 
 Into my frame, enabling her to sing 
 Longer and stronger. Verily, with thee 
 Apollo holds companionship, rapee ! 
 
 Such honours are thy due, — they were thine own 
 In days departed — in a happier age ; 
 
 But now perverted taste hath chang’d its tone, 
 
 And prejudice expends on thee its rage : 
 
 Thine ancient dignity avails thee not, 
 
 Thy faults are told, thy virtues are forgot. 
 
FAREWELL TO SNUFF. 
 
 113 
 
 Philosophers thy merits have confess'd, 
 
 Then why these fierce invectives of the dull ? 
 Surely my ban poetical shall rest 
 For ever on his sacerdotal skull (* 2 ) 
 
 Who thee denounc’d in furious phrase, and frantic, 
 While genuine crime stalk'd through the land gigantic 
 
 So have I seen, when summer days were dry, 
 
 A youngster with a dwarfish angling rod, 
 
 Deal dire destruction 'mong the minnowy fry, 
 Reckless of larger fish that swarm abroad ; 
 
 And then march home in haste, delighted boy ! 
 With look as big as if he'd taken Troy. 
 
 What then ? since Temperance will have it so, 
 
 To nasal happiness I bid farewell — 
 
 To joys which but th’ initiated know, 
 
 Those who appreciate the sense of smell. 
 
 Ah ! while I let the woeful accents slip, 
 
 Heartfelt emotion quivers on my lip. 
 
 No more, kind prompter, shall thy summons gay 
 Call forth my fancy with the rising dawn ; 
 
 No more its soothing qualities allay 
 
 My soul’s turmoil when daylight is withdrawn : 
 No more I'll listen to thy tidings brought, 
 
 Swift courier ! from the murky realms of thought. 
 
114 
 
 FAREWELL TO SNUFF. 
 
 Farewell to those ideal coruscations 
 
 Emitted from thy casket, — sparkling token — 
 Farewell to friendship^ most sublime sensations ! 
 
 Alas ! her softest, simplest tie is broken : 
 
 Fate hath decreed that firmest friends must sever 
 Friend of my throbbing heart, farewell for ever. 
 
115 
 
 ODE TO THE CONDOR. 
 
 Unri vail’d monarch of the ravenous tribe 
 That holds the hollow crag and desert glen ! 
 Stupendous Condor ! how shall I describe 
 Thy character with this my puny pen ? 
 
 He who aright would thy achievements sing 
 Must pluck a feather from thy waving wing. 
 
 How shall I celebrate thy regal look, 
 
 Thy talons deadly as the warrior’s lance, 
 
 Thy battle-bill bent like the reaper’s hook, 
 
 Thy pinions forming forty feet expanse ; 
 
 Thy awful doings on the field of slaughter. 
 Where bestial blood thou pourest forth like water 
 
 It is thy choicest pastime from heaven’s height 
 To scan the grazing herd far, far below, 
 
 Then pounce amain in thy collected might 
 Upon the unsuspecting buffalo, 
 
 And bear him bellowing to thine airy den, 
 Lightly as would the mountain -kite a wren. 
 
116 
 
 ODE TO THE CONDOR. 
 
 Full soon thou canst his carcass huge divide, 
 
 Break his big bones, and dislocate each limb,. 
 
 Nor stop to strain thy throat at his tough hide, 
 
 His horny hoof, or frontlet rough and grim ; 
 
 Nor shalt thou, with unnecessary care, 
 
 Reserve a slice to help the morrow’s fare. 
 
 Though thou shouldst happen at a moderate hour, 
 On bullock beef, or buffalo, to dine, — 
 
 Such is thy gastric juice’s active power, 
 
 Thou couldst discuss a goodly buck at nine ; 
 
 Nor will, when mountain mutton thou wouldst munch, 
 A brace of lamas serve thee for a lunch. 
 
 Of feather’d creatures paragon thou art, 
 
 Whether we view thee on the breezes sailing, 
 
 Or roosting on the pointed rock apart, 
 
 Or martial law among thy lieges dealing : 
 Compar’d with thee, each Transatlantic wonder 
 Dwindles into a trifle, matchless Condor ! 
 
 When forth from Chimborazo’s loftiest cliff 
 
 Thou boundest, cloud -like to the hunter’s sight, 
 Graceful as o’er the blue lake skims the skiff, 
 
 Thou voyagest on waveless seas of light, 
 
 Still soaring sun-ward, while up-gazing mortals 
 Note thy approach to morning’s dazzling portals. 
 
ODE TO THE CONDOR. H7 
 
 Thus in the summer's calm : but when the storm 
 Bids his obsequious winds in wrath awake, 
 
 O then to see thy full-expanded form 
 
 In triumph through the vapoury surges break, 
 And gambol with the gale, its rage repelling — 
 
 And hear thy voice above the tempest yelling ! 
 
 Inca and Autocrat of birds ! what pity 
 
 Thou hadst not, in thy walks through ether, wan- 
 der'd 
 
 To classic climes, that Caesar's endless city 
 
 Might have impress'd thy image on her standard ! 
 The eagle might have mated with the dove, 
 
 And thou hadst been the bird of war and Jove. 
 
 -And great Napoleon too, son of the sea. 
 
 Whose glory like the burning dog-star blaz'd,— 
 What was his boasted banner but a bee, 
 
 Or humming-bird, upon a pike-staff rais’d ? 
 
 He knew not thee, nor of thy history heard, 
 
 Else all his laurels, doubtless, thou hadst shar'd. 
 
 Yet is there by the Muse a time foretold, 
 
 When thou shalt hover o'er embattled legions, 
 And crowd our eastern world, infirm and old, 
 
 With cohorts from Columbia's youthful regions ; 
 When Europe’s farthest shores shall quake with terror, 
 And all her watchmen shall be found in error. 
 
118 
 
 ODE TO THE CONDOR. 
 
 Winged leviathan ! whene’er I pass 
 Across the Cordillera’s icy chain, 
 
 Either on foot or mounted on an ass, 
 
 Or nobler mule, I’ll struggle to obtain 
 More knowledge of thy life and royal sway, 
 And laud thee louder in a future lay. 
 
119 
 
 TO A SEA-BIRD, 
 
 ON KEPEATEDLY OBSERVING IT FEEDING AFTER ME 
 AT THE PLOUGH. 
 
 Bird of the ocean ! why lingerest thou here, 
 
 Where the rush of the waves may not reach thine ear ? 
 Art thou come my friend and companion to be 
 When friends are departed ? sweet bird of the sea ! 
 
 Thou hast left thy mate, thou hast left thy home, 
 On the white cliff lash’d by the spray and the foam, 
 And forsaken the Solway's sounding strand 
 Eor the calm repose of our mountain-land. 
 
 Of thy feather'd kind hast thou suffer'd the scorn ? 
 With the strife of the wind and the wave art thou worn ? 
 Meek pilgrim ! in this abode of peace 
 No fears shall annoy thee — thy sorrows shall cease, 
 
 I too have been toss'd by adversity's blast, 
 
 My sky of hope hath been overcast ; 
 
 I have warr'd with life's billows, unpitied, unknown, 
 
 A mariner weary and woe-begone, 
 
 3 
 
120 
 
 TO A SEA-BIRD. 
 
 And I have withdrawn from the jarring crow r d, 
 
 From the jest of the gay, from the sneer of the proud. 
 And solace sought at the twilight hour 
 In lonely glen or woodland bower. 
 
 Bird of the ocean ! still linger here, 
 
 Nor return to the rock where the sea-waves career ; 
 More meet companion art thou for me 
 Than man with his boasted dignity. 
 
121 
 
 THE IGNIS FATUUS. 
 
 What art thou, wild, fantastic thing, 
 
 That through the hazy midnight air, 
 Sailest on phosphorescent wing P — 
 
 Strange voyager ! thy name declare. 
 
 Art thou an alien on this earth ? 
 
 An exile from some distant sphere ? 
 Whence had^st thou thy mysterious birth ? 
 Spirit ! what errand hast thou here ? 
 
 What prompts thee at this dreary hour 
 To haunt the hollow, pathless dell ? 
 Where is thy home ? In hoary tower 
 Or hidden cavern dost thou dwell ? 
 
 Perhaps thy cheerless taper dim, 
 
 In years unknown to sin and shame. 
 Shone ’mong the shouting seraphim, 
 
 A star of light — a living flame. 
 
 G 
 
122 
 
 THE IGNIS FATUUS. 
 
 Perhaps when earth’s fair orb was hung 
 In skilful balance in the sky, 
 
 Thy lofty note of rapture rung 
 
 Till heaven’s high dome gave loud reply. 
 
 But ah ! how abject art thou now, 
 
 Son of the morning ! how forlorn ! 
 
 The crown is fallen from thy brow — 
 
 The crown by happy spirits worn. 
 
 Woe to the hour when sin appear’d, 
 
 And Concord from her seat was driven ! 
 
 The hour when mad Ambition rear’d 
 The banner of revolt in heaven. 
 
 Haply when hell’s apostate band 
 The might of Michael’s arm defied, 
 
 Thine was the tone of high command, 
 
 And thine th’ insulting boast of pride. 
 
 Long shalt thou mourn thy glory gone, 
 
 And long regret thy haughty boast ; 
 
 A purer spirit fills thy throne, 
 
 And shares those honours thou hast lost. 
 
 Yet is it still thy purpose dire 
 
 To rouse on earth the rage of hell ? 
 
 To kindle Discord’s slumbering fire, 
 
 And bid War’s trumpet-echoes swell ! 
 
THE IGNIS FATUUS. 
 
 123 
 
 "Tis vain, fell sprite ! the thought is vain, 
 Bootless thy wish of war and woe ; 
 Justice shall yet resume her reign, 
 
 And Love and Peace shall dwell below. 
 
 Then hie thee to the dungeon deep, 
 
 Or noisome charnel, foul and damp ; 
 Soon morning’s ray shall gild the steep, 
 And quench thy pale nocturnal lamp. 
 
124 
 
 VERSES ON THE DEATH OF BOLIVAR 
 
 When falls the tyrant from his throne, 
 Though flattery mimic sorrow’s voice, 
 Yet Virtue in her dwelling lone, 
 
 And persecuted Truth rejoice. 
 
 Not so thy fate, Columbia’s chief ! — 
 
 Her stay in peace, her strength in war — 
 Thy fall calls forth the patriot’s grief, 
 
 And Freedom weeps for Bolivar. 
 
 When Hope thy land no longer cheer’d, 
 And Joy was silent in the hall, 
 
 Then was thy righteous banner rear’d — 
 The brave obey’d thy battle-call. 
 
 Nor slack’d the strife, nor ceas’d thy toil 
 In council, or on peril’s plain, 
 
 Till far o’er continent and isle 
 Re-echoed victory’s lofty strain. 
 
 5 
 
TERSES ON THE DEATH OF BOLIVAR. 
 
 12 5 
 
 Kescued from thraldom’s shame and care, 
 Freemen the green savannah trode ; 
 
 And social trust and order fair 
 Burst into being at thy nod. 
 
 Why then did envy circumscribe 
 The orbit of thy just renown ? — 
 
 Thy hand — too clean to hold a bribe, 
 Thy brow — too proud to wear a crown. 
 
 Why must thou like a felon fly 
 
 From faction’s base, ungrateful band ? 
 
 Why must thou heave thy latest sigh 
 On yonder crime-polluted strand ? (l) 
 
 The cruel lords of that bright isle, 
 Unaw’d by worth or honour’s laws, 
 
 Will pour reproaches, false and vile, 
 Upon thy name and holy cause* 
 
 Yet oft beneath night’s friendly gloom 
 The sons of bondage and despair 
 
 Shall kneel unseen beside thy tomb, 
 
 And there for freedom sigh a prayer. 
 
 The marble from the mountain rent 
 May doubtful fame to power afford ; 
 
 A nobler, mightier monument, 
 
 Great chief ! thy doings shall record r 
 
126 VERSES ON THE DEATH OF BOLIVAR. 
 
 Andes, afar from ocean seen, 
 
 Shall hold alliance with thy name ; 
 
 Columbian groves of vernal green 
 Shall be thy lasting wreath of fame. 
 
 But not the undecaying hill 
 Thy best memorial supplies ; 
 
 A column more majestic still 
 
 Shall o’er thy ashes proudly rise : 
 
 By men who nature’s rights uphold, 
 When fateful years have pass’d away, 
 
 Thy tale of splendour shall be told, 
 
 And sung in many a thrilling lay. 
 
 Where’er the bard shall tune the lyre. 
 Wherever freedom’s flag shall wave, 
 
 Thy spirit shall the song inspire — 
 
 Thy deeds shall animate the brave. 
 
127 
 
 THE FALL OF WARSAW, 
 Sept. 7, 1831. 
 
 The Autocrat marshalled his legions afar 
 
 Where the stream of the desert was straying ; 
 ’Gainst Poland he purpos’d unrighteous war, 
 
 For freedom her flag was displaying 
 In the land that has still given birth to the brave, 
 And which spurn’d from its bosom the traitor and slave. 
 
 Th’ invaders came up like a storm on the wall, 
 
 And, Warsaw ! thy works are surrounded ; 
 
 „ But thy heroes will triumph, or gloriously fall 
 When the signal of battle is sounded. 
 
 Their pledge they redeem’d, though their numbers 
 were few ; 
 
 They fell in the field — the devoted — the true. 
 
128 
 
 THE FALL OF WARSAW. 
 
 When the crown from the son of St. Louis was rent, 
 And misfortune his race was pursuing, 
 
 Blood flow’d in profusion, and treasures were spent, 
 That thrones might be rescued from ruin: 
 
 But when Poland and freedom were struggling for 
 life, 
 
 The nations with apathy look’d on the strife. 
 
 And hath fortune for ever abandoned the just ? 
 
 Shall their hopes and their memory perish ? 
 
 Are the laurels they won doom’d to lie in the dust, 
 Not again in their season to flourish ? 
 
 Must the bulwark cemented with patriot blood 
 Be swept from its place by iniquity’s flood ? 
 
 Can royalty rein the career of the wind ? 
 
 Or calm, by its edict, the ocean ? 
 
 And may the proud march of the main be confin’d 
 When the waves of its might are in motion ? 
 
 No more may the spirit resolv’d to be free 
 Be curb’d in its course by despotic decree. 
 
 Sarmatia ! though tyranny reigns in thy towers, 
 
 Of their martyr’d defenders forsaken, 
 
 Yet the torch which was dimm’d shall relumine thy 
 bowers, 
 
 And liberty’s call re-awaken 
 Thy sons from their slumbers, to shiver the chain 
 Which the arm of oppression hath twisted in vain. 
 
129 
 
 THE PATRIOT’S SONG. 
 
 Shall I leave thee, thou land to my infancy dear, 
 Ere I knew aught of toil or of woe, 
 
 For the clime of the stranger, the solitude drear, 
 And a thousand endearments forego ? 
 
 Shall I give my lone bosom a prey to its strife ? 
 Must I friendship’s just claims disallow ? — 
 
 No ; her breathings can cool the hot fever of life, 
 As the breeze fans the sea-beaten brow. 
 
 ’Tis said that the comforts of plenty abound 
 In the wide-spreading plains of the west ; 
 
 That there an asylum of peace shall be found 
 Where the care-stricken wanderer may rest : 
 
 That nature uncheck’d there displays all her pride 
 In the forest unfading and deep ; 
 
 That the river rolls onward its ocean-like tide, 
 Encircling broad realms in its sweep. 
 
130 
 
 THE PATRIOTS SONG. 
 
 But is there a spot in that far-distant land 
 Where Fancy or Feeling may dwell ? 
 
 Or how shall the heart of the exile expand 
 Untouch’d by Society’s spell ? 
 
 Though thy children, Old Albyn ! adversity bear, 
 As forlorn o’er thy mountains they roam, 
 
 Y et I’ve found — what in vain I should seek for else- 
 where — 
 
 1 have found ’mong these mountains a home. 
 
 How lovely the beam on thy moorland appears, 
 
 As it streams from the eye of the morn ! 
 
 And how comely the garment that evening wears 
 When the day of its glories is shorn ! 
 
 Ah ! strong are the ties that the Patriot bind, 
 
 Fair isle of the sea ! to thy shore ; — 
 
 The turf that he treads, by the best of their kind — 
 By the bravest, was trodden before. 
 
 Nor is there a field — not a foot of thy soil, 
 
 In dale, or on mountain-land dun, 
 
 Unmark’d in the annals of chivalrous toil, 
 
 Ere concord its conquest had won. 
 
 The rill hath a voice from the rock as it pours ; 
 
 It comes from the glen on the gale ; 
 
 For the life-blood of martyrs hath hallow’d thy moors, 
 And their names are rever’d in the vale. 
 
THE PATRIOT S SONG. 
 
 131 
 
 How sacred the stone that, remote on the heath, 
 O’er the bones of the righteous was laid, 
 
 Who triumph’d in death o’er the foes of their faith. 
 When the banner of truth was display’d ! 
 
 And sweet are the songs of the land of my love, 
 And soothing their tones to the soul ; 
 
 Or, lofty and loud like the thunder above, 
 
 On the storm-cloud of passion they roll. 
 
 While summer beyond the Atlantic’s wide waste 
 A gaudier garb may assume, 
 
 My country ! thou boastest the verdure of taste. 
 And thy glories immortally bloom. 
 
 No ; I will not forsake thee, thou land of my lay ! 
 The scorn of the stranger to brave : 
 
 On thy lea I have revell’d in youth’s sunny ray, 
 And thy wild-flowers shall spangle my grave. 
 
132 
 
 WHAT IS LIFE ? 
 
 What is life ? O ! in youth (for then fancy would 
 stray 
 
 Through her own lovely Eden) its path was per- 
 fum’d ; 
 
 But years, while they wafted its sweetness away, 
 Have nourish’d rank weeds where the roses once 
 bloom’d. 
 
 What is life ? O ! in youth, ere misfortune’s cold 
 wind 
 
 Had blown its rough blast, ’twas a vale of repose ; 
 
 Ere crime had disturb’d the blest calm of the mind — 
 Or the dark clouds of grief on its sunshine arose. 
 
 What is life ? ? Tis a field where wild passions are 
 warring, 
 
 Where ties, e’en the dearest, asunder are rent ; 
 
 Its emblem is found in the elements jarring, 
 
 Whose fury still rages, but never is spent. 
 
WHAT IS LIFE ? 
 
 133 
 
 What is life ? ’Tis the scene of hope's mournful 
 prostration 
 
 Before the dread throne of the tyrant Despair — 
 One short hour is brighten'd with joy’s exultation, 
 The next — only sorrow and darkness are there. 
 
 What is life ? ’Tis a region where objects ideal 
 Engross every wish, and our reason enchain ; 
 Where honours are empty, and pleasures unreal ; 
 Where power is but weakness, and wealth is in vain. 
 
 What is life ? ’Tis a dream in the portal of death — - 
 Its date is a moment, its space is a span : 
 
 A shadow, a vapour, a bubble, a breath — 
 
 Yes, such is the treasure so valued by man ! 
 
134 
 
 VERSES 
 
 ON HEARING THE SONG OF THE THRUSH FOR THE 
 FIRST TIME IN THE SEASON, FEB. 1829 - 
 
 Gentle herald of spring ! thou art welcome again 
 To the woodlands that oft have re-echoed thy song, 
 When Aurora arose from her couch on the main, 
 And when Eve spread its shade the deep valley along. 
 
 Though now thy abode is the bough of the pine, 
 Though the copsewood is wither’d, the forest-tree 
 bare ; 
 
 The hazel and hawthorn shall yet intertwine 
 
 Their foliage, the bower of thy choice to prepare. 
 
 Though thou mournest the blast from the cold, cloudy 
 north, 
 
 As it sweeps down the dale with monotonous moan ; 
 Yet the sunbeams of summer shall quickly burst forth, 
 And exalt thy faint warblings to extacy’s tone. 
 
VERSES ON HEARING THE THRUSH. 
 
 135 
 
 I listen’d, sweet bird ! in the spring-day of youth, 
 
 . With delight to thy lay, that could passion assuage : 
 And O, that its soft-falling echoes might soothe 
 The sorrows that furrow the forehead of age ! 
 
 Thy song is the same ; but how chang’d all besides ! 
 
 Life’s bright morning-visions, ah ! where are ye fled ? 
 O’er pleasures departed my memory glides, 
 
 And I weep for their loss, as one weeps for the dead. 
 
 That hope once was mine which no limits might bound, 
 And friendship to me all its sweets did impart ; 
 But where are the joys that such hope should have 
 crown’d ? 
 
 And where now, O where is the friend of my heart ? 
 
 Yes, ’twas Hope the Enchantress that shew’d me 
 man’s state 
 
 All spangled with flowers of perennial bloom : 
 
 But the spell is dissolv’d, and the fiat of fate 
 
 With thorns hath surrounded my path to the tomb. 
 
 Yet, let not these wailings thy melody mar ; 
 
 Spring’s musical harbinger ! sweet be thy strain, 
 As thoughtful I gaze on yon new-risen star — 
 
 And when morning returns let me hear it again 
 
 Can that Being who taught thy dark bosom to glow 
 With those raptures which seraphs beatified share,— 
 
136 
 
 VERSES ON HEARING THE THRUSH, 
 
 Can he willingly suffer his offspring to know 
 
 The horrors of doubt, or the pangs of despair ? • 
 
 He wills it, and winter recedes to the pole ; 
 
 He speaks, and the darkness gives place to the day ; 
 And joy shall resume its lost seat in my soul, 
 
 At His mandate, whom nature is bound to obey. 
 
137 
 
 SONNET TO ESKDALEMUIR PEN. 
 
 Eskdalemuir Pen is one of the most elevated points of the 
 mountainous range which divides the counties of Dumfries and 
 Selkirk, and the parishes of Eskdalemuir and Etterick. It is 
 commonly called Etterick Pen, but with great injustice ; the fea- 
 tures of a pen (peak) being distinguishable only, or chiefly, on that 
 side of the mountain which is towards Dumfries -shire. 
 
 Thou parent mountain of my native dale ! 
 
 Thou’rt lovelier in thy nakedness to me 
 Than woods that wave in fragrant Araby, 
 
 Or clustering flowers that spangle Tempers vale. 
 Thou’rt lovelier — for I saw thee touch the sky. 
 
 In infancy, ere care my breast had wounded ; 
 
 And deemed that thy strong cliffs of dusky dye 
 Man’s habitation and his wishes bounded. 
 
 Not the high Alps, nor Andes higher far, 
 
 Can fix, like thee, my fancy’s wandering eye, 
 Whether the sunbeams on thy bosom lie, 
 
 Or clouds around thee roll, and tempests war ; 
 Whether thy brow be deck’d with heaven’s bright bow, 
 Or crown’d with coronet of stainless snow. 
 
138 
 
 THE STONE OF BLOOD 
 
 High on the heathy mountain, wild and lone, 
 
 Where nature in a garb of gloom appears, 
 
 Rises a rough, unhewn, columnar stone, 
 
 Rude monument of long-departed years. 
 
 It tells of deeds of shame, and blackest guilt. 
 
 Though mystery’s veil the legend now surrounds ; 
 
 A sire and son their life’s blood idly spilt — 
 
 They met, and fought, and fell by mutual wounds . 
 
 The spot seems dreary as the gate of death ; 
 
 The lonely shepherd shudders while his tread 
 
 Is on the hillock, ’mong the blasted heath, 
 
 Where rot the bones of the accursed dead. 
 
 Still on the place of strife, the ruddy tinge 
 Of blood is seen, an object of dismay, 
 
 Which time, with lenient hand, shall ne’er expunge, 
 Nor all the rains of winter wash away. 
 
THE STONE OF BLOOD. 
 
 139 
 
 Perch'd on the hoary pillar's pointed peak, 
 
 Th’ ill-omen'd raven flaps his clotted wings, 
 
 And, gorg'd with carrion, whets his gory beak, 
 
 And o’er the murderer's grave harsh requiem sings. 
 
 Oft have th' avenging thunderbolts of heaven 
 In fury visited the tainted ground ; 
 
 The earth is pierc'd, the granite rocks are riven, 
 
 And thrown in cumbrous fragments all around. 
 
 And oft before the shepherd's startled eyes, 
 
 When misty wreaths the mountain close infold, 
 
 Strange warrior-shapes in rusty mail arise, — 
 
 Grim and gigantic, like the men of old. 
 
 And when the night-cloud falls, and all is still, 
 
 The awe-struck peasant in the vale below 
 
 Hears sounds of terror from the haunted hill. 
 
 And shrieks that tell of more than mortal woe. 
 
 I saw the blood-stain 'd spot. — 'Twas summer-tide — 
 As lights the linnet in her downy nest, 
 
 So gently evening fell ; and I descried 
 Her star of silver in the distant west : 
 
 That fair, propitious star, beneath whose ray, 
 
 When day is past with its perplexing dream, 
 
 The man of contemplation loves to stray, 
 
 With wisdom for his teacher and, his theme. 
 
140 
 
 THE STONE OF BLOOD. 
 
 But nought of evening's tranquil, calm delight 
 I felt ; involved in horror's murkiest shade, 
 Methought the angry spirits of the night 
 Against me all their unseen hosts array'd. 
 
 We fondly gaze with melancholy pride 
 
 On fields of fame where slumber the renown'd, — - 
 The brave who combated by freedom's side — 
 
 And count the turf that wraps them holy ground. 
 
 But in your desert paths, ye uplands dun ! 
 
 We ponder not upon the great or good ; 
 
 The inauspicious solitude we shun, 
 
 And pass with hasty steps the stone of blood, 
 
141 
 
 ODE TO POVERTY, 
 
 Hail ! mighty power ! who o’er my lot 
 Presidest uncontrolled and free ; 
 
 Sole ruler of the rural cot, 
 
 I bid thee hail, dread Poverty ! 
 Thine aid I crave to guide my strain. 
 Nor shall I supplicate in vain. 
 
 When on this world of woe and toil, 
 
 A helpless stranger I was cast, 
 
 Like mariner on desert isle, . 
 
 The sport and victim of the blast, 
 The russet robe was o’er me flung, 
 
 And to thy cold, lean hand I clung. 
 
 In youth I felt thy guardian care ; 
 
 Each saving, self-denying rule, 
 Needful for those of fortune spare, 
 
 I learn’d and practis’d in thy school : 
 And of my lengthen’d life at large 
 Thou still hast taken special charge. 
 
142 
 
 ODE TO POVERTY. 
 
 Much have I seen, much more I've heard 
 Of chance and change in this vain world, — * 
 The low to high estate preferred — 
 
 From high estate the haughty hurl'd ; 
 
 But chance or change ne'er pass'd on me : 
 
 I'm still thy subject, Poverty ! 
 
 Ah ! how unwise are they who scorn 
 Thy homely garb and humble fare ; 
 
 Who scale the tropic's burning bourne 
 Ideal happiness to share : 
 
 They tread the wild, and plough the wave. 
 
 In quest of gold — but find a grave. 
 
 There are who know thee but by name, 
 
 Who spurn thy salutary laws ; 
 
 And count thy mark a badge of shame, 
 
 And hold it sin to own thy cause : 
 
 Fools that they are ! they never knew 
 Thy guiltless pride, thy spirit true. 
 
 Full oft in danger's darkest day 
 
 Thy sons have prov'd their country’s shield, 
 When wealth's effeminate array 
 Appear'd not on the battle-field : — 
 
 'Twas their’s to grasp the patriot-brand 
 That dropp’d from luxury’s nerveless hand. 
 
 Full oft, when wealth -engender’d crime 
 Roll’d o’er the land its whelming tide, 
 
ODE TO POVERTY. 
 
 143 
 
 Their fervent faith and hope sublime 
 Have stable prov’d, though sorely tried 
 In virtue’s heaven-ward path they trode, 
 
 When pleasure’s sons forsook their God 
 
 And yet nor stone nor poet’s strain 
 Records their honours undefil’d ; 
 
 Even poesy would weave in vain 
 
 The laurel wreath for penury’s child : 
 Should fashion sneer, or fortune frown, 
 ’Tw'ould wither ere the sun went down. 
 
 Rut greater, happier far is he, 
 
 More ample his reward of praise — 
 
 Though he should misery’s kinsman be, 
 
 Though hardships cloud his earthly days — - 
 Who triumphs in temptation’s hour, 
 
 Than he who wins the warlike tower. 
 
 What though he may not write his name 
 On history’s ever-living page ! 
 
 What though the thrilling trump of fame 
 Echo it not from age to age ! 
 
 ’Tis blazon’d bright in realms on high, 
 Enroll’d in records of the sky. 
 
 What though the hireling bard be mute. 
 When humble worth for notice calls ! 
 
 There wants not voice of harp and lute 
 To hymn it high in heavenly halls ; 
 
144 
 
 ODE TO POVERTY, 
 
 Around the cell where virtue weeps* 
 
 His nightly watch the seraph keeps. 
 
 If peace of mind your thoughts employ* 
 
 Ye restless, murmuring sons of earth ! 
 
 Ah ! shun the splendid haunts of joy — * 
 
 Peace dwells not with unholy mirth ; 
 
 But oft amidst a crowd of woes, 
 
 As in the desert dwells the rose. 
 
 Thick fly the hostile shafts of fate, 
 
 And wreck and ruin mark their course, 
 
 But the pure spirit, firm, sedate. 
 
 Nor feels their flight, nor fears its force. 
 
 So storms the ocean’s surface sweep, 
 
 While calm below the waters sleep. 
 
 O ! may internal peace be mine, 
 
 Though outward woes urge on their war ; 
 And, Hope ! do thou my path define, 
 
 And light it with thy radiant star : 
 
 Thou Hope, who, through the shades of sorrow 
 Canst trace the dawn of joy’s bright morrow. 
 
345 
 
 3 TWAS A CALM SUMMER EVE. 
 
 'Twas a calm summer eve ; scarce the aspen leaf trem- 
 bled, 
 
 As it hung o'er the streamlet, soft-stealing beneath ; 
 
 On Lochfell's brown summit the night-clouds assem- 
 bled, 
 
 And the breeze that had borne them was hush'd 
 on the heath ; 
 
 When, escap'd from the world, from its malice and 
 scorn, 
 
 To ease my sad bosom, oppress'd and care-worn, 
 Unheeded and lonely, 
 
 In nature's ear only, 
 
 I thus made my plaint as I wander'd forlorn : 
 
 Ye fast-deep'ning shades that are falling around me ! 
 
 I welcom'd you once as the heralds of joy. 
 
 When the soft, silken fetters of youthful love bound 
 me 
 
 To the maid — so she look’d — of the truth-speaking 
 eye. 
 
 H 
 
148 ’TWAS A CALM SUMMER EVE. 
 
 Then night shone with glories, unrival I’d by day, 
 With its beams slow-receding — I chid their delay — 
 For love’s luring light 
 Before me blaz’d bright 
 
 In the bower of my fair one, and mark’d my glad way. 
 
 But now* — while I speak my rack’d heart seems to 
 sever — 
 
 (Should falsehood be found in a creature so fair) 
 She has left me for wealth — she has left me for ever — 
 She has left me — the victim of love and despair. 
 Ye shades that are falling so peaceful and sweet ! 
 
 Ye wavelets of silver that break at my feet ! 
 
 You cannot bestow 
 Comfort, gladness — ah ! no ; 
 
 With its impulse again shall my bosom ne’er beat. 
 
147 
 
 AN EVENING THOUGHT 
 
 Behind the western mountain-wall 
 The wearied sun hath found repose ; 
 And, freed from care's consuming thrall. 
 Mortals their aching eyelids close. 
 Mild Evening ! ever dear to those 
 Who love to muse in grove or glen, 
 Ah ! still my heart with joy overflows 
 To meet with thee again. 
 
 Sweet is thy breath upon the breeze, 
 
 By flowery field or falling stream ; 
 While like the waves of summer seas 
 The undulating harvests seem ; — 
 While, from the west, day's latest gleam 
 A languid lustre sheds afar, 
 
 Till Dian shed a richer beam 
 From her ascending car. 
 
 Now her attendant starry train 
 Appears in rank and order due. 
 
148 
 
 AN EVENING THOUGHT. 
 
 Like golden barks amid the main — 
 Yon liquid field of stainless blue. 
 Bold infidel ! arise and view 
 The workings of omnific skill, 
 Then, own the tale of wisdom true — 
 Be humble and be still. 
 
149 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF YOUTH. 
 
 Slow move the hours of care and toil, 
 Unlike youth’s gay, fantastic dream ; 
 
 When life appear’d a kindly soil 
 Water’d by pleasure’s gentle stream, 
 
 Short-lived and fleeting as the wind ! 
 
 The charming landscape, spreading fair, 
 
 Time’s busy flight hath thrown behind, 
 And only Memory loiters there. 
 
 Yes, still my fancy longs to trace. 
 
 In fond review, each early scene, 
 
 Which rolling years can ne’er efface, 
 Though rolling seasons intervene. 
 
 The village-green, with daisies deck'd, 
 
 And violets, dipp’d in deepest dye, 
 
 Whose growth my playful frolics check’d— 
 Meet emblem of mortality ; 
 
150 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF YOUTH. 
 
 The dimpling rivulet, pure and sheen, 
 Whose waters oft my limbs did lave, 
 
 Its banks adorned with willows green, 
 
 Low drooping o'er the winding wave ; 
 
 The rapid mountain-brook that pour'd 
 Through rugged rocks, asunder riven ; 
 
 The ivy'd precipice, that lower'd 
 
 In giant pride from earth to heaven ; 
 
 The od’rous birch, the hawthorn gray, 
 Whose boughs would closely intertwine, 
 
 Where oft in careless ease I lay 
 
 To mark the summer-sun's decline ; — 
 
 These all had charms ; but now no more 
 I own the powerful, pleasing spell ; 
 
 The smile is fled that once they wore — 
 To youthful joys I bid farewell ! 
 
 My native hills, abrupt and bold, 
 
 Still lift their haughty heads on high 
 
 The crystal fountain still is cold, 
 
 And still its streamlet trickles by : 
 
 Still nature paints each object fair, 
 
 In youth's fond eye she's lovely still ; 
 
 But what can ease the load of care ? 
 
 Or pleasure's empty fountain fill ? 
 
151 
 
 REFLECTIONS IN A CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 The dying day-beam faintly shone ; 
 
 In the burial-field I stood alone ; 
 
 The world of life from before me fled, 
 
 And I held communion with the dead. 
 
 I mark’d affection's tribute paid, 
 
 I mark’d the sculptor’s art display’d, 
 
 But each letter’d stone to my mind appear’d 
 A trophy that conquering death had rear’d ; 
 And I deem’d the foul weeds waving round 
 A wreath that the tyrant’s forehead bound. 
 
 I gaz’d on the spot where the mighty lay. 
 But their day of power had pass’d away ; 
 
 And the column charg’d with flattering rhyme 
 Already shrunk from the touch of time. 
 
 And there was the victim of heaviest woes 
 Stretch’d on his couch of dreamless repose : 
 The voice of his wailing no more was heard, — - 
 The prayer in agony preferr’d ; 
 
152 
 
 REFLECTIONS IN A CHURCH- YARD. 
 
 The tempest that tossed him was hush'd to a calm*. 
 His wounds had been heal'd by oblivion's balm ; 
 
 H is doubts were remov'd, his wants were supplied* 
 Death granted in pity what life had denied. 
 
 There too was he who in youth's bright prime, 
 Bade adieu to life, and the toys of time ; 
 
 He look'd to years of coming bliss, 
 
 For health and buoyant hope were his ; 
 
 No cares his short-liv'd course encumber'd, 
 
 Nor deem’d he that his days were number'd ; 
 
 His bark, scarce launch'd on passion’s wave, 
 Found a safe haven in the grave. 
 
 There slept the babe, rescued betimes 
 From coming perils, cares, and crimes : 
 
 Though dealt in anger seem'd the stroke. 
 
 That nature's bands asunder broke, — 
 
 Death took the child — 'twas mercy's plan, — 
 
 That justice stern might spare the man. 
 
 I trode upon the sordid slave 
 
 Who homage mean to Mammon gave ; 
 
 His soul was cast in coarsest mould ; 
 
 Poor wretch ! he knew no god but gold. 
 
 No thought was his of holy birth ; 
 
 No feeling foreign to this earth ; 
 
 And when death robb'd him of his store, 
 
 He lost his gods- — what had he more ? 
 
 The western sky had lost its glow, 
 
 The evening clouds roll’d dark and low,. 
 
REFLECTIONS IN A CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 153 
 
 But yet methought night’s deepest gloom 
 Descended on the worldling’s tomb. 
 
 Darkness prevail’d, and silence dread 
 Wav’d his broad banner o’er the dead. 
 
 The dead ! — No plaint, no cry of wrong 
 Is heard their crowded ranks among ; 
 
 No mutinous speech, no murmuring 
 Against the mandate of their king. 
 
 Quiescent children of the dust, 
 
 They wrangle not for power or trust ; 
 
 Contested rights they value not, 
 
 No scheme of rash reform they plot : 
 
 No direful change the years bring round ; 
 Disorder dwells not under ground. 
 
 Yet is there a voice from the land of death 
 More thrilling far than the war-trump’s breath : 
 That voice burst forth at the birth of crime, 
 
 It reaches earth’s remotest clime ; 
 
 It is heard when day dawns on the dale, 
 
 It mingles with the midnight gale ; 
 
 It echoes through the embattled tower, 
 
 ’Tis borne away to beauty’s bower ; 
 
 It checks the mirth of the banquet-hall. 
 
 Its words are writ on the palace- wall. 
 
 The dead ! — In fancy’s, in wisdom’s ear. 
 They speak, though fools refuse to hear ; 
 
154 REFLECTIONS IN A CHURCH-YARD* 
 
 More powerful is their mute appeal 
 Than aught that language may reveal. 
 
 They tell of nature’s closing strife, 
 
 Of that dark bourne which limits life, 
 
 Of fears that giant-like assail 
 The pilgrim in death’s dreary vale. 
 
 They tell the young, the gay, the proud, 
 
 That youth is like the morning cloud, 
 
 That pleasure’s hour will quickly pass. 
 
 That human glory is but grass, 
 
 That man’s erect, angelic form 
 Shall for its kinsman own the worm. 
 
 Ye slumbering hosts ! soon shall your name 
 Nor mention nor remembrance claim ; 
 
 Soon shall your follies, or your worth, 
 
 Find no memorial on earth ; 
 
 Death rides in triumph o’er your clay, 
 
 But the deathless spirits — ah ! where are they ? 
 
FAREWELL TO SUMMER 
 
 Farewell to Summer with all his flowers ! 
 Farewell to the song of the sylvan bowers ! 
 Farewell to the sunbeams that redden’d the fell ! 
 To Summer with all his delights farewell ! 
 
 He came on the gladsome morn of May, 
 
 When the drops of dew on the primrose lay, 
 
 When the swallow clung to the windowed wall, 
 And the schoolboy repeated the cuckoo’s call ; 
 When the bush was in bud and the fern was green 
 Down in our valley young Summer was seen. 
 
 The welcome we gave him was warm and sincere 
 We hailed him lord of the blooming year ; 
 
 For his smile was sweet and his aspect bland, 
 
 As he gazed around on a grateful land. 
 
 But a veil o’er the visage of nature was cast, 
 
 The glory of Summer was fading fast ; 
 
156 
 
 FAREWELL TO SUMMER. 
 
 His dazzling shield had received a blot, 
 
 Which dimmed its blaze, though we wist it not : 
 
 And the scented breeze and the radiant beam 
 Are now no more than a pleasant dream. 
 
 The withered leaves by the winds were strown, 
 
 His downy seed the thistle had sown ; 
 
 Her nest by the window the swallow had left 
 The woodland was mute like a thing bereft ; 
 
 The little birds of the wandering wing 
 O’er the seas of the south were voyaging, 
 
 And only the redbreast’s dirge-like note 
 Was heard from the eaves of the thatched cot. 
 
 The cloud hung low and the gale blew chill, 
 
 The hoar-frost whitened the distant hill, 
 
 And, marking the signal, our visitant gay 
 Mounted his chariot and hied him away. 
 
 Ah ! long and cheerless the season must be 
 Ere Summer return with his wonted glee. 
 
 Will the eye that outrivalled his lustre before 
 Brighten when Summer comes back to our shore ? 
 Will the peaceful breast and the placid brow 
 Be calm and unclouded then, as they’re now ? 
 
 Shall guiltless pleasure and juvenile mirth 
 Revel uncheck’d on the cottager’s hearth ? 
 
 The thought is presumptuous. Tears shall be shed 
 O’er the woes of the living, the graves of the dead : 
 The arrow is flying — the victim shall fall. — 
 
 When Summer returns, he returns not to all. 
 
FAREWELL TO SUMMER. 157 
 
 Yet, though man sit in sackcloth, the earth and the 
 sky 
 
 Shall be deck’d in their garments of gorgeous dye ; 
 Streamlet, and forest, and mountain grey 
 Again shall exult in the quickening ray ; 
 
 And echo shall wake from her trance in the dell. — 
 Giver of gladness, till then farewell ! 
 
 Farewell to Summer with all his flowers ! 
 
 Farewell to the song of the sylvan bowers ! 
 
 Farewell to the sunbeams that reddened the fell !— 
 To Summer with all his delights farewell ! 
 
 October 1832. 
 
158 
 
 VERSES 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A PIOUS AND BENEVOLENT LADY. 
 
 The voice of woe was heard in the dale, 
 
 Matron and maid were mourning ; 
 
 Their friend had gone to that distant land 
 Whence there is no returning. 
 
 Faces whose smile once gladdened the hall 
 Are woe-begone and weary ; 
 
 The garnished grot in the greenwood shade 
 Seems desolate and dreary. 
 
 And long may the helpless orphan sigh, 
 
 Long may the widow bewail her ; 
 
 The tear shall flow from the sunken eye, 
 
 And the furrowed cheek grow paler. 
 
 Wisdom and genius embellished her mind, 
 
 In youth's flow'ry path they had found her ; 
 
 Yet the goodness that glowed in her feeling heart 
 Threw a holier radiance around her. 
 
 3 
 
VERSES ON THE DEATH OF A LADY. 159 
 
 Disease had come, and its fatal work 
 By slow degrees was proceeding ; 
 
 Nor might she remain, though in secret her cause 
 The poor and the pious were pleading. 
 
 Nature might shrink while her mortal part 
 Under pain’s heavy pressure was pining, 
 
 But the spirit within was pure and bright, 
 
 Like the sun in the west declining. 
 
 The herald of mercy was sent, and no more 
 In her anguish the hour might she number ; 
 
 The hand of death had her eyelids closed, 
 
 And sound and serene was her slumber. 
 
 Glory may circle the hero’s brow 
 
 When he lies on the field of slaughter — 
 
 Far nobler is the trophy won 
 By faith’s departing daughter. 
 
 Ye sorrowing sisters ! ye watched by her couch 
 Till her pulse lost its life-giving motion, 
 
 But sudden and sad must the tidings be 
 To the brothers afar on the ocean. 
 
 Weep not for the dead who have died in peace : 
 Though their flesh in the dust is consuming, 
 
 Their labours of love shall a monument raise, 
 
 And their memory shall ever be blooming. 
 
160 VERSES ON THE DEATH OF A LADY. 
 
 To the earth-bounded eye the career of the just 
 May close in the night-cloud of sorrow ; 
 
 Yet the star of hope sheds a ray through the gloom, 
 And joy shall break forth on the morrow. 
 
161 
 
 THE SONG OF MOSES. 
 
 EXODUS XV. 1 18. PARAPHRASED. 
 
 We will tell of the deeds that Jehovah hath done. ; 
 The arm of his might hath the victory won. 
 
 The ruthless enslaver our ruin decreed, 
 
 And the spearman rushed forth on the fleet-footed 
 steed : — 
 
 Over horseman and horse the huge sea-billows fell, 
 And they sunk like a stone in its wild ocean-swell. 
 
 Wake the harp; let the feelings that glow in each 
 breast 
 
 By its deepest, its loftiest tones be expressed. 
 
 He who launches in anger the lightnings of war 
 Was the God of our fathers in regions afar ; 
 
 And still, while yon symbol we mark in the sky, 
 
 We cherish the thought that our guardian is nigh. 
 
 How brief was the boast of tyrannical force ! — 
 
 The chariot of battle was checked in its course ; 
 
162 
 
 THE SONG OF MOSES. 
 
 The plume of the chief and the rich-woven vest 
 Like the sea-weed were borne o’er the wave’s hoary 
 crest ; 
 
 And they who had worn them, the high-born, the 
 brave, 
 
 In ocean’s unsounded abyss found a grave. 
 
 Omnipotent Leader ! our safety we owe 
 
 To thy right hand of power which inflicted the blow ; 
 
 Pretensions to merit we humbly disclaim, 
 
 For thine was the triumph, and thine is the fame : 
 Thy fury was kindled, the rebels were quell’d, 
 
 While the cause of the faithful thy mercy upheld. 
 
 When the cliffs of Baal-zephon hung frowningly 
 o’er us, 
 
 When our foes were behind and the billows before us, 
 Thy goodness unwearied and limitless power 
 Appear for our aid in that perilous hour ; 
 
 The ocean was cleft, and like adamant stood, 
 
 And a path was prepar’d through the midst of the 
 flood. 
 
 66 Away ye protectors of Egypt’s bright realm ! 
 Prepare the habergeon, and furbish the helm ; 
 
 Delay not, return not till vengeance be pour’d 
 On the slaves who have dared to escape from their lord ; 
 Till your swords with the blood of the traitors be dyed.” 
 The tyrant thus spoke in the hall of his pride. 
 
THE SONG OF MOSES. 
 
 163 
 
 How vain was the menacing splendour of war ! 
 
 How bootless the speed of the swift-rolling car ! 
 From the princes of Zoan strength seemed to depart ; 
 They bowed to their doom, unresisting, inert : — 
 Thou causedst thy winds o'er the waters to sweep, 
 And the host of the proud was entombed in the deep. 
 
 Let thy goings of Majesty still be our theme, 
 
 Source of all being ! Creator supreme ! 
 
 None of the gods to whom worship is given 
 
 May strive with the Ruler whose throne is in heaven ! 
 
 Their altars shall crumble, their honours decay, 
 
 But the power of the Highest is stablished for aye. 
 
 Spirit of purity, dwelling in light ! 
 
 In homage before thee our voices unite : 
 
 With wonder we gaze on the works thou hast made, 
 But what eye may behold all thy glory displayed ! 
 Thy holiness, blended with kindness and love* 
 Awakens the song of the seraphs above. 
 
 The heathen shall flee to the cave and the hold 
 When the marvellous tidings in Canaan are told ; 
 
 In dismay shall the nobles of Edom assemble, 
 
 And Moab ! thy mighty in battle shall tremble : 
 They shall stand on their border, with terror op- 
 press’d, 
 
 Till the tribes have gone up to the land of their rest. 
 
164 
 
 THE SONG OF MOSES. 
 
 Thou shalt watch o’er thy chosen, thy care shall not 
 cease 
 
 Till they come to the mountain of Zion in peace ; 
 To the place in thy purpose and promise prepared, 
 Where thy Name and thy truth shall be known and 
 declared : 
 
 Though now in the desert like pilgrims we roam. 
 Thy temple, thy law, shall yet hallow our home. 
 
 Like a garment the earth shall decay and wax old, 
 Yon broad azure vault like a scroll shall be rolled; 
 Each starlet that sparkles on heaven’s bright brow 
 Shall fall like the fig from the wind-shaken bough ; 
 But the Rock of our trust shall unaltered remain — 
 Jehovah for ever and ever shall reign. 
 
165 
 
 THE GADFLY 
 
 Ho ! there he cometh, on the light breeze bounding. 
 The Gadfly, champion-like, from head to tail 
 Cased in a shining suit of silvery mail, 
 
 Some hostile enterprize forsooth propounding ; 
 
 For not a fighting dandy in all France 
 Can cope with him in brandishing a lance. 
 
 Now, from his lofty station, fierce as Hannibal 
 From the high Alps, he pounces on my hand, 
 And cuts it up, plying his polished brand 
 With all the zest with which New Zealand cannibal 
 Devours his meal. Ah ! how he loves to linger, 
 And sip the blood-drops oozing from my finger. 
 
 Wretch ! I could fracture with the greatest ease 
 Each bony member of thy dwarfish body, 
 
 And mar thy merriment and gormandizing, should I 
 Resort to such severe extremities ; 
 
 But since thou canst suggest a moral lesson, 
 
 Thy swelling chest my thumb shall never press on. 
 
166 
 
 THE GADFLY. 
 
 Gadfly ! thy grandsire earned much notoriety ; 
 
 (So history avers. I take my notes 
 From Gibbon, who some other person quotes) 
 
 He fairly changed the aspect of society ; 
 
 And by a simple surgical adventure 
 Convulsed the nations to the very centre. 
 
 In ancient times dwelt tribes more rude than any 
 We read of, somewhere by the lake Meotis, 
 
 In w’oods, ’mong marshes, in rock-girdled grottoes, 
 Huns and Heruli, Gepidae, Alani. — 
 
 Grammarians, is it Heruli, or Herule P 
 Perhaps I have not placed the accent truly. 
 
 Sons of the wild, their forte was rearing cattle ; 
 Nothing they knew of optics or geography — - 
 Nothing of criticism, nor even typography— 
 They’d no gazettes t’ immortalize a battle ; 
 
 But, though in finer arts their skill was narrow. 
 Well could they bend the bow and aim the arrow. 
 
 The weather was superb, though moist and showery ; 
 The year had reached the intersecting line 
 Between improvement and begun decline, 
 
 But still the fields were fair and fresh and flowery, 
 When, lo ! a herd of Scythia’s purest breed, 
 
 Kept by an armed band, went forth to feed. 
 
THE GADFLY. 
 
 167 
 
 Gadflies are counted quite a pest in Tartary : 
 
 The one in question, mindful of his trade, 
 
 A dash upon a lusty bullock made, 
 
 And with his sharp proboscis pierced an artery. 
 
 With tail erect, away the victim runs, 
 
 And at his heels, hurra ! a host of Huns. 
 
 Philosophers have traced a similarity 
 
 Between the rational and the brute creation 
 Regarding progress in civilization, 
 
 Degeneracy that is, misnamed in charity : 
 
 When man is savage, hardy, bold and free. 
 
 His beast is not a whit more tame than he. 
 
 i 
 
 The brute had never floundered in the yoke ; 
 
 He never had been saddled, as is done 
 In the imperial realm of Prester John : 
 
 Fleet as the roe, pursuit he seemed to mock. 
 
 And quickly passed the country’s craggy barriers ; 
 The Calmucks following like a pack of harriers. 
 
 Long-winded were they, light of foot and strong too ; 
 They cleared the pass. — Then, what a sight was 
 there ! 
 
 Doubtless they wondered greatly where they were, 
 And who the new discovered lands belonged to. 
 
 For they had thought the forests that surrounded 
 Their native fens the world of being bounded. 
 
168 
 
 THE GADFLY. 
 
 Cried royal Mundzuk, seated on his charger, 
 
 6 4 Offspring of Riphath ! there’s a prize before ye 
 Another world, all glancing in its glory ; 
 
 Fairer than ours, and evidently larger 
 On, on to the conquest, all ye warrior-hives ! 
 
 And leave the care of cattle to your wives,” 
 
 Shouted the Khan. No more they coursed the bul 
 lock ; 
 
 (Perhaps in some deep quagmire he was drowned, 
 Or, possibly respite at last he found 
 From stinging pain upon some breezy hillock) 
 
 But chiefs were chosen, countless clans embattled, 
 And battle-axes rung and quivers rattled. 
 
 The war rolled onward, westward, like a w’ave ; 
 
 The pagan gods of Scythia were propitious ; 
 
 Nor might the last, the bravest Roman, iEtius, 
 The seven-hilled city from perdition save : 
 
 Proud Caesar, with his senators, was humbled, 
 
 And from his throne eventually tumbled. 
 
 What great events from small beginnings rise ! 
 Though the remark may seem a little trite, 
 
 Its repetition here I reckon right, 
 
 For ’tis the moral which my tale supplies. — 
 
 The Gadfly only bit the bullock’s neck, 
 
 And lo ! the Roman Empire went to wreck ! 
 
169 
 
 ACROSTIC 
 
 ON RECEIVING A SNUFF-UOX. 
 
 M adam, my warmest thanks to you belong — 
 
 I f gratitude may be express’d in song— 
 
 S o well your welcome present suits my taste, 
 
 S o much my happiness on snuff is plac’d. 
 
 M y snuff-box — though the Temperance-zealots say 
 A 11 sorts of harsh things in their canting way — 
 
 R enders good service to my mind overwrought, 
 
 G ives animation to the flagging thought, 
 
 A nd much alleviates the yoke of care, 
 
 R esolving pinches into empty air : 
 
 E ven while I grapple thus with tune and time, 
 
 T h’ inspiring atoms regulate the rhyme. 
 
 M ay all the joys which health and wealth bestow, 
 
 O r, rather those from virtuous deeds that flow, 
 
 F ollow your footsteps as through life you roam, 
 
 F ind in your dwelling and your breast a home ; 
 
 A nd, when old age the bloom of health shall blight, 
 T hrow o’er your latest path a cheering light. 
 
 i 
 

 
 
NOTES. 
 
 THE VALE OF ESK. 
 
 Note 1, Stanza 3. 
 
 And mighty voices from the tomb invite 
 
 The traveller to the shores which once were free. 
 
 The renovation and independence of Greece can scarcely he 
 inferred from the circumstance of the barbarians of the West 
 having given a successor to Leonidas, 
 
 Note 2 , Stanza 6. 
 
 Deep is the dell whence, fresh and undefiled, 
 
 The infant Esh bounds on his course away. 
 
 The Esk, the most easterly river of Dumfries-shire, has its 
 source in the chain of mountains which separates that county 
 from those of Roxburgh and Selkirk : the streams that rise 
 on the northern side of the range falling into the Tweed, 
 while those which flow from its south side empty themselves 
 into the Solway Firth. 
 
172 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 3, Stanza 10. 
 
 Th ? imposing vestiges of Roman war . 
 
 On many of the hills of Eskdale, the traces of ancient en- 
 campments are still visible. They are met with on the farms 
 of Over Cassock, Castlehill, Yetbyre, and Tania whill, in the 
 parish of Eskdalemuir ; and at Bailiehill, Shiel, Enzieholm, 
 &c. in the parish of Westerkirk. A very remarkable en- 
 campment of the square form, was discovered in 1810bythe 
 Reverend Dr. Brown, minister of Eskdalemuir, on the farm 
 of Raeburnfoot in that parish. Both the outer and inner 
 fosse, except on the west side, which has been worn away by 
 the Esk — are well defined. The fosse next the hill is twelve 
 feet deep and twenty feet wide ; the others are five feet deep 
 and twenty feet wide ; the gates being likewise twenty feet 
 in width. It includes, at present, an area of five English 
 acres, one rood, and thirty poles : but in its original state, 
 supposing the length on either side of the gates to have been 
 equal, it must have contained six acres, three roods, and 
 twenty-four poles. It is to be regretted that this striking 
 memorial of the olden times has, within these few years, been 
 disfigured by the plough, and especially by those paltry de- 
 fences against cattle denominated “ feal dykes.” 
 
 Note 4, Stanza 11. 
 
 Andy mark ye ! on the river's eastern shore 
 Yon circular stones . 
 
 On the farm of Coat, in the parish of Eskdalemuir, there 
 are two of those circles of erect stones, which are supposed 
 
NOTES. 
 
 173 
 
 by some to have been Druidical temples. The one is about 
 ninety feet in circumference ; the other, of which a segment 
 has been swept away by the river, measures nearly 340 feet. 
 
 Note 5, Stanza 13. 
 
 Yet are there scenes of holier interest still. 
 
 Tradition relates that during the “ killing time” in the 
 tyrannical reign of Charles II., the Covenanters frequently 
 assembled for divine worship among the brushwood which 
 then covered the beautifully wild banks of the Esk in its 
 course through the farms of Castlehill and Yetbyre; the 
 wood affording them a screen from the fury of their persecu- 
 tors. It is even said that a part of the “ Hind let loose,” a 
 book of some note in the religious controversies of the times, 
 was written by Mr. Shiel while “ under hiding” in those se- 
 questered dells. 
 
 Note 6, Stanza 1 5. 
 
 The darksome cave , 
 
 Beneath whose fall of foam , old legends sag, 
 
 In lonely state the Pictish monarch lay. 
 
 The White and Black Esk meet at the southern extremity 
 of the parish of Eskdalemuir. The united stream, after 
 “ thundering through ” a formidable barrier of rugged crags, 
 forms a deep eddy, called the “ King-pool,” where tradition 
 says a Pictish prince of the name of Schaw was drowned, 
 while endeavouring to escape from the pursuing Saxons, who 
 
174 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 had defeated him in battle. A stone marking 1 his grave is 
 still shown on the Shawrigg, a hill in the neighbourhood. 
 
 Note 7, Stanza 17. 
 
 While on its airy site the school appears • 
 The parochial school of Westerkirk. 
 
 Note 8, Stanza 19. 
 
 They nobly burst obscurity's strong bar . 
 
 Perhaps few districts in the kingdom, of similar extent, 
 and with an equal population, can boast of having produced 
 so many young men who have risen to eminence in various 
 professions, and done honour to themselves and their coun- 
 try, as the Vale of Esk has sent forth. Even among the 
 lower classes, whose means of acquiring knowledge are com- 
 paratively limited, intelligence and information are very ge- 
 nerally diffused. To the establishment of public libraries and 
 societies, having for their object the improvement of the 
 mind, this favourable state of things is partly to be attribut- 
 ed. Indeed, a taste for reading and literary conversation is 
 so prevalent among the peasantry of Eskdale, that a York- 
 shire Wool-stapler could not help remarking, that they were 
 the most wonderful people he had ever met with, for the 
 very shepherds “ tolk'd about deep stooff.” 
 
NOTES. 
 
 175 
 
 Note 9, Stanza 24. 
 
 The grotto of the glen , 
 
 Whose garnish'd courts employed my feeble pen. 
 
 See (page 22,) the verses entitled “ An evening in the 
 late Miss Wilhelmina Malcolm’s Museum, Burnfoot.” 
 
 Note 10, Stanza 25. 
 
 Yet would I linger in Daldarran's bowers. 
 
 Daldarran — the ancient name of Westerhall, the seat of 
 Sir Frederick George Johnstone, Baronet, the representative 
 of an old and much respected family in Eskdale. In the last 
 century, the Johnstones of Westerhall were not more dis- 
 tinguished by their patriotism and public services than for 
 the patronage they afforded to youthful merit ; a department 
 of benevolence in which they were followed by the Pasleys 
 of Craig ; as these last have been succeeded by the Malcolms 
 of Burnfoot. 
 
 Note 11, Stanza 26. 
 
 The Ducal dome. 
 
 Langholm Lodge, a seat of the Duke of Buccleuch. 
 
176 
 
 NOTES* 
 
 Note 12, Stanza 27. 
 
 The graceful spire is rising on my view . 
 
 The town of Langholm, noted for the picturesque scenery 
 in its neighbourhood, is situated near the confluence of the" 
 Esk, the Ewis, and the Wauchope. The parent river, eon 
 siderably enlarged with the waters of its tributaries, after 
 passing the village, enters the district of Canobie, whose 
 splendid woods are the admiration of every traveller ; the 
 road between Langholm and Langtown in Cumberland be- 
 ing accounted one of the most delightful stages in the king- 
 dom. 
 
 Note 13, Stanza 32. 
 
 The palace fort held hy the pious brave , 8fc. 
 
 The ancient Castle of Wauchope — the ruins of which are 
 now denominated Wauchope Waas (Walls) — with the lands 
 adjoining, was bestowed, in the eleventh century, by king 
 Malcolm Canmore, upon some adventurers who had follow- 
 ed that prince from England, where he resided for a consi- 
 derable time before he ascended the Scottish throne. The 
 new settlers took the name of Lindsay, from the manor of 
 Lindsai in Essex, their original place of residence ; and from 
 them all the families of that name in Scotland are said to be 
 descended. At a later period, the proprietor of Wauchope- 
 dale, in testimony of his piety and zeal for religion, bequeath- 
 ed the castle and part of the lands to the Knights Templars 
 —one of those munificent bequests which contributed to sup. 
 port the dignity and reward the heroism of that distinguish- 
 
NOTES 
 
 177 
 
 «<1 brotherhood. At what particular time the property was 
 secularized, the writer has not been able to ascertain ; but it 
 is most likely that it was at the Reformation. 
 
 Note 14, Stanza 35. 
 
 And there it was that Mickle strung the lyre . 
 
 William Julius Mickle, the author of a volume of poems — 
 including 1 “ Pollio, ail Elegiac Ode,” and the translation of 
 Camoens’ Lusiad, the subject of which is the discovery of 
 the way to India round the Cape of Good Hope by Vasco de 
 Gama, A. D. 1497, — was the son of the Reverend Alexander 
 Mickle, minister of Langholm. The poet was born 29th Sep- 
 tember 1734, in Langholm, and spent his juvenile years at 
 the manse, or parsonage house, which then “ stood on the 
 site of the old castle of Wauchope, amid the traces of walls 
 and deep ditches, and skirted by the stream which gives 
 name to the dale, with its steep rocks and pendent woods.” 
 
 Note 15, Stanza 39. 
 
 Red blaz'd the beacon-flame on Liddafcs side* 
 
 The conterminous districts of Eskdale and Liddesdale, from 
 their local situation, were peculiarly subject to the incursions 
 of the English Borderers in the age of feudalism. 
 
178 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 16, Stanza 40. 
 
 Kinsman or clansman fettered and immured 
 By the revengeful foe in dungeon deep . 
 
 More than one exploit of the nature here referred to are 
 recorded in the minstrelsy of ancient times. The liberation, 
 by Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch, of one of his retainers, who 
 had been treacherously carried off and imprisoned in Carlisle 
 Castle, in 1596, furnishes a striking- instance of the daring 
 spirit which characterised the Borderers at that period. 
 
 Note 17, Stanza 41. 
 
 When the Black Douglas hands — 
 
 Against their king and country were airayed , fyc. 
 
 See note to “ Burn and Byken,” page 185. 
 
 Note 18, Stanza 42. 
 
 And oft the dalesmen tell , with shame and grief 
 Of the disastrous doings of that morn , fyc. 
 
 The ancient proprietors of the upper part of Eskdale are 
 said to have been of the clan Beattison, or Beattie — who 
 held their rights of the king, till the reign of James the Fifth ; 
 when that monarch conferred the superiority of their lands 
 on Robert Lord Maxwell, for his good conduct in negotiating^ 
 along with Cardinal Beaton, the marriage-treaty between his 
 master and Mary of Guise. The donation included the Five 
 
NOTES. 
 
 179 
 
 Kirks of Eskdale , which at that time were Upper and Nether 
 Ewis, Wauchope, Staplegordon and Westerkirk, of which 
 last parish Eskdalemuir was then an appendage. Lord Max- 
 well having come to take formal possession of the Eskdale- 
 muir part of his estate, summoned the inhabitants to meet 
 him at Dumfedling, which was one of the two Baronies of 
 Eskdale — Staplegordon being the other — where justice was 
 administered and business transacted ; and offered the Beat- 
 tie’s rights to these lands on certain specified conditions. 
 These conditions, however, they would by no means accept ; 
 being unaccustomed to acknowledge any superior ; and think- 
 ing themselves injured by the king’s grant. Words rose 
 high between them and Lord Maxwell ; consultations were 
 holding in his absence ; and the result would certainly have 
 been fatal to him, had not Holland Beattie of Wetcarrick, a 
 prudent man, warned him of his danger, and mounted him 
 on his “ White Mare,” which would carry him to a place of 
 safety, in spite of the swiftest pursuit. Maxwell rode di- 
 rectly to Branxholm Castle in Teviotdale, and being disgust- 
 ed with the ungovernable temper of the Beatties, offered to 
 sell his new estate to the Chief who resided there ,* — the an- 
 cestor of the Buccleuch family — without, however, promis- 
 ing to put him in possession. Branxholm assented to the 
 proposal, observing, that he could find means of realizing the 
 purchase. Being at the time warden of the middle marches be- 
 tween England and Scotland, he raised his dependants, brought 
 them over to Eskdale, surprised the Beatties, who, never- 
 theless made a desperate and bloody resistance — expelled them 
 from their ancient inheritance, and apportioned their lands 
 among his followers, reserving only a part to himself. The 
 country people do not fail to remark that the retributive jus- 
 tice of heaven pursued the descendants of Beattie of Wet- 
 carrick, whose selfish prudence had occasioned so much 
 bloodshed. Lord Maxwell, out of gratitude to preserver, 
 
180 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 had secured him a perpetual tenant right to his possession . 
 hut the deed of reservation in his favour was of little avail, 
 misfortune followed misfortune, and the family was at last 
 literary reduced to beggary. 
 
 Note 19, Stanza 43. 
 
 Yet did ye mount the steed and hare the brand 
 When frowned the Gallic victor from afar. 
 
 When the volunteers were embodied during the late war, 
 the Eskdale yeomanry and infantry formed a very distin- 
 guished portion of the county defence. 
 
 Note 20, Stanza 46. 
 
 To them in peril's hour their chief appealed, 
 
 And called their skilful counsels to his aid. 
 
 The capture of the important fortress of Bhurtpore in 
 India is here referred to. The allusions in this stanza, and 
 in others which follow it, will be understood — at least in 
 Eskdale. It would be improper, perhaps, to mention names. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 181 
 
 MISS W. MALCOLM’S MUSEUM. 
 
 Note 1, Page 24. 
 
 A fragment of the wreck of Babel's tower . 
 
 This is a brick from the ruins of Babylon, obtained by 
 Sir John Malcolm, when envoy from the Indian Govern- 
 ment to the Court of Persia. It is composed of hardened 
 clay, of a light ochre colour, thirteen inches square, and 
 three inches in thickness. There is an undeciphered in- 
 scription upon it, in the arrow-headed character. 
 
 Note 2, Page 25. 
 
 These forms which hold the symbols of command , 
 
 Of senseless stone framed by the artisVs hand. 
 
 The writer here alludes to a stone from the staircase of 
 Persepolis, the ancient capital of Persia, which was burnt by 
 Alexander the Great. It was procured at no small hazard 
 by the late Lieutenant John Little. Two figures, probably 
 officers of court, or grandees of the empire, are sculptured 
 on it in bas-relief. Each carries a rod in his hand. The 
 stone itself is a greyish marble, about two feet in length, and 
 eighteen inches in breadth. 
 
182 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 3, Page 25. 
 
 In gorgeous temples on the shores of Nile . 
 
 Among a number of curiosities from Egypt, are several 
 images of the ancient divinities, especially of Typhon and 
 Anubis. 
 
 Note 4, Page 28. 
 
 A Washington or greater Bolivar. 
 
 Bolivar emancipated his slaves before he gave freedom to 
 his country. — Washington was a slave-owner till his death. 
 
 Note 5, Page 28. 
 
 The tale of Mexico's imperial race. 
 
 The subject of these lines is a specimen of Mexican hiero- 
 glyphics in use before the conquest; obtained from the 
 Archives of Mexico by Don Carlos Parke, and presented by 
 him to Sir Charles Malcolm. The substance on which the 
 hieroglyphics are traced, appears to be the rhind of some 
 tree. They seem to represent a body of men in march, but 
 the figures are drawn in the rudest manner. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 133 
 
 Note 6, Page 30. 
 
 Mark here a mouldering relic from the urn 
 Of him who freedom earned at Bannockburn ! 
 
 When the tomb of King Robert Bruce was discovered 
 some years ago at Dunfermline, a small portion of the lead 
 coffin in which the body of the hero was enclosed was sent 
 by the Rev. Peter Chalmers to Miss W. Malcolm’s Cottage. 
 
 Note 7, Page 30. 
 
 Or in th ' Italian's bosom fan the fire , 
 
 That warm'd to heroism his Homan sire ? 
 
 Poland and (the north of) Italy, suffering under foreign 
 tyranny. The above verses were written a short time be- 
 fore the Polish insurrection broke out 
 
 Note 8, Page 31. 
 
 To thee hath golden Burmah lent her lore . 
 
 “ The love of Burmah ” is a book consisting of the leaves 
 of the Palmyra tree, on which the characters seem to have 
 been engraved with a style, rather than written with a pen. 
 
m 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 CASTLE-O’ER, 
 
 Note 1, Page 51. 
 
 Marcellus * sword , or heave Cunctator's shield. 
 
 Fabius Maximus, designated Cunctator, for his cautious 
 tactics in the war with Hannibal, was called the shield, 
 while Marcellus was said to be the sword of Rome. 
 
 Note 2, Page 54«. 
 
 Nor may thy bulwarks , Corda ! 
 
 (i The western tribe of the Selgova are said to have inha- 
 bited Eskdale, Annandale, and Nithsdale, with the part of 
 Galloway as far as the Dee ; and their name is also said to 
 have been derived from a word importing a “ dividing wa- 
 ter,” and now softened into the Solway. It is said that three 
 towns belonged to this tribe, within the limits of the present 
 county of Dumfries ; — Trimontium at JBurnswark, Uxellum 
 or Wardlawhill, and Corda , now Castleo’er in Eskdale.’’ 
 (Dr. Singer’s Agricultural Survey of Dumfries-shire, page 
 2, Note.) 
 
 Note 3, Page 55. 
 
 On Calpe's war-worn cliffs shall cease to wave ? 
 Calpe — The ancient name of Gibraltar. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 185 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF PLENTY. 
 Note 1, Page 61. 
 
 Wherever the ill-omen' d Raven was rear'd. 
 The Banner of Hunger. 
 
 Note 2, Page 69. 
 
 When it bursts o'er Duncarriden' s battlements hoar 
 Duncarriden, a high mountain in shire. 
 
 BURN AND BYKEN. 
 
 Note 1, Page 75. 
 
 They stood in the day of civil broil , 
 
 On the war-field side by side , 
 
 When the Douglas blood drench'd Arkinholm , 
 
 And the foam of the river dyed. 
 
 In the battle of Arkinholm, fought in the immediate 
 neighbourhood of Langholm, and which proved so fatal to 
 the Douglasses, the Beatties of Eskdale particularly distin- 
 guished themselves, and contributed greatly to the victory. 
 
186 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 FAREWELL TO SNUFF. 
 
 Note 1, Page 112. 
 
 ’ Twas thine new life and vigour to infuse . 
 
 The last pinch. 
 
 Note 2, Page 113. 
 
 For ever on his sacerdotal skull. 
 
 Certain Philippics against snuff and snuff-takers which 
 appeared in the Dumfries newspapers, are said to have been 
 written by a clergyman. The malediction will not be consi- 
 dered very terrible. 
 
 VERSES ON THE DEATH OF BOLIVAR. 
 
 Note 1, Page 125. 
 
 On yonder crime-polluted strand. 
 
 These verses were written immediately after the first ac- 
 count of the death of Bolivar reached this country. It was 
 then said that be died in Jamaica. 
 
GLOSSARY TO WINKYN WORDE’S SKULLE. 
 
 Page 84. 
 
 Bainie , Bony. 
 
 Bern, Snug, comfortable. 
 Bogle, Goblin. 
 
 Brenyelt, Hurried. 
 
 Brow, Shewy, splendid. 
 Busk , Dress. 
 
 Darklins, In the dark. 
 Daurna , Dare not. 
 
 Descrive , Describe* 
 
 Dowie , Cheerless, solitary. 
 Dree , Suffer. 
 
 Deidlicht, Meteor preceding 
 a funeral. 
 
 Eerie , Inspiring, (but gener- 
 ally Possessed with) su- 
 perstitious dread. 
 
 Fash , Meddle with. 
 Firejlaught, Lightning. 
 Gang, Go. 
 
 Gaun, Going. 
 
 Gin, If. 
 
 Glaumt, Searched, felt. 
 Grew , Greyhound. 
 
 Grippit, Grasped. 
 
 Gruwit, Shuddered. 
 
 Kainiy Comb. 
 
 Lane, Alone. 
 
 Loaneny Way between two 
 walls. 
 
 Lootit, Stooped. 
 
 Lown, Calm. 
 
 Mirk, Dark. 
 
 Outowrey Across. 
 
 PoWy Poll or skull. 
 
 Reivey Steal, rob. 
 
 Skaith , Harm. 
 
 Skreiv d. Ran lightly. 
 Stalwart, Tall, strong. 
 Storknin, Strengthening. 
 Sughs, Whistles. 
 
 Swarf, Swoon. 
 
 Thruchstane , Horizontal 
 
 gravestone. 
 
 Unloosome , Unpleasant. 
 Unsonsie, Unlucky, omin- 
 ous. 
 
 Waff, Gentle breeze. 
 
 Weird, Fate, fortune. 
 Wirrikow, Satan. 
 
 YowVd, Howled. 
 
. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 POEMS, 
 
 BY 
 
 MR. WILLIAM PARK, R.N. 
 
 EDITOR OF THE ST. GEORGE’S CHRONICLE, GRENADA. 
 
 The following Poems are published rather as a me- 
 morial of their author, than as a specimen of his talents 
 in poetical composition, the best of his pieces being 
 now irrecoverably lost. William Park was born at 
 Lambhills, in the parish of Hutton, Annandale, on the 
 first January 1762. Having received a classical edu- 
 cation, together with a considerable knowledge of the 
 French language, he, soon after leaving the paternal 
 roof, became secretary to Governor Johnstone of West 
 Florida, grandfather to the present Sir Frederick John- 
 stone of Westerhall, the Governor being at that time in 
 command of the British squadron off the African coast. 
 
190 
 
 AFFENDIX. 
 
 Being left at Lisbon atthis period for about a year, he 
 acquired the Portuguese language, and there formed 
 a friendship with his celebrated countryman, William 
 Julius Meikle, the well-known translator of the Lusiad 
 of Camoens. He afterwards entered the navy as a 
 midshipman, and served his time in that capacity on 
 board the Latona frigate on the West Indian station. 
 Being paid off, and finding but a faint hope of being 
 soon promoted, or soon called upon to serve, he was in- 
 duced by the late Sir James Johnstone of Westerhall, 
 after having been employed for some time as his se- 
 cretary, to go as overseer to an # estate which had been 
 bequeathed to him on the death of his brother, Colo- 
 nel Alexander Johnstone, in the island of Grenada* 
 This he accepted, and entered on his functions in 1788. 
 The situation as overseer of slaves, however, but ill ac- 
 corded with his feeling, manly mind ; and after a while, 
 through the friendship and intercession of some of the 
 most eminent merchants in the town of St. George’s, 
 he got appointed to a situation in the customs of that 
 port. Here he resided for several years, and became 
 a frequent contributor to, and latterly sole proprietor 
 of, the St. George’s Chronicle, to which paper, his 
 knowledge of the French language enabled him to be 
 of great and essential service, in translating advertise- 
 ments and other intelligence for the behoof of the 
 French inhabitants. With a Mr. Turnbull, a Scottish 
 gentleman, the original proprietor of the St. George’s 
 Chronicle, he formed the novel and adventurous scheme 
 of publishing in that paper weekly essays after the 
 manner of the Spectator, which continued for upwards 
 of a year, under the very unassuming title of the 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 191 
 
 “ Plagiary,” to amuse and instruct the heterogeneous 
 population of those remote regions. Having become 
 the sole proprietor of the paper, the circulation of which 
 had extended to all the neighbouring islands, its profits, 
 together with his salary from his office in the customs, 
 promised soon to place him in easy, if not independent 
 circumstances ; but the insurrection of the French in- 
 habitants in the disastrous year of 1795, put a period 
 to his life and his usefulness. He fell as he was nobly 
 heading a charge against the insurgents. 
 
 Whilst acting as a midshipman in the Latona frigate 
 on the West India station, the officers not unfrequently 
 amused themselves and friends by dramatic representa- 
 tions, and his poetical powers were generally called into 
 requisition for a prologue and epilogue. His* wit and 
 vivacity had endeared him to many of his brother offi- 
 cers, and among the rest it may be mentioned with jus- 
 tifiable boast, to our truly patriotic king, who at that 
 time was performing his period of probation as a mid- 
 shipman. He here received from the Royal Tar a 
 pledge of his friendship, which, had providence been 
 pleased to have spared his life, would doubtless have 
 been of some avail to him in the present day. He left 
 an only child, the author of this volume. 
 
192 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 ON THE FUNERAL OF GOVERNOR JOHNSTONE. 
 
 In solemn cadence tolls the funeral bell, 
 
 The pensive mind in deep attention's drown’d, 
 While echo oft repeats the awful knell, 
 
 And lengthens out the melancholy sound. 
 
 With tardy steps advance the mournful throng, 
 To the drear mansions of the silent dead, 
 
 And sadly bear the lifeless corse along, 
 
 To take possession of its humble bed. 
 
 Pass not unheeded this instructive scene, 
 
 Ye living this sage lesson now receive, 
 
 While yet ye live perform your parts like men, 
 For short’s the time permitted men to live. 
 
 See this inanimated lump of clay, 
 
 Within this narrow prison now confined, 
 Devoted to devouring worms a prey, 
 
 To mingle with its kindred earth consigned. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 193 
 
 Yet this while animated with life’s breath, 
 Directed oft the battle’s kindling storm, 
 
 Oft braved in Britain’s cause the arm of death, 
 Though clothed in every terror-striking form. 
 
 That breast which patriotic virtue fired, 
 
 Lies in the cold embraces of the tomb ; 
 
 That tongue that listening senates oft admired, 
 
 In mournful silence lies for ever dumb. 
 
 That bosom where pure friendship's ardent blaze, 
 The generous flame, alas ! perceives no more ; 
 
 That hand’s laid low, that liberal oft was raised 
 To help the injured, to relieve the poor. 
 
 See here the wise, the generous, and the brave, 
 The hero, statesman, and the faithful friend, 
 
 Now the sad tenant of this humble grave, 
 
 Here rest his toils — here all his labours end. 
 
 Tho’ sculptured marbles, faithless to their trust, 
 Soon want the life that they pretend to give, 
 
 Tho’ mausoleums crumble into dust, 
 
 While virtue’s loved, his memory shall live. 
 
 The patriot firmness of his steady mind, 
 
 His warm exertions in his country’s cause, 
 
 The generous love he bore the human kind. 
 
 Shall crown his memory with just applause. 
 
 Leave not unheeded the instructive scene, 
 
 Ye living, this sage lesson now receive, 
 
 While yet ye live perform your parts like men, 
 For short’s the time permitted men to live. 
 
 K 
 
194 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 ELEGIAC VERSES WRITTEN AT SEA. 
 
 A complete version of the following poem cannot be given, 
 the remainder being lost ; the occasion was this : A tyrannical 
 
 bashaw of a captain commanded the L frigate in the West 
 
 Indies for some time previous to her coming home from that 
 station, and his conduct had been severely satirized some time 
 before by the author, very much to the satisfaction and amuse- 
 ment of all the inferior officers on board, in consequence of 
 which he was confined as a prisoner during the whole of the pas- 
 sage homewards to Plymouth, on which occasion he gave vent 
 to his feelings in the following lines. 
 
 Ye whistling winds that murmur through the shrouds, 
 Ye hollow billows of the sterile main, 
 
 Ye stars that dimly twinkle through the clouds, 
 
 Thou moon ! the fairest of nights sober train, 
 
 Oft have ye seen my swelling bosom rise, 
 
 And oft been conscious to my falling tears, 
 
 Oft have your waves, responsive to my sighs, 
 
 With sympathetic whispers sooth’d my ears. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 195 
 
 For oft I’ve mourn’d, in silent grief have mourn’d, 
 The fate that led me through your wilds to roam ; 
 
 Oft have I curs’d the fatal day I scorn’d 
 The humble pleasures of my rustic home. 
 
 But vain ambition, foe to human peace, 
 
 Her gawdy bubbles to my eye display’d, 
 
 With syren voice cry’d “ shun inglorious ease,” 
 
 Her syren voice, unthinking, I obey’d. 
 
 But ah ! too late th’ enchantress’ voice I found 
 Was but a lure th’ unwary to decoy, 
 
 Too late I found the voice of freedom drown’d, 
 
 And, freedom banish’d, who can life enjoy ! 
 
 Thus the delusive meteor’s tempting light 
 Th’ unwary traveller in vain pursues, 
 
 Till guided to some precipice’s height, 
 
 His woeful destiny too late he views. 
 
 Had I, contented with my humble lot, 
 
 In independence turn’d the furrow’d fields, 
 
 I might have tasted, in my humble cot, 
 
 Th’ unsullied blessings godlike freedom yields* 
 
196 
 
 APPENDIX, 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF THE LATE MR. WILLIAM 
 TELFORD, SURGEON, R. N.* 
 
 Around yon now deserted lonely walls, 
 
 Where solitude and gloomy silence reign, 
 
 Each well known scene for sorrow’s tribute calls, 
 And claims the mournful melancholy strain. 
 
 * Mr. Telford was a native of Eskdale. His father was a 
 farmer on the estate, of Westerhall, much respected by all who 
 knew him, for his piety, integrity, and simplicity of manners. 
 His son received a classical education at the parish school of 
 Westerkirk, then conducted by Mr. Brown, an eminent and very 
 successful teacher of youth, attested by the number of distinguish- 
 ed characters who received the first rudiments of education under 
 his tuition, and who also died in the island of Grenada** Mr. 
 
 Telford’s views were early directed to the study of medicine, 
 and he entered as an apprentice into the shop of the late Mr. An- 
 drew Graham, surgeon in Dalkeith, who was then practising at 
 Langholm and the vicinity. He had only completed the first 
 year of his apprenticeship when the commencement of the revo- 
 lutionary war in America opened a road to preferment for young 
 men as surgeons in the army and navy. On the recommendation 
 of the late Sir James Johnstone of Westerhall, he went up to 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 197 
 
 Tho’ unavailing streams the tearful eye, 
 
 Tho* unavailing heaves the throbbing heart, 
 
 ’Tis nature’s voice commands the rising sigh, 
 
 And friendship bids the tear of sorrow start. 
 
 And nature’s sacred voice shall be obey’d, 
 
 The breast shall heave, the swelling eye o’erflow, 
 
 And holy friendship’s debts be duly paid, 
 
 The tributary drops of heartfelt woe. 
 
 No more the tedious moment to beguile, 
 
 The pleasing accents of my friend I hear ; 
 
 No more I see his gay enlivening smile, 
 
 The gloom of pensive solitude to cheer. 
 
 No more his hand shall minister relief, 
 
 Where sickness strews with thorns the weary bed ; 
 
 No more he’ll sooth the friend or parent’s grief, 
 
 Nor stern disease at his approach recede. 
 
 London, was examined by the medical board, and considered 
 qualified to act as surgeon’s mate in the navy, and immediately 
 procured an appointment in that capacity to a frigate then fitting 
 out at Portsmouth. He was very soon after made a prisoner on 
 the capture of the vessel, but was quickly exchanged, and ap- 
 pointed to a larger vessel. In the memorable action of Admiral 
 Lord Rodney with the French fleet in the West Indies, he was 
 acting as surgeon to a 74 gun ship of the line. At the peace in 
 1783 he came home, but afterwards went out to the island of 
 Grenada, where he practised for several years very successfully ; 
 but being seized with the fever common in those islands, he died 
 in the prime of life, very much esteemed and greatly lamented by 
 all who had the pleasure of his acquaintance. 
 
198 
 
 APPENDIX, 
 
 No more at friendship’s soft endearing call, 
 
 His heart with warm benevolence shall glow ; 
 
 At pity’s shrine no more his tears shall fall, 
 
 The cordial balm of sympathetic woe. 
 
 Each charm that gentle manners could impart, 
 
 To manly fortitude of soul he join’d, 
 
 And all or lov’d the goodness of his heart, 
 
 Or priz’d the steady firmness of his mind. 
 
 Such Telford was — by all who knew him lov’d, 
 
 (I found him such by long experience try’d,) 
 
 Thro’ every varied scene of life approv’d ; 
 
 He liv’d respected, and lamented died. 
 
 What though no sculptur’d marble grace his tomb, 
 Nor blazon’d honours o’er his ashes rise ; 
 
 What though no bard lament his early doom, 
 
 Whose song the frown of conquering time defies,— 
 
 In ev’ry breast where virtue claims regard. 
 
 His memory a monument shall find, 
 
 Nor wants his worth the labours of the bard 
 To print it on the good and generous mind. 
 
 THE END 
 

 ERRATUM, 
 
 Page 16, stanza 45, line i,for that read than. 
 
 

 
 
 
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