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Kdinburgh ; 
 Printed by James Ballantyne & Co. 
 
THE 
 
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 Jtfopsa.— Is it true, think you ? 
 AuU^^Yqvj true, — and but a month old. 
 
 Shakespeare* 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN; 
 AND JOHN BALLANTYNE, EDINBURGH, 
 
 1817. 
 

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ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The Editor claims no merit in the following 
 work, save that of having procured from the 
 Authors the various Poems of which the vo- 
 lume is composed ; for, as to the arrangement, 
 it is <iasual, and simply as the pieces came to 
 hand. 
 
 A number of years have now elapsed since he 
 first conceived the idea of procuring something 
 original from each of the principal living Bards 
 of Britain, and publishing those together, jud- 
 ging that such a work, however small, could not 
 fail of forming a curiosity in literature. On ap- 
 plying to them all personally, or by letter, he 
 
 found that the greater part of them entered in- 
 
 6 
 
IV ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 to his views with more cordiality than he had 
 reason to expect ; and, after many delays and 
 disappointments, he is at last enabled to give 
 this volume to the public. He regrets that 
 there are many of the living Poets, whom he 
 highly esteems, that have not yet complied with 
 his request ; but as he is almost certain of some- 
 thing from each of them being forthcoming, he 
 hopes, at no distant period, to be able to lay be- 
 fore the world another volume, at least more 
 diversified than the present. 
 
 With respect to those who have already so 
 kindly supported him in the present underta- 
 king, it behoves him to say nothing.— The 
 pages which follow will show how well they 
 have kept their words, and he takes this public 
 opportunity of thanking them most cordially 
 for their liberal assistance, to which he is con- 
 scious that his merits have in no degree entitled 
 him. 
 
n CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE* 
 
 The Guerilla Lord Byron 1 
 
 Epistle to R. S* * ^* * Walter Scott 27 
 
 Wat o*the Cleuch Ibid. 53 
 
 The Stranger ...•• W. Wordsworth 131 
 
 The Flying Tailor Ibid. 155 
 
 James Rigg • Ibid. 171 
 
 The Glide Greye Katt James Hogg 189 
 
 Isabella S. T. Coleridge 215 
 
 The Cherub Ibid. S25 
 
 Peter of Barnet •....••• Robert Southe y 23 1 
 
 The Curse of the Laureate, 
 
 Ibid 243 
 Carmen Judiciale 
 
 The Morning Star, or the ^ ^ „^ ^^^ 
 
 ^ J. Wilson 257 
 
 Steam-Boat of Alloa 
 
 Hymn to *he Moon •*•••• Ibid* 265 
 
 The Stranded Ship.^, Ibid. 274 
 
«» 
 
THE 
 
 GUERILLA. 
 
THE 
 
 GUERILLA. 
 
 =5 
 
 1. 
 
 Sore for the selfishness of men I wail, — 
 Scarce other motives human action guide ;— 
 And sore I pity those of intellect frail, 
 Who in aught else save their own strength confide. 
 That might, that soul, with heaven alone allied, 
 May all the casual gusts of fate defy ; 
 But he who trusts in power or kingly pride, 
 Well it behoves, like Britons, to rely 
 On miscreants' doubtful aid, for thankless knaves t® 
 die! > 
 
4 
 
 THE GUERILLA. 
 
 2. 
 
 It liatli been said, and suiteth well my tale, 
 That Spain's hot peasants danger strove to shun, 
 Even when their foenien sorest did prevail, 
 And ravaged every vale of Arragon. 
 If there is wealth to gain or insult done. 
 The proud and selfish Spaniard aught will dare ; 
 Farther he cares not — feels not — but anon 
 Flies to his gleesome dance and jocund fare, 
 And gives unto the winds his vows and patriot care. 
 
 3. 
 
 Erewhile, in hamlet of full old regard, 
 
 A goodly hind, Alayni hight, did won, 
 
 His parents' healthful toil who daily shared, 
 
 And on each festal eve. when was begun 
 
 The blithsome dance, and frolic, — there was none 
 
 Who ruled the sport with such resistless sway; 
 
 And when, perchance, his will was lothly done, 
 
 His froward mood displeasure did bewray ; 
 
 Ne fail'd he then to thwart and contravene the play. 
 
THE GUERILLA, 
 
 4. 
 
 Oh, me 1 he was a hot and restless wight ; 
 
 No rival nor superior might he brook, 
 
 In feat of deft activity or might, 
 
 Nor even in mirth, or maiden's favom*ing look. 
 
 At fall of evening, oftimes he forsook 
 
 His father's home, some secret deeds to dare . 
 
 Never was known the pathway that he took, 
 
 Although his walks were watch'd with prying care ; 
 
 But many doubtful stains his raiment daily bare. 
 
 5, 
 One maid he loved — young Kela of the dale, 
 With passion vehement, and her alone : 
 The foemen came — No tears could aught avail, 
 For they were men of France, and never known 
 To feel for pain or misery but their own. 
 The village homes were plundered and despoiFd ; 
 The beauteous village maids of Arragon 
 They dragged from parents' home in anguish wild;, 
 To their voluptuous tentS; to live in bondage vilde* 
 
THE GUERILLA. 
 
 6. 
 
 Kela, the loveliest of these mountain maids, 
 Marot, the leader, for his own did claim ; 
 All proffers of redemption he evades, 
 Answering to all her plaints with words of shame; 
 Loudly she wail*d and call'd Alayni's name, 
 While he, aroused to madness and despair, 
 Raved in such words as tongue did never frame^ 
 Smote his perturbed breast and tore his hair. 
 And to have red revenge by Jesus' cross he sware. 
 
 7. 
 Fast did the frenzy seize the village crew ; 
 Around Alayni thronged they each one ; 
 Their maids, their wealth, had vanish'd from their view. 
 Frantic they flew unto the altar-stone. 
 And, kneeling round, with hands laid thereupon. 
 They vow'd to God nor sleep nor rest to take 
 Until the spoilers should by blood atone 
 For the unholy pillage they did make ; 
 So help them Christ in heaven, for youth and vir- 
 tue's sake 1 
 
THE GUERILLA. 7 
 
 8. 
 
 Man, maid, and matron, swore eternal feud 
 Against the ruthless reavers and their race ; 
 To madness changed their sullen lassitude, 
 Forth did they spread abroad from place to place, 
 Wrath in each voice and wildness on each face ; 
 Aloud they cried for vengeance manifold ; 
 Much magnified their scathe and sore disgrace. 
 Each Arragonian, when the tale was told, 
 Caught the wild flame in guise which pen may not 
 unfold. 
 
 9. 
 From orchard and from field the peasants run. 
 Even the grey sires refuse to stay behind ; 
 Ten thousand bosoms pant beneath the sun. 
 Ten thousand vows are borne upon the wind. 
 All toward blood and massacre inclined 
 The throng march'd forth — Alayni led them on. 
 *Twas night — their foes were all to sloth resigned ; 
 For they had wassail'd deep, feasting upon 
 The spoils and maiden charms of plunder'd Arragottv 
 
S THE GUERILLA 
 
 10. 
 
 They knew nor arms nor armed troop was nigh ^ 
 The hostile peasantry they laugh'd to scorn. 
 Still were they lying there, and long shall lie ! 
 What bands of spoilers waked not on the morn I 
 In one short hour an army was o'erborne, 
 Slaughter'd like sheep, or in the flight cut down ; 
 Small was the number left to stray forlorn, 
 Nor could they tell by whom they were overthrown ,j 
 An army late there was, but army now was none. 
 
 11. 
 Alayni with three comrades madly sped 
 Unto the tent where hated Marot lay ; 
 They found him lying on voluptuous bed. 
 And in his arms his lovely helpless prey. 
 Like one she seem'd who longed much for day ; 
 Her moisten'd cheek no downy pillow prest, 
 Her raven locks, dishevell'd and astray, 
 Hung o'er her panting bosom, ill at rest ! 
 Which turned was away from her destroyer's breast. 
 
THE GUERILLA. 
 
 ]2. 
 
 " Up, noble captain ! — up and taste our cheer ; 
 
 A Spanish festival awaits thee nigh ; 
 
 To lie voluptuously in slumber here 
 
 Great shame it is, while souls so quicklj'^ fly 
 
 From this to regions of a genial sky. 
 
 Up, noble captain— thou must come away !** 
 
 Alayni said, and raised him violently ; 
 
 *' Treason !" the captain cried, in wild dismay ; 
 
 Albeit they loudly laugh'd at his forlorn array. 
 
 13. 
 Alayni dragg'd him forth unto the green, 
 With burning hand entwisted in his hair ; 
 Sore did he writhe, and loudly call'd, I ween, 
 For kindred arms^ but kindred none were there ; 
 Wliile him they raock'd with light and jocund air, 
 And much did aggravate his woeful plight. 
 Oh, it forsooth is grievous to declare 
 How they did mangle that poor hapless wight ; 
 Nor ceased their ruthless game till he was slain out* 
 right ! 
 
10 THE GUERILLA. 
 
 14. 
 
 " Rush forth," Alayni said, " into the field, 
 
 The work of death goes unresisted on ! 
 
 Rush forth, my friends, our haughty foemen yield ; 
 
 For me, the while, I shortly must begone 
 
 To comfort my true love, but all alone, 
 
 As meet it is, with her I would remain. 
 
 Strong be your arms, your hearts to-night be stone, 
 
 To-morrow, soft as they were wont again ; 
 
 God speed your patriot swords! Haste forth into 
 
 the plain.*' 
 
 15. 
 With torch in hand, and all with blood besprent, 
 And looks that might the stoutest heart dismay, 
 Forthwith he entered the dismal tent, 
 Where, all forlorn, the lovely Kela lay ; 
 He placed his torch ere word he deign'd to say, 
 Then gazed on her sweet face with sorrow steep'd ; 
 At fijst she clasped him in fondest way. 
 But minding what she was, her blood ycrept. 
 She hid her youthful face with both her hands, and 
 
 wept. 
 
THE GUERILLA. 11 
 
 16. 
 
 " Well may'st thou wail," he said, in deepest tone, 
 
 " That face I loved above all earthly thing ! 
 
 But never more shall smile beam thereupon, 
 
 For thou art lost beyond recovering I 
 
 To life of scorn can thy young spirit cling. 
 
 To kindred and to friends a lothful stain, 
 
 A beacon set each lover's heart to wring ? 
 
 It may not be — a momentary pain — 
 
 One penance undergone, and thou art pure again !'* 
 
 17. 
 
 She look'd into his face, and there beheld 
 
 The still unmoving darkness of his eye ; 
 
 She thought of that could never be cancell'd, 
 
 And lay in calm and sweet benignity ; 
 
 Down by her side her arms outstretched He, 
 
 Her beauteous breast was fairer than the snow, 
 
 And then with stifled sob and broken sigh 
 
 Its fascinating mould was heaving so,— 
 
 Never was movement seen so sweetly come and go ! 
 
12 THE GUERILLA. 
 
 18. 
 He drew his bloody poniard from his waist, 
 And press'd against her breast its point of steel; 
 No single boon she to his ear address'd, 
 Calm did she lie as one who did not feel ! 
 No shiver once did agony reveal; 
 Scarce did she move a finger by her side, 
 Though her heart's blood around her did congeal ; 
 With mild but steady look his face she eyed, 
 And once upon her tongue his name in whisper died. 
 
 19. 
 With gloomy mien and unrelenting heart, 
 O'er her he hung and watched her life's decay ; 
 He mark*d the pulse's last convulsive start, 
 And the sweet breath in fetches waste away. 
 Just ere the last these words she did assay : 
 *' Now all is past — unblameable I die.** 
 Then her pale lips did close no more for aye, 
 A dim blue haze set slowly o'er her eye, 
 And low on purpled couch that mountain flower did 
 lie. 
 
THE GUERILLA. IS 
 
 20. 
 
 " Ay, it is so !" exclaim'd he — " and 'tis well, 
 Even yet I would not wish thy life reprieved — 
 Of thy firm soul shall future ages tell, 
 Nor could thy spotless fame have been retrieved- 
 Oh ne'er to be wash'd out the stain received J 
 Fair sacrifice, thou hast not died in vain V* 
 He prest the breast which now no longer heaved. 
 And his warm lips to hers did closely strain ; 
 But ah ! that passive lip — it did not kiss again ! 
 
 21. 
 ** By this dear blood," he cried, " again I swear 
 Revenge unslaked for ever to pursue; 
 Heaven was my witness how I held thee dear, 
 And shall be witness what I'll dare for you I" 
 In the warm tide his arms he did imbue, 
 And form'd a cross of blood upon his breast ; 
 Then, maniac-like, forth to the fight he flew 
 In Marot's gear and spangled helmet drest, 
 And Kela's raven hair waved on it for a crest. 
 
14? THE GUERILLA. 
 
 22. 
 Blood was his joy, and havoc was his meed. 
 His direful rage no living foe might shun ; 
 If there was bloody work, or ruthless deed, 
 Forthwith by him that bloody work was done. 
 Great was the spoil and booty that was won, 
 But greater waited them of gold and store : 
 A convoy came, such there was never known, 
 Forth did they rush ten thousand men and more. 
 And found the encumber'd foe on Ebro's winding 
 shore. 
 
 23. 
 Alayni led the van — on him they look'd 
 As something more than man in prowess bold; 
 One to be fear'd he seem'd, but hardly brook'd ; 
 A demon spirit not to be controli'd. 
 Mounted on steed with bits and spurs of gold, 
 No leader ever wore more martial air, 
 No banner o'er his host was seen unroll'd, 
 Save the red cross of blood his bosom bare, 
 And waving in the wind the virgin's raven hair. 
 
THE GUERILLA. 15 
 
 24. 
 O wild was the confusion and the throng, 
 For the Guerillas wore the foe's array ; 
 They mix'd with them and press'd their ranks among. 
 Judge of their wonderment and sore dismay, 
 Wlien through their bodies pass'd in mortal way 
 The scymitar or spear with ruthless blow ! 
 Each deem'd himself of treason's hand the prey, 
 And wildly look'd upon his murderous foe; — 
 He knew the garb full well, the face he did not know. 
 
 25. 
 He who hath seen a ship triumphant sail, 
 Full gaily on before the breeze's wing, 
 High wooing in the clouds the fitful gale. 
 Till, proudly bold and undistinguishing. 
 Instant she rolleth with resistless swing 
 Where two opposing tides together flow. 
 While mariners to mast and rigging cling, 
 And wot not how to steer or where to go, — 
 He may conceive the scene, and he alone can know- 
 
16 THE GUERILLA. 
 
 26. 
 
 O how Alayni joy'd in the deray 
 
 And wild astonishment that seized the foe ! 
 
 Like greedy wolf that gorges up his prey, 
 
 Or hungry lion, did he onward go ; 
 
 And over wounded warriors lying low, 
 
 Spurning and writhing in most piteous case, 
 
 Full joyful did he prance; and loved it so. 
 
 He rein'd his horse to rear upon the place, 
 
 Causing his mailed hooves deform the human face \ 
 
 27. 
 They called for mercy and their arms threw down ; 
 But fierce Alayni when their plight he saw. 
 He spurr'd, and, laughing loud, rush'd them upon, 
 Gashing their bodies so, withouten awe 
 Of warrior usance or of nature's law,— 
 They deemed him demon in the shape of man, 
 Ne could they from the massacre withdraw 
 Who followM him, for still their eyes foreran 
 Young Kela's coal-black hair y'streaming in the van. 
 
THE GUERILLA. 17 
 
 28. 
 Fair were the dames who came with that array, 
 With their proud lords the wealth of Spain to shar^, 
 By the Guerillas rudely borne away ; 
 O how they 'gan with plaints to load the air ! 
 Though youth and maiden innocence were there, 
 Alayni purposed that very night 
 On one huge pile to stretch their bodies fair, 
 To watch the flame ascending fierce and bright, 
 And with their dying throes feast his distemper'd 
 sight. 
 
 29. 
 But Juan, a right brave and courteous youth. 
 Dared to oppose the baleful sacrifice : 
 Soon was he join'd by young and old; for sooth 
 He fear'd no frown from dark Alayni*s eyes, 
 Who all alone had stood in this emprize, 
 And forced was, though sore enraged, to yield. 
 For beauteous captive then each warrior vies — 
 O woful doom ! upon the sanguine field. 
 Far better had their blood their first betrothment 
 seaPd. 
 
18 THE GUERILLA. 
 
 30. 
 Deep in an orange grove the feast was spread, 
 No lovelier scene in nature could be seen ; 
 The loaded boughs were bending over head, 
 Drooping with golden fruit and foliage green j 
 Fast flow'd the wine till every youthful mien 
 Was lighted up to jocund mirth the while ; 
 So gay their humour and retorts so keen. 
 To captive's cheek they almost did beguile 
 The languid lines of joy in momentary smile. 
 
 31. 
 
 But dark Alayni at their head still held 
 His stern demeanour and his downcast eye, 
 And when to listeiiing or to speech compell'd. 
 Red was his look and sullen the reply. 
 As if his mind on incidents gone by 
 Hung with a dry and hollow thirstiness, 
 Or toird in trouble through futurity, 
 Unable for one moment to repress 
 The agony within, of spirit comfortless. 
 
THE GUERILLA. 19 
 
 32. 
 The common woes that human kind belay 
 May by the pen or language be defined ; 
 The sigh may tell of them, the tear betray. 
 Like these, away they pass upon the wind; 
 But that insatiate yearning of the mind 
 Still preying, hungering, craving still to prey, 
 Doom'd never bourn or resting-place to find ; 
 O that must torture, undivulged for aye, 
 Save in the soul's still voice, the eye's perturbed ray. 
 
 S3. 
 That voice inaudible, each spirit there 
 Seem'd to have heard or felt upon it creep ; 
 When shot along Alayni's troubled glare, 
 That instant all were hush'd in silence deep, 
 As lightning's gleam that quivers down the steep, 
 Searing the cheek of mirth and jollity ; 
 Down sunk the eve — the captive maidens weep. 
 The motley group right wearied are to see, 
 By wassailing o'ercome and rampant revelry. 
 
20 THE GUERILLA. 
 
 34. 
 
 Alayni rose and waved his hand on high, — 
 All silent sat before that face so grim ; 
 " A health !*' he cried, and follow'd with his eye 
 Till every cup was filPd unto the brim ; 
 He beckon'd short — each look was turn'd on him, 
 '* Here's to the dead and those that soon must die.** 
 'Gan every eye and every brain to swim, 
 As up they raised the cup, without reply, 
 " Here's to tliedead," they said, " and those that soon 
 must die!" 
 
 35. 
 Alayni vanishes in darksome shade, 
 Plome to his cabin each Guerilla reels, 
 Loaded with spoil, and leading captive maid, 
 Or high-born dame, that sore degradance feels. 
 In vain she supplicates, in vain she kneels, 
 The high-flushed conquerors will take no nay ; 
 Deep is the sleep each weary eye that seals ; 
 But there is one abroad till break of day, 
 From whom the shuddering watch- dog growling 
 turns away. 
 
THE GUERILLA. 21 
 
 36. 
 O follow not that dark perturbed form 
 Down by the winding wave or shadowy tree, 
 Whose mind would better suit the raving storm 
 Than such a scene of mild tranquillity ! 
 He sees a form no other eye can see, 
 He hears a voice no other ear can hear ; 
 A comely breast heaving with agony 
 Is still before his eye, and in his ear 
 Whispers a voice of woe to his moved spirit dear. 
 
 37. 
 Can that sweet voice induce to vengeful deed ? 
 Can that unearthly stillness of the eye 
 Arouse to murder or to suicide ? 
 Oh, it is ever present, ever nigh ! 
 With blasphemy and cursing his reply 
 Is fully fraught — his eye-balls wildly stare, 
 With horrid laughter hell he does defy ; 
 Then turns his brow to heaven with fiend-like air, 
 And flouts the eternal God in mockery of prayer ! 
 
22 * THE GUERILLA. 
 
 38. 
 Is the brain fever'd, or has baleful fiend 
 Expell'd humanity and entered in, 
 That thus his mouth and nostrils wide distend ? 
 Gasping he seems for breath, but cannot win 
 So much of the night-air, that, cool and thin. 
 Wanders o'er earth, yet will not quench the heat 
 That burns his fervid panting chest within ; 
 O, Heaven ! can life-blood only that abate I 
 Did*st thou the human frame for slaughter thus create? 
 
 39. 
 Millions have bled that sycophants may rule, 
 Have fallen to dust and left no trace behind ; 
 And yet we say that Heaven is merciful. 
 And loves and cares for aU the human kind ; 
 And we will spread our hands and mouthe the wind 
 With fulsome thanks for all its tenderness. 
 Ah me ! that man, preposterously blind, 
 Should feel, hear, see, reflect, yet not the less 
 Hope in his hopeless state of abject nothingness ! 
 
THE GUERILLA. 23 
 
 40. 
 Poor worm ! to death, doubt, and despondence born, 
 How blest art thou entrusting Providence I 
 Oh, thou hast nought to dread, though all forlorn 1 
 Thou hast a guardian, a sure defence ! 
 There rest, environed in Omnipotence, 
 
 In safety rest — Alas ! and woe is me, 
 
 That tyrant should, on any vague pretence, 
 Drunkard, or madman, do away with thee> 
 Thou thing of high regard ! — of immortality ! 
 
 41. 
 That live-long night by village mansion sped 
 A darkling ruffian all in blood besmear 'd. 
 With breath repress'd, with swift and silent tread, 
 To every dwelling, every couch he near*d, — 
 No guardian angel of the fair appeared. 
 Heaven wept in copious dews — uprose the day : 
 What horrors brain of wakening lover sear'd, 
 When in his arms he found the gelid clay. 
 Or roll'd from his embrace the severed head away ! 
 
24? THE GUERILLA. 
 
 42. 
 
 Oh many a faultless dame was slain that night, 
 
 That none might 'scape in lawless couch that layj 
 
 Like the sweet children of the Bethlehemite, 
 
 Who died that one might not escape away; 
 
 Great pity both ! — But> fully to repay 
 
 To men the waste of children s guiltless blood, 
 
 Myriads of benefits in fair array 
 
 From thence havesprung. the yearning spirit's food — ^ 
 
 Such base beginning sure could not but end in good. 
 
 43. 
 From this night-slaughter benefits were few, 
 Save to the maidens who full long had pined ; 
 Of this be well assured, that all is true 
 By bloated priestcraft evermore defined 
 Of wisdom in all things by Heaven designed. 
 But to my tale — O many a weeping eye, 
 And much astonishment and anger reign'd, 
 O'er all Cinea's vale, where hamlets lie 
 Thick as the diamond sparks in Autumn's midnight 
 sky. 
 
THE GUERILLA. • " 25 
 
 44. 
 
 Dark moved the vale with many a funeral train, 
 O'er many a sepulchre the tear was shed ; 
 For who can bear to look on woman slain — 
 The breast of comeliness and beauteous head, 
 That nought but love and kindness cherished, 
 Dishonoured and consigned to cheerless gloom ? — 
 Can see the flower of nature lowly laid, 
 From hand that should have guarded meet her doom 
 In land of life and beauty never more to bloom ? 
 
 45. 
 Yet, saving Juan, who in manly wise 
 Withstood the shameful deed, no man was slain ; 
 His bosom was upripp'd in woeful guise, 
 And from its habitance his heart was ta'en : 
 Well did they know the source of all their pain, 
 Well knew the savage hand that this had done. 
 They sought ilayni, but they sought in vain : 
 His game of death was o'er, and he was gone 
 Far from his native vale mid bloodier scenes to won. 
 
26 ' THE GUERILLA 
 
 46. 
 I've heard of one, of whom have many heard, 
 That on Segovia's mountains roam'd a while, 
 A savage hero of most strange regard, 
 On whose dark visage never beam'd a smile, 
 Whose beard was never trimm'd, whose ruthless toil 
 Of slaughter onl}'^ with existence ceased, 
 Who died in maniac guise 'mid bloody broil. 
 Laughing aloud, yet pressing to his breast 
 A tiar of raven hair which every morn he kiss'd. 
 
 47. 
 It was Alayni — dost thou wail his case ? — 
 Beloved unhappy, restless unbeloved. 
 Oh, there are minds that not for happiness 
 Were framed here nor hereafter, who ne'er proved 
 A joy, save in some object far removed. 
 Who leave with loathing that they long*d to win, 
 That evermore to that desired hath roved, 
 While the insatiate gnawing is within. 
 And happiness for aye beginning to begin. 
 
EPISTLE TO MR R S****. 
 
EPISTLE TO Mr R. S**^*. 
 
 Melrose^ Teviotdahj August S. 
 I Dear S * * * *, while the southern breeze 
 \ Floats, fresh'ning, from the upland leas, 
 I Whispering of Autumn's mellow spoils 
 I And jovial sports and grateful toils, 
 
 1; ^ 
 
 \ Awakening in the soften'd breast 
 •Regrets and wishes long supprest, 
 ! O, come with me once more to hail 
 ^ The scented heath, the sheafy vale^ 
 The hills and streams of Teviotdale. 
 
so EPISTLE TO R. S * # * # 
 
 i 'Tis but a parting pilgrimage 
 . To save from Time's destroying rage, 
 I And changeful Fortune's withering blast, 
 f The hallow'd pictures of the past. 
 And though my steps have linger'd long 
 From scenes that prompt the poet's song, 
 Till almost in ray heart has died 
 The flame that glowM with boyish pride, 
 For this Y\\ wake once more the strain, 
 Which else had ne'er been waked again. 
 And, there, we'll woo the visions wild 
 Which first on opening fancy smiled. 
 By breezy dawn, by quiet noon, 
 Beneath the bright broad harvest-moon, 
 Or 'midst the mystic shadows dim 
 Which round the car of Twilight swim ; 
 While dreams of glory spring to birth, 
 More lovely than the forms of earth. 
 
 Then come, dear comrade ! welcome still 
 In every change of good or ill, 
 
EPISTLE TO R. S * * * #^ 32 
 
 Whom young affection's wishes claim, 
 And friendship ever finds the same- 
 Awake with all thy flow of mind, 
 With fancy bright and feelings kind. 
 And tune with me the rambling lay 
 To cheer us on our mountain way. 
 
 Say, shall we wander where the swain, 
 Bent o'er his staff, surveys the plain, 
 With lyart cheeks and locks of grey. 
 Like patriarch of the olden day ? — 
 Around him ply the reaper band. 
 With lightsome heart and eager hand, 
 And mirth and music cheer the toil, — 
 While sheaves that stud the russet soil, 
 And sickles gleaming in the sun, 
 Tell jocund Autumn is begun. 
 
 How gay the scenes of harvest morn 
 Where Ceres pours her plenteous horn — 
 
32 EPISTLE TO R. S * * * *, 
 
 I 
 
 The hind's hoarse* cry from loading car, 
 The voice of laughter from afar, 
 The placid master's sober joy, 
 The frolic of the thoughtless boy — 
 Cold is the heart when charms like these 
 Have lost their genial power to please ! 
 But yet, my friend, there is an hour 
 (Oft has thy bosom own*d its power,) 
 When the full heart, in pensive tone, 
 Sighs for a scene more wild and lone. 
 Oh then, more sweet on Scotland's shore 
 The beetling cliff, the breakers' roar. 
 Or moorland waste, where all is still. 
 Save wheeling plover's whistle shrill, — ' 
 More sweet the seat by ancient stone, 
 Or tree with lichens overgrown, 
 Than richest bower that autumn yields, 
 'Midst merry England's cultured fields.— 
 Then, let our pilgrim footsteps seek 
 Old Cheviot's pathless mossy peak ; 
 
EPISTLE TO R. S # # # *, S3 
 
 For there the Mountain Spu'it still 
 Lingers around the lonely hill, 
 To guard his wizard grottos hoar, 
 Where Cimbrian sages dwelt of yore ; 
 Or, shrouded in his robes of mist, 
 Ascends the mountain's shaggy breast, 
 To seize his fearful seat — ^upon 
 The elf-enchanted Hanging Stone,— 
 And count the kindred streams that stray 
 Through the broad regions of his sway !-—* 
 Fair sister streams that wend afar 
 By bloomy bank or barren scaur, 
 Now hidden by the clustering brake, 
 Now lost amid the mountain lake, 
 Now clasping, with protecting sweep, 
 Some mouldering castle's moated steep ; 
 Till, issuing from the uplands brown. 
 Fair rolls each flood by tower and town ; 
 The hills recede, and on the sight 
 Swell the bold rivers broad and bright. 
 
 b2 
 
34? EPISTLE TO R. S # » * • 
 
 The eye — the fancy almost fails 
 
 To trace them through their thousand vales, 
 
 Winding these Border hills among^ 
 
 (The boast of chivalry and song) 
 
 From B ^ * *^ ^ * t's banks of softest green 
 
 To the rude verge of dark Lochskene*— 
 
 ^Tis a heart-stirring sight to view, 
 
 Far to the westward stretching blue, 
 
 That frontier ridge, which erst defied 
 
 Th' invader^s march, th' oppressor's pride; — 
 
 The bloody field for many an age, 
 
 Of rival nations' wasteful rage ; 
 
 In later times a refuge given 
 
 To exiles in the cause of Heaven. 
 
 Far inland, where the mountain crest 
 Overlooks the waters of the west. 
 And, 'midst the moorland wilderness. 
 Dark moss-cleughs form a drear recess, 
 Curtain'd with ceaseless mists which feed 
 The sources of the Clyde and Tweed, — 
 
EPISTLE TO R. S # # * #. 35 
 
 There injured Scotland's patriot band 
 For faith and freedom made their stand, 
 When traitor kings, who basely sold 
 Their country's fame for Gallic gold, — 
 Too abject o'er the free to reign, — 
 Warn'd by a father's fate in vain, — 
 In bigot fury, trampled down 
 The race who oft preserved their crown. — 
 
 r 
 
 There, worthy of his masters, came 
 The despots' champion, bloody Graham^ 
 To stain for aye a warrior's sword, 
 And lead a fierce, though fawning horde, 
 The human bloodhounds of the earth, 
 To hunt the peasant from his hearth ! 
 ' — Tyrants ! could not misfortune teach, 
 That man has rights beyond your reach ? 
 Thought ye the torture and the stake 
 Could that intrepid spirit break. 
 Which even in woman's breast withstood 
 The terrors of the hre and flood ! — 
 
<R 
 
 6 rnsTLE TO ii. s * * * *. 
 
 Yes — though the sceptic's tongue deride 
 I Those martyrs who for conscience died,— 
 \ Thougli modish history bhght their fame, 
 , And sneering courtiers hoot the name 
 j Of men who dared alone be free 
 
 \ Amidst a nation's slavery,-— 
 
 1 
 
 Yet long for them the poet^s lyre 
 Shall wake its notes of heavenly fire ; 
 
 j Then* names shall nerve the patriot's hand; 
 
 t. Upraised to save a sinking land ; 
 And piety shall learn to tfurn 
 With holier transports o'er their urn I 
 
 But now, all sterner thoughts forgot^ 
 Peace broods upon the peasant^s cot ; 
 And if tradition still prolongs 
 The memory of his father's wrongs^ 
 'Tis but the grateful thought that borrows 
 A blessing from departed sorrows*-.- 
 IIow lovely seems the simple vale 
 Where lives our sires' heroic tale ! 
 
 6 
 
EPISTLE TO K. S * # * * 
 
 37 
 
 The mossy pass, the mountain flood— t- 
 
 Still hallowM by the patriot's blood; — 
 
 The rocky cavern^ once his tent, 
 
 And now his deathless monument, 
 
 Rehearsing to the kindling thought 
 
 What Faith inspired and Valour wrought ! 
 
 Oh, ne'er shall he whose ardent prime 
 
 Was foster'd in the freeman's clime. 
 
 Though doom'd to seek a distant strand. 
 
 Forget his glorious native land — 
 
 Forget — 'mid Brahma's blood-stain'd groves — 
 
 These sacred scenes of youthful loves I 
 
 Sequestered haunts — so still — so fair, 
 
 That holy Faith might worship there. 
 
 And Error weep away her stains. 
 
 And dark Remorse forget his pains ; 
 
 And homeless hearts by fortune tost. 
 
 Or early hopeless passion crost. 
 
 Regain the peace they long had lost ! 
 
38 EPISTLE TO R. S * * * *, 
 
 Then let us roam that lovely land, 
 By classic Teviot s sylvan strand, 
 By Yair and Flora's pathless glens, 
 And haunted Yarrow's dreary dens, 
 Till, with far- circling steps we hail 
 Thy native B ^ "*^ * * ^t's broomy vale. 
 And reach my boyhood's birchen bowers 
 'Mong C * * * ■ s cottages and towers. 
 
 Q # # ^ I lii^e voice of years gone by, 
 I hear thy mountain-melody ! — 
 It comes with long-forgotten dreams, 
 Once cherished by thy winding streams, 
 And sings of schoolboy rambles free, 
 And heart-felt young hilarity ! 
 I see the moss-grown turrets hoar 
 Dim-gleaming on thy woodland shore, 
 Where oft, apart from vulgar eye, 
 I loved at summer tide to lie, 
 Abandon'd to the witching sway 
 Qf some old bard's heroic lay, 
 
EPISTLE TO R. S # * # #^ 39 
 
 Or poring o'er the immortal story 
 
 Of Roman and of Grecian glory. 
 
 Yet aye (^ne Minstrel charm'd me more 
 
 Than all I learn d of classic lore^ 
 
 Or war and beauty, gaily blent 
 
 In pride of knightly tournament,^ — 
 
 Even He, in rustic verse, who told 
 
 Of Scotland's champion — Wallace bold — 
 
 Of Scotland' s ancient '' luve and lee/^ 
 
 And Southron's coward treachery ! — 
 
 ^ And oft I conn'd that harper's page 
 With old hereditary rage, 
 Till I have wept, in bitter mood, 
 That now no more in English blood, 
 My country's falchion might atone 
 
 \ The warrior^s fall and widow's moan !— 
 Or, 'neath the oak's broad-bending shade, 
 With half-shut eye-lids musing laid, 
 
 ■ Weaving in fancy s tissue strange 
 The shapeless visions of revenge, 
 
k 
 
 40 EPISTLE TO R. S * * * =5*=. 
 
 I conjured back the past again— ^ 
 The marshalled bands, the battle-plain, 
 The Border slogan's pealing shout, 
 The shock, the tumult, and the rout, 
 Victorious Scotland's bugle-blast, 
 And charging knights that hurry past : 
 Till down the dim-withdrawing vale 
 
 j I seem'd to see their glancing mail, 
 
 I 
 
 ' And hear the fleet barb s furious tramp 
 
 ' Re-echoed from yon ancient camp. 
 
 But, chief, when summer twilight mild 
 Drew her dim curtain o'er the wild, 
 I T loved beside that ruin grey 
 To watch the fading gleam of day* 
 And though, perchance, with secret dread 
 I heard the bat flit round my head, 
 Wliile winds that waved the long lank grass. 
 With sound unearthly seem'd to pass. 
 Yet v/ith a pleasing horror fell 
 Upon my heart the thrilling spell ; 
 
EPISTLE TO R. S # * # *, 4j 
 
 For all tbat met the e3^e or ear 
 
 Was still BO pure and peaceful here, 
 
 I dcem'd no evil might intrude 
 
 I Within its sacred solitude. — 
 
 Still vivid ntemory can recall 
 
 The figure cf each shatterM wall; 
 
 The aged trees, all hoar with moss. 
 
 Low bending o'er the sullen fosse ; 
 i 
 The rushing of the mountain flood ; 
 
 \ The cushat's cooing in the wood ; 
 
 The rooks that o'er the turrets sail ; 
 ' The lonely curlew's distant wail ; 
 ; The flocks that high on H * * * * m rest ; 
 
 The glories of the glowing west. 
 
 And, tinged with that departing sun, 
 To fancy's eye arises dun, 
 A hill, along whose dusky brow, 
 Yet unprofaned by rustic plough, 
 The sliaggy gorse and brown heath wave 
 O'er many a nameless warrior's grave. 
 
42 EPISTLE TO R. S ^^ # * *. 
 
 — Yon peak, of yore, which wide and far 
 GleamM like the wakeful eye of war, 
 And oft with warning flame and smoke, 
 Ten thousand spears to battle woke, 
 Now down each subject glen descries 
 Blue wreaths from qui-dt liamlets rise, 
 To where, soft fadhig on the eye, 
 Tweed's cultured banks in beauty lie, 
 Wide wavina: with a flood of grain 
 From Eildon to the eastern main. 
 — Oft from yon height I loved to mark, 
 Soon as the morning roused the lark, 
 And woodlands raised their raptured hymn, 
 That land of glory spreading dim ; 
 While slowly up th^ awakening dale 
 The mists withdrew their fleecy veil, 
 And tower, and wood, and winding stream^ 
 Were brightening in the golden beam. 
 — Yet where the westward shadows fell 
 My eye with fonder gaze would dwell, 
 
EPISTLE TO R. S * # * #, 45 
 
 Though wild the view, and brown and bare ; 
 
 Nor castled halls, nor hamlets fair, 
 
 Nor range of sheltering woods, were there — 
 
 Nor river's sweeping pride between, 
 
 To give expression to the scene. 
 
 There, stood a simple home, — where swells 
 
 The meadow sward to moory fells, — 
 
 A rural dwelling thatch'd and warm, 
 
 Such as might suit the upland farm. 
 
 A honeysuckle ciasp'd the sash, 
 
 Half-shaded by the giant ash ; 
 
 And there the wall-spread apple-tree 
 
 Gave its white blossoms to the bee, 
 
 Beside the hop-bower's twisted shade, 
 
 Where age reclined and childhood play'd. 
 
 Below, the silvery willows shook 
 
 Their tresses o'er a rambling brook. 
 
 That gamboird mong its banks of broom^ 
 
 Till lost in L ***** 's haunted gloom. 
 
 — Methinks I hear its gurgling dash, 
 
 Beside yon sheltering clump of ash, 
 
4}'h EPISTLE TO R. S # # * *. 
 
 Which screens below the boiling pool 
 With pebbled bottom clear and cool, 
 Where often from the shelving brim 
 We launch^ on sedgy sheaf to swim. 
 
 From Teviot^s lovelier dales remote 
 The traveller's glance would scarcely note 
 That narrow valley, or espy 
 Aught there to win his wandering eye ; 
 But youthful memory pictures still 
 Each bush and stone that speckM the hill ; 
 The braes with tangled copsewood green ; 
 The mossy cliffs that rose between ; 
 The fern that fringed each fairy nook ; 
 The mottled mead ; the mazy brook, 
 That underneath its ozier shade, 
 Still to the wild its music made. 
 
 Among the flowers and tedded hay 
 I see an elfin band at play ; 
 
EPISTLE TO R, S ^ # ^ #^ 45 
 
 Blithe swinging on the green-wood bough, 
 Or guiding mimic wain and plough; 
 Intent a summer booth to build. 
 Or tilling each his tiny field ; — 
 Or, proudly ranged in martial rank, 
 They muster on the mossy bank, 
 With rushy helm and sword of sedge, 
 A bloodless Border war to wage. 
 
 Anon, with lapse of circling years, 
 
 In other guise that group appears, 
 
 As childhood's gamesome mood gives place 
 
 To manly thought and maiden grace. 
 
 Beneath yon rock with lichens hoar, 
 
 Of fabled fays the haunt of yore, 
 
 They sit beside the Verier spring — 
 
 I hear the low winds whispering 
 
 The mournfu' bal ad's simple strain ; 
 Or breathing flute awakes again 
 The echoes of each sylvan grot, 
 With many a sweetly-melting note 
 
46 EPISTLE TO R. S * * * *. 
 
 Or from the chambers of the north 
 Comes Winter with his tempests forth ? 
 Athwart the shivering glebe to fling 
 The flaky snow-drift from his wing, 
 Shrouding, with many a fleecy fold, 
 The bosky dell and battle wold — 
 While, banish'd from his half-plough'd field, 
 The hind essays the flail to wield. 
 And o'er the hills, the perilous road 
 Alone by shepherd's foot is trode, 
 Who gathers on the furzy heath 
 His flocks dug from the smothering wreath- 
 Then it was more than joy to meet 
 With long-loved friends in that retreat — 
 And still that valley's rude recess 
 Could charm in winter's wildest dress — 
 Whether the mountain speat has drowned 
 With mingling floods the meadow ground, 
 And through their hundred sluices break 
 The headlong currents to the Lake, — 
 
EPISTLE TO R. S ^ # # #^ 47 
 
 Or the choked torrent's deafen'd flow 
 
 Is hush'd in crystal caves below, 
 
 And down the clifFs the trickling rills 
 
 Congeal in column'd icicles. 
 
 But when day's hasty steps retire, 
 
 Still sweeter by the blazing fire 
 
 In that low parlour^s narrow bound 
 
 To draw the social circle round ; 
 
 Where no unwelcome step intrudes 
 
 To check gay humour's changeful moods. 
 
 Round flows the merry jest, — the tale 
 
 Of maiden cloister in the dale, 
 
 Of weeping spirit of the glen, 
 
 Of monster-snake of Wormeden ; 
 
 Of ladies doomed by Rome's command 
 
 To sift the church-yard mound of sand, 
 
 By penance drear to wash away 
 
 Foul murder's dire anathema. 
 
 Or graver history's graceful page, 
 
 Or traveller s venturous toils enga ge ; 
 
48 EPISTLE TO R. S * * * *. 
 
 Or poet^s lay the bosom warms 
 
 With virtue's praise and nature's charms, 
 
 And faithful loves and feats of arms. 
 
 And 'midst that friendly circle now 
 
 I mark a youth with open brow, 
 And thoughtful blue eyes beaming mild, 
 And temples wreath d with clusters wild 
 Of light brown-hair ! — The pensive grace 
 Upon his features, seems the trace 
 Of thought more tender and refined 
 Than dawns upon the vulgar mind, 
 But oft across his blooming cheek 
 Flushes a quick and hectic streak, 
 Like that which in an Indian sky. 
 
 Though cloudless, tells of danger nigh 
 
 Danger — to tear from life and fame 
 The latest of a gentle name ! 
 
 . How fearful to affection's view 
 That blush more bright than beauty's hue ! 
 Where, s^ad as cypress wreath, the rose 
 Amid consumption's ruin glows^ 
 
EriSTLE TO R. S * * # *, 4.9 
 
 And decks with gay and treacherous bloom 
 The untimely passage to the tomb !— 
 
 Now scatter'd far the smiling flowers, 
 That grew around these rustic bowers — 
 Ungentle hearts and strangers rude 
 Have passM along its solitude ; 
 The hearth is cold — the walls are bare 
 That heard my grandsire's evening prayer, — 
 Gone — even the trees he planted there ! 
 Yet still, dear Friend, methinks 'twere sweet 
 To trace once more that loved retreat — 
 Still, there, where'er my footsteps roam, 
 *' My heart, untravelPd,'* finds a home ! 
 For 'midst these border mountains blue, 
 And vales receding from the view, 
 And lonely lakes, and misty fells, 
 Some nameless charm for ever dwells— 
 
50 EPISTLE TO R. S # * * *^ 
 
 Some spirit that again can raise 
 The visions of departed days, 
 And thoughts unutter'd — undefined— 
 That gleaniM across my infant mind^ 
 
 lovely was the blest control 
 Which came like music o'er my soul. 
 While therC;— -a rude untutored boy, 
 With heart tuned high to Nature's joy,— i 
 Subdued by Beauty^s winning form, 
 
 Or kindling 'midst the mountain storm, — - 
 
 « 
 
 Alive to feeling's gentle smart. 
 
 Which wakes but does not waste the heart, — 
 
 1 dreamt not of the workings deep 
 Of wilder passions yet asleep. — 
 
 Long from these native haunts estranged. 
 My home but not my heart is changed— 
 Amidst the city's feverish stir 
 'Tis still a mountain wanderer ! 
 And though (if bodings be not vain) 
 Far other roamings yet remain, 
 
EPISTLE TO R. S * * # *, 51 
 
 In climes where, 'mid the unwonted vales, 
 No early friend the wanderer hails, 
 Nor well-known hills arise to bless 
 His walks of pensive loneliness ; 
 Yet still shall fancy haunt with you 
 These scenes beloved when life was new, 
 And oft with tender zeal return 
 By yon deserted tomb to mourn ; — 
 For oh, whate'er that lot may be 
 In Fate's dark book reserved for me, 
 I feel that nought in later life, 
 Ambition's pride, or passion's strife, 
 Or favouring fortune's boundless grasp. 
 This bosom with a tie can clasp. 
 So strong — so sacred — as endears 
 These relics of our earliest years. 
 
WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 1. 
 
 Wat 0* the Cleuch came down through the dale, 
 In Iielmet and hauberk of gllstemng mail ; 
 Full proudly he came on his berry -black steed, 
 Caparison'd, belted for warrior deed. 
 O bold was the bearing, and brisk the career, 
 And broad was the cuirass and long was the spear, 
 And tall was the plume that waved over the brow 
 Of that dark reckless borderer, Wat o' the Cleuch. 
 
56 WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 Ills housing, the buck's hide, of rude massy fold, 
 Was tasseird and tufted with trappings of gold ; 
 The hencliman was stalworth his buckler that bore* 
 He had bowmen behind him, and billmen before ; 
 He had Bellenden, Thorleshope, Reddlefordgreeo, 
 And Hab o' the Swire, and Jock of Poldean ; 
 And Whitstone, and Halston, and hard-riding Hugli^ 
 Were all at the back of bold Wat o' the Cleuch. 
 
 3, 
 As Wat o' the Cleuch came down through the dale, 
 1 he hinds stood aghast and the maidens grew pale, 
 The ladies to casement and pallisade ran, 
 The vassals to loop-hole and low barbican, 
 And saw the bold borderers trooping along, 
 Each crooning his war-note or gathering-song ; 
 O many a rosy cheek changed its hue 
 When sounded the slogan of Wat o* the Cleuch ! 
 
CANTO FIRST. 57 
 
 4. 
 As downward they past by the Jed and the Roule, 
 The monk took his crozier, his cord, and his cowl. 
 And kneePd to the Virgin with book and with bead, 
 And said Ave-Maria and muttered his creed, 
 And loudly invoked, as he clasped the rood, 
 Saint Withold, Saint Waldave, Saint Clare, and 
 
 Saint Jude ! 
 He dreaded the Devil, to give him his due, 
 But held him as nothing to Wat o' the Cleuch. 
 
 5. 
 
 The abbot and monks of Jedwort well knew 
 When there was aught to gain, 
 
 That neither quoif, nor bead, nor book, 
 
 Nor penitential whine and look, 
 
 That stern marauder e'er would brook, 
 He spurn'd them with disdain ; « 
 
 That late at Elsdon he had been 
 
 On evening of Saint Valentine, 
 
 e2 
 
58 WAT O^ THE CLEUCH* 
 
 And there had wrought much wreck and dole, 
 
 Had calPd the abbot beast and fool. 
 
 And all his horde a nest of knaves. 
 
 Of sordid, selfish, venal slaves ; 
 
 Had broke their croziers o er their heads. 
 
 And burnt their books, and sowM their beads^ 
 
 Taken, bot leave, their hoarded pelf, 
 
 And whatsoever pleased himseir; 
 
 And never had sin of the deepest hue, 
 
 Nor Howard nor Scroop with their foraying crew, 
 
 E'er frightened our abbot like Wat o' the Cleuch. 
 
 6. 
 Wat o' the Cleuch he lighted down, 
 He knock' d at the gate, but answer had none ; 
 He knocked again with thundering din, 
 At length he heard a stir within. 
 ^^ Who raps so loud?'^ a voice 'gan cry. 
 ^^ Swith ! open the door,'' said Wat, ^* His L^^ 
 
CANTO FIRST. 59 
 
 Then some ran here and some ran there, 
 They whisper'd and muttered words of prayer ; 
 
 " Come quick !*' cried Wat, and then 
 The door was oped by an abbot old, 
 With bushy beard and ronkled mould, 
 
 Who scarce could tears restrain ; 
 O how he groan'd and heaved the sigh 
 As the stark and stalwart chief strode by ; 
 And if his prayer then we knew, 
 'Twas not for grace to Wat o' the Clench. 
 
 7. 
 Wat deign'd no heed, but onward strode 
 To the chancel of the house of God ; 
 He threw up his visor and helm to boot ; 
 He wiped his brow and he look'd about. 
 And fix*d his eye on where a crowd 
 Of hagard friars trembling stood ; 
 Then in deiiberate way 
 
60 WAT O' THE CLEUCH* 
 
 His mighty two-hand sword he drew ; 
 ^Twas broad and long, but of a hue 
 
 111 suited fears to stay. 
 For segments deep of blacken'd red 
 Its polishM side half covered, 
 As if half-way through many a head 
 
 It late had found its way. 
 
 8. 
 What frame might brook that weapon's fall ? 
 For though the chief like oak was tall, 
 It reachM so high, it swung so low, 
 It gaird his shoulder and his toe ; 
 And when that giant sword he drew 
 His arm was bent around his brow ; 
 When forth it came, the sooth to say, 
 It came with such resistless sway, 
 Woe to the wight stood in its way ! 
 And fiickerM in the light of heaven 
 Like streamer of the burning levin. 
 
CANTO FIRST* 61 
 
 9. 
 
 Wat drew that sword, I said before^ 
 He gave it one brandish and no more ; 
 It was enough — quick might you see 
 Each monk, each friar, on his knee, 
 Kissing the cross, and calHng loud, 
 O mercy ! mercy ! spare our blood. 
 For sake of him that died on rood ! 
 
 10. 
 Wat gave his sword a swing behind, 
 It whistled in the convent wind 
 With ireful sound, and by ill luck 
 Against the architrave it struck. 
 Just where Saint Peter held the key 
 Forth to the sainted Gregory. 
 Down came th' apostle from the wall, 
 The pope, the key, and pedestal. 
 Wat look d behind, he look'd before^ 
 And prostrate on the convent floor 
 
62 WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 Beheld the canonized compeers 
 Amid their rueful worshippers ; 
 Longer the scene he could not brook^ 
 He laugh'd till all the rafters shook. 
 
 11- 
 
 The grovelling monks upraised the head 
 Like martyrs rising from the dead ; 
 Around they stared in dubious way, 
 And wist not what to think or say. 
 ^^ Rise up, my friends — for friends we are, 
 Why thus give way to idle fear ? 
 
 All that of you I crave 
 Is your best blessing — 'tis a task 
 That you behoves — that boon I ask, 
 
 Ay, and that boon I'll have/' 
 ^^ That thou shalt have/^ the sire replied, 
 ^^ My worthy son, thy country's pride. 
 In peace approved, in danger tried : 
 
CANTO FIRST* 63 
 
 It well becomes the brave 
 To live, and walk thus holily : 
 Kneel down, Sir Knight, upon thy knee, 
 
 My blessing thou shalt have/' 
 
 32. 
 
 ^^ Beshrew thy heart V said Wat in wrath^ 
 ^' If that I do ; for, in good faith, 
 Little I reck of idle breath; 
 
 Of mass or breviary ; 
 Oft have I heard my grandam tell 
 When in our lady's gay chapelle 
 The consecrated torrent fell 
 
 From beadsman's hand on me, 
 How that I look'd with such a frown, 
 As if I d knock the dotard down 
 Who that unwelcome tide had thrown 
 
 So disrespectfully. 
 Ne'er since that day, when weetless, young, 
 God shield the right and ward the wrong ! 
 
64^ WAT O^ THE CLEUCH^ 
 
 Have I from priest or beadsman^s tounge 
 Had benedicite. 
 
 13. 
 ^^ But, sire, I crave and claim withal 
 A blessing more substantial ; 
 Dost thou not see that my array 
 Has march'd a rough and weary way, 
 Even from the Cleuch since break of day ? 
 No food nor fare for us is left, 
 The land is harried and bereft 
 So wholly by the Southern host 
 That now lies camp'd on Lothian coast, 
 That, save what sanctuary contains, 
 Nor flock, nor herd, nor store remains. 
 Now, abbot, thou may^st well perceive 
 The blessing which from thee we crave/^ 
 
 14. 
 
 ^^ Forage! forage !'' the abbot cried. 
 Glad so to 'scape was he ; 
 
CANTO FIRST. 65 
 
 Forth rushed the monks, and fast and wide, 
 Even to the Baillie's ingle side, 
 , Carried their reavery. 
 
 I 
 
 Some came with bread, and some with ale, 
 
 Some came with butter, cheese, and kail, 
 
 And some with doughty cogs of brose. 
 
 The dole and dread of Scotland's foes ! 
 
 And, — gladsome sight to warrior's eye,— * 
 
 Came in the haggies, reeking high 
 
 In fair and full rotundity. 
 
 The Bull-trout, Pike, and Grayling blue, 
 
 The Salmon of the silvery hue, 
 
 With Wood- cock, Plover, and Curlew ; 
 
 The Heath-fowl of the mountain high. 
 
 With downy leg and scarlet eye. 
 
 The Coney, Capercaile, and Hare, 
 
 And every forest bird was there ; 
 
 With many snared the lakes among, 
 
 Numberless birds unknown to song, 
 
 If not to B3A\ick and Buffon, 
 
 10 
 
66 WAT o' THE CLEUCII» 
 
 15. 
 
 Such only may and will I note, 
 
 As suiteth rythm, and rytlime and rote ; 
 
 Such as the Grebe and Gullimote, 
 
 The Diver from Saint Mary's pool, 
 
 The Avoset and Gahnule, 
 
 The Bilcock, Egret, RufF, the Mew, 
 
 The Whimbrel, and the Heronsheugh, 
 
 The Stint, the Phalarope, and Tern, 
 
 The Mergenser and Midnight Hern, 
 
 The Dunlin, Wagel, Piper-cock, 
 
 The Shoveller or Kellutock, 
 
 The Imber, from broad Alemore lake, 
 
 The Tarroch, Tough, and Kittiwake ; 
 
 These all were got, and all brought thercj 
 
 It suits not how, it boots not where. 
 
 16. 
 And there was kid from Cocket-dale, 
 And mutton from the banks of Kaile, 
 
CAKTO FIRST. 67 
 
 With head of ox, and ham of steer, 
 And rib of roe, and haunch of deer, 
 All placed before the mountaineer. 
 
 17. 
 
 Placed did I say ? Yes, by the rood, 
 
 *Twas placed — but there not long it stood. 
 Vanished the beef with equal speed 
 As snow-ball toss'd into the Tweed ; 
 The forest fowls ot flavour high 
 Faded in twinkling of an eye ; 
 The mutton in a breath was gone, 
 Down went the sea-birds, skin and bone, 
 And of the haggies there was none. 
 
 18. 
 The monks stood by with silent gaze, 
 Gaping in token of amaze. 
 Till up spoke Halbert of the Swire, 
 A son that not disgraced his sire ; 
 
68 WAT O' THE CLEUCII. 
 
 Of Harden's doughty race was he, 
 And thus he spoke full pleasantlie : 
 " What would you think, my master dear, 
 For me I judge it meet and clear 
 That we and ours should winter here ?'* 
 With stifled groans the friars shook, 
 Eye turn'd on eye with speaking look ; 
 That jest their stomachs could not brook. 
 
 19. 
 ^* Yes," cried the chief, and, turning, said 
 To Abbot John, who inly pray'd, 
 ** Your guerdon worse than that will be ; 
 Father, I have not done with thee.** 
 A sudden and a hectic glow 
 Soon faded on the abbot's brow, 
 Like that which dyes the mountain's form, 
 The prelude of descending storm ; 
 Next a dim yellow o'er it swept, 
 The hair upon his temples crept ; 
 
CANTO FIRST. 69 
 
 Like abbot chiselPd out of stone 
 He sat, all still and woe-begone, 
 While thus the Mountain Chief went on : 
 
 20. 
 " Father, thou know'st our mortal foe 
 Of late hath wrought us mickle woe, 
 Hath over-run the Border land 
 Witli fire, with foray, and with brand, 
 That still their bands are facing north. 
 And wasting even the shores of Forth, 
 While their huge stores the castle fill 
 Of Roxburgh, deem'd impregnable ; 
 Could that by force or fraud be won, 
 Quick from our country they must run. 
 Though all unequal be the strife. 
 To win that place, for death or life, 
 Here am I come, right joyfully ; 
 But much — nay ail, depends on thee. 
 
»- 
 
 WAT O' THE CLEUCH» 
 
 Either with warriors thou must wend. 
 Their motions guide, their strife attend^ 
 Or teach to these, my friends, and me, 
 The whole cant of hypocrisy ; 
 To con o'er chaplet, prayers to read, 
 To hand the chalice, book, and bead; 
 Else as our leader thou art pledged, 
 For thou and thitie art privilege 
 
 
 21. 
 " In either case," the abbot said, 
 And as he spoke he shook his head, 
 *' In either case. Sir Knight, for me 
 Full hard, I ween, the task will be ; 
 Put off these weeds of warrior trim, 
 And don the cowl and sackcloth grim, 
 Thy panoply of steel resign, 
 That stark unyielding brigandine, 
 And when thou'rt clothed in weeds of woe 
 Soon will I tell thee ay or no. 
 
CANTO FIRST. 71 
 
 Whether with scrap of creed and mass 
 As genuine beadsman thou may*st pass." 
 
 22. 
 Off went the cuishes and the greaves, 
 Jangled aloud the chained sleeves, 
 Down went the helm and plumage tall, 
 The corslet rattles on the wall, 
 And Wat, whose very meed v/as scathe, 
 He felt so light and free to breathe, 
 That swift as fire he flew upon 
 A friar of stupendous bone. 
 To reave his robes in grappling strife — 
 Without a stir Wat hated life ; 
 He caught the friar by the nape, 
 Who stared at first with ghastly gape ; 
 But, prick'd by pain, enroused by spleen, 
 Or memory what he once had been, 
 He struck the chief a blow so rude, 
 
7'2 WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 I 
 
 It made him stagger where he stood, 
 While mouth and nose gush'd red with blood. 
 
 23. 
 
 m 
 
 The mountain warriors laugh'd outright, 
 The monks stood trembling with affright, 
 They knew not Wat's supreme delight ; 
 Up to the sullen friar he came, 
 And ask'd his lineage and his name. 
 " What boots it you ?" he stern replied 
 And flung his cumberous frock aside, 
 " Think'st thou I blench at mortal frown ? 
 I'm neither come of thief nor loun, 
 And that is more, 'twixt you and I, 
 Than some can say without a lie." 
 
 2-1. 
 The dark chief gave delighted grin, 
 And wiped the blood-clots from his chin; 
 
CANTO FIRST. 
 
 73 
 
 ^* Man, thou art brother of my heart,** 
 He said, " and hence we shall not part ; 
 
 » 
 
 If thou not warrior turn with me, 
 I'll turn a saint and dwell with thee ; 
 Or priest, or layman, friend, or foej 
 I love a man can lend a blow. 
 Give me thy hand — beshrew my blood 
 If I could deem that 'neath a hood 
 Was brow so stern, or eye so dark, 
 Or heart so true, or arm so stark ; 
 Lend me thy cowl and sober weed 
 Until my noviceship be sped.'* 
 
 25. 
 
 Now, gentle listener to my geste. 
 Restrain thy mirth if that thou may*st ; 
 111 suits it knight, or dame, or maid. 
 To laugh at truth when truth is said ; 
 But sooth, such figure and such look 
 As Wat with crosier and with book, 
 
 D 
 
74 WAT o' THE CLEUCH 
 
 Such rude unhypocritic mien, 
 
 No churchman's eye had ever seen ; 
 
 And, when essaying prayer to read 
 
 On book, by him ne'er opened, 
 
 His uncouth air and voice of thundering-. 
 
 Misnaming, crossing, mixing, blundering,— 
 
 No living man the scene could stand, 
 
 Each eye was shaded with the hand. 
 
 26. 
 " Now, by the heaven," said Abbot John, 
 ** And all my hopes that hang thereon, 
 By every saint that churchman notes, 
 By all the souls of all the Scotts, 
 I swear — and soothly say to' you, 
 Knight, this device will never do." 
 " We'll try once more," said Wat, *' and then," 
 <^ No, Knight, I tell thee it is vain," V 
 
 27. 
 " O Christ !'* in grievous fret, cried Wat, 
 " The castle, father, think of that ! 
 
CANTO FIRST. 
 
 That fortress might I win, 
 I would not scruple, no not I, 
 By night and day my task to ply 
 Until I learn'd the liturgy, 
 
 Each word and pause therein. 
 Trust me, to gain your privilege, 
 I would go on a pilgrimage, 
 With palmer's weed and niggard fare, 
 Ev'n to the holy sepulchre ; 
 And if with your assistance true 
 The place I win, I pledge to you, 
 A warrior's word, a warrior's hand, 
 One half the spoil you shall command, j 
 
 28* 
 " Say thou no more," the sire replied, 
 " Bold brother Hew shall be your guide ; 
 And by my faith in Saint Mary, 
 I know not braver wight than he, 
 
 10 
 
76 WAT O* THE CLEUCH. 
 
 Nor one will risk such desperate game 
 For maid immured or winsome dame, 
 ■ Or with such manhood work his way 
 When husbands, sires, and serfs way-lay. 
 At Nisbet, Holm, and Sorbytree, 
 Boonjeddwort, Nook, and Oxnara-lea, 
 Has Hew been caught and used full ill, 
 Yet brother Hew is living still ; 
 His arm already have you tried, 
 And I should deem him trusty guide 
 As ever stepp'd on Border side : 
 Well thrive the progress and event ! 
 One tenth the stores in Roxburgh pent 
 Would comfort much my friends and me^ 
 And benefit our monastery. 
 God speed the mission ! you shall want 
 No aid tliat Abbot John can grant/* 
 
 END OF CANTO FIRST. 
 
WAT 0' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 GANTO SECOND. 
 
WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 1, 
 
 Now Wat o' the Cleuch*s gone down the dale. 
 
 But he is not in hauberk or ghstening mail ; 
 
 Wat has not his hound, he has not his hawk, 
 
 His two-hand sword hangs not at his back 
 
 But Wat and all the best of his train 
 
 Have frocks and cowls of murky grain 
 
 Spear, axe, or hackbut, have they none, 
 
 But scymitar and habergeon. 
 
 O never were friars so stalwart to view 
 
 As Hab 0* the Swire, and hard-riding Hugh, 
 
 And Whitston, and Halston, and Wat o' the Cleuch. 
 
so WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 2. 
 
 Not grieved was Wat for his cap of steel, 
 Nor armour dofF'd from bead to heel, 
 But sorely troubled was his mind 
 At leaving his good sword behind ; 
 For oft had it stood him in good stead, 
 And he found he had left a friend indeed-: 
 This noted his page, a trust}^ elf, 
 And thought and judged for himself. 
 
 3- 
 Away they went all brisk and hale 
 
 Down the beauteous hnks of Teviotdale ; 
 
 Full soft and slowly past the)' by 
 
 Where the towers of Roxburgh frown'd on high. 
 
 But there is one of the holy flock 
 
 Whose eye is never from the rock, 
 
 Wlio looks as if his soul were blent 
 
 With counterscarp and battlement. 
 
CANTO SECOND. 81 
 
 4. 
 
 Un-noted all seven bowmen lay, 
 Resting upon the castle brae. 
 Who saw the monks pass slowly by, 
 And one that still upward turn*d his eye. 
 " Jesu !" cried one, with startled air, 
 " What mighty stalworth monk is there ? 
 Such form as that I never knew, 
 Save the mosstrooper, Wat o' the Cleuch." 
 
 5. 
 ^' Ah ! may our blessed Lady above, 
 And all the saints that sanctity love, 
 Curse, wreck, and overcome for ever," 
 Said one, *' that restless, ruthless reaver ! 
 I would give all my father's land 
 To have him there so near at hand. 
 Within the range of this yew-bow's shot ;• 
 Shoot at the Monk, he's but a Scot." 
 
 d2 
 
82 WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 6. 
 
 The stout and stalworth Monk, I ween, 
 Well heard the converse past between ; 
 For away he went with lengthen'd stride 
 Around the band to the farther side. 
 He had been taught the danger to know 
 Of feather'd shaft from Southern bow, 
 And all too well the English knew 
 The figure and form of Wat o' the Cleuch. 
 
 7. 
 To Kelso, they came, and welcome were they 
 To the Abbot and Monks of that abbaye ; 
 For rich was the offering they brought in hand, 
 And they said it was spoil of Northumberland, 
 W^hich Scottish chief to the church had given, 
 To liave his soul and conscience shriven 
 Of crime he did full sore repent— 
 Of murder and of ravishment. 
 
CANTO SECOND. S3 
 
 8. 
 
 « Sooth,** said the Abbot, " it would be hard 
 
 If son repentant should be barr'd 
 
 For ever from the gate of Heaven ; 
 
 The generous chief shall be forgiven 
 
 Of all his crimes, whatever the sum, 
 
 That is, or was, or is to come. 
 
 One single slight exception 
 
 I make from this remission. 
 And well I know that you'll approve 
 Of that I do in Christian love ; 
 For my anathemas are laid 
 Against a thief so thorough sped, 
 That ne'er did warrior annals trace 
 Such path of guilt in human race ; 
 At name of this stern heretic 
 Mercy recoils and grace grows sick ; 
 For ruthless crimes of each degree. 
 For sacrilege and reavery. 
 His like the Border never knew ; 
 
84? WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 A thier he is and coward too, 
 
 God*s adversary, Wat o' the Cleuch." 
 
 9. 
 Tlie stalworth Monk, that drooping stood 
 Beneath his frock and scallop'd hood. 
 Plis tall gigantic form to hide, 
 Now forward stepp'd with madden'd stride, 
 And, with his nostrils breathing ire, 
 Close to the Abbot's cheek of fire, 
 " Thou dunghill mass of corruptness ! 
 What devil in hell hath told thee this ?" 
 This said he with sucli thunderous breath> 
 The Abbot nigh had sunk beneath ; 
 But off he sprung like terrier grim, 
 When greyhound with his length of limb 
 Comes deftly up, and unawares 
 Growls forth resentment in his ears. 
 Away he speeds, but turns again, 
 Preserved from danger by disdain, 
 
CANTO SECOND. So 
 
 And views with dark malicious eye 
 His tall indignant enemy ; 
 So stood the Priest, aghast and shrunk, 
 Gazing upon the hideous Monk. 
 
 10. 
 But brother Hew, now Prior call'd, 
 The danger saw and was appalled ; 
 Up to the monk he sped apace, 
 ScowPd dark, and brow*d him face to face : 
 " Thou beast," he said, " thou dolt, for shame ! 
 Disgrace of church and beadsman's name ! 
 I knew some outrage thou would*st do. 
 But Father John would have it so ; 
 Think, for a moment, think and rue. 
 For what you came and what is due." 
 
 11. 
 
 When Prior Hew this speech began, 
 
 The Monk seem*d waxing more than man ; 
 
86 WAT O' THE CLEUCK. 
 
 Upstretcli'd his form, his breath he drew, 
 
 His breast hke chest of war-horse grew ; 
 
 But noting Hew's well-feigned wrath. 
 
 His rage subsided, and his breath 
 
 Came sounding forth as violently 
 
 As winter blast on casement high. 
 
 One word, there was, ^^Jbrxt)hat he camef 
 
 That was the word his pride to tame, 
 
 And low he bent, as if afraid 
 
 Of that was done and that was said. 
 
 But those who tried that chief to cow 
 Had, by my gay, too much ado ; 
 Not brooking slight, or stern controul; 
 A flame impetuous was his soul^ 
 And neither danger nor distress 
 Could that resistless flame suppress. 
 ^^ Down on your knees/' the Prior said; 
 Reluctantly the Monk obeyM 5 
 
CANTO SECOND. 87 
 
 *' Now first, repentant for all this, 
 The Aobot's garment thou must kiss." 
 *' Pah !'* cried the Monk, ^* out on such stain,'* 
 And spit upon't, and spit again ! 
 
 13. 
 All were amazed, the Prior most, 
 Regretting all thus madly lost. 
 He seized the Monk by force outright, 
 And call'd for help 'gainst maniac might; 
 But Wat's right humble holy weed 
 His wayward mood not lessened. 
 For though the Frair at first hold 
 Bore down to earth his giant mould, 
 Jiike ocean-wave's indignant sway, 
 O'erwhelming bark that dares assay. 
 To ride o'er its capacious breast, 
 So rose the Chief above the Priest. 
 But in the struggle them between 
 Both their broad scymitars were seen ; 
 
88 WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 Upraised the Monks a hideous yell. 
 Toward the porch they rush'd pell-mell, 
 Shrieking and shouting as they flew> 
 '' Treason ; Confusion ! Wat o' the Cleuch !" 
 
 14. 
 Wat saw his folly all too late, 
 Like many a wight infuriate ; 
 But instant danger then he knew 
 Hung o*er him and his motley crew; 
 " What have I done ?" he cried, and then 
 Right through the crowd he dash'd amain. 
 And in one moment took his stand 
 Within the porch with sword in hand ; 
 *' None move," he cried, *' on pain of death, 
 Nor utter word above his breath ! 
 Warriors, let none escape away. 
 
 And death to him that dares assay.** 
 
CANTO SECOND. 89 
 
 15. 
 
 The poor Cistertlans to a cell 
 
 Were hurried down and guarded well. 
 
 And now the hardy Mountaineer 
 
 The abbey holds without compeer. 
 
 But much the townsmen's wonder grew ; 
 
 That visitants were there they knew, 
 
 Yet neither bustle rose nor din, 
 
 And none went out, and none came in 
 
 Paused, and stood still each passer-by 
 
 With thirsty ear and prying eye, 
 
 Till to a mighty crowd they grew,— 
 
 Wat saw, and ill could brook the view. 
 
 16. 
 As in Dunedin streets, 'tis known, 
 Mine own right loyal worthy town. 
 If wight delighted 'gins to pry 
 With eager mien and curious eye, 
 
90 WAT o' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 Soon is he join'd by great and small. 
 By burgess, bailiff, thieves and all. 
 By idle motley limbs of trade, 
 By beadle, beldame, matron, maid, 
 With gaping gaze and panting breast. 
 From north, and south, and east and west, 
 Till all the countless throng partake 
 Of looking on, for looking*s sake. 
 Whatever the object — 'tis the same, 
 A thing of nought or thing of name, 
 A Highland troop of sorry cheer. 
 With naked thigh and bandilier ; 
 A gallows thief, a deep divine, 
 A courtezan o'ercome with wine, 
 Or, haply, a right beauteous dame 
 With ancle trim and northern name ; 
 If crowd is there, and that is known, 
 All is alike, I needs must own. 
 To mine own good romantic town. 
 
CANTO SECOND. 91 
 
 17. 
 
 So happ'd it on the abbaye strand, 
 
 That night our Chief held there command ; . 
 
 Wat saw them gather, Hst, and peep, 
 
 And cursed them in his heart full deep, 
 
 And rightly judged that they must ween 
 
 Some work of holy guise within. 
 
 Straight to the darksome cell he went, 
 
 Where praying, panting Monks were pent ; 
 
 *' Haste, haste I" he cried, " note what I say. 
 
 It fits you quickly to obey : 
 
 Here is a sword, I must be brief; 
 
 If you have any small belief 
 
 That such can work your frames annoy. 
 
 Sing loud to God your strength with joy.'* 
 
 Rung forth the hymn from out the cell 
 
 With frantic but unsaintly swell, 
 
 " Louder !** cried Wat, *' it is my will j*' 
 
 Louder it swell'd, and louder still ; 
 
92 WAT o' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 The Kelso-men slunk all away, 
 
 They liked not much to hymn and pray, 
 
 Nor like they't much unto this day. 
 
 38. 
 The Prior Hew on errand is gone, 
 1 he scheme, the message, was his own, 
 And thus far deftly gained he 
 Of the Governor, Sir Guy De Lis, 
 That he and two more monks should win 
 Vespers to read that night within 
 The fortress as arrear of sin, 
 And grant remissions for reaver deed, 
 Of which the soldiers stood much need. 
 Sir Guy despised, as well he might. 
 This ghostly fraud, yet would not slight 
 The beadsmen's art, for well he knew 
 What in emergence they could do ; 
 For they had proved, not long ago, 
 A powerful friend and deadly foe. 
 
CANTO SECOND. 93 
 
 19. 
 
 The shades of eve in softest hue 
 Began to tint the Cheviot blue, 
 But a darker, gloomier veil was wore 
 On the swarthy brows of Lammermore ; 
 While in the vale stood these between 
 Dun Ruberslaw and Eildon green, 
 One coned with rock, one cleft in three, 
 Like ancient dome and monastery 
 That for due penance, praise, and shrift, 
 Their unassuming heads uplift, 
 In midst of mighty city's bound 
 With towers and ramparts circled round. 
 
 20. 
 The Tweed ran slow, the Tweed ran deep, 
 Till round the abbaye making sweep, 
 It sung so loud and so harsh a note, 
 That it made Wat remember well 
 A tale he scarce had e'er forgot, 
 Of his ow^n grandsire, Michael Scott, 
 
®* WAT O* THE CLEUCH. 
 
 And the three dargsraenj fiends of hell, 
 Who stemm'd that mighty torrent's sweep, 
 And damm'd that pool so broad and deep ; 
 And he saw the gap stand to that day 
 From which the elves were scared away ; 
 A chillness crept o'er all his frame, — 
 It could not be that warlock theme, 
 But feeling scarce to minstrel known—- 
 A dreaming, mix'd sensation 
 Of things at hand, and things of yore. 
 For a bloody night lay him before ! 
 
 21. 
 Now it behoved the Prior Hew, 
 Who framed the plot, to chuse forth two, 
 And only such he needs must have 
 As were obsequious and brave. 
 Wat loved the one term from his soul, ^ 
 The other made him fret and scowl 
 
CANTO SECOND. 95 
 
 But Hew's fair choice he must abide ; 
 Forth stood they, rank'd on either side, 
 And after pause and scrutiny, 
 *< Hab of the Swire, I must have thee, 
 For thou canst read the breviary." 
 
 22. 
 Wat found all chance was o'er for him, 
 His cheek turn'd to a crimson grim 
 As he to calculate began 
 On full frustration of his plan ; 
 Till up came Prior Hew apace, 
 And surlily look'd in his face : 
 " Though thou can'st neither read nor pray, 
 And scarce canst word sagacious say, 
 And haply art but middling brave. 
 Yet, for good trial, thee I'll have ; 
 One trusty friend I shall not lack 
 When Wat o' the Cleuch is at my back." 
 
96 WAT o' THE CLEUCH- 
 
 
 ^' Bravo !'^ cried Wat, with voice as loud 
 As thunder from the yawning cloud ; 
 ^* Bravo ! my brother of the field ! 
 There shall be skelps or we three yield f* 
 Then strode he o'er the chancel floor 
 With step of such gigantic power, 
 That at each stride, as I heard tell, 
 The monks believed within their cell 
 That dreadful weight from casement fell. 
 
 23. 
 The night full dark and murky fell, 
 Slow toird the convent evening bell, 
 As o'er the Tweed went Prior Hew, 
 And Habby Scott, and Wat o' the Cleuch, 
 To shrive the English bands intent, 
 But their last shrift was fully meant. 
 Jock Jardine younger of Poldean, 
 And Rutherford of Redfordgreen, 
 
CANTO SECONP, 97 
 
 Brought down the warriors from the braes 
 Through night, and unfrequented ways ; 
 One cowled warrior staid behind 
 To guard the monks in cell confined^ 
 The rest had all their parts assigned. 
 
 24. 
 Ye beauteous dames of merry England^ 
 
 When you this tale shall read, 
 Well may you quake for your good band. 
 That guarded Tweed and Teviot's strand. 
 And barriers of Northumberland, 
 
 From reavers' ruthless deed. 
 And well this thought might you beseem, 
 '* that some voice to wizard's dream, 
 Or whisper from the Teviot's stream, 
 
 Would warn them in such need !'* 
 Dread not, fair dames, for the event ; 
 Neither in camp nor tournament, 
 
 E 
 
98 WAT O* THE CLEUCH. 
 
 Shall English might by foeman sbent 
 
 Be boasted as his meed. 
 
 Haply some tale would better suit 
 
 Thy fancy and thy wish to boot. 
 
 Like that which happ'd on Durham field, 
 
 Which Durham maids and dames beheld, 
 
 To whom a grateful sacrifice 
 
 Was Sir John Copland's royal prize, 
 
 Or Pembroke's raid full long agone. 
 
 Or rueful hapless Homeldon j 
 
 But caost thou of a minstrel ask 
 
 Such humbling, such ungrateful task ? 
 
 No — free as stag on Border height, 
 
 As falcon or as eagle's flight. 
 
 Free as the summer's cloudless breeze, 
 
 Or bird that swims the polar seas, 
 
 From matron's say, or man's behest, 
 
 Flow forth, flow unconstrain'd my geste ! 
 
 END OF CANTO SECOND. 
 
WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 1. 
 
 Old Roxburgh, oft thy halls of yore 
 
 Rang lo the war and wassail lay, 
 As oft thy clanging trumpet bore 
 
 Loud watch-word to the Border gray ; 
 And many a song and legend tell 
 
 To mountain hind and wondering dame. 
 Of doughty deeds that there befel, 
 And of that perilous citadel 
 
 That force alone might claim. 
 
102 WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 Low lie thy mighty ramparts now, 
 
 Of many a hero's dust the shrine ; 
 And o'er them, as in triumph, grow 
 The spleenwort and the murky sloe. 
 The bramble, moss, and misletoe. 
 Their gloomy hues entwine. 
 
 2- 
 
 But, Roxburgh, who of border blood 
 Can o'er thy mouldering turrets tread. 
 
 Can stand where his forefathers stood, 
 
 . And smile where erst those fathers bled, 
 Nor for the mighty honour'd dead 
 
 Feel the heart-stirrings of acclaim ? 
 If such there are, this be his meed : 
 No trophy ever wait his name ; 
 On him may never beauteous dame 
 
 Of Teviot smile ; and when is run 
 
 The last tide through his soul-less frame, 
 
 Then ne'er may vassal, dame, or son, 
 
CANTO THIRD. lOS 
 
 Wail for the heartless wight thus gone 
 Loaded with minstrel's malison 1 
 
 3. 
 
 But there were times, when he whose hand 
 Upheld thy dreaded proud command, 
 Stood much in need of courage high, 
 Of jealous mind, and watchful eye ; 
 And such well proven was Sir G uy. 
 That night he sat in Roxburgh tower 
 
 With many a knight and squire around> 
 Unweeting all of hostile power. 
 
 And loudly swell'd the revel sound : 
 For on that good old Border day 
 They lack'd not oft, as I heard say, 
 Good beer, and wine, and usquebhae. 
 
 4.. 
 
 " A song!" cried Howard, ** and byname, 
 I call Edward of Walsinghame, 
 
104? WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 Whom I invoke by game and glee, 
 
 For lay he sings most pleasantlie." 
 
 ** Sooth, my good lords," said Walsinghame, 
 
 " Well wot you of my minstrel fame, 
 
 To all my lays I put one strain, 
 
 As well to sacred as profane, 
 
 Nor have I more — but I can tell 
 
 What lay would please Lord Howard well. 
 
 Still will he urge it, right or wrong. 
 
 Though decency forbids the song. 
 
 My lords, I'll put you in amaze. 
 
 Wot you what Lady Howard says ?'* 
 
 5. 
 Howard look'd sulky and chagrin'd, 
 His head on clenched fist he lean'd, 
 For sooth he felt the jest would come 
 Too near his heart, too near his home, 
 Had not then chanced to enter in 
 The holy men to shrive of sin. 
 
CANTO THIRD. 105 
 
 " Ah' I " whisper'd one, not as in jest, 
 
 *' Does good Lord Howard need the priest ?" 
 
 " No, by my fay," said Walsinghame, 
 
 ** It is not Howard, but his dame." 
 
 Straight words were said unmeet to tell. 
 
 And hand on hilt of broad-sword fell ; 
 
 But, every voice *gan to prolong 
 
 In louder key, ** The song ! the song !** 
 
 " Yes," said Sir Guy, *' that song we'll have 
 
 Of beggarly moss-trooper knave, 
 
 That merry song, which well you wot, 
 
 Of greedy, lean, and mangy Scot." — 
 
 1. 
 
 HEARD ye never of Wat o* the Cleuch ? 
 The lad that has worrying tikes enow. 
 Whose meat is the moss, and whose drink is the dew, 
 And that's the cheer of Wat o' the Cleuch. 
 
 £2 
 
106 WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 Wat o' the Cleuch I Wat o' the Cleuch ! 
 Woe*s my heart for Wat o* the Cleuch ! 
 
 2. 
 Wat o' the Cleuch sat down to dine 
 With two pint stoups of good red wine ; 
 But when he look*d they both were dry ; 
 O poverty parts good company I 
 
 Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch ! 
 
 O for a drink to Wat o* the Cleuch ! 
 
 3. 
 
 Wat o* the Cleuch came down the Tyne, 
 To woo a maid both gallant and fine ; 
 But as he came o*er by Dick o' the Side, 
 He smell'd the mutton and left the bride. 
 
 Wat o* the Cleuch I Wat o* the Cleuch ! 
 
 What think ye now of Wat o* the Cleuch ?^ 
 
CANTO THIRD. 107 
 
 4. 
 
 Wat o' the Cleuch came here to steal, 
 He wanted milk, and he wanted veal ; 
 But ere he wan o'er the Beetleston brow 
 He hough'd the calf and eated the cow ! 
 
 Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch ! 
 
 Well done, doughty Wat o' the Cleuch ! 
 
 5. 
 Wat o' the Cleuch came here to fight, 
 But his whittle was blunt, and his nag took fright, 
 And the braggart he did what I dare not tell. 
 But changed his cheer at the back of the fell. 
 Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the. Cleuch 1 
 O for a croudy to Wat o' the Cleuch 
 
 6. 
 
 Wat o' the Cleuch kneel'd down to pray, 
 He wist not what to do or say ; 
 
108 WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 But he pray'd for beef, and he pray'd for bree, 
 A two-hand spoon and a haggles to pree. 
 
 Wat o' the Clench ! Wat o' the Cleuch ! 
 
 That's the cheer for Wat o' the Cleuch ! 
 
 7. 
 But the devil is cunning as I heard say, 
 He knew his right, and haul'd him away ! 
 And he's over the Border and over the heuch, 
 And off to hell with Wat o' the Cleuch. 
 
 Wat o* the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch ! 
 
 Lack-a-day for Wat o' the Cleuch I 
 
 8. 
 But of all the wights in poor Scotland, 
 That ever drew bow or Border brand, 
 
 That ever drove English bullock or ewe. 
 
 There never was thief like Wat o' the Cleuch* 
 
 Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch ! 
 
 Down for ever with Wat o' the Cleuch ! 
 
 11 
 
CANTO THIRD. 109 
 
 6. 
 
 Loud laugh*d the Chiefs, but were annoy'd 
 By the three Monks that stood aside ; 
 Strugghng they seem'd and sore aghast, 
 And two still held the other fast. 
 <* Your pardon, Knights," said Prior Hew, 
 " I grieve for stir where honour*s due, 
 But this poor brother, by God's will. 
 With fits like this is troubled still.'* 
 ** De Gray," said Guy, who noted then 
 Three Monks of such unsaintly mien, 
 ** De Gray, lead these to Colbert's cell. 
 And see them stripp'd and searched well ; 
 Nay, hold — much need have we to carCj 
 Search them before me where they are.' 
 
 » 
 
 7. 
 
 Short breathed the Monks, and 'gan to feel 
 Beneath their gowns for hilt of steel, 
 
1 10 WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 And stood up grimly by the wall ; 
 It was a moment critical ! 
 In posture that bespoke the mind, 
 With foot advanced, and arm behind, 
 With floating gowns of sackcloth grey, 
 And eyes bent forward on their prey. 
 There the redoubted beadsmen stood, 
 Panting like w^olves that thirst for blood. 
 
 8. 
 But chiefly he of giant mien, 
 That stood the other two between, 
 Stooped onward with such dire intent 
 As if each nerve were strain'd and bent 
 Like dog that notes on green-sward lone 
 The burrowing moldw^arp's heaving cone, 
 Stands all intent his skill to try, 
 With turn'd-up ear and steadfast eye, 
 With starting frame, and lifted foot. 
 In guise most wistfully acute, 
 
CANTO THIRD. Ill 
 
 Seeming the hair-breadth time to know 
 When he must spring on weetless foe ; 
 As staunch, as steady, and as true, 
 Stood the dark reaver, Wat o' the Cleuch. 
 
 9. 
 To call his serfs forth stepp'd De Gray, 
 His captain's orders to obey ; 
 But at that moment rose a yell 
 Of dire alarm ; loud rung the bell, 
 The trumpet sounded, and a rout ~ 
 Was heard around, within, without ; 
 All in amazement look'd around. 
 And straight to quit the hall were bound, 
 When cautious Guy calPd them to stay 
 And seize the Monks whatever the fray. 
 
 10. 
 
 That was the word of fear and scathe, 
 The word of tumult, broil, and death ; 
 
112 WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 *< Hurra I " cried Wat, and onward flew 
 Like fire-brand that outwings the view. 
 And at Sir Guy he made a blow 
 That fairly cleft that Knight in two ; 
 
 Then Walsinghame he turn'd upon, 
 And pinn'd him through the shoulder-bone 
 Against the pavement, and the while, 
 Half said, half sung, with grizly smile, 
 ** Out, songster, with thy chorus true, 
 What think ye now of Wat o' the Clench ?" 
 <* Ah ! ruffian, ah ! — for shame ! for shame!" 
 Were the last words of Walsinghame. 
 
 11. 
 
 Through toil, through terror, and through blood, 
 
 Like stayless burst of mountain flood, 
 
 Wat bore before him all outright, 
 
 For battle was his sole delight : 
 
 Stout Prior Hew was sore bested, 
 
 For whiles he fought and whiles lie fled. 
 
CANTO THIRD. llS 
 
 But aye, whene'er he aim'd a blow, 
 Not farther press'd his fated foe. 
 Right sore it grieveth me to tell 
 What to brave Halbert Scott befel : 
 Hard was he set, as well might be, 
 For still they fought it one to three ; 
 No buckler bound was on his wrist, 
 No cuirass on his manly breast, 
 Though strong his arm, it was forewornj 
 And to the wall his back was borne. 
 
 12. 
 
 Wat saw his danger, and amain 
 Flew to his aid, but flew in vain ; 
 For with such fury fell his stroke. 
 That from the hilt his broad-sword broke : 
 " Wo worth thy dwarf and dirty blade. 
 And forge where such a thing was made !" 
 Cried Wat, '' oh for my friend in need, 
 Now do I lack my sword indeed ! 
 
/• 
 
 il4f WAT O* THE CLEUCH. 
 
 Lay on them, cousin ! — bravely done! 
 
 Down with the dastards one by one !'' 
 
 This said, he griped a Southron fast, 
 
 And held him firm before his breast. 
 
 As shield 'gainst many a coming blow 
 
 That slew the friend but not the foe ; 
 
 His sword secured, he threw him then 
 
 With dash among the Englishmen. 
 
 Then after him impetuous fiew. 
 
 Crying, " That's the cheer for Wat o' the Cleucli.'* 
 
 13. 
 Four only now remained alive, 
 Who, deeming it unmeet to strive, 
 Made for the door through kinsmen's bloody 
 But Prior Hew before them stood ; 
 Scarce could he Mary's name have said 
 Ere all the four were grovelling laid. 
 Of all the Chiefs remain'd not one, 
 Nor knew their troops of that was done 
 
GANTO THIRD. 115 
 
 And when the Scots first paused and thought, 
 And saw the ruin that was wrought, 
 They stood and gazed in silence on, 
 Scarce trowing what themselves had done. 
 
 14. 
 
 " Now by the might of Michael Scott,'' 
 Said Wat, '- though I full oft have fought, 
 And changed with Southrons many a blow, 
 I ne'er got full revenge till now." 
 «' Ah, my brave Chief!'* said Hab, <* I fear 
 That this deray will cost you dear, 
 Would that my brother John were here 1" 
 He stagger'd, sunk, no more he said, 
 With the next breath, 'mong foemen laid, 
 His great and gallant spirit fled. 
 
 15. 
 
 The Borderer could not this withstand, 
 He took the dead man by the hand ; 
 
f^ 
 
 116 WAT o' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 " Ah, Hab I" he sigh'd, <* long will it be 
 Ere I find right-hand raan like thee ! 
 Sore will I miss thy arm of might 
 Before the break of morning light, 
 And, reft of stay so firm and true, 
 I may be then as thou art now ; 
 But if I live — ^by Saint Marye, 
 By all the love I bore to thee, 
 Thy death shall well revenged be !" 
 
 16. 
 Still the alarm without was dire, 
 The town by that time was on fire, 
 Which Wat's ungracious page had don^ 
 
 An imp's unbidden act. 
 Who ween'd that such confusion 
 The Southrons might distract ; 
 But those who knew the elfin, said 
 More selfish aim the action sway'd^ 
 
CANTO THIRD. 117 
 
 A s you shall hear anon ; 
 Howe'er it was, the Southrons ran 
 Forth from the gate when it began, 
 
 To help or to look on ; 
 And when our beadsmen issued out, 
 Well armed now from head to foot 
 With sword, with spear, and shield to boot, 
 
 There but themselves were none. 
 Save by fair dames, full sore amazed, 
 From bartizan and tower that gazed. 
 Unchallenged they past up and down, 
 And blest the hand that fired the town. 
 
 17. 
 When to the gate of keep they past. 
 They found it closed and bolted fast. 
 Yet none remain'd within but they, 
 Save women weak and chaplain gray ; 
 But through the outer court they saw 
 A troop that toward them did draw. 
 
 •*} 
 
118 WATO' THE CLEUCfi. 
 
 Though noise they heard not near nor far 
 Of clash of arms or shout of war. 
 
 18. 
 In darkness deep to posts they win, 
 With light without but none within, 
 Resolved the comers to astound, 
 And with their lances safely wound. 
 Soon oped the gate with thundering jar, 
 Enter'd the careless men of war ; 
 But straight the foremost, with a yell, 
 Reeling recoiPd, and groan'd and fell ; 
 Forward they press'd, but what defence 
 From wounds that came they knew not whence? 
 The way was strait — in heaps they fell. 
 By whom, or how, they could not tell. 
 Some call'd out " Treason/* some " Sir Guy,** 
 Some Howard, Scroop, and Barnaby ; 
 But lord or leader came not near, 
 They would not heed or did not hear; 
 
. CANTO THIRD. 119 
 
 And ne'er had terror and dismay 
 0*er warrior troop such ample sway, 
 As through the court their flight they wing 
 To sound the alarm and gathering. 
 
 19. 
 
 But all the tumults ever seen 
 
 At Roxburgh gate since that had been, 
 
 Were trivial to the clash and clang 
 
 That now before the castle rang. 
 
 Down came the warriors of the Cleuch, 
 
 In foray, feud, or battle true, 
 
 With glancing swords and plumes of white, 
 
 Dancing and flickering through the night 
 
 Like the bog-meteors, darkly seen 
 
 By moorland tarn or mountain green, 
 
 That spread, that quiver, and retire, 
 
 Things half of mist and half of fire ; 
 
 So came the mountain warriors nigh, 
 
 Bedimming sight to foeman's eye. 
 
120 WAT o' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 20. 
 Swift, steady, silent, and profound, 
 They came — save that a cluttering sound 
 Would sometimes whisper in the gale, 
 To listener's ear unwelcome tale. 
 Like dark descent of winter snow 
 
 That down the night sublimely slow 
 Steals on the earth with silent pace. 
 Heaping and smothering Nature's face ; 
 Yet sometimes burst of pattering hail 
 Will trembling shepherd's ear assail ; 
 Loud bursts the wind, the storm is hurl'd 
 Wide o'er a pale and prostrate world, 
 As still, as threatful, down they drew, 
 As loud, as furious, on they flew, 
 The baited warriors of the Cleuch. 
 
 21. 
 Wat heard the slogan, and his heart 
 Leap'd at the sound, up did he start 
 
GANTO THIRD. . 121 
 
 With maddened motion, quite the same 
 
 As if his tall gigantic frame 
 
 Had been machine, that battle knell 
 
 Could set, and keep in movement well. 
 
 He set his limbs, his sword he swung, 
 
 With smothered shout from pavement gprung, 
 
 Whistled his weapon through the air, 
 
 For foes were none his blows to bear ; 
 
 And scarce could Hew the Knight restrain 
 
 From dashing 'mid his foes amain, 
 
 Though in the court of Scots were none, 
 
 And he *mong thousands all alone* 
 
 But as more loud the conflict grew^ 
 
 Up to the battlements he flew. 
 
 And shouted out, with voice as full 
 
 And fury-toned as mountain bull, 
 
 ^^ On, kinsmen^ on! — ye are the men ! 
 
 Lay on them^ Dicky of Bellenden* 
 
i.22 WAT o' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 Chirsty of Thorleshope I 
 Sim of the Brae ! 
 
 Rutherford ! Rutherford ! 
 Hie to the fray I 
 
 Huh ! for the battle, lads, 
 Hurra ! hurray!" 
 
 22. 
 But sorely did the Southrons gall , 
 The Scotsmen from the outer wall, 
 And brave De Gray, with ready mind. 
 Sent round an ambush them behind ; 
 Then, grievous sight for Watt to see ! 
 He saw his warriors turn and flee. 
 Down went the draw-bridge, 
 
 The gates up flew, 
 Forth rush'd the English 
 
 To waste and pursue 
 Those darkling marauders, 
 The men of the Cleuch. 
 
CANTO THIRD. 12S 
 
 Wat broke away, restraint was none. 
 And left Hew in the tower alone, 
 Who barr*d the gate ; full safe was he, 
 But sore was Wat in jeopardy ! 
 No stop his ardent way might cross, 
 He dropp'd the wall, he swam the fosse, 
 And though in heavy armour bound, 
 Led by the noise, the fight he found ; 
 Back where the Teviot made a sweep 
 Around the vale both broad and deep. 
 Where none could take them in the rear. 
 His gallant warriors halted were, 
 With their enraged foes to strive, 
 Although they scarce were one to five. 
 
 24. 
 The first attack on his array 
 Was o'er ere Wat came to the fray.; 
 
124 WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 But when they saw his boardly frame, 
 And heard his voice, and heard his name, 
 Such shout broke on the midnight gale 
 A s ne'er astounded Border dale. 
 *^ Hie on them, lads ^ be yare, be yare, 
 The castle's mine, our friends are there V 
 He cried, and dash d on circle deep 
 Like lion on a herd of sheep ; 
 But at each first or second stroke 
 
 Short in his hand his weapon broke. 
 So great his might, no common glaive 
 Could stand the blows in ire he gave ; 
 Still was he thus forced back to fiy. 
 Cursing the weapons violently ; 
 His might more evil did than good, 
 For backward, close unto the flood, 
 Was borne his small but firm array, 
 And worse than doubtful was the fray* 
 
CANTO THIRD. [25 
 
 25. 
 An elf came up by Teviot stream, 
 Moving beneath a mighty beam, 
 Who all the while right deftly plied 
 With ready hand, from pouch on side, 
 Eating sweet cake, delightful meed I 
 From burning shop-board pilfered. 
 Ah, 'tis an imp both staunch and true, 
 The little page of Wat o' the Cleuch ! 
 Behind the ranks he press'd along, 
 Nor once was noted in the throng 
 Till close up to his master's side, 
 When thus he spoke with crabbed pride : 
 " Here's for ye, Cleuch — de'il that ye be 
 As tired of that goad as me.'* 
 *'• Ah, bravest boy of. mountain birth ! 
 My own good sword, bv heaven and earth:" 
 Cried Wat, and as he drew it out, 
 Scarce earthly was his joyous shout ; 
 ** Huh! for the battle, kinsmen true, 
 
126 WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 
 
 Hie on the tikes ! give hell its due ! 
 
 Now for the cheer of Wat o* the Cleuch V 
 
 26. 
 What bard may sing of that assail ? 
 Off went the Southron heads like hail] 
 Not one by one, nor t\yo by two, 
 But in whole files he laid them low. 
 As well might field of thistles stand 
 Against the might of mower's hand, 
 As any armed Southron crew 
 The two-hand sword of Wat o' the Cleuch. 
 Some said, but sure, I wot, in jest. 
 That when full rank was not abreast, 
 Then, ere the weapon's swing was sped. 
 Sometimes it severed kinsman's head : 
 Howe*er it was, that weapon's sway 
 GpenM through serried ranks a way ; 
 They rally'd, wheeled, and closed amain. 
 Again it broke them, and again ; 
 
CANTO THIRD. 127 
 
 Like wedge of steel through pine-tree driven, 
 Like comet through the stars of heaven, 
 That little troop of warriors true 
 Press'd onward after Wat o' the Cleuch. 
 
 27. 
 When first arose the slogan's yell 
 The stag awoke on Bowmont fell ; 
 Listening he paced around the hind, 
 His nostrils whistled in the wind ; 
 Something so dread was in the strain, 
 That night he couch'd not down again; 
 But just as o*er the ocean flood 
 The doubtful light began to brood, 
 He saw by every glen and brae. 
 The flyers posting south away, 
 Urging their flight through holt and wood> 
 By furious Scotsmen close pursued ; 
 
128 WAT O^ THE CLEUCH. 
 
 Away, o'er Border height and vale, 
 Onward he clove the morning gale^ 
 And sought the depth of Otterdale. 
 
 28. 
 Not to that wight my rede I say. 
 Nor knight renowned, nor lady gay, 
 Who cannot frame in mind full well, 
 Unless that wayworn minstrel tell, 
 The battle's fate, what sprung from thence^ 
 Each fair and obvious consequence ; 
 How the huge stores of Roxburgh fell 
 To one who knew their value well ; 
 What wealth the monks of Jedwort won, 
 How sore they rued ere all was done ; 
 How the invading Southron host 
 Fled in dismay from Scotland's coast; 
 And how the king, for deeds of weir, 
 Heap'd honours on our mountaineere 
 
CANTO THIRD. l^B 
 
 Who reads must frame, who reads not may, 
 I chuse not lengthen out my lay. 
 
 END OF WAT O* THE CLEUCH. 
 
THE STRANGER. 
 
THE STRANGER; 
 
 BEING 
 
 A FARTHER PORTION 
 
 OF 
 
 *^ THE recluse;* a POEM. 
 
 Fair was the scene and wild — a lonely tarn 
 Lay bosomM in the hill, and it was calm 
 As face of slumbering childhood— yea so cahia 
 That magic mirror of the mountain reign 
 Was spread, that vision scarcely could discera 
 The water from the land, or rightly mark 
 The green-sward patch, the hazel bush, the rock^ 
 From those fair copies on the element, 
 
134? THE STRANGER. 
 
 The shadow from the substance— save that one 
 Was softer and more delicately green. 
 
 A traveller came along — tall was his steed^ 
 And rich that steed s caparison — but he, 
 The rider, was a man uncouth to view ; 
 For his attire was not like other men ; 
 His beard was all untrimm*d, and his fair locks 
 Seem'd tann'd by suns and bleached by the rain ; 
 The swelter'd tufts had hung from year to year, 
 Nor had the spikes of disentangling comb 
 Scared their inhabitants — A man he was 
 Regardless of the world and the world's scorn. 
 Red was the corner of his eye, and yet 
 It seem'd to beam a glance of living flame ; 
 A ray scarce earthly hung upon its sphere ; 
 A spark was lurking there, which, just as chancedj 
 The substance that enkindled it would show 
 The fiend or cherub. — On that traveller came, 
 
THE STRA N GER, | 35 
 
 Slow and indifferent — solemn were his thoughts, 
 
 Determined but astray — still from his breast 
 
 Issued a hollow sound like one who pray*d 
 
 Or sung some holy hymn, but still his eye, 
 
 His red and troubled eye, turn'd ruefully, 
 
 (Mix'd with a nameless feeling of delight,) 
 
 Upon that peaceful solitary lake. 
 
 Ah, did he deem he saw pourtrayed there 
 
 A vision of that distant future world 
 
 To which the yearning soul so fondly clings ! 
 
 And did he ween that beauteous baseless shade 
 
 An emblem of that long eternity 
 
 So shaped to human longings ! — Righteous one ! 
 
 That ever eye that gazes on thy works 
 
 Should on the soul such motley visions fling ! 
 
 Slow past he on, and still the solemn sound 
 
 Flow'd from his breast, although his lips not moved. 
 
 A boy came from the mountains, tripping light 
 With basket on his arm — and it appear d 
 
136 THE STRANGER. 
 
 That there was butter there, for the white cloth 
 
 That over it was spread, not unobserved. 
 
 In tiny ridges gently rose and fell, 
 
 Like graves of cliildren covered o'er with snow ; 
 
 And by one clumsy fold the traveller spied 
 
 One roll of yellow treasure, all as pure 
 
 As primrose bud reflected in the lake. 
 
 ^^ Boy/' said the Stranger, '^ wilt thou hold my steed 
 
 Till I walk round the corner of that mere ? 
 
 When I return I will repay thee well/' 
 
 Theboy consented — touched his slouching hat 
 
 Of broad unequal brim with ready hand, 
 
 And set his basket down upon the sward. 
 
 The traveller went away — but ere he went 
 He stroak'd his tall brown steed, and look'd at him 
 With kind, but yet not unregretful eye. 
 The boy stood patient — glad was he to earn 
 The littie pittance — well the stripling knew 
 
THE SIRANGER. 137 
 
 Of window in the village, where stood ranged 
 The brown and tempting cakes — well sprinkled o'er 
 With the sham raisin and deceitful plum, 
 And, by corporeal functions sway'd, his mind 
 Forestalled the luxury with supreme delight. 
 
 Long, long he patient stood — tlie day was hot, 
 The butter ran in streamlets, and the flies 
 Came round in thousands — o'er the horse's head 
 A moving, darkening canopy they hung. 
 Like the first foldings of the thunder-cloud 
 That, gathering, hangs on Bowfell's hoary peak. 
 
 The Stranger came not back, — the little boy 
 Cast many a wistful look — his mind was mazed, 
 Like as a brook that travels through the glade, 
 By complicated tanglement involved, 
 Not knowing where to run — and haply he 
 Had sunk inert — but that in patience — or 
 
138 THE STRANGER. 
 
 Perhaps incited by a curious mind 
 
 He cast his eyes to east, and west, and north, 
 
 But nothing save the rocks, and trees, and walls, 
 
 (Of gray stones built, and cover'd on the top 
 
 Sheep-fold-wise, with a cope of splinter'd flags, 
 
 That half-diverging stood upon their edge 
 
 And half-reclining lay) came in the range 
 
 Of his discernment — some full bitter tears 
 
 At length came flowing down the poor boy's cheek 
 
 The steed was all impatience — high his head, 
 And higher still his ears were rear'd aloft ; 
 For his full eye (nigh blinded by a shade 
 Of stubborn leather — a half round it was, 
 In shape like to the holy moon, when she 
 Glides o'er the midnight heaven on silent foot, 
 When half her course and some few stages more 
 Already has been run) that eye was fix'd 
 On a huge stone, that on the mountain lay 
 
THE STRANGER. 139 
 
 Like dome of eastern temple, or the mosque 
 Where pagans worship.— Loudly did he neigh ; 
 For he mistook it for a gallant steed 
 Feeding in peaceful quiet — while, alas ! 
 He was compell d to stand upon the road 
 Held by a fretful boy the live-long day. 
 His fore-hoof, mailed with an iron shell 
 That shone hke silver, fiercely did he strike 
 Against the sounding earth — Up rose the dust 
 And fire withal, like to the smouldering smoke 
 And flash, that rises from the evening gun 
 Of perverse hind, that in concealment lies 
 To watch the timid hare — relentless sport ! 
 And then his tail, which farrier's hand obscene . 
 Had rudely maul'd, and sore curtailed withal, 
 And by incision cruel, and the help 
 Of pullied cords, made that point up to heaven 
 Which God ordain'd should hang towards the earth 
 With graceful sweep— O shame ! that impious man 
 Should in unrighteous pride thus lay exposed 
 
140 THE STn.VNGER. 
 
 Unto the stifled winds and eye of day 
 
 That Nature meant to hide!— This tail was heard 
 
 Whistling across the ambient air, with sound 
 
 Of blasting wrath, loud as the choral hymn 
 
 Of mountain spirit, when by fits he sings 
 
 The prelude of the storm within the caves 
 
 Of gray Helvellyn — loudly wept the boy, 
 
 And much he fear'd ; for oft that angry steed 
 
 Turned round his head with such precipitance 
 
 To dash the insects from his glossy side, 
 
 That the poor boy in veriest danger stood 
 
 To have his brains knocked out ; yet still he kept 
 
 His hold though sore beset. — At length he heard 
 
 A voice rise from the bosom of the hill, 
 
 Or from the heart of that small peaceful lake, 
 
 He knew not which— it broke along the air 
 
 That wandered o'er that slumbering solitude 
 
 With such a solemn and impressive tone, 
 
 That not though heaven in distant thunder had 
 
 Spoke words of human breath, could these so much 
 
THE STRANGER. 14 I 
 
 The heart of man have shook, and all his powers 
 
 So utterly astounded. — On it came 
 
 With gathering boom — loud and more loud it came, 
 
 And passing, died upon the trembling wind; 
 
 Or crept into the silence of the hill. 
 
 Like startled spirit, and was heard no more ! 
 
 It was a beetle — somewhere it had been 
 
 At elvish carol on that mountain's breast, 
 
 Or haply dancing with the dafFodills, 
 
 Upon the margin of that loveiy lake 
 
 Ycleped a tarn or water — or mayhap 
 
 From dwelling 'mid the maze of glow-worm lamps 
 
 That with faint radiance gild the earthly woods. 
 
 When dews fall soft and nature lies reposed, 
 
 Proud of the rayless halo round them shed. 
 
 Which only lights that one particular leaf 
 
 On which the parent hangs, like a small gem 
 
 Upon the lap of night. The boy held in 
 
 His breath for full five seconds — then again 
 
 Pour'd forth the bray of agony ; the night 
 
 # 
 
142 THE STRANGER. 
 
 Fell dark and deep— the moon was not in heaven, 
 
 But lingering in the domes beneath the world, 
 
 (As weens the hind) throwing her yellow light 
 
 Far up the steep, on trees, and pendant hills, 
 
 But to that poor distressed, perplexed boy 
 
 As if she had not been. — The horse went round 
 
 Most unrespective, and, not satisfied 
 
 With whisking his dark tail in furious guise, 
 
 He broke on all propriety, with snort 
 
 Like blustering cannon, or the noise that bursts 
 
 From heaven in thunder through the summer rain. 
 
 The boy was stunn'd— for on similitude 
 
 In dissimilitude, man*s sole delight, 
 
 And all the sexual intercourse of things, 
 
 Do most supremely hang, — The horse went round, 
 
 Jerk'd with his nose^ and shook his harness so 
 
 The boy wax'd desperate, and — O impious elf! 
 
 He cursed that hungry beast — the horse went round;. 
 
 And round, and round ; and puHing in his head 
 
 To his fore-pastern^ upward made it spring 
 
THE STRANGER. ]43 
 
 So forcibly, the poor boy's feeble arm 
 Was paralyzed' — his hold he lost — and off 
 Like lightning flew the steed^ that never more 
 Was in these regions seen ! — Some did report, 
 Though, I believe, the tale was all untrue. 
 That a right wayward bard, whom I regret 
 As having left these mountains, where alone 
 
 True genius uncontaminute can thrive. 
 
 Was seen cantering through Chester on that horse .; 
 
 And others, that he afterwards became 
 
 The horse of a strange youth, not unrenownM 
 
 In early life, who undertook the charge 
 
 Of chaplain to a military troop, 
 
 Cheer'd by the Highland bagpipe and the drum. 
 
 No naore the poor boy cried — he lifted up 
 His basket from the earth into the air, 
 That unview'd element that circuml'oids 
 The earth within its bosom, there he felt 
 With his left-hand how it affected was 
 
H4? THE STRANGER. 
 
 By the long day and burning sun of heaven. 
 It was ail firm and flat — no ridges rose 
 Like graves of children — basket^ butter, cloth, 
 Were ail one pit^ce coherent. — To his home 
 The boy returned right sad and sore aghast. 
 
 No one believed his tale — they deem'd it was 
 A truant idler s story, m excuse 
 Of charge neglected. — Days and months past on^ 
 And all remained the same — the maidens sung 
 Along the hay-field — at the even tide 
 The dance and merriment prevail^ — the sky 
 Was pure as heretofore — the mid-day winds 
 Arose and ruffled all the peaceful lake, 
 The clouds of heaven past over — nature all 
 Appeared the same as if that stranger wight 
 Had never been — save that it was observed 
 That Daniel Crosthwaite, who, beside the tarn^ 
 From good Sir William rented a few fields, 
 Appeared at church with a much better hat 
 
THE STRANGER. 145 
 
 Than he was wont, for it was made of down 
 That by the broad Ontario's shores had grown 
 On the sleek beaver — on his window too 
 A book one day was seen, and none could tell 
 How it came there — it was a work in the 
 French tongue^ a novel of Voltaire — these things 
 
 Were noted, whispered, and thought of no more. 
 
 - * 
 
 Late did I journey there with bard obscure 
 From Scotland's barren wastes — barren alike 
 Of verdure, intellect, and moral sense^ — 
 To view that lonely tarn. — He too was there, 
 The changeful and right feeble bard now styled 
 The Laureate — he too of the Palmy Isle, 
 The man of plagues, horrors, and miseries, 
 Disgrace of that sweet school, that tuneful choir 
 Named from these peaceful waters — he who framed. 
 An imitation of that lay divine 
 Which is inimitable. — Not inept. 
 Our conversation ran on books and men : 
 
14^6 THE STRANGER. 
 
 The would-be songster of the Scottish hills 
 In dialect most uncouth and language rude 
 Lauded his countrymen, not unrebuked, 
 Reviewers and reviewed, and talk'd amain 
 Of one unknown, inept, presumptuous bard, 
 The Border Minstrel — he of all the world 
 Farthest from genius or from common sense. 
 He too, the royal tool, with erring tongue, 
 Backed the poor foolish wight, and utler'd words 
 For which I blush'd— I could not choose but smile. 
 ^' Yet," said I, tempted here to interpose, 
 ^' You must acknowledge this your favourite 
 Hath more outraged the purity of speech. 
 The innate beauties of our English tongue. 
 For amplitude and nervous structure famed. 
 Than all the land beside, and therefore he 
 Deserves the hi^h neglect which he has met 
 From a^l the studious and thinking — those 
 Unswayed by low caprices of the age. 
 The scorn of reason, and the world's revile/' 
 
THE STRANGER. 147 
 
 More had 1 said derisive — yes, by heaven ! 
 
 Much more I would have said, but that just then 
 
 He of the Pahns with startled eye look'd round, 
 
 And such an eye, as any one may guess 
 
 To whom that eye is known— for he beheld 
 
 What I yet shudder to define. — " Great God !" 
 
 The youth exclaim'd, " see what is lying there !' 
 
 He of the laurel, who was next to him, 
 
 Nay, haply nigher to the shore than he, 
 
 Stared in amaze, but he can nothing see ; 
 
 And in his haste, instead of looking down 
 
 Into the water, he look'd up to Heaven : 
 
 A most preposterous habit, which the bard 
 
 Practises ever and anon — I look'd 
 
 Into the peaceful lake, and there beheld 
 
 The bones of one who once in mortal life 
 
 Had lived and moved — a human skeleton 1 
 
 I may not say what horrors shook my frame ! 
 
 The bones seem'd loose, nor film nor ligament 
 
 Bound them together, yet each one maintained 
 
 6 
 
148 
 
 THE STRANGER. 
 
 Its proper place, as loth to break the mould 
 In which a human soul o ce householded* 
 It was a ghastly sight ! — where once the heart 
 Of feeling and of passion playM, or beat 
 With ardent throb, lay the dark filmy mud 
 That gathers in the deep, and on the bones 
 AppearM thin soapy spots of greenish hue; 
 The jaws upon the nape-bone had fallen down, 
 The scull seem'd looking up — there had he died ! 
 His back upon the sand, his face to heaven ! 
 
 My mind, borne on the influence of truth, 
 Turn'd instantly upon the poor boy's tale. 
 Rightly I judged, for there indeed we saw 
 All that remain d of him, the stranger wight. 
 That lonely wanderer of the mountain reign. 
 
 It boots not here to tell all that was said. 
 The Laureate; sighing, utter'd some few words 
 Of most sublime and solemn tendency. 
 
THE STRANGER. HS 
 
 The Shepherd spoke most incoherent stufF 
 About the bones of sheep, that on the hills 
 Perish unseen, holding their stations so. 
 And he, the tented Angler of the lakes, 
 Alias the Man of Palms, said nothing meet ; 
 He was o'ercorae with feeling, — it is known 
 To many, and not quite to me unknown, 
 That the youth's heart is better than his head. 
 
 Glad of this opportunity, I said, 
 Still pointing to the bones, " Access for you 
 Is yet preserved to principles of truth, 
 Which the imaginative will upholds 
 In seats of wisdom, not to be approach'd 
 By the inferior faculty that moulds 
 With her minute and speculative pains 
 Opinions ever changing — I have seen 
 Regenerative Nature prostrate lie 
 And drink the souls of things — of living things 
 And things inanimate, and thus hold up 
 
150 THE STRANGER- 
 
 The beings that we are — that change shall clothe 
 
 The naked sph'it ceasing to de^plore 
 
 The burden of existence, her dull eye 
 
 To other scenes still changing still unchanged. 
 
 The thinking thoughtless school-boy, the bold youth 
 
 Of soul impetuous, and the bashful maid, 
 
 All cogitative yield obedience up. 
 
 And whence this tribute ? wherefore these regards? 
 
 Not from the naked heart alone of man, 
 
 Though framed to high distinction upon earth. 
 
 As the sole spring and fountain-head of tears, 
 
 His own peculiar utterance for distress 
 
 Or gladness — it is not the vital part 
 
 Of feeling to produce them, without aid 
 
 From the pure soul, the soul sublimed and pure 
 
 With her two faculties of eye and ear. 
 
 Not without such assistance could the eye 
 
 Of these benign observances prevail ; 
 
 Thus are they born, thus fosterM, and maintained, 
 
 And by the care prospective of our wise 
 
 N 
 
 » 
 
THE STRANGER. 151 
 
 Forefathers, who, to guard against the shocks, 
 
 The fluctuation, and decay of things. 
 
 There lies the channel and original bed," 
 
 Continued I, still pointing to the lake, 
 
 ** From the beginning hollowM out and scoop'd 
 
 For man's affections, else betray'd and lost. 
 
 And swallow'd up 'mid desarts infinite. 
 
 This is the genuine course, the aim and end 
 
 Of prescient reason, all conclusions else 
 
 Are abject, vain, presumptuous, and perverse." 
 
 The men were thunderstruck ; the Angler most. 
 That man of palms and plagues, vile copyist I 
 Seem'd compassed in wonder — in my face 
 Wistful he gazed, and ever and anon 
 He utter'd a short sound at every pause, 
 But further ventured pot — upon the ear 
 Of the poor Shepherd all these breathings fell 
 Like sound of distant waters — like the rain, 
 The treasures of the sky, on the firm flint, 
 
152 THE STRANGER. 
 
 So moveless his impenetrative soul. 
 
 He scratch' d his poll — the Laureate look'd to heaven* 
 
 More had I said, resuming the discourse 
 Of subterraneous magazines of bones, 
 The faint reflections of infinitude, 
 The moon and the unvoyageable sky, 
 And all the high observances of things, 
 But that, chancing again to turn my eyes 
 Toward the bosom of that peaceful mere, 
 I saw a form so ominous approach 
 My heart was chill'd with horror— through the wave 
 Slowly it came — by heaven I saw it move 
 Toward the grizly skeleton .' — Its shape 
 Was like a coffin, and its colour such, 
 Black as the death-pall or the cloud of night ! 
 At sight of such a hideous messenger, 
 Thus journeying through the bowels of the deep. 
 O'er sluggish leaf and unelaborate stone, 
 All nature stood in mute astonishment, 
 
THE STRANGER. 153 
 
 As if her pulse lay still — onward it came, 
 
 And hovering o'er the bones, it linger''d there 
 
 In a most holy and impressive guise. 
 
 I saw it shake its hideous form, and move 
 
 Towards my feet — the elements were hush*d. 
 
 The birds forsook their singing, for the sight 
 
 Was fraught with wonder and astonishment. 
 
 It was a tadpole — somewhere by itself 
 
 The creature had been left, and there had come 
 
 Most timeously, by Providence sent forth, 
 
 To close this solemn and momentous tale. 
 
 END OF THE STRANGER. 
 
 G 2 
 
V 
 
 # 
 
FURTHER EXTRACT 
 
 FROM 
 
 ^* THE recluse;' a poem. 
 
 THE FLYING TAILOR. 
 
 1[f ever chance or choice thy footsteps lead 
 Into that green and flowery burial-ground 
 That compasseth with sweet and mournful smiles 
 The church of Grassmere, — by the eastern gate 
 Enter — and underneath a stunted yew, 
 Some three yards distant from the gravel-walk, 
 On the left-hand gide, thou wilt espy a grave, 
 With unelaborate head-stone beautified. 
 
^56 THE FLYING TAILOR^ 
 
 Conspicuous ^nid the other stoneless heaps 
 'Neath which the children of the valley lie. 
 There pause — and with no common feelings read 
 This short inscription — ^' Here lies buried 
 The Flying Tailor^ aged twenty-nine V^ 
 
 Him from his birth unto his death I knew. 
 And many years before he had attain d 
 The fulness of his fame, I prophesied 
 The triumphs of that youth's agility. 
 And crown'd him with that name which afterwards 
 He nobly justified — and dying left 
 To fame's eternal blazon — read it here — 
 ^^ The Flying Tailor !'^ 
 
 It is somewhat strange 
 That his mother was a cripple, and his father 
 Long way declined into the vale of years 
 When their son Hugh was born. At first the babe 
 Was sickly, and a smile was seen to pass 
 
THE FLYING TAILOR. 15 
 
 Across the midwife's cheek, when, holding up 
 
 The sickly wretch, she to the father said, 
 
 " A fine man-child !" What else could they expect ? 
 
 The mother being, as I said before, 
 
 A cripple, and the father of the child 
 
 Long way declined into the vale of years. 
 
 But mark the wondrous change — ere he was put 
 By his mother into breeches, Nature strung 
 The muscular part of his economy 
 To an unusual strength, and he could leap, 
 All unimpeded by his petticoats, 
 Over the stool on which his mother sat 
 When carding wool, or cleansing vegetables, 
 Or meek performing other household tasks. 
 Cunning he watch'd his opportunity, 
 And oft, as house affairs did call her thence, 
 Overleapt Hugh, a perfect whirligig, 
 More than six inches o'er th* astonished stool. 
 
158 THE FLYING TAILOR. 
 
 What boots it to narrate, bow at leap-frog 
 Over tbe breecb'd and unbreech'd villagers 
 He sbone conspicuous ? Leap-frog do I say ? 
 Vainly so named. V\ bat tbougb in attitude 
 The Flying Tailor aped the croaking race 
 When issuing from the weed-entangled pool, 
 Tadpoles no more, they seek the new-mown fields, 
 A jocund people, bouncing to and fro' 
 Amid the odorous clover — while amazed 
 The grasbopper sits idle on the stalk 
 With folded pinions and forgets to sing. 
 Frog-like no doubt, in attitude he was ; 
 But sure bis bounds across the village green 
 Seem d to my soul — (my soul for ever bright 
 With purest beams of sacred poesy) 
 Like bounds of red-deer on the Highland-hill, 
 When, close-environed by the tinchel s chuin^ 
 He lifts his branchy forehead to the sky, 
 Then o'er the many-headed multitude 
 Springs belling half in terror, half in rage, 
 
TKE FLYING TAILOR. 159 
 
 And fleeter than the sunbeam or the wind 
 Speeds to his cloud-lair on the mountain-top. 
 
 No more of this — suffice it to narrate, 
 In his tenth year he was apprenticed 
 Unto a Master Tailor by a strong 
 And regular indenture of seven years, 
 Commencing from the date the parchment bore, 
 And ending on a certain day, that made 
 The term complete of seven solar years. 
 Oft have I heard him say, that at this time 
 Of life he was most wretched ; for, constrained 
 To sit all day cross-legg'd upon a board, 
 The natural circulation of the blood 
 Thereby was oft impeded, and he felt 
 So numb'd at times, that when he strove to rise 
 Up from his work he could not, but fell back 
 Among the shreds and patches that bestrewed 
 With various colours, brightening gorgeously, 
 The board all round him— patch of warlike red 
 
160 
 
 THE FLYING TAILOK. 
 
 With which he patched the regimental suits 
 , Of a recruiting military troop, 
 
 At that time stationed in a market-town 
 
 At no great. distance— eke of solemn black 
 
 Shreds of no little magnitude^ with which 
 
 The parson^s Sunday-coat was then repairing, 
 
 That in the new-roof'd church he might appear 
 
 With fitting dignity — and gravely fill 
 
 The sacred seat of pulpit' eloquence, 
 
 Cheering with doctrinal point and words of faith 
 
 The poor man's heart, and from the shallow wit 
 
 Of atheist drying up each argument, 
 
 Or sharpening his own weapons only to turn 
 
 Their point against himself, and overthrow 
 
 His idols with the very enginery 
 
 Reared Against the structure of our English church. 
 
 Oft too, when striving all he could to finish 
 The stated daily task, the needle's point. 
 Slanting insidious from th^ eluded stitch. 
 
THE FLYING TAILOR. 161 
 
 Hath pinch'd his finger, by the thimble's mail 
 In vain defended^ and the crimson blood 
 DistainM the lining of some wedding-suit; 
 A dismal omen ! that to mind like his, 
 Apt to perceive in sh'ghtest circumstance 
 Mysterious meaning, yielded sore distress 
 And feverish perturbation, so that oft 
 He scarce could eat his dinner — nay, one night 
 He swore to run from his apprenticeship, 
 And go on board a first-rate man of- war, 
 From Piymouth lately come to Liverpool, 
 Where, in the stir and tumult of a crew 
 Composed of many nations, *mid the roar 
 Of wave and tempest, and the deadher voice 
 Of battle, he might strive to mitigate 
 The fever that consumed his mighty heart. 
 
 But other doom was his. That very night 
 A troop of tumblers came into the village, 
 Tumbler, equestrian, mountebank, — on wire, 
 
162 THE FLYING TAILOR. 
 
 I 
 
 / 
 
 On rope, on horse> with cup and balls, intenfe 
 To please the gaping multitude, and win 
 The coin from labour's pocket — small perhaps 
 Each separate piece of money, but when joined 
 Making a good round sum, destined ere long 
 All to be melted, (so these lawless folk 
 Name spending coin in loose debauchery) 
 Melted into ale— or haply stouter cheer, 
 Gin diuretic, or the liquid flame 
 Of baneful brandy, by the smuggler brought 
 From the French coast in shallop many-oar'd, 
 Skulking by night round headland and through bay. 
 Afraid of the King's cutter, or the barge 
 Of cruising frigate, arm^d with chosen men, 
 And with her sweeps across the foamy waves 
 Moving most beautiful with measured strokes. 
 
 It jchanced that as he threw a somerset 
 Over three horses (each of larger size 
 Than our small mountain-breed) one of the troop 
 
 1 
 
THE FLYING TAILOR. 16S 
 
 Put out his shoulder, and was otherwise 
 
 Considerably bruised, especially 
 
 About the loins and back. So he became 
 
 Useless unto that wandering company, 
 
 And likely to be felt a sore expence 
 
 To men just on the eve of bankruptcy, 
 
 So the master of the troop determined 
 
 To leave him in the work-house, and proclaim'd 
 
 That if there was a man among the crowd 
 
 Willing to fill his place and able too, 
 
 Now was the time to shew himself. Hugh Thwaites 
 
 Heard the proposal, as he stood apart 
 
 » 
 
 Striving with his own soul — and with a bound 
 
 He leapt into the circle, and agreed 
 
 To supply the place of him who had been hurt. 
 
 A shout of admiration and surprise 
 
 Then tore heaven's concave, and completely fiU'd 
 
 The little field, where near a hundred people 
 
 Were standing in a circle round and fair. 
 
 Oft have 1 striven by meditative power, 
 
164 THE FLYING TAILOR. 
 
 And reason working ^mid the various forms 
 Of various occupations and professions, 
 To explain the cause of one phenomenon, 
 That since the birth of science hath remainM 
 A bare enunciation, unexplained 
 By any theory, or mental light 
 Streamed on it by the imaginative will, 
 Or spirit musing in the cloudy shrine. 
 The penetralia of the immortal soul. 
 I now allude to that most curious fact. 
 That ^Tiid a given number, say threescore, 
 Of tailors, more men of agility 
 Will issue out, than from an equal she\7 
 From any other occupation — say 
 Smiths, barbers, bakers, butchers, or the Hke. 
 Let me not seem presumptuous, if I strive 
 This subject to illustrate ; nor, while I give 
 My meditations to the world, will I 
 Conceal from it, that much I have to say 
 I learnt from one who knows the subject well 
 
 « 
 
THE FLYING TAILOR. 165 
 
 In theory and practice — need I name him ? 
 The light-heeFd author of the Isle of Pahns, 
 Illustrious more for leaping than for song. 
 
 First, then, I would lay down this principle, 
 That all excessive action by the law 
 Of nature tends unto repose. This granted, 
 All action not excessive must partake 
 The nature of excessive action — so 
 That in all human beings who keep moving, 
 Unconscious cultivation of repose 
 Is going on in silence. Be it so. 
 Apply to men of sedentary lives 
 This leading principle, and we behold 
 That, active in their inactivity. 
 And unreposing in their long repose, 
 They are, in fact, the sole depositaries 
 Of all the energies by others wasted, 
 And come at last to teem with impulses 
 Of muscular motion, not to be withstood, 
 And either giving vent unto themselves 
 
166 THE FLYING TAILOR,, 
 
 In. numerous feats of wild agility, 
 
 Or terminating in despair and death. ^ 
 
 Now of all sedentary lives, none seems 
 So much so as the tailor's. — Weavers use 
 Both arms and legs, and, we may safely add. 
 Their bodies too, for arms and legs can't move 
 Without the body — as the waving branch 
 Of the green oak disturbs his glossy trunk. 
 Not so the Tailor — for he sits cross-legg'd, 
 Cross-legg'd for ever ! save at time of meals, 
 In bed, or when he takes his little walk 
 From shop to alehouse;, picking as he goes 
 Stray patch of fustian, cloth, or cassimere, 
 Which, as by natural instinct, he discerns, 
 Though soil'd with mud, and by the passing wheel 
 Bruised to attenuation Against the stones. 
 
 Here then we pause — and need no farther go, 
 We have reach'd the sea-mark of our utmost sail. 
 
THE FLYING TAILOR. 167 
 
 Now let me trace the effect upon his mind 
 
 Of this despised profession. Deem not thou, 
 
 O rashly deem not, that his boyish days 
 
 Past at the shop-board, when the stripling bore 
 
 With bashful feeling of apprenticeship 
 
 The name of Tailor, deem not that his soul 
 
 Derived no genial influence from a life, 
 
 Which, although haply adverse in the main 
 
 To the growth of intellect, and the excursive power. 
 
 Yet in its ordinary forms possessed 
 
 A constant influence o'er his passing thoughts, 
 
 Moulded his appetences and his will, 
 
 And wrought out, by the work of sympathy, 
 
 Between his bodily and mental form, 
 
 Rare correspondence, wond'rous unity ! 
 
 Perfect —complete — and fading not away. 
 
 While on his board cross-legg'd he used to sit, 
 
 Shaping of various garments, to his mind 
 
 An image rose of every character 
 
 F©r whom each special article was framed, 
 
168 THE FLYING TAILOR. 
 
 Coat; waistcoat, breeches. So at last his soul 
 
 Was like a storehouse; filPd with imageS; 
 
 By musing hours of solitude supplied. 
 
 Nor did his ready fingers shape the cut 
 
 Of villager's uncouth habiliments 
 
 With greater readiness, than did his mind 
 
 Frame corresponding images of those 
 
 Whose corporal measurement the neat-mark'd paper 
 
 In many a mystic notch for aye retainM. 
 
 Hence, more than any man I ever knew, 
 
 Did he possess the power intuitive 
 
 Of diving into character. A pair 
 
 Of breeches to his philosophic eye 
 
 Were not what unto other folks they seem, 
 
 Mere simple breeches, but in them he saw 
 
 The symbol of the soul — mysterious, high 
 
 Hieroglyphics ! such as Egypt's Priest 
 
 Adored upon the holy Pyramid, 
 
 YainljT^ imagined tomb of monarchs old, 
 
 But raised by wise philosophy, that sought 
 
THE FLYING TAILOR. 169 
 
 By darkness to illumine, and to spread 
 Knowledge by dim concealment — process high 
 Of man's imaginative, deathless soul. 
 Nor, haply, in th' abasement of the life 
 Which stern necessity had made his own. 
 Did he not recognize a genial power 
 Of soul-ennobling fortitude. He heard 
 Unmoved the witling's shallow contumely. 
 And thus, in spite of nature, by degrees 
 He saw a beauty and a majesty 
 In this despised trade, which warrior's brow 
 Hath rarely circled — so that when he sat 
 Beneath his sky-light window, he hath cast 
 A gaze of triumph on the godlike sun, 
 And felt that orb, in all his annual round, 
 Beheld no happier, nobler character 
 Than him, Hugh Thwaitcs, a little tailor-boy. 
 
 Thus I, with no unprofitable song. 
 Have, in the silence of th' umbrageous wood, 
 
 H 
 
170 THE FLYING TAILOR. 
 
 Chaunted the heroic youthful attributes 
 Of him the Flying Tailor. Much lemains 
 Of highest argument, to lute or lyre 
 Fit to be murmur'd with iropassion'd voice ; 
 And when, by timely supper and by sleep 
 Refresh'd, I turn me to the welcome task. 
 With lofty hopes, — Reader, do thou expect 
 The final termination of my lay. 
 For, mark my words, — eternally my name , 
 
 Shall last on earth, conspicuous like a star 
 'Mid that bright galaxy of favoured spirits, 
 Who, laugh'd at constantly whene'er they publish'd, 
 Survived the impotent scorn of base Reviews, 
 Monthly or Quarterly, or that accursed 
 Journal, the Edinburgh Review, that lives 
 On tears, and sighs, and groans, and brains, and 
 blood. 
 
 END OF THE FLYING TAILOR, 
 
-i ^ 
 
 STILL FURTHER EXTRACT 
 
 FROM 
 
 '' THE RECLUSE," A POEM,^ 
 
 : nh ' 
 
 JAMES RIGG. 
 
 On Tuesday morn, at half-past six o'clock, 
 I rose and dress'd myself, and having, shut 
 The door o* the bed-room still and leisurelj^ 
 I walk'd down stairs. When at the outer-door, 
 I firmly grasped the key that ere night-fall 
 Had turn'd the lock into its wonted niche 
 Within the brazen implement, that shone 
 With no unseemly splendour,— mellow'd light, 
 
172 
 
 JAMES KIGG. 
 
 Elicited by touch of careful hand 
 
 On the brown lintel ; and th' obedient door, 
 
 As at a potent necromancer's touch, 
 
 Into the air receded suddenly, 
 
 And gave wide prospect of the sparkling lake, 
 
 Just then emerging from the snow-white mist 
 
 Like angel's veil slow-folded up to heaven. 
 
 And lo ! a vision bright and beautiful 
 
 Sheds a refulgent glory o'er the sand, 
 
 The sand and gravel of my avenue! 
 
 For, standing silent by the kitchen-door, 
 
 Tinged by the morning sun, and in its own 
 
 Brown natural hide most lovely, two long ears 
 
 Upstretching perpendicularly, then 
 
 With the horizon levelPd — to my gaze 
 
 Superb as horn of fabled Unicorn, 
 
 Each in its own proportions grander far 
 
 Than the frontal glory of that wandering beast, 
 
 Child of the Desart ^ Lo ! a beauteous Ass, 
 
 W ith panniers hanging silent at each side ! 
 
JAMES RIGG. 173 
 
 Silent as cage of bird whose song is mute, 
 Though silent yet not empty, fiU'd with bread, 
 The staff of life, the means by which the soul 
 By fate obedient to the powers of sense, 
 Renews its faded vigour, and keeps up 
 A proud communion with the eternal heavens. 
 Fastened to a ring it stood, while at its head 
 A boy of six years old, as angel bright. 
 Patted its neck, and to its mouth applied 
 The harmless thistle that his hand had pluck'd 
 From the wild common, melancholy crop. 
 
 Not undelightful was that simple sight. 
 For I at once did recognize that ass 
 To be the property of one James Rigg, 
 Who for the last seven years had managed. 
 By a firm course of daily industry, 
 A numerous family to support, and clothe 
 In plain apparel of our shepherd's grey. 
 On him a heavy and calamitous lot 
 
m 
 
 JAMES RIGG. 
 
 Had fallen.' ' For working up among the hills 
 In a slaitfe-^tiatry, while he fill'd the stone, 
 Bored by Ills cunning with the nitrous grain, 
 It suddenly exploded, and the flash 
 Quench'd the bright lustre of his cheerful eyes 
 For evet-psB- that now they roll in vain 
 To find thd searching light that idly plays 
 O'er the white orbs, and on the silent cheeks 
 
 By t^iose orb^ unillumined calm and still. 
 
 f 
 
 Quoth I, I never see thee and thy ass, 
 My worthy friend, but I methinks behold 
 The might o^t^iat unconquerable spirit. 
 Which, operatingi«n the anc'ent world 
 Before th^^lQod, when fallen man was driven 
 From paradise accompanied him to fields 
 Bare and uS^^ely, when the sterile earth 
 Oft mock'd <tk4pfeiiidly culture of the hand 
 Of scientific a^calture — mock'd 
 The shepherd's sacrifice, and even denied 
 
JAMES RIGG. 175 
 
 A scanty pittance to the fisherman, 
 Who by the rod or net sought to supply 
 His natural wants from river or from mere. 
 Blind were these people to the cunning arts 
 Of smooth civility — men before the Flood, 
 And therefore in the scriptures rightly call'd 
 Antediluvians ! 
 
 While thus I spake 
 With wisdom, that industrious blind old man, 
 Seemingly flatter'd by those words of mine, 
 Which, judging by myself, I scarcely think 
 He altogether understood, replied. 
 While the last thistle slowly disappeared 
 Within the jaws of that most patient beast : 
 " Master !" quoth he, — and while he spake his hat 
 With something of a natural dignity 
 Was holden in his hand — " Master," quoth he, 
 " I hear that you and Mrs Wordsworth think 
 Of going into Scotland, and 1 wish 
 
170 JAMES RIGG. 
 
 To know if, while the family are from home, 
 I shall supply the servants with their bread, 
 For I suppose they will not all be put 
 Upon board-wages.'* 
 
 Something in his voice, 
 While thus he spake, of simplest articles 
 Of household use^ yet sunk upon my soul, 
 Like distant thunder from the mountain-gloom 
 Wakening the sleeping echoes, so sublime 
 Was that old man, so plainly eloquent 
 His untaught tongue I though something of a lisp, 
 (Natural defect,) and a slight stutter too 
 (Haply occasion^ by some faint attack. 
 Harmless, if not renew'd, of apoplex) 
 Rendered his utterance most peculiar. 
 So that a stranger, had he heard that voice 
 Once only, and then travelled into lands 
 Beyond the ocean, had on his return. 
 Met where they might, have known that curious voice 
 
JAMES RIGG* J 77 
 
 Of lisp and stutter, yet I ween withal 
 Graceful, and breathed from an original mind* 
 
 Here let me be permitted to relate, 
 For sake of those few readers who prefer 
 A simple picture of the heart to all 
 Poetic imagery from earth or heaven 
 Drawn by the skill of bard, — let me, I say, 
 For sake of such few readers, be permitted 
 To tell, in plain and ordinary verse, 
 What James Rigg first experienced in his soul, 
 Standing amid the silence of the hills, 
 With both the pupils of his eyes destroyed. 
 
 When first the loud explosion through the sky 
 
 Sent its far voice, and from the trembling rocks -^ 
 
 That v/ith an everlasting canopy 
 
 Overshadow Stickle-Tarn the echoes woke, 
 
 So that the mountain-solitude was filled 
 
 With sound, as with the air ! He stood awhile, 
 
 H 2 
 
178 JAMES RIGG. 
 
 Wondering from whence that tumult might proceed, 
 And ^1 unconscious that the blast had dimm'd 
 His eyes for ever, and their smiling blue 
 Converted to a paTe and mournful grey. 
 Was it, he thought, some blast the quarrjrmen 
 Blasted at Conniston, or in that vale, 
 Call'd from its huge and venerable yew, 
 Yewdale?" (though other etymologists 
 Derive that appellation from the sheep, 
 Of whSth' the female in our English tongue 
 Still bears the name of ewe.) Or did the gun 
 Of fowler,* wandermg o'er the heathery wilds 
 In search of the shy gor-cock, yield that voice 
 Close to his ear, so close that through his soul 
 It roil'd like, thunder ? Or had news arrived 
 Of Buonaparte's last discomfiture, 
 By the bold Russ, and that great heir of fame 
 Blucher, restorer of the thrones of kings ? 
 And upon Lowood bowling-green did Laker, 
 triad of expedient to beguile the hours, 
 
JAMES RIGGt 170 
 
 Slow moving before dinner, did he fire, 
 
 In honour of that glorious victory, 
 
 The old two-pounder by the wind and rain 
 
 Rusted, and seemingly to him more old 
 
 Than in reality it was, though old, 
 
 And on that same green lying since the days 
 
 Of the last landlord, Gilbert Ormathwaite, 
 
 Name well-remembered all the country round, 
 
 Though twenty summer suns have shed their flowers 
 
 On the green turf that hides his mortal dust ? 
 
 Or was it, thought he, the loud signal-gun 
 
 Of pleasure-boat, on bright Winander's wave, 
 
 Preparing Against some new antagonist 
 
 To spread her snowy wings before the wind, 
 
 Emulous of glory and the palmy wreath 
 
 Of inland navigation ? graceful sport ! 
 
 It next perhaps occurred to him to ask. 
 
 Himself, or some one near him, if the sound 
 
 Was not much louder than those other sounds, 
 
 Fondly imagined by him, — and both he. 
 
ISO JAMES RIGG. 
 
 And that one near him, instantly replied 
 
 Unto himself, that most assuredly 
 
 The noise proceeded from the very stone, 
 
 Which they two had so long been occupied 
 
 In boring, and that probably some spark, 
 
 Struck from the gavelock Against the treacherous 
 
 flint, 
 Had fallen amid the powder, and so caused 
 The stone t' explode, as gunpowder will do, 
 With most miraculous force, especially 
 When close ramm'd down into a narrow bore, 
 And covered o'er with a thin layer of sand 
 To exclude the air, else otherwise the grain, 
 Escaping from the bore, would waste itself 
 In the clear sky, and leave the bored stone 
 Lying unmoved upon the verdant earth. 
 Like some huge creature stretch'd in lazy sleep 
 Amid the wilderness, — or lying dead 
 Beneath the silence of the summer sun* 
 
JAMES RIGG. 181 
 
 This point established^ he was gently led 
 By the natural progress of the human soul. 
 Aspiring after truth, nor satisfied 
 Till she hath found it, wheresoever hid, 
 (Yea even though at the bottom of a well,) 
 To enquire if any mischief had been done 
 By that explosion ; and while thus he stood 
 Enquiring anxiously of all around, 
 A small sharp boy, whose task it was to bring 
 His father's breakfast to him ^mid the hills, 
 Somewhat about eleven years of age. 
 Though less than some lads at the age of eight, 
 Exclaimed — ^^ Why, father, do you turn the white 
 Of your eyes up so ?'^ At these simple words 
 Astonishment and horror struck the souls 
 Of all the quarrymen, for they descried. 
 Clear as the noon-day, that James Rigg had lost 
 His eyesi^t, yea his very eyes were lost, 
 QuenchM in their sockets, melted into air, 
 A moisture mournful as the cold dim gleam 
 
182 JAMES RIGG, 
 
 Of water sleeping in some shady wood, 
 
 Screen'd from th^ sunbeams and the breath of heaven. 
 
 On that he lifted up his hardened hands, 
 Harden'd by sun, and rain, and storm, and toil, 
 Unto the blasted eye-balls, and awhile 
 Stood motionless as fragment of that rock 
 That wrought him all his woe, and seem'd to lie. 
 Unwitting of the evil it had done, 
 Calm and serene, even like a flock of sheep, 
 Scatter'd in sunshine o'er the cheviot-hills. 
 T ween that, as he stood in solemn trance, 
 Tears flow'd for him who wept not for himself, 
 And that his fellow-quarrymen, though rude 
 Of soul and manner, not untouchingly 
 Deplored his cruel doom, and gently led 
 His footsteps to a green and mossy rock, 
 By sportive Nature fashioned like a chair. 
 With seat, back, elbows, — a most perfect chair 
 Of unhewn living rock I There, hapless man, 
 
JAMES RIGG. 183 
 
 He moved his lips, as if he inly prayM, 
 
 And clasp'd his hands, and raised his sightless face 
 
 Unto the smiling sun, who walk'd through heaven, 
 
 Regardless of that fatal accident, 
 
 By which a man was suddenly reduced 
 
 From an unusual clear long-sightedness 
 
 To utter blindness — blindness without hope, 
 
 So wholly were the visual nerves destroyed. 
 
 *' I wish I were at home !" he slowly said, 
 
 *' For though I ne'er must see that home again, 
 
 •* I yet may hear it, and a thousand sounds 
 
 " Are there to gladden a poor blind man's heart." 
 
 He utter'd truth, — lofty, consoling truth ! 
 Thanks unto gracious Nature, who hath framed 
 So wondrously the structure of the soul. 
 That though it live on outward ministry, 
 Of gross material objects, by them fed 
 And nourish'd, even as if th* external world 
 
184^ JAMES RIGG* 
 
 Were the great wet-nurse of the human race, 
 
 Yet of such food deprived, she doth not pine 
 
 And fret away her mystic energies 
 
 In fainting inanition ; but, superior 
 
 To the food she fed on, in her charge retains 
 
 Each power, and sense, and faculty, and Hves, 
 
 Cameleon-hke, upon the air serene 
 
 Of her own bright imaginative wilJ, 
 
 Desiderating nothing that upholds, 
 
 Upholds and magnifies, but without eyes 
 
 Sees — and without the vestige of an ear 
 
 Listens, and Hstening, hears — and without sense 
 
 Of touch (if haply from the body's surface 
 
 Have gone the sense of feeling) keenly feels. 
 
 And in despite of nose abbreviate 
 
 Smells like a wolf — wolf who for leagues can snuff 
 
 The scent of carrion, bird by fowler kiird, 
 
 Kiird but not found, or little vernal kid 
 
 YeanM in the frost, and soon outstretchM in death, 
 
 ^W hite as the snow that serves it for a shroud. 
 
JAMES RIGG. 185 
 
 Therefore James Rigg was happy, and his face 
 Soon brighten'd up with smiles, and in his voice 
 Contentment spoke most musical ; so when 
 The doctor order'd his most worthy wife 
 To loose the bandage from her husband's eyes. 
 He was so reconciled unto his lot, 
 That there almost appear'd to him a charm 
 In blindness — so that, had his sight return'd, 
 I have good reason to believe his happiness 
 Had been thereby scarcely at aU increased. 
 
 While thus confabulating with James Rigg, 
 Even at that moment when such silence lay 
 0*er all my cottage, as by mystic power 
 Belonging to the kingdom of the ear, 
 O'erthrew at once all old remembrances- 
 Even at that moment, over earth, and air, 
 The waving forest, and the sleeping lake, 
 And the far sea of mountains that uplifted 
 
186 JAMES RIGG. 
 
 Its Stately billows through the clear blue sky, 
 
 Came such a sound, as if from her dumb trance 
 
 Awakened Nature, starting suddenly, 
 
 Were jealous of insulted majesty, 
 
 And sent through continent and trembling isle 
 
 Her everlasting thunders. Such a crash 
 
 Tore the foundations of the earth, and shook 
 
 The clouds that slumber'd on the breast of heaven ! 
 
 It was the parlour-bell that suddenly 
 
 An unknown hand had rung. I cast my eyes 
 
 Up the long length of bell-rope, and I saw 
 
 The visible motion of its iron tongue. 
 
 By heaven I satv it tingling 1 Fast at first, 
 
 O most unearthly fast, then somewhat slower, 
 
 Next very slow indeed, until some four 
 
 Or half-a-dozen minutes at the most. 
 
 By Time's hand cut from off the shortened hour, 
 
 It stopp'd quite of itself— and idly down, 
 
JAMES RIGG. 187 
 
 Like the sear leaf upon th* autumnal bough 
 Dangled ! * * * * 
 
 # * « * * 
 
 END OF JAMES RIGG. 
 
rHE 
 
 GUDE GREYE KATT. 
 
 There wase ane katt, and ane gude greye katt. 
 
 That duallit in the touir of Blain> 
 And mony haif hearit of that gude katt, 
 
 That neuir shall heare agayn. 
 
 Scho had ane brynd upon her backe, 
 
 And ane brent abone liir bree ; 
 Hir culoris war the merilit heuis 
 
 That dappil the krene-berrye* 
 
190 THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 
 
 But scho had that withyn her ee 
 That man may neuir declaire, 
 
 For scho had that within hir ee 
 Quhich mortyl dochtna beare. 
 
 Sumtymis ane ladye sochte the touir. 
 
 Of rych and fayre beautj'e ; 
 Sumtymis ane maukyn cam therin, 
 
 Hytchyng rycht wistfullye. 
 
 But quhan they serchit the touir of Blain, 
 
 And socht it sayre and lang, 
 They fande nocht but the gude greye katt 
 
 Sittyng thrummyng at hir sang ; 
 
 And up scho rase and pacit hir wayis 
 
 Full stetlye oure the stene, 
 And streikit out hir braw hint-leg, 
 
 As nocht at all had bene. 
 
 ii^ 
 
THE GUDE GREYE KATT. ]91 
 
 Weil mocht the wyfis in that kintrye 
 
 Rayse up ane grefous stir, 
 For neuir ane katt in all the lande 
 
 Durst moop or melle wyth hir. 
 
 Quhaneuir theye lukit in hir fece 
 
 Their fearis greue se ryfe, 
 Theye snirtit and theye yollit throu frychte, 
 
 And rann for dethe and lyfe. 
 
 The lairde of Blain he had ane spouis, 
 Beth cumlye, gude, and kynde ; 
 
 But scho had gane to the landis of pece, 
 And left him sad behynde ; 
 
 He had seuin dochteris all se fayre, 
 Of mayre than yerdlye grece, 
 
 Seuin bonnyer babis neuir braithit ayre> 
 Or smylit in parentis fece. 
 
192 THE GUDE GREYE KATT 
 
 Ane daye quhan theye war all alane, 
 He sayde with hevye mene ; 
 
 Quhat will cum of ye, my deire babis, 
 Now quhan your moderis gene ? 
 
 O quha will leide your tendyr myndis, 
 
 The pethe of ladyhoode, 
 To thynke as ladye ocht to thynke, 
 
 And feele as mayden sholde ? 
 
 Weil mot it kythe in maydenis mynde, 
 
 And maydenis modestye, 
 The want of hir that weil wase fit 
 
 For taske unmeite for me ! 
 
 But up then spak the gude greye katt 
 That satt on the herthe stene, 
 
 O hald yer tung, my deire maister, 
 Nor mak se sayre ane mene ; 
 
THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 195 
 
 For I will breide your seuin dochteris, 
 
 To winsom ladyhoode, 
 To thynke as ladyis ocht to thynke. 
 
 And feile as maydenis sholde. 
 
 I'll breide them fayre, I'll breide them free 
 
 From every seye of syn, 
 Fayre as the blumyng roz withoute. 
 
 And pure in herte withyn. 
 
 Rychte sayre astoundit wase the lairde, 
 
 Ane frychtenit man wase he 5 
 But the sueite babyis war full faine. 
 
 And chicklit joy fully e. 
 
 May Ella tooke the gude greye katt 
 Rychte fondley on hir knee. 
 
 And hethe my pussye lernit to speike ? 
 I troue scho lernit of me. 
 
194 THE GUDE GREYE KATT, 
 
 The katt, sclio thrummyt at hir sang, 
 And turnit hir haffet sleike, 
 
 And drewe hir bonnye bassenyt side, 
 Againste the babyis cheike. 
 
 But the lairde he wase ane cunnyng lairde, 
 And he saide with spechis fajTe, 
 
 I haif a feste in hall to nychte, 
 Sweite pussye, be you there. 
 
 The katt scho set ane luke on him, 
 That turnit his herte til stene ; 
 
 If you haif feste in hall to nychte, 
 I shall be there for ane. 
 
 The feste wase laide, the tabil spread 
 
 With rych and nobil store, 
 And there wase set the Byschope of Blaip, 
 
 With all his holy kore ; 
 
THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 195 
 
 He wase ane wyce and wylie wychte 
 
 Of wytch and warlockrye, 
 And mony ane wyfe had byrnit to coome, 
 
 Or hangit on ane tre. 
 
 He kenit their merkis and molis of hell, 
 
 And made them joifully 
 Ryde on the reid-het gad of ern^^ 
 
 Ane plesaunt sycht to se. 
 
 The Byschope saide ane holye grace, 
 
 Unpatiente to begyn, 
 But nathyng of the gude greye katt 
 
 Wase funde the touir withyn ; 
 
 But in there cam ane fayre ladye, 
 Cledd in the sylken sheene, 
 
 Ane winsumer and bonnyer may 
 On yerde was neuir scene ; 
 
196 THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 
 
 Sclio tuke her sete at tabil heide, 
 
 With courtlye modestye, 
 Quhill ilken bosome byrnit with lufe> 
 
 And waulit ilken ee. 
 
 Sweite wase hir voyce to all the ryng, 
 Unlesse the Laird of Blain, 
 
 For he had hearit that very voyce, 
 From of his own herthe stene. 
 
 He barrit the doris and windois fast, 
 He barrit them to the jynne ; 
 
 Now in the grece of heuin, saide he. 
 Your excercyse begyn ; 
 
 There is ne grece nor happynesse 
 For my poore babyis soulis, 
 
 Until you trye that weirdlye wytch, 
 And roste hir on the colis* 
 
THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 197 
 
 If this be scho, the Byschope saide, ' 
 
 This beauteous cumlye may. 
 It is meite I trye hir all alone 
 
 To heire quhat scho will saye. 
 
 No, quod the Laird, I suthelye sweire, 
 
 None shall from this proceide, 
 Until I see that wycked wytch 
 
 Byrnt til ane izel reide. 
 
 The Byschope knelit doune and prayit, 
 Quhill all their hayris did creipe ; 
 
 And ay he hoonit and he prayit, 
 Quhill all war faste asleipe ; 
 
 He prayit gain syn and Sauten bothe, 
 And deidis of shyft and schame; 
 
 But all the tyme his faithful handis 
 Pressit the cumlye dame. 
 
 <?2 
 
158 THE GUDE GREYE KATT* 
 
 Weil saw the Laird, but nething saide, 
 
 He kenit, in holye zele, 
 He grepit for the merkis of hell, 
 
 Whiik he did ken ful weile. 
 
 And ay he pressit hir lillye hande, 
 
 And kyssit it ferventJye, 
 And prayit betweine, for och ane kyndc 
 
 And lufyng preste was he ! 
 
 The Byschope stappit and sterted sore, 
 Wyde gaipen with affrychte, 
 
 For och that fayre and lillye hande 
 Had turnit ane paw outrychte ! 
 
 Ane paw with long and crukit clawis ! 
 
 That breste of heuinlye charrae, 
 Had turnit til brusket of ane katt, 
 
 Ful hayrie and ful warme ! 
 
THE GUDE GREYE KATT. IQS 
 
 And there scho satt on lang-settil, 
 
 With een of glentyng flame, 
 And theye war on the Byschope sett, * 
 
 Lyke poynter on his game. 
 
 The Byschope turnit him runde aboute 
 
 To se quhat he mocht se, 
 Scho strak ane clawe in ilken lug, 
 
 And throu the rofe did flee. 
 
 The katt went throu withouten stop 
 Lyke schado throu the daye, 
 
 But the greate Byschopis fleschlye forme 
 Made all the rofe gif waye ; 
 
 The silyng faldit lyke ane buke. 
 The serker crashit amayne, 
 
 And shredis and flenis of brokyn stenis 
 Fell to the grunde lyke rayne. 
 
200 THE GUDE GREYE KATT* 
 
 The bralde ful mone wase up the lyft, 
 The nychte wase lyke ane daye, 
 
 As the greate Byschope tuke his jante 
 Up throu the milkye-waye ; 
 
 rito. 
 
 He crylt se loude and lustilye 
 
 The hilh's and skyis war riuen ; 
 Och sicken cryis war neuir hearit 
 
 Atwene the yerde and heuin ! 
 
 They sawe him spurryng in the ayre^ 
 
 And flynging horredlye, 
 And than he prayit and sang ane saum, 
 
 For ane fearit wycht was he ; 
 
 But ay his waylingis fainter greue 
 
 As the braide lyft he crossit, 
 Quhill sum saide that theye hearit them still, 
 
 And sum saide all wase loste. 
 
THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 201 
 
 There wase ane herde on Dollar-Lawe, 
 
 Turnyng his flockis by nychte, 
 Or stealyng in ane gude haggyse 
 
 Before the mornyng lychte. 
 
 He hearit the cryis cum yont the heuin, 
 
 And sawe them bethe passe bye ; 
 The katt scho skreuit up hir taile 
 
 As sayrlye pinchit to flye. 
 
 But aye scho thrummyt at hir sang, 
 
 Though he wase sore in thrall, 
 Like katt that hethe ane jolJye mouse 
 
 Gaun murryng throu the hall. 
 
 That greye kattis sang it wase se sweete, 
 
 As on the nychte it fell, 
 The Murecokis dancit ane seuinsum ryng 
 
 Arunde the hether bell ; 
 
 i2 
 
^02 THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 
 
 The Foumartis jyggit by the brukis, 
 
 The Maukinis by the kaile, 
 And the Otar dancit ane minowaye 
 
 As he gaed ouir the daile ; 
 
 The Hurchanis helde ane kintrye dance 
 
 Alang the brumye knowe, 
 And the gude Toop-hogg rase fra his layre 
 
 And ualtzit with the youe. 
 
 Cfie dDtepe Mttiii Sang* 
 
 Murr, my Lorde Byschope, 
 
 I syng to you ; 
 Murr, my Lorde Byschope, 
 
 BawHlHlu ! 
 Murr, my Lorde Byschope, &c. 
 
 That nycht ane hynde on Border syde 
 Chancit at his dore to be ; 
 
THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 203 
 
 He spyit ane greate clypse of the mone. 
 And ben the house ran he ; 
 
 He laide ane wisp upon the colis, 
 And bleue full lang and sayre, 
 
 And rede the Belfaste Almanake, 
 But the clypse it wase not there. 
 
 Och but that hynde wase sor aghaste, 
 
 And haf to madnesse driuen, 
 For he thochte he hearit ane drounyng man 
 
 Syching alangis the heuin. 
 
 That nychte ane greate Filossifere 
 
 Had watchit on Etnyis height 
 To merk the rysing of the sonne, 
 
 And the blythsum mornyng lychte ; 
 
 And all the lychtlye lynis of goude, 
 As on the se they fell, 
 
204? THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 
 
 And watch the fyir and the smoke, 
 Cum rummilyng up fra hell. 
 
 He luket este, the daye cam on, 
 
 Upon his gladsum pethe. 
 And the braid mone hang in the west. 
 
 Her palenesse wase lyke dethe ,• 
 
 And by her sat ane littil stern, 
 
 Quhan all the laife war gane, 
 It was lyke ane wee fadyng geme 
 
 In the wyde worild its lane. 
 
 Then the Filossofere was sadde, 
 
 And he turnit his ee awaye, 
 For they mindit him of the yerdlye greate, 
 
 In dethe or in decaye ; 
 
 He turnit his face unto the north, 
 The fallyng teare to drie, 
 
 6 
 
THE GUDE GREYE KATT* 205 
 
 And he spyit ane thyng of wonderous raaike, 
 Atweine the yerde and skie ; 
 
 It wase lyke ane burd withoutten wyng, 
 
 Rychte wonderous to beholde^ 
 And it bure ane forked thyng alang, 
 
 With swiftnesse manyfolde : 
 
 But ay it greue as neare it dreue— 
 
 His herte bete wondir sayre ! 
 The Sonne, the mone, and sternis war gaine, 
 
 He thochte of them ne mayre, 
 Quhan he behelde ane jollye preste 
 
 Cumyng swyggyng throu the ayre. 
 
 The katt scho helde him by the lugis 
 
 Atour the ausum hole, 
 And och the drede that he wase in 
 
 Wase mayre than man colde thole ; 
 
i06 THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 
 
 He cryit, O Pussie, bald your gryp, 
 
 O hald and dinna spaire ; 
 O drap me in the yerde or se, 
 
 But dinna drap me there. 
 
 But scho wase ane doure and deidlye katt;, 
 And scho saide with lychtsum ayre, 
 
 You kno heuin is ane blissit piece, 
 And all the prestis gang there. 
 
 Och sweete, sweete Pussye, hald your gryp, 
 Spaire nouther cleke nor clawe* 
 
 Is euir that lyke heuin abune, 
 In quhich am lyke to fa' ? 
 
 And ay scho hang him by the lugis 
 
 Abone the ausum den, 
 Till he fande the gryp rive slowlye out, 
 
 Sore was he quakyng then ! 
 
THE GUDE GREYE KATl'. 207 
 
 Down went the Bjschope, down lyke leide, 
 
 Into the hollowe nychte, 
 His goune was flapyng in the ayre, 
 
 Quhan he was out of sychte. 
 
 They hearit him honyng down the deep, 
 
 Till the croone it dyit awaye, 
 It wase lyke the stoune of ane greate bom-be 
 
 Gaun soundyng throu the daye. 
 
 All wase in sloomeryng quietnesse, 
 Quhan he went doune to hell, 
 
 But seckn an houre wase neuir seine, 
 Quhan the gude lorde Byschope fell. 
 
 Then cam the smouder and the smoke 
 
 Up roschyng vilentlye. 
 And it tourackit awaye til heuin 
 
 Ane gloryous sychte to se ; 
 
208 
 
 THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 
 
 For aye it rowed its fleecye curlis 
 
 Out to the rysing sonne, 
 And the estern syde was gildit goude, 
 
 And all the westlin dunne. 
 
 Then the Filossofere wase muvit, 
 
 And he wist not quhat till say, 
 For he saw nochte of the gude Greye Katt.. 
 
 But he saw ane ladye gay. 
 
 Hir goune wase of the gress-grene sylk, 
 
 And hir ee wase lyke the deue, 
 And hir hayre wase lyke the threidis of goude 
 
 That runde hir shoulderis fleue. 
 
 Hir gairtenis war the raynbowis heme, 
 That scho tyit anethe hir knee, 
 
 And ay scho kemit hir yellow hayre, 
 And sang full plesauntlye. 
 
THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 209 
 
 " I am the Queene of the Fairy Land, 
 
 I'll do ne harme to thee, 
 For I am the gardian of the gude. 
 
 Let the wycked be waur of me. 
 
 There ar seuiii pearlis in yonder touir. 
 Their number sune shall wane ; 
 
 There are seuin flouris in fayre Scotland, 
 I'll pu them ane by ane ; 
 
 And the weeist burd in all the bouir 
 Shall be the last thatis taene ; 
 
 The Laird of Blain hethe seuin dochteris, 
 But sune he shall haif nane. 
 
 I'll bathe them all in the krystal streime 
 Throu the Fairy Land that flouis, 
 
 ni seike the bourls of paradyce 
 For the bonnyest flouir that blouis, 
 
210 THE GUDE GREYS KATT. 
 
 And I'll distil it in the deue 
 
 That fallis on the hilHs of heuin, 
 
 And the hues that luvelye angehs weire 
 Shall to these maidis be giuen. 
 
 And ril trie how luvelye and how fayre 
 
 Their formis may be to see, 
 And I'll trie how pure the maydenis mynde 
 
 In this ill worild may be." 
 
 The Laird of Blain he walkis the wode, 
 
 But he walkis it all alane ; 
 The Laird of Blain had seuin dochteris, 
 
 But now he hethe not ane. 
 
 They neuir war on dethbed layde. 
 But they elyit all awaye ; 
 
 He lost his babyis ane by ane 
 Atween the nychte and day. 
 
THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 211 
 
 He kend not quhat to thynk or saye, 
 Or quhat did him beseime, 
 
 But he walkit throu this weirye worild 
 Like ane thatis in a dreime. 
 
 Quhan seuin lang yearis, and seuin lang daies, 
 
 Had slovvlye cumit and gane. 
 He walkit throu the gude grene wode, 
 
 And he walkit all alane ; 
 
 He turnit his fece unto the skie, 
 And the teire stude in his ee, 
 
 For he thocht of the ladye of his lufe, 
 And his lost familye : 
 
 But ay his fayth was firm and sure, 
 And his truste in heuin still, 
 
 For he hopet to meite them all agayne 
 Beyond the reiche of ill ; 
 
212 THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 
 
 And ay the tieris fell on the grene, 
 As he knelit downe to praye, 
 
 But he wase se muvit with tendh^nesse 
 That ane worde he colde not saye* 
 
 He lukit oure his left shouldir 
 
 To se quhat he mocht se ; 
 There he behelde seuin bonnye maydis 
 
 Cumyng tryppyng oure the le ! 
 
 Sic beautye ee had neuir seine, 
 
 Nor euir agayne shall se, 
 Sic luvelye formis of flesche and blude^ 
 
 On yerde can neuir be ; 
 
 The joie that bemit in ilken ee 
 Wase lyke the risyng sonne, 
 
 The fayriste blumis in all the wode 
 Besyde their formis war dunne ; 
 
THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 213 
 
 There wase ane wretlie on ilken heicle, 
 
 On ilken bosom thre, 
 And the brychtest flouris the worild er saw 
 
 War noddy ng oure the bre. 
 
 But cese yer strayne, ray gude auld herpe, 
 
 cese and syng ne mayre ! 
 Gin ye wolde of that meityng tell, 
 
 I mocht reue it sayre I 
 
 There wolde ne ee in faire Scotland, 
 Nor luvelye cheike be drie ; 
 
 The laveroke wolde forget Iiir sang, 
 And drap deide fra the skie ; 
 
 And the desye wolde ne mayre be quhyte, 
 And the lillye wolde chainge hir heue, 
 
 For the blude-drapis wolde fal fra the raone, 
 And reiden the mornyng deue. 
 
214? THE GUDE GREYE KAT1\ 
 
 But quban I tell ye oute my tale, 
 
 Ful playnle ye will se, 
 That quhare there is ne syn nor schame 
 
 No sorroue there can be. 
 
 EKD OF THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 
 
ISABELLE. 
 
 Can there be a moon in heaven to-night, 
 
 That the hill and the grey cloud seem so light ? 
 
 The air is whitened by some spell, 
 
 For there is no moon, 1 know it well ; 
 
 On this third day, the sages say, 
 
 ('Tis wonderful how well they know,) 
 
 The moon is journeying far away. 
 
 Bright somewhere in a heaven below. 
 
 It is a strange and lovely night, 
 A greyish pale, but not white ! 
 
216 
 
 ISABELLE. 
 
 Is it rain, or is it dew^ 
 That falls so thick I see its hue ? 
 In rays it follows, one, two, three, 
 Down the air so merrily, 
 
 4 
 
 Said Isabelle; so let it be ! 
 
 Why does the Lady Isabelle 
 Sit in the damp and dewy dell 
 Counting the racks of drizzly rain, 
 And how often the Rail cries over again ?* 
 For she's harping, harping in the brake, 
 
 Craik, craik Craik, craik. 
 
 Ten times nine, and thrice eleven ; — 
 That last call w^as an hundred and seven. 
 Craik, craik — the hour is near- 
 Let it come, I have no fear ! 
 Yet it is a dreadful w^ork, I wis, 
 Such doings in a nidit like this ! 
 
 Sounds the river harsh and loud? 
 The stream sounds harsh, but not loud. 
 
ISABELLE. 217 
 
 There is a cloud that seems to hover, 
 By western hill the church-yard over, 
 What is it like ? — * Tis like a whale ; 
 'Tis like a shark with half the tail, 
 Not half, but third and more ; 
 Now *tis a wolf, and now a boar ; 
 Its face is raised — it cometh here ; 
 Let it come — there is no fear. 
 There's two for heaven, and ten for hell. 
 Let it come— 'tis well— 'tis well ! 
 Said the Lady Isabelle. 
 
 What ails that little cut-tail'd whelp, 
 That it continues to yelp, yelp ? 
 Yelp, yelp, and it turns its eye 
 Up to the tree and half to the sky, 
 Half to the sky and full to the cloud, 
 And still it whines and barks aloud. 
 Why I should dread I cannot tell ; 
 There is a spirit ; I know it well ! 
 
218 ISABELLE. 
 
 I see it in yon falling beam — 
 
 Is it a vision, or a dream ? 
 
 It is no dream, full well I know^ 
 
 I have a woful deed to do ! 
 
 Hush, hush, thou little murmurer ; 
 
 I tell thee hush — the dead are near ! 
 
 If thou knew'st all; poor tail-Iess whelp, 
 Well raight'st thou tremble, growl, and yelp ; 
 But thou know^st nothing, hast no part, 
 (Simple and stupid as thou art) 
 Save gratitude and truth of heart. 
 But they are coming by this way 
 That have been dead for a year and a day ; 
 Without challenge, without change, 
 They shall have their full revenge ! 
 They have been sent to wander in woe 
 In the lands of flame, and the lands of snow* 
 But those that are dead 
 Shall the green sward tread, 
 
ISABELLE. 219 
 
 And those that are Hvina- 
 
 Shall soon be dead ! 
 
 None to pity them, none to help ! 
 
 Thou may'st quake, my cut-taiFd whelp ! 
 
 There are two from the grave 
 That I fain would save ; 
 Full hard is the weird 
 For the young and the brave ! 
 Perchance they are rapt in vision sweet, 
 While the passing breezes kiss their feet ; 
 And they are dreaming of joy and love ! — 
 Well, let them 0:0 — there's room above. 
 
 There are three times three, and three to these^ 
 Count as you will, by two^s or three's ; 
 Three for the gallows, and three for the wave, 
 Three to roast behind the stone, 
 And three that shall never see the grave 
 
220 
 
 ISABELLE. 
 
 Until the day and the hour are gone I 
 For retribution is mine alone ! 
 The cloud is redder in its hue, 
 The hour is near, and vengeance due ; 
 It cannot, and it will not fail, — 
 'Tis but a step to Borrowdale ! 
 Why should'st thou love and follow me, 
 f Poor faithful thing I I pity thee ! 
 
 Up rose the Lady Isabelle, 
 I may not of her motion tell, 
 Yet thou niay'st look upon her frame ; 
 Look on it with a passing eye, 
 But think not thou upon the same, 
 Turn away and ask not why ; 
 For if thou darest look again, 
 Mad of heart and seared of brain, 
 Thou shalt never look again ! 
 
ISABELLE. 221 
 
 What can ail that short-taird whelp ? 
 'Tis either behind or far before, 
 And it hath changed its whining yelp 
 To a shorten'd yufF — its little core 
 Seems bursting with terror and dismay, 
 Yuff, yufF, — ^liear how it speeds away. 
 Hold thy peace, thou yemering thing, 
 The very night-wind's slumbering, 
 And thou wilt wake to woe and pain 
 Those that must never wake again. 
 
 Meet is its terror and its flight. 
 There's one on the left and two on the right ! 
 But save the paleness of the face. 
 All is beauty, and all is grace I 
 The earth and air are tinged with blue ; 
 There are no footsteps in the dew ; 
 Is this to wandering spirits given. 
 Such stillness on the face of heaven ? 
 
222 ISABELLE. 
 
 The fleecy clouds that sleep above, 
 Are like the wing of beauteous dove, 
 And the leaf of the elm-tree does not move ! 
 Yet they are coming ! and they are three ! 
 Jesu ! Maria ! can it be ! 
 
 ^ 
 
THE CONCLUSION. 
 
 Sleep on, fair Maiden of Borrowdale ! 
 Sleep ! O sleep ! and do not wake. 
 Dream of the dance, till the foot so pale, 
 And the beauteous ancle shiver and shake ; 
 Till thou shalt press, with feeling bland, 
 Thine own fair breast for lover's hand. 
 Thy heart is light as summer breeze, 
 Thy heart is joyous as the day ; 
 Man never form of angel sees, 
 But thou art fair as they ! 
 So lovers ween, and so they say, 
 So thine shall ween for many a day ! 
 The hour's at hand, O woe is me ! 
 For they are coming, and they are three I 
 
 6 
 
THE CHERUB. 
 
 SS 
 
 Was it not lovely to behold 
 
 A Cherub come down from the sky, 
 
 A beauteous thing of heavenly mould, 
 
 With ringlets of the wavy gold, 
 
 Dancing and floating curiously ? 
 
 To see it come down to the earth 
 
 This beauteous thing of heavenly birth ! 
 
 Leaving the fields of balm and bliss, 
 
 To dwell in such a world as this ! 
 
 k2 
 
 i* 
 
226 THE CHERUB. 
 
 I heard a maiden sing the while 
 A strain so holy it might beguile 
 An angel from the radiant spheres, 
 That have swum in light ten thousand years ; 
 Ten times ten thousand is too few — 
 Child of heaven, can this be true ! 
 And then I saw that beauteous thing 
 Slowly from the clouds descending, 
 Brightness, glory, beauty blending, 
 In the mid air hovering. 
 It had also a halo round its head, 
 It was not of the rainbow's hue, 
 For in it was no shade of blue. 
 But a beam of amber mixed with red, 
 Like that which mingles in the ray 
 A little after the break of day* 
 Its raiment was the thousand dyes 
 Of flowers in the heavenly paradise ; 
 Its track a beam of the sun refined. 
 And its chariot was the southern wind ; 
 
THE CHERUB. 227 
 
 My heart danced in me with deh'ght, 
 
 And my spirits mounted at the sight, 
 
 And I said within me it is well ; 
 
 But where the bower, or peaceful dell. 
 
 Where this pure heavenly thing may dwell ? 
 
 Then I bethought me of the place, 
 
 To lodge the messenger of grace ; 
 
 And I chose the ancient sycamore, 
 
 And the little green by Greta's shore ; 
 
 It is a spot so passing fair, 
 
 That sainted thing might sojourn there. 
 
 Go tell yon stranger artizan, 
 Build as quickly as he can. 
 Heaven shield us from annoy ! 
 What shall form this dome of joy ? 
 The leaf of the rose would be too rude, 
 For a thing that is not flesh and blood ; 
 The walls must be of the sunny air. 
 And the roof the silvery gossamer, 
 
228 THE CHERUB. 
 
 And all the ceiling, round and round, 
 
 Wove half of light, and half of sound ; 
 
 The sounds must be the tones that fly 
 
 From distant harp, just ere they die ; 
 
 And the light the moon's soft midnight ray, 
 
 When the cloud is downy, and thin, and grey. 
 
 And such a bower of light and love^ 
 
 Of beauty, and of harmonic, 
 
 In earth below, or heaven above, 
 
 No mortal thing shall ever see. 
 
 The dream is past, it is gone away ! 
 The rose is blighted on the spray. 
 I look behind, I look before, 
 The happy vision is no more ! 
 But in its room a darker shade 
 Than eye hath pierced, or darkness made 
 I cannot turn, yet do not know 
 What I w^ould, or whither go ; 
 
THE CHERUB. 229 
 
 But I have heard, to heart of sni, 
 A small voice whispering -within, 
 'Tis all 1 know, and all I trust, — 
 ^' That man is weak, but God is just,'* 
 
 END OF THE CHERUB. 
 
PETER OF BARNET. 
 
 Peter of Barnet — know'st thou such a man ^ 
 *Tis meet thou should'st, for he's a manual 
 Which one may ever read, — I love old Peter 
 Not for his genius or stupendous science, 
 For he has neither ; while his outward man, 
 Mien, word, and manner, has no other gloss 
 Than that the stubborn hand of Nature framed 
 By mallet and by chisel, — but he is 
 A character distinct, — I ever love 
 
23 2 
 
 PETER OF BARNET. 
 
 A man that is so, — many have I known, 
 And many studied with poetic eye. 
 
 Peter is one — the slave of keen sensation. 
 So obviously affected is his heart, 
 By that he hears and sees, that passion there 
 Holds everlasting coil, — farther than these, 
 Peter makes no research, — they are enough 
 For any heart to brook. I oft have ween'd, 
 If Peter neither saw nor heard, he would 
 Be happier than he is. — What boy is that, 
 At whom you scold so much, said I, good Peter ? 
 
 Rascal ! said he, — he is as great a knave 
 As wags beneath the sun, — a saucy knave. 
 Whom I have rear'd and nourish'd as my own. 
 His mother was a vagrant — no good dame, 
 I ween, was she — She came unto my house 
 One rainy summer eve, follow'd by him. 
 That naughty rogue — a little urchin then, 
 Not five years old— Brown with the sun he was, 
 
PETER OF BARNET. 233 
 
 And ragged as a colt ! — his head was bare, 
 And weather-beaten like the tufted moss. 
 
 Far, far behind he lagged, for he was lame, 
 And sore bedraggled, — by his foot still kept 
 A little dog, his fellow traveller 
 And bosom friend. — I felt I wot not how 
 For the young imp, for he came wading on 
 Through mud and mire, halting most wofully. 
 The guttered road his soal might not imprint, 
 For it was wounded, — but with dexterous skill 
 He placed his foot on edge, and ambled thus. 
 
 Then Peter walk'd across the field and back 
 With awkward limp, to show me how the boy ; 
 Walked out the way, — the fancy pleased him much, 
 For ever and anon he laugh'd at it. 
 And yet the tear was pacing down his cheek. 
 'Twas just this way he walkM, poor soul, said Peter; 
 And then, with turn'd-up foot, and gait oblique, 
 Again he halted lamely o'er the ridge. 
 
284i PETER OF BARNET. • 
 
 Laughing with shrilly voice, and all the whflo 
 Wiping his eyes. — I thought I saw, said Peter, 
 An independence in the child's blue eye, 
 A soul that seem'd determined to outbrave 
 Reproach and suflPerance, — and to work his way 
 Throughout the world, though scarce a ray of hope 
 Lay onward to allure or beckon him. 
 
 His supper with his faithful dog he shared ; 
 To that alone he talk'd, nor heeded once 
 The tattle of the menials who assailed him. 
 Soon he was sound asleep ; his dumb companion, 
 With head laid on his little master's breast, 
 Fell sound as he. — O it was such a picture 
 Of generous friendship as I ne'er again 
 Shall look upon ! — Then Peter sobbed full hard, 
 And told it o'er again, — and then he laid 
 His head upon his shoulder, — stopped his breath 
 To shortened pant, and with an open mouth, 
 And face ludicrously demure, he showed me 
 
PETER OF BARNET. 235 
 
 The way the poor boy slept, and how the dog ! 
 
 I could not chuse but laugh, and so did Peter ; 
 
 For he assured me there was never aught 
 
 On earth seen like it, — then a second time 
 
 He sniff'd in mimic sleep, while from his breast 
 
 Issued a feeble dreaming sound of plaint. 
 
 That was the very way they slept, said Peter, 
 
 I thought my heart would burst, — yet she his mother 
 
 Ne'er look'd at them, — not she, — she heeded not. 
 
 I could not sleep a wink that night, said Peter, 
 Nor could I think of aught but the poor boy, 
 The little ragged pilgrim of the world ! 
 Poor devil ! said I, an hundred times, I ween, 
 And more, — and then I turned 1 and turned ! and 
 
 turned ! 
 I sighed a prayer for the unfortunate, 
 And tried to think of others in distress. 
 I thought that many a fair and comely mother 
 Shed the salt tear o'er an unfathered boy. 
 
236 
 
 PETER OF BARNET. 
 
 Who, all unconscious lay upon her breast, 
 His only shelter, while, alas ! that breast 
 And beauteous head no shelter had at all ! 
 I tried such things to ponder, — 'twas in vain ! 
 My thoughts were on the boy,— I saw him still ! 
 The little, sun-burnt, naked raggamuflSan ! 
 His round red lip and independent eye ! 
 The tiny conscript on the field of life, 
 The veteran of eternity ! — I wept — 
 And turned ! and turned !— Good God ! said I, 
 what's this ! 
 
 His tale was never ended, nor would mine 
 Should I go on, and deftly follow him 
 Through every maze of feeling, — but the boy 
 Lives with old Peter, — they have never parted, 
 Nor ever will till death shall sunder them ; 
 And on my troth, when my old head is laid 
 Low in the dust, said Peter, I do think 
 There is not one alive will miss me more. 
 
PETER OF 'BATINET. 237 
 
 Or think of me so much as that young knave. 
 
 Nor shall he then be destitute, or forced 
 
 To prowl in desperate guise throughout the world. 
 
 He's a dear boy ! a noble generous boy I 
 
 But I have spoiled him — all my folk are spoiled. 
 
 This is most true, — I walkM with Peter forth 
 Across the winter field, where his one hind 
 Drew the long furrow, who with lengthened vo 
 And hie vociferous urged on his steeds, 
 And gave harsh tones unto the chilly gale. 
 
 It chanced that on the cold wet field we found 
 A mountain-daisy blooming all alone. 
 I paused, and spoke of Burns, the Scottish bard* 
 Peter had heard the name, — I then conn'd o'er 
 The lines unto the Daisy in a tone 
 Most tender and affecting. — Peter looked 
 As he would look me through, — he could not ween 
 Of feeling for a flower, and yet he felt 
 
238 PETER OF BARNET. 
 
 A kind of sympathy, that overpowered 
 
 All his philosophy, — He took a stone, 
 
 And placed it tall on end.— Herbert, said he, 
 
 When thou plough'st down this ridge, spare me this 
 
 flower. 
 I charge thee note it well,— and for thy life 
 Do it no injury. — Pugh ! said the clown. 
 Such stuff I — I shall not mind it — He went on 
 Whistling his tune. — Oh Peter was most wroth ! 
 He run in hasty guise around, and looked 
 For a convenient s^tone, that he might throw 
 A nd smite the ploughman's head. — No one would suit. 
 Then, turning round to me, he gave full vent 
 
 To's rage against the hind, and all was o'er* 
 
 In his first heat, he cursed the menial race ; 
 
 I told you they were all alike, said he, 
 
 A most provoking and ungracious set; 
 
 (Peter had never told me such a thing.) 
 
 Now did you ever see a wretch like that ? 
 
 He^s a good workman, and he knows it well, 
 
PETER OF BARNET. 23^ 
 
 But not one thing that I desire of him 
 
 Will he perform. — Fm an old fool, 'tis true,^ 
 
 But yet raethinks the man that eats my bread 
 
 Might somewhat humour me I thought so too. 
 
 But ah ! said Peter, when I think of this, 
 The freedom of the will, by man so valued, 
 Is not his own ! — and that how proud he is 
 Sometimes to show it, then I give it him ; 
 And when I do, I have not cause to rue. 
 , What a discerning learned man is Peter ! 
 He's nature's genuine, plain philosopher. 
 
 That night, at board, Peter sat silent long, 
 Thoughtful he was. — I think I've heard, said he, 
 That Burns, of whom you spake, was a bad man, 
 A man of a most vicious, tainted mind, 
 Fit to corrupt an age. — Was it not so ? 
 
 Alas ! said I, never was man abused 
 So much as he ! — he was a good man, Peter 
 
i40 
 
 PETER OF BARNET. 
 
 A man of noble independent mind, 
 
 So high, that wealth s low minions envied it; 
 
 Exerting all their malice to assail 
 
 His only part that was assailable. 
 
 Keen were his feelings and his passions strong, 
 
 Such as your own — The vantage ground was gained. 
 
 The foes of genius came, in social guise, 
 
 Luring to gusts of blindfold levity 
 
 The bard that sore relented. — These were blabbed 
 
 With tenfold zest, until the injured heart 
 
 Of genius was wrung — It broke 1 — and then 
 
 The foes of humble and inherent worth, 
 
 O how they triumphed o'er the Poet's dust ! 
 
 D — n them ! said Peter, — he thrust back his chair, 
 Dashed one knee o'er the other furiously. 
 Took snufFa double portion, — swallowed down 
 His glass at once, — look'd all around the room 
 With wrathful eye, and then took snuff again. 
 
]?ETER OF BARNET. ^41 
 
 I love old Peter ! I would rather see 
 Nature's strong workings in the human breast, 
 Than list the endless dogmas which define 
 Their operations and existing springs. 
 Peter's a living representative, 
 A glossary to many terms, that stand 
 In fair-cast characters upon the page 
 Of the philosopher, — in other form 
 To him unknown.— But these are fadinsr all : 
 Impressed themselves, they no impression leave ;, 
 Peter's a stereotype, — that for an age 
 Will momently throw bold impressions off, 
 Ever demonstrative, and ever new. 
 When next I visit him, I'll copy forth 
 One other page from nature's manual. 
 
 END OF PETER OF BARNET. 
 
CARMEN JUDICIALE. 
 
THE 
 
 CURSE OF THE LAUREATE. 
 
 CARMEN JUDICIALE. 
 
 --,y 
 
 1. 
 
 In vale of Thirlemere, once on a time, 
 When birds sung sweet and flowers were in the 
 
 spring, 
 
 cr. 
 
 While youth and fancy wanton'd in their prime, 
 
 I laid me down in happy slumbering 
 The heavens in balmy breezes breathed deep. 
 My senses all were lull'd in grateful, joyous sleep. 
 
246 CARMEJJ JUDICIALE. 
 
 2. 
 
 Sleep had its visions — fancy, all unswayM, 
 Reveird in fulness of creative power : 
 
 I ween'd that round me countless beings stray*d^ 
 Things of delight, illusions of an hour ; 
 
 So great the number of those things divine, 
 
 Scarce could my heart believe that all the imps were 
 mine. 
 
 Yet mine they were, all motley as they moved ; 
 
 Careless I viewed them, yet I loved to view; 
 The world beheld them, and the world approved, 
 
 And blest the train with smiles and plaudits due; 
 Proud of approval, to myself I said, 
 From out the group Til chuse, and breed one fa- 
 vourite maid. 
 
 4. 
 Joan I chose, a maid of happy mien ; 
 
 Her form and mind I polished with care ; 
 
CARMEN JUDICIALE. 247 
 
 A docile girl she proved, of moping vein, 
 Slow in her motion, haughty in her air ; 
 
 Some mentioned trivial blame, or slightly frown'd ; 
 
 Forth to the world she went, her heavenly birth it 
 own*d. 
 
 5. 
 
 The next, a son, I bred a Mussulman ; 
 With creeds and dogmas I was hard bested. 
 
 For which was right or wrong I could not tell, 
 So I resolved my offspring should be bred 
 
 As various as their lives — the lad I loved, 
 
 A boy of wild unearthly mien he proved. 
 
 6. 
 Then first I noted in my mazy dream 
 
 A being scarcely of the human frame, 
 A tiny thing that from the north did seem, 
 
 With swaggering, fuming impotence he came ; 
 I fled not, but I shudder'd at his look ; 
 Into his tutelage my boy he took. 
 
248 CARMEN JUDICIALE, 
 
 7. 
 Each principle of truth and purity, 
 
 And all that merited the world's acclaim, 
 Tliis fiend misled — nor could I ever free 
 
 From his destroying grasp my darling's fame ; 
 But yet I could not ween that heart of gall 
 Could be a foe to one, whose heart beat Idnd to alL 
 
 8. 
 My third, a Christian and a warrior true, 
 
 A bold adventurer on foreign soil, 
 And next, liis brother, a supreme Hindu, 
 
 I rear'd with hope, with joy, and pamful toil. 
 Alas ! my hopes were vain 1 I saw them both 
 Reft by an emmet ! — crush'd before a moth I 
 
 9. 
 
 Still could I not believe his vengeful spite, 
 For in his guise a speciousness appear'd ; 
 
CARMEN JUDICIAL E. 249 
 
 V 
 
 My bitterness of heart I feigned light ; 
 ] But wholly as he urged my next I rear'd ; 
 
 * 
 
 He said of all the gang he was the best, 
 And wrung his neck before mine eyes in jest. 
 
 10. 
 From that time forth, an independent look, 
 
 A bold effrontery I did essay ; 
 But of my progeny no pains I took, 
 
 Like lambs I rear'd them for the lion's prey ; 
 And still as playful forth they pass'd from me, 
 I saw them mock'd and butcher'd wantonly. 
 
 11. 
 
 " Just heaven !" said I, " to thy awards I bow> 
 For truth and vengeance are thine own alone ; 
 
 Are these the wreaths thou deignest to bestow 
 On bard, whose life and lays, to virtue prone^ 
 
 Have never turn'd aside on devious way ? 
 
 Is this the high reward, to be of fools the prey ?'* 
 
 l2 
 
S50 €ARMEN JUDICIALi:. 
 
 12. 
 
 A laugh of scorn the welkin seem'cl to rend. 
 And by my side I saw a form serene ; 
 
 " Thou bard of honour, virtue's firmest friend," 
 He said, " can'st thou thus fret? or dost thou ween 
 
 That such a thing can work thy fame's decay ? 
 
 Thou art no fading bloom — no floweret of a day I 
 
 13. 
 
 *' When his o'erflowings of envenom'd spleen 
 An undistinguish'd dunghill mass shall he. 
 
 The name of Southey, like an ever-green, 
 Shall spread, shall blow, and flourish to the sky ; 
 
 To Milton and to Spencer next in fame, 
 
 O'er all the world shall spread thy laurell'd name." 
 
 14. 
 <* Friend of the bard," I said, *' behold thou hast 
 The tears of one I love o*er blushes shed i 
 
CATIMEN JUDICIALE. 251 
 
 Has he not wrung the throb from parent's heart, 
 
 And stretch'd his hand to reave my children's bread? 
 For every tear that on their cheeks hath shone, 
 may that Aristarch with tears of blood atone !" 
 
 15. 
 
 " If cursing thou delight*st in," he replied, 
 " If rage and execration is thy meed, 
 
 Mount the tribunal — Justice be thy guide. 
 Before thee shall he come his rights to plead ; 
 
 To thy awards his fate forthwith is given, 
 
 Only, be justice thine, the attribute of heaven.*' 
 
 16. 
 Gladly I mounted, for before that time 
 
 Merit had crown'd me with unfading bays. 
 Before me was brought in that man of crime. 
 
 Who with unblushing front his face did raise; 
 But when my royal laurel met his sight. 
 He pointed with his thumb, and laughed with all his 
 might. 
 
252 
 
 CARMEN JUDICIALE. 
 
 17. 
 Maddening at impudence so thoroughbred, 
 
 I rose from oflP my seat with frown severe, 
 I shook my regal sceptre o'er his head 
 
 " Hear, culprit, of thy crimes, and sentence hear! 
 Thou void of principle ! of rule ! of ruth ! 
 Thou renegade from nature and from truth I 
 
 18. 
 
 " Thou bane of genius ! — party's sordid slave ! 
 
 Mistaken, perverse, crooked is thy mind I 
 No humble son of merit thou wilt save, 
 
 Truth, virtue, ne'er from thee did friendship find ; 
 And while of freedom thou can'st fume and rave, 
 Of titles, party, wealth, thou art the cringing slave ! 
 
 19. 
 " Thou hast renounced Nature for thy guide, 
 A thousand times hast given thyself the lie, 
 
CARMEN JUDICIALE. 253 
 
 And raised thy party-curs to wealth and pride, 
 
 The very scavengers of poetry. 
 Thy quibbles are from ray of sense exempt, 
 Presumptuous, pitiful, below contempt ! 
 
 20. 
 '' Answer me, viper ! here do I arraign 
 
 Thy arrogant, self-crowned majesty ! 
 Hast thou not prophesied of dole and pain, 
 
 Weakening the arms of nations and of me? 
 Thou foe of order 1 — Mercy lingers sick — 
 False prophet 1 Canker ! Damned heretick ! 
 
 » 
 
 21. 
 Then pointing with my sceptre to the sky, 
 
 With vehemence that might not be restrained, 
 I gave the awful curse of destiny ! 
 
 I was asleep, but sore with passion pain'd. 
 It was a dreadful curse ; and to this day, 
 Even from my waking dreams it iis not worn away. 
 
25i CARMEN JUDICIALB. 
 
 May heaven and earth, 
 And hell underneath. 
 Unite to ensting thee 
 In horrible wrath. 
 May scorning surround thee, 
 And conscience astound thee, 
 High genius o'erpower, 
 And the devil confound thee. 
 The curse be upon thee 
 In pen and in pocket, 
 Thy ink turn to puddle, 
 And gorge in the socket ; 
 Thy study let rats destroy, 
 Vermin and cats annoy, 
 Thy base lucubrations 
 To tear and to gnaw. 
 Thy false calculations 
 In Empire and Law, 
 
CARMEN JUDICIALE. 255 
 
 The printers shall harass, 
 
 The devils shall dun thee, 
 
 The trade shall despise thee, 
 
 And C — t — e shun thee. 
 
 The judge shall not hear thee, '■ 
 
 But frown and pass by thee, 
 
 And clients shall fear thee. 
 
 And know thee, and fly thee ! 
 
 I'll hunt thee, I'll chase thee, 
 
 To scorn and deride thee, 
 
 The cloud shall not cover. 
 
 The cave shall not hide thee; 
 
 The scorching of wrath 
 
 And of shame shall abide thee, 
 
 Till the herbs of the desart 
 
 Shall wither beside thee. 
 
 Thou shalt thirst for revenge 
 
 And misrule, as for wine, 
 
 But genius shall flourish ! 
 
 And royalty shine 1 
 
'^^Q CARMEN JUDICIALE 
 
 And thou shalt remain 
 While the Laureate doth reign, 
 With a fire in thy heart, 
 And a fire in thy brain, 
 And Fame shall disown thee 
 And visit thee never, 
 And the curse shall be on thee 
 For ever and ever I 
 
 END OF CARMEN JUDICIALE. 
 
THE MORNING STAR, 
 
 OR 
 
 THE STEAM-BOAT OF ALLOA. 
 
 blessed thing of calm delight, 
 
 Art thou a phantom of the night, 
 
 That slumber'st by the lonely strand, 
 
 Dreaming of breeze from Fairy Land ? 
 
 Well, glorious creature, may*st thou lie 
 
 Smiling on the refulgent sky, 
 
 For thy heart is calm and motionless, 
 
 And the stars shall view thee soon 
 
 10 
 
258 THE MORNING STAR. 
 
 Sailing in conscious blessedness, 
 
 Thou sister of the Moon, 
 
 And every garden of the deep, 
 
 And orb that shines above. 
 
 Shall see thee gliding swift as sleep, 
 
 In holiness and love ! 
 
 Over the scarcely touched wave, 
 
 Along the homeless sea;— 
 
 O world of waters, the peaceful grave 
 
 Ne'er lay entranced like thee ! 
 
 The Moon hath bidden her radiance fall 
 
 Oq thy rainbow form and viewless wings. 
 
 And the heavenly voice of the rocking sea. 
 
 In everlasting melody, 
 
 To cheer the vision sings. 
 
 And well, loved vessel, may'st thou glide, 
 Calm onward without breeze or tide. 
 With stedfast and unaltered motion, 
 Along the bright and starry ocean ; 
 
THE MORNING STAR* 239 
 
 For in thy bosom's inmost cells 
 Some self-impelling spirit dwells, 
 And thy majestic form is driven 
 Along the slumbering sea, 
 As on the peaceful soiil of heaven^ 
 Unto Eternity. 
 
 And well I know, to a land afar 
 Thy course is bent, loved Morning Star ! 
 To a blessed haven far away, 
 Where the mines are deep, and the shores are grey, 
 Where human things of the loveliest hue, 
 Dark as the veil o'er the midnight dew, 
 Toil in the central deep, intent 
 To supply one sacred element. 
 Who in their hush'd and dim abode 
 For ever dwell upon their God ! 
 
 Bright creature ! harbinger of love, 
 In earth below, and heaven above, 
 
260 THE MOrtNING STAR. 
 
 How many an anxious eye at morn 
 
 Will look from the beach where thou wast borne, 
 
 To mark thy stately form afar, 
 
 And hail the approach of the Morning Star? 
 
 And still their faith, with tranced eye, 
 
 Shall dwell upon the moonlight sky, 
 
 Then turn to the mellow sea beneath, 
 
 Serene and calm, as heaven's own breath. 
 
 Thou magic journey er of the even, 
 Thou self-moved messenger of heaven I 
 Over the wave, and the still maon-beamj 
 Or downward in the troubled deep, 
 Murmuring like giant in a dream. 
 Or distant thunder, when the gleam 
 Of fire plays o'er a world asleep ! 
 O thou art bright with beauty and grace ! 
 With many a collier's lovely face, 
 And forms of holiest joy to man, 
 Of radiant glorious courtezan ! 
 
THE MORNING STAR. 261 
 
 Those precious things of heaven above, 
 Whom men and saints and angels love ! 
 
 A lovelier vision one of these, 
 Than ever journeyed the moonlight seas, 
 I now behold upon the prow, 
 With eyes fixed on the v/ave below ; 
 So beautiful and calm she seems, 
 As if her thoughts were heavenly dreams I 
 One dark fond youth still clings to her, 
 And their shadows never, never stir, 
 Save that upon the heaving billow, 
 The robe of that most lovely thing 
 Is moving like the gentle willow 
 Above some sainted spring ! 
 
 And they are gone, the beauteous twain '. 
 I look to the prow, but I look in vain ! 
 For they are vanished into the deep, 
 In some dark central dome to sleep ; 
 
262 THE MOCKING STAR. 
 
 In some sweet coal-besprinkled cell, 
 
 III love, and peace, and joy, to dwell ; 
 
 And my soul devotes her music wild, 
 
 To one who is scarce an earthly child. 
 
 Softly they lean on each other's breast, 
 
 In holy bliss reposing, 
 
 Like two fair clouds to the vernal air 
 
 In folds of beauty closing. 
 
 The tear down their glad faces rolls, 
 
 And a silent prayer is in their souls ; 
 
 And Faith, who oft had lost her power 
 
 In the darkness of the midnight hour, 
 
 When the planets had rolled afar, 
 
 Now stirs in their souls with a joyful strife, 
 
 Embued with a genial spirit of life, 
 
 In the breast of the Morning Star. 
 
 O beauteous thing ! thou seem'st to me 
 So full of love and harmony, 
 That thou bestow'st a loveliness, 
 
THE MORNING STAR. 263 
 
 A deeper, holier quietness, 
 
 On the moonlight heaven, and ocean hoar, 
 
 Than eye of Faith e'er viewed before. 
 
 Through the still fount of tears and sighs, 
 
 And human sensibilities, 
 
 Well may the moon delight to shed 
 
 Her softest radiance round that head. 
 
 And mellow the coal and the ocean air, 
 
 That lifts by fits her sable hair. 
 
 These mild and melancholy eyes 
 
 Are dear unto the starry skies. 
 
 As the dim effusion of their rays 
 
 Blends with the glimmering light that plays 
 
 O'er the blue heavens, and snowy clouds, - 
 
 The cloud-like sails, and radiant shrouds. 
 
 Fair creature ! thou dost seem to be 
 Some wandering spirit of the sea, 
 That hither com'st, for one wild hour. 
 With him tliy sinless paramour. 
 
264 THE MOKNING STAR^ 
 
 To watch, while wearied sailors sleep, 
 This beautiful phantom of the deep, 
 That seemed to rise, with the rising Moon,— 
 But the Queen of Night will be sinking soon ! 
 Then will you, like two breaking waves> 
 Sink softly to your coral caves, 
 Or, noiseless as the falling dew, 
 Melt into Heaven's dehcious blue. 
 
 Nay wrong her not, that angel bright I 
 Her face is bathed in lovelier light 
 Than ever flowed from eyes 
 Of ocean nymph, or sylph of air ! 
 I'he tearful gleam that trembles there 
 From human dreams must rise. 
 And who is he that fondly presses 
 Close to his heart the silken tresses 
 That hide her soften'd eyes ? 
 Whose heart her heaving bosom meets, 
 And tlirough the midnight silence beats 
 To feel her rising sighs ? 
 
THE MORNING STAR. 265 
 
 Worthy the youth, I ween, to rest 
 On the fair swellings of her breast ! 
 Well do I know that stately youth, 
 The broad coal-light of clouded truth 
 Like a sun-beam bathes his face ; 
 Though silent, an unrighteous smile 
 That rests upon his eyes the while 
 Bestows a speaking grace ; 
 That smile hath might of magic art., 
 To sway at will the stoniest heart ! 
 
 happy pair ! O ship of love ! 
 Like incense to the realms above, 
 The joys in thee that dwell, 
 Fiom thee I shall be loth to part ! 
 But when I do, my lingering heart 
 Will sadly say— Farewell ! 
 
 END OF THE MORNING STAR. 
 
 M 
 
HYMN TO THE MOON. 
 
 Come forth, sweet spirit ! from thy cloudy cave, 
 
 Far in the bosom of the starless night, 
 
 And suddenly above the mountain-top 
 
 Lifting thy placid beajnty, all at once 
 
 Spread a still rapture o*er th' encircling earth, 
 
 That seems just waking from some heavenly dream. 
 
 Hail, soft-brow'd sovereign of the sea and sky 1 
 Thee heaven and all its glories worship — Thee 
 Worships old Ocean with his million waves, 
 And though *mid fleecy clouds as still as snow^ ^ 
 
228 HYMN TO THE MOON. 
 
 Or the blue depths of stainless sanctity, 
 Lies thy beloved way— yet often Thou 
 Art seen careering on a throne of storms. 
 Seemingly borne on to eternity, 
 So wild the hurried glimpses of thy face, * 
 Perturb'd yet beautiful ! 
 
 Heard'st thou my voice 
 Stealing along the silent walls of heaven, 
 And blended softly with the falling dews, 
 To thine aerial tower ? and look'st thou down 
 With love and pity on thy worshipper, 
 Even like an angel on the humble saint 
 Praying on his knees within his rocky cell ? 
 
 Yes ! glorious as thou art and beautiful, 
 Hanging upon the viewless wings of air. 
 That, wide-stretch'd through the amplitude of space, 
 Winnow fresh fragrance over earth and heaven, 
 Yet art thou meek and humble as a flower 
 Buried in the heart of forest solitude ! 
 
HYMN TO THE MOON, 269 
 
 'I 
 
 And there thou lingerest on the mountain-top 
 Listening my song, that boasts no other charm 
 Than gratitude and piety — in peace 
 Conceived within my soul, and peaceful breathed 
 To thee, the fountain of untroubled joy ! 
 
 Lo ! all the loveliness of earth awakes 
 To bless and do thee homage. Softly glide 
 The clouds yet glowing with the crimson light 
 Of the departed sun, to gird their queen 
 With a fair circle of unfallen snow, 
 Yet brighten'd with the innocence of heaven I 
 Within that circle, deeper than the blue. 
 The tearless blue of an archangers eye, 
 Glistens the eternal sanctitude of rest- 
 Out comes one single solitary star. 
 One moment shining — and then melts away 
 In thy o'erpowering radiance, while the heavens 
 All agitated into waves of light 
 
 Are lil^e the ocean during breathless nights, 
 
 M 2 
 
270 HYMN TO THE MOON. 
 
 Astir, yet In the swell profoundly calm, 
 A type of endless, universal rest I 
 
 Nor is the earth beneath thee, Queen of Light ! 
 
 Less lovely than the heavens. Thy smile creates 
 
 A dream-like pleasure through the works of God, 
 
 And all his blest creation seems more blest 
 
 When looking up to thee, and worshipping 
 
 Thy shining face with faintly-murmuring songs, 
 
 Odours as gentle as the mournful Hght, 
 
 And forms by Melancholy's softest touch 
 
 Moulded to beauty, in their depth of rest, 
 
 Seeming immortal and unchangeable, 
 
 Or ever varying like the breathing mist, 
 
 In fluctuations of profoundest peace. 
 
 Bordering on mirth — and now in awful trance 
 
 Like a dead countenance looking up to heaven, 
 
 By heaven rejected. 
 
 Lo ! thy favourite lake 
 
 Hath thrown the mist-veil from her purest breast, 
 
 11 
 
HYMN To THE MQON. 271 
 
 And there thy spirit in a stream of light 
 Descends, as it would pierce down to the fields. 
 The woods, and groves, that lie in silentness 
 Beneath their lucid atmosphere of waves 1 
 The lake is vanish*d — an abyss of light 
 Hath swallow'dup her waves — and hast thou changed 
 Thy habitation in the heavens, O Moon ! 
 For a wild dwelling in the glitterance 
 
 L 
 
 Of earth-born waters ? There thy face appears 
 Smiling as in thy native elenjent ! 
 I look to heaven, and there thou art likewise— 
 An apparition ! which is the true Moon 
 I know not — nor can tell-— what matters it ? 
 Ye both are beautiful — therefore both, hail, 
 Now and for ever — first, thou watery Moon, 
 And then, thou Moon aerial ! haply one, 
 But, whether one or two, still beautiful. 
 Too beautiful by far not to be view'd, 
 Waning or full, without a gush of tears ! 
 
 I 
 
272 HYMN TO THE MOON. 
 
 Where art thou gone ? all of a sudden gone ? 
 Why hast thou left thy pensive worshipper 
 Sitting in the darkness on the mossy stump 
 Of an old oak-tree ? — Hark I the owl ! the owl I 
 He is a living clock that tells the hour 
 To visionary men who walk by nights 
 Composing poesy ! and see yon star 
 Twinkling upon the hiJl-side i 'Tis the window 
 Of my sweet cottage, — haply even now 
 My Mary stirs the fire, while near the hearth 
 My little babes are playing — Fare thee well, 
 Departed Moon, and peace for ever smile 
 Beside thee in thy interlunar cave ! 
 
 END OF HYiMN TO THE M00?f. 
 
^ 
 
 THE STRANDED SHIP. 
 
 My spirit dreams of a peaceful bay 
 Where once a ship in beauty lay I 
 Floating between the waves and air, 
 Each glad to claim a thing so fair. 
 Her white wings to the sunshine gleaming 
 In anchor'd rest — bright ensigns streaming, 
 As if they wish'd away to fly 
 From the proud ship which they glorify. 
 —Alas! her wings no more expanded. 
 High on the beach the ship is stranded, 
 And, reft of motion, never more 
 Must walk above the ocean-roar ! 
 
274 
 
 THIi STRANDED SHIP. 
 
 Yet the creatures of the deep, t«o blest 
 
 Within their sunless caves to rest, 
 
 In the genial warmth of upper day 
 
 Are rolling in unwieldy play, 
 
 Or shooting upwards through the light 
 
 With arrowy motion silvery bright, 
 
 The silent summer air employ 
 
 For their region of capricious joy I 
 
 While fairy shells in myriads lying, 
 
 The smooth hard sand in lustre dying, 
 
 Encircle with a far-seen chain 
 
 Of glory the most glorious main ! 
 
 Glad shines the sun upon the wreck. 
 
 Warming her cold and lifeless deck ! 
 
 While through her shrouds with songs of love 
 
 Birds glance like harmless lightening. 
 
 And majestic hangs the palm-tree grove 
 
 Her short and shatter'd mast above. 
 
 Whose ensigns, meteor-like, did move, 
 
 The dark-green forest brightening. 
 
THE STRANDED SHIP. 275 
 
 Who thinks upon her gallant crew ? 
 Oh ! far, far down in the coral caves 
 
 i 
 
 O'er a hundred heads the sea-flower waves ! 
 Her captain's heart hath long been cold 
 In the silent night of her watery hold ! 
 And a ghastly troop o*er the dim mainland, 
 Where Hope ne'er waved her golden wand, 
 To certain death have gone ! 
 They died ! — ^but when, ot how, or where^ 
 Save that in famine and despair, 
 By man shall ne'er be known ! 
 
 THE END, 
 
 Edinburgh : 
 Printed by Jamea Ballantyne & Co. 
 
Ai 
 
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