CANTO SECOND.
THE CONVENT
1THE breeze, which swept away the smoke
Round Norham Castle rolld,
When all the loud artillery spoke,
With lightning-flash, and thunder-stroke,
As Marmion left the Hold, 5
It curld not Tweed alone, that breeze,
For, far upon Northumbrian seas,
It freshly blew, and strong,
Where, from high Whitbys cloisterd pile,
Bound to Saint Cuthberts Holy Isle, 10
It bore a bark along.
Upon the gale she stoopd her side,
And bounded oer the swelling tide,
As she were dancing home;
The merry seamen laughd, to see 15
Their gallant ship so lustily
Furrow the green sea-foam.
Much joyd they in their honourd freight;
For, on the deck, in chair of state,
The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed, 20
With five fair nuns, the galley graced.
Twas sweet, to see these holy maids,
Like birds escaped to green-wood shades,
Their first flight from the cage,
How timid, and how curious too, 25
For all to them was strange and new,
And all the common sights they view,
Their wonderment engage.
One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail,
With many a benedicite; 30
One at the rippling surge grew pale,
And would for terror pray;
Then shriekd, because the seadog, nigh,
His round black head, and sparkling eye,
Reard oer the foaming spray; 35
And one would still adjust her veil,
Disorderd by the summer gale,
Perchance lest some more worldly eye
Her dedicated charms might spy;
Perchance, because such action graced 40
Her fair-turnd arm and slender waist.
Light was each simple bosom there,
Save two, who ill might pleasure share, -
The Abbess, and the Novice Clare.
The Abbess was of noble blood, 45
But early took the veil and hood,
Ere upon life she cast a look,
Or knew the world that she forsook.
Fair too she was, and kind had been
As she was fair, but neer had seen 50
For her a timid lover sigh,
Nor knew the influence of her eye.
Love, to her ear, was but a name,
Combined with vanity and shame;
Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all 55
Bounded within the cloister wall:
The deadliest sin her mind could reach
Was of monastic rule the breach;
And her ambitions highest aim
To emulate Saint Hildas fame. 60
For this she gave her ample dower,
To raise the convents eastern tower;
For this, with carving rare and quaint,
She deckd the chapel of the saint,
And gave the relic-shrine of cost, 65
With ivory and gems embossd.
The poor her Convents bounty blest,
The pilgrim in its halls found rest.
Black was her garb, her rigid rule
Reformd on Benedictine school; 70
Her cheek was pale, her form was spare:
Vigils, and penitence austere,
Had early quenchd the light of youth,
But gentle was the dame, in sooth;
Though, vain of her religious sway, 75
She loved to see her maids obey,
Yet nothing stern was she in cell,
And the nuns loved their Abbess well.
Sad was this voyage to the dame;
Summond to Lindisfame, she came, 80
There, with Saint Cuthberts Abbot old,
And Tynemouths Prioress, to hold
A chapter of Saint Benedict,
For inquisition stern and strict,
On two apostates from the faith, 85
And, if need were, to doom to death.
Nought say I here of Sister Clare,
Save this, that she was young and fair;
As yet a novice unprofessd,
Lovely and gentle, but distressd. 90
She was betrothd to one now dead,
Or worse, who had dishonourd fled.
Her kinsmen bade her give her hand
To one, who loved her for her land:
Herself, almost broken-hearted now, 95
Was bent to take the vestal vow,
And shroud, within Saint Hildas gloom,
Her blasted hopes and witherd bloom.
She sate upon the galleys prow,
And seemd to mark the waves below; 100
Nay, seemd, so fixd her look and eye,
To count them as they glided by.
She saw them not-twas seeming all-
Far other scene her thoughts recall, -
A sun-scorchd desert, waste and bare, 105
Nor waves, nor breezes, murmurd there;
There saw she, where some careless hand
Oer a dead corpse had heapd the sand,
To hide it till the jackals come,
To tear it from the scanty tomb. 110
See what a woful look was given,
As she raised up her eyes to heaven!
Lovely, and gentle, and distressd-
These charms might tame the fiercest breast:
Harpers have sung, and poets told, 115
That he, in fury uncontrolld,
The shaggy monarch of the wood,
Before a virgin, fair and good,
Hath pacified his savage mood.
But passions in the human frame, 120
Oft put the lions rage to shame:
And jealousy, by dark intrigue,
With sordid avarice in league,
Had practised with their bowl and knife,
Against the mourners harmless life. 125
This crime was charged gainst those who lay
Prisond in Cuthberts islet grey.
And now the vessel skirts the strand
Of mountainous Northumberland;
Towns, towers, and halls, successive rise, 130
And catch the nuns delighted eyes.
Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay,
And Tynemouths priory and bay;
They markd, amid her trees, the hall
Of lofty Seaton-Delaval; 135
They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods
Rush to the sea through sounding woods;
They passd the tower of Widderington,
Mother of many a valiant son;
At Coquet-isle their beads they tell 140
To the good Saint who ownd the cell;
Then did the Alne attention claim,
And Warkworth, proud of Percys name;
And next, they crossd themselves, to hear
The whitening breakers sound so near, 145
There, boiling through the rocks, they roar,
On Dunstanboroughs cavernd shore;
Thy tower, proud Bamborough, markd they there,
King Idas castle, huge and square,
From its tall rock look grimly down, 150
And on the swelling ocean frown;
Then from the coast they bore away,
And reachd the Holy Islands bay.
The tide did now its flood-mark gain,
And girdled in the Saints domain: 155
For, with the flow and ebb, its style
Varies from continent to isle;
Dry-shod, oer sands, twice every day,
The pilgrims to the shrine find way;
Twice every day, the waves efface 160
Of staves and sandalld feet the trace.
As to the port the galley flew,
Higher and higher rose to view
The Castle with its battled walls,
The ancient Monasterys halls, 165
A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile,
Placed on the margin of the isle.
In Saxon strength that Abbey frownd,
With massive arches broad and round,
That rose alternate, row and row, 170
On ponderous columns, short and low,
Built ere the art was known,
By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk,
The arcades of an alleyd walk
To emulate in stone. 175
On the deep walls, the heathen Dane
Had pourd his impious rage in vain;
And needful was such strength to these,
Exposed to the tempestuous seas,
Scourged by the winds eternal sway, 180
Open to rovers fierce as they,
Which could twelve hundred years withstand
Winds, waves, and northern pirates hand.
Not but that portions of the pile,
Rebuilded in a later style, 185
Showd where the spoilers hand had been;
Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen
Had worn the pillars carving quaint,
And moulderd in his niche the saint,
And rounded, with consuming power, 190
The pointed angles of each tower;
Yet still entire the Abbey stood,
Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued.
Soon as they neard his turrets strong,
The maidens raised Saint Hildas song, 195
And with the sea-wave and the wind,
Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined,
And made harmonious close;
Then, answering from the sandy shore,
Half-drownd amid the breakers roar, 200
According chorus rose:
Down to the haven of the Isle,
The monks and nuns in order file,
From Cuthberts cloisters grim;
Banner, and cross, and relics there, 205
To meet Saint Hildas maids, they bare;
And, as they caught the sounds on air,
They echoed back the hymn.
The islanders, in joyous mood,
Rushd emulously through the flood, 210
To hale the bark to land;
Conspicuous by her veil and hood,
Signing the cross, the Abbess stood,
And blessd them with her hand.
Suppose we now the welcome said, 215
Suppose the Convent banquet made:
All through the holy dome,
Through cloister, aisle, and gallery,
Wherever vestal maid might pry,
No risk to meet unhallowd eye, 220
The stranger sisters roam:
Till fell the evening damp with dew,
And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew,
For there, even summer night is chill.
Then, having strayd and gazed their fill, 225
They closed around the fire;
And all, in turn, essayd to paint
The rival merits of their saint,
A theme that neer can tire
A holy maid; for, be it known, 230
That their saints honour is their own.
Then Whitbys nuns exulting told,
How to their house three Barons bold
Must menial service do;
While horns blow out a note of shame, 235
And monks cry Fye upon your name!
In wrath, for loss of silvan game,
Saint Hildas priest ye slew.-
This, on Ascension-day, each year,
While labouring on our harbour-pier, 240
Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear.-
They told how in their convent-cell
A Saxon princess once did dwell,
The lovely Edelfled;
And how, of thousand snakes, each one 245
Was changed into a coil of stone,
When holy Hilda prayd;
Themselves, within their holy bound,
Their stony folds had often found.
They told, how sea-fowls pinions fail, 250
As over Whitbys towers they sail,
And, sinking down, with flutterings faint,
They do their homage to the saint.
Nor did Saint Cuthberts daughters fail,
To vie with these in holy tale; 255
His bodys resting-place, of old,
How oft their patron changed, they told;
How, when the rude Dane burnd their pile,
The monks fled forth from Holy Isle;
Oer northern mountain, marsh, and moor, 260
From sea to sea, from shore to shore,
Seven years Saint Cuthberts corpse they bore.
They rested them in fair Melrose;
But though, alive, he loved it well,
Not there his relics might repose; 265
For, wondrous tale to tell!
In his stone-coffin forth he rides,
A ponderous bark for river tides,
Yet light as gossamer it glides,
Downward to Tilmouth cell. 270
Nor long was his abiding there,
Far southward did the saint repair;
Chester-le-Street, and Rippon, saw
His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw
Haild him with joy and fear; 275
And, after many wanderings past,
He chose his lordly seat at last,
Where his cathedral, huge and vast,
Looks down upon the Wear;
There, deep in Durhams Gothic shade, 280
His relics are in secret laid;
But none may know the place,
Save of his holiest servants three,
Deep sworn to solemn secrecy,
Who share that wondrous grace. 285
Who may his miracles declare!
Even Scotlands dauntless king, and heir,
(Although with them they led
Galwegians, wild as oceans gale,
And Lodons knights, all sheathed in mail, 290
And the bold men of Teviotdale,)
Before his standard fled.
Twas he, to vindicate his reign,
Edged Alfreds falchion on the Dane,
And turnd the Conqueror back again, 295
When, with his Norman bowyer band,
He came to waste Northumberland.
But fain Saint Hildas nuns would learn
If, on a rock, by Lindisfarne,
Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame 300
The sea-born beads that bear his name:
Such tales had Whitbys fishers told,
And said they might his shape behold,
And hear his anvil sound;
A deadend clang, a huge dim form, 305
Seen but, and heard, when gathering storm
And night were closing round.
But this, as tale of idle fame,
The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim.
While round the fire such legends go, 310
Far different was the scene of woe,
Where, in a secret aisle beneath,
Council was held of life and death.
It was more dark and lone that vault,
Than the worst dungeon cell: 315
Old Colwulf built it, for his fault,
In penitence to dwell,
When he, for cowl and beads, laid down
The Saxon battle-axe and crown.
This den, which, chilling every sense 320
Of feeling, hearing, sight,
Was calld the Vault of Penitence,
Excluding air and light,
Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made
A place of burial for such dead, 325
As, having died in mortal sin,
Might not be laid the church within.
Twas now a place of punishment;
Whence if so loud a shriek were sent,
As reachd the upper air, 330
The hearers blessd themselves, and said,
The spirits of the sinful dead
Bemoand their torments there.
But though, in the monastic pile,
Did of this penitential aisle 335
Some vague tradition go,
Few only, save the Abbot, knew
Where the place lay; and still more few
Were those, who had from him the clew
To that dread vault to go. 340
Victim and executioner
Were blindfold when transported there.
In low dark rounds the arches hung,
From the rude rock the side-walls sprung;
The grave-stones, rudely sculptured oer, 345
Half sunk in earth, by time half wore,
Were all the pavement of the floor;
The mildew-drops fell one by one,
With tinkling plash, upon the stone.
A cresset, in an iron chain, 350
Which served to light this drear domain,
With damp and darkness seemd to strive,
As if it scarce might keep alive;
And yet it dimly served to show
The awful conclave met below. 355
There, met to doom in secrecy,
Were placed the heads of convents three:
All servants of Saint Benedict,
The statutes of whose order strict
On iron table lay; 360
In long black dress, on seats of stone,
Behind were these three judges shown
By the pale cressets ray:
The Abbess of Saint Hildas, there,
Sat for a space with visage bare, 365
Until, to hide her bosoms swell,
And tear-drops that for pity fell,
She closely drew her veil:
Yon shrouded figure, as I guess,
By her proud mien and flowing dress, 370
Is Tynemouths haughty Prioress,
And she with awe looks pale:
And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight
Has long been quenchd by ages night,
Upon whose wrinkled brow alone, 375
Nor ruth, nor mercys trace, is shown,
Whose look is hard and stern, -
Saint Cuthberts Abbot is his style;
For sanctity calld, through the isle,
The Saint of Lindisfarne. 380
Before them stood a guilty pair;
But, though an equal fate they share,
Yet one alone deserves our care.
Her sex a pages dress belied;
The cloak and doublet, loosely tied, 385
Obscured her charms, but could not hide.
Her cap down oer her face she drew;
And, on her doublet breast,
She tried to hide the badge of blue,
Lord Marmions falcon crest. 390
But, at the Prioress command,
A Monk undid the silken band
That tied her tresses fair,
And raised the bonnet from her head,
And down her slender form they spread, 395
In ringlets rich and rare.
Constance de Beverley they know,
Sister professd of Fontevraud,
Whom the Church numberd with the dead,
For broken vows, and convent fled. 400
When thus her face was given to view,
(Although so pallid was her hue,
It did a ghastly contrast bear
To those bright ringlets glistering fair),
Her look composed, and steady eye, 405
Bespoke a matchless constancy;
And there she stood so calm and pale,
That, bur her breathing did not fail,
And motion slight of eye and head,
And of her bosom, warranted 410
That neither sense nor pulse she lacks,
You might have thought a form of wax,
Wrought to the very life, was there;
So still she was, so pale, so fair.
Her comrade was a sordid soul, 415
Such as does murder for a meed;
Who, but of fear, knows no control,
Because his conscience, seard and foul,
Feels not the import of his deed;
One, whose brute-feeling neer aspires 420
Beyond his own more brute desires.
Such tools the Tempter ever needs,
To do the savagest of deeds;
For them no visiond terrors daunt,
Their nights no fancied spectres haunt, 425
One fear with them, of all most base,
The fear of death, alone finds place.
This wretch was clad in frock and cowl,
And shamed not loud to moan and howl,
His body on the floor to dash, 430
And crouch, like hound beneath the lash;
While his mute partner, standing near,
Waited her doom without a tear.
Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek,
Well might her paleness terror speak! 435
For there were seen in that dark wall,
Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall; -
Who enters at such grisly door,
Shall neer, I ween, find exit more.
In each a slender meal was laid, 440
Of roots, of water, and of bread:
By each, in Benedictine dress,
Two haggard monks stood motionless;
Who, holding high a blazing torch,
Showd the grim entrance of the porch: 445
Reflecting back the smoky beam,
The dark-red walls and arches gleam.
Hewn stones and cement were displayd,
And building tools in order laid.
These executioners were chose, 450
As men who were with mankind foes,
And with despite and envy fired,
Into the cloister had retired;
Or who, in desperate doubt of grace,
Strove, by deep penance, to efface 455
Of some foul crime the stain;
For, as the vassals of her will,
Such men the Church selected still,
As either joyd in doing ill,
Or thought more grace to gain, 460
If, in her cause, they wrestled down
Feelings their nature strove to own.
By strange device were they brought there,
They knew not how, and knew not where.
And now that blind old Abbot rose, 465
To speak the Chapters doom,
On those the wall was to enclose,
Alive, within the tomb;
But stoppd, because that woful Maid,
Gathering her powers, to speak essayd. 470
Twice she essayd, and twice in vain;
Her accents might no utterance gain;
Nought but imperfect murmurs slip
From her convulsed and quivering lip;
Twixt each attempt all was so still, 475
You seemd to hear a distant rill-
Twas oceans swells and falls;
For though this vault of sin and fear
Was to the sounding surge so near,
A tempest there you scarce could hear, 480
So massive were the walls.
At length, an effort sent apart
The blood that curdled to her heart,
And light came to her eye,
And colour dawnd upon her cheek, 485
A hectic and a flutterd streak,
Like that left on the Cheviot peak,
By Autumns stormy sky;
And when her silence broke at length,
Still as she spoke she gatherd strength, 490
And armd herself to bear.
It was a fearful sight to see
Such high resolve and constancy,
In form so soft and fair.
I speak not to implore your grace, 495
Well know I, for one minutes space
Successless might I sue:
Nor do I speak your prayers to gain;
For if a death of lingering pain,
To cleanse my sins, be penance vain, 500
Vain are your masses too. -
I listend to a traitors tale,
I left the convent and the veil;
For three long years I bowd my pride,
A horse-boy in his train to ride; 505
And well my follys meed he gave,
Who forfeited, to be his slave,
All here, and all beyond the grave. -
He saw young Claras face more fair,
He knew her of broad lands the heir, 510
Forgot his vows, his faith forswore,
And Constance was beloved no more. -
Tis an old tale, and often told;
But did my fate and wish agree,
Neer had been read, in story old, 515
Of maiden true betrayd for gold,
That loved, or was avenged, like me!
The King approved his favourites aim;
In vain a rival barrd his claim,
Whose fate with Clares was plight, 520
For he attaints that rivals fame
With treasons charge-and on they came,
In mortal lists to fight.
Their oaths are said,
Their prayers are prayd, 525
Their lances in the rest are laid,
They meet in mortal shock;
And hark! the throng, with thundering cry,
Shout Marmion, Marmion I to the sky,
De Wilton to the block! 530
Say ye, who preach Heaven shall decide
When in the lists two champions ride,
Say, was Heavens justice here?
When, loyal in his love and faith,
Wilton found overthrow or death, 535
Beneath a traitors spear?
How false the charge, how true he fell,
This guilty packet best can tell.-
Then drew a packet from her breast,
Paused, gatherd voice, and spoke the rest. 540
Still was false Marmions bridal staid;
To Whitbys convent fled the maid,
The hated match to shun.
Ho! shifts she thus? King Henry cried,
Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride, 545
If she were sworn a nun.
One way remaind-the Kings command
Sent Marmion to the Scottish land!
I lingerd here, and rescue plannd
For Clara and for me: 550
This caitiff Monk, for gold, did swear,
He would to Whitbys shrine repair,
And, by his drugs, my rival fair
A saint in heaven should be.
But ill the dastard kept his oath, 555
Whose cowardice has undone us both.
And now my tongue the secret tells,
Not that remorse my bosom swells,
But to assure my soul that none
Shall ever wed with Marmion. 560
Had fortune my last hope betrayd,
This packet, to the King conveyd,
Had given him to the headsmans stroke,
Although my heart that instant broke. -
Now, men of death, work forth your will, 565
For I can suffer, and be still;
And come he slow, or come he fast,
It is but Death who comes at last.
Yet dread me, from my living tomb,
Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome! 570
If Marmions late remorse should wake,
Full soon such vengeance will he take,
That you shall wish the fiery Dane
Had rather been your guest again.
Behind, a darker hour ascends! 575
The altars quake, the crosier bends,
The ire of a despotic King
Rides forth upon destructions wing;
Then shall these vaults, so strong and deep,
Burst open to the sea-winds sweep; 580
Some traveller then shall find my bones
Whitening amid disjointed stones,
And, ignorant of priests cruelty,
Marvel such relics here should be.
Fixd was her look, and stern her air: 585
Back from her shoulders streamd her hair;
The locks, that wont her brow to shade,
Stared up erectly from her head;
Her figure seemd to rise more high;
Her voice, despairs wild energy 590
Had given a tone of prophecy.
Appalld the astonishd conclave sate;
With stupid eyes, the men of fate
Gazed on the light inspired form,
And listend for the avenging storm; 595
The judges felt the victims dread;
No hand was moved, no word was said,
Till thus the Abbots doom was given,
Raising his sightless balls to heaven: -
Sister, let thy sorrows cease; 600
Sinful brother, part in peace!
From that dire dungeon, place of doom,
Of execution too, and tomb,
Paced forth the judges three;
Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell 605
The butcher-work that there befell,
When they had glided from the cell
Of sin and misery.
An hundred winding steps convey
That conclave to the upper day; 610
But, ere they breathed the fresher air,
They heard the shriekings of despair,
And many a stifled groan:
With speed their upward way they take,
(Such speed as age and fear can make,) 615
And crossd themselves for terrors sake,
As hurrying, tottering on,
Even in the vespers heavenly tone,
They seemd to hear a dying groan,
And bade the passing knell to toll 620
For welfare of a parting soul.
Slow oer the midnight wave it swung,
Northumbrian rocks in answer rung;
To Warkworth cell the echoes rolld,
His beads the wakeful hermit told, 625
The Bamborough peasant raised his head,
But slept ere half a prayer he said;
So far was heard the mighty knell,
The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell,
Spread his broad nostril to the wind, 630
Listed before, aside, behind,
Then couchd him down beside the hind,
And quaked among the mountain fern,
To hear that sound, so dull and stern.
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD
TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQAshestiel, Ettrick ForestLike April morning clouds, that pass,
With varying shadow, oer the grass,
And imitate, on field and furrow,
Lifes chequerd scene of joy and sorrow;
Like streamlet of the mountain north, 5
Now in a torrent racing forth,
Now winding slow its silver train,
And almost slumbering on the plain;
Like breezes of the autumn day,
Whose voice inconstant dies away, 10
And ever swells again as fast,
When the ear deems its murmur past;
Thus various, my romantic theme
Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream.
Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace 15
Of Light and Shades inconstant race;
Pleased, views the rivulet afar,
Weaving its maze irregular;
And pleased, we listen as the breeze
Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees; 20
Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale,
Flow on, flow unconfined, my Tale!
Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell
I love the license all too well,
In sounds now lowly, and now strong, 25
To raise the desultory song?
Oft, when mid such capricious chime,
Some transient fit of lofty rhyme
To thy kind judgment seemd excuse
For many an error of the muse, 30
Oft hast thou said, If, still misspent,
Thine hours to poetry are lent,
Go, and to tame thy wandering course,
Quaff from the fountain at the source;
Approach those masters, oer whose tomb 35
Immortal laurels ever bloom:
Instructive of the feebler bard,
Still from the grave their voice is heard;
From them, and from the paths they showd,
Choose honourd guide and practised road; 40
Nor ramble on through brake and maze,
With harpers rude of barbarous days.
Or deemst thou not our later time
Yields topic meet for classic rhyme?
Hast thou no elegiac verse 45
For Brunswicks venerable hearse?
What! not a line, a tear, a sigh,
When valour bleeds for liberty? -
Oh, hero of that glorious time,
When, with unrivalld light sublime, 50
Though martial Austria, and though all
The might of Russia, and the Gaul,
Though banded Europe stood her foes-
The star of Brandenburgh arose!
Thou couldst not live to see her beam 55
For ever quenchd in Jenas stream.
Lamented Chief! it was not given
To thee to change the doom of Heaven,
And crush that dragon in its birth,
Predestined scourge of guilty earth. 60
Lamented Chief! not thine the power,
To save in that presumptuous hour,
When Prussia hurried to the field,
And snatchd the spear, but left the shield!
Valour and skill twas thine to try, 65
And, tried in vain, twas thine to die.
Ill had it seemd thy silver hair
The last, the bitterest pang to share,
For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven,
And birthrights to usurpers given; 70
Thy lands, thy childrens wrongs to feel,
And witness woes thou couldst not heal!
On thee relenting Heaven bestows
For honourd life an honourd close;
And when revolves, in times sure change, 75
The hour of Germanys revenge,
When, breathing fury for her sake,
Some new Arminius shall awake,
Her champion, ere he strike, shall come
To whet his sword on BRUNSWICKS tomb, 80
Or of the Red-Cross hero teach
Dauntless in dungeon as on breach:
Alike to him the sea, the shore,
The brand, the bridle, or the oar:
Alike to him the war that calls 85
Its votaries to the shatterd walls,
Which the grim Turk, besmeard with blood,
Against the Invincible made good;
Or that, whose thundering voice could wake
The silence of the polar lake, 90
When stubborn Russ, and metald Swede,
On the warpd wave their death-game playd;
Or that, where Vengeance and Affright
Howld round the father of the fight,
Who snatchd, on Alexandrias sand, 95
The conquerors wreath with dying hand.
Or, if to touch such chord be thine,
Restore the ancient tragic line,
And emulate the notes that rung
From the wild harp, which silent hung 100
By silver Avons holy shore,
Till twice an hundred years rolld oer;
When she, the bold Enchantress, came,
With fearless hand and heart on flame!
From the pale willow snatchd the treasure, 105
And swept it with a kindred measure,
Till Avons swans, while rung the grove
With Montforts hate and Basils love,
Awakening at the inspired strain,
Deemd their own Shakspeare lived again. 110
Thy friendship thus thy judgment wronging,
With praises not to me belonging,
In task more meet for mightiest powers,
Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours.
But say, my Erskine, hast thou weighd 115
That secret power by all obeyd,
Which warps not less the passive mind,
Its source conceald or undefined;
Whether an impulse, that has birth
Soon as the infant wakes on earth, 120
One with our feelings and our powers,
And rather part of us than ours;
Or whether fitlier termd the sway
Of habit, formd in early day?
Howeer derived, its force confest 125
Rules with despotic sway the breast,
And drags us on by viewless chain,
While taste and reason plead in vain.
Look east, and ask the Belgian why,
Beneath Batavias sultry sky, 130
He seeks not eager to inhale
The freshness of the mountain gale,
Content to rear his whitend wall
Beside the dank and dull canal?
Hell say, from youth he loved to see 135
The white sail gliding by the tree.
Or see yon weatherbeaten hind,
Whose sluggish herds before him wind,
Whose tatterd plaid and rugged cheek
His northern clime and kindred speak; 140
Through Englands laughing meads he goes,
And Englands wealth around him flows;
Ask, if it would content him well,
At ease in those gay plains to dwell,
Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen, 145
And spires and forests intervene,
And the neat cottage peeps between?
No! not for these will he exchange
His dark Lochabers boundless range;
Not for fair Devons meads forsake 150
Bennevis grey, and Carrys lake.
Thus while I ape the measure wild
Of tales that charmd me yet a child,
Rude though they be, still with the chime
Return the thoughts of early time; 155
And feelings, roused in lifes first day,
Glow in the line, and prompt the lay.
Then rise those crags, that mountain tower
Which charmd my fancys wakening hour.
Though no broad river swept along, 160
To claim, perchance, heroic song;
Though sighd no groves in summer gale,
To prompt of love a softer tale;
Though scarce a puny streamlets speed
Claimd homage from a shepherds reed; 165
Yet was poetic impulse given,
By the green hill and clear blue heaven.
It was a barren scene, and wild,
Where naked cliffs were rudely piled;
But ever and anon between 170
Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green;
And well the lonely infant knew
Recesses where the wall-flower grew,
And honey-suckle loved to crawl
Up the low crag and ruind wall. 175
I deemd such nooks the sweetest shade
The sun in all its round surveyd;
And still I thought that shatterd tower
The mightiest work of human power;
And marvelld as the aged hind 180
With some strange tale bewitchd my mind,
Of forayers, who, with headlong force,
Down from that strength had spurrd their horse,
Their southern rapine to renew,
Far in the distant Cheviots blue, 185
And, home returning, filld the hall
With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl.
Methought that still with trump and clang,
The gateways broken arches rang;
Methought grim features, seamd with scars, 190
Glared through the windows rusty bars,
And ever, by the winter hearth,
Old tales I heard of woe or mirth,
Of lovers slights, of ladies charms,
Of witches spells, of warriors arms; 195
Of patriot battles, won of old
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;
Of later fields of feud and fight,
When, pouring from their Highland height,
The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, 200
Had swept the scarlet ranks away.
While stretchd at length upon the floor,
Again I fought each combat oer,
Pebbles and shells, in order laid,
The mimic ranks of war displayd; 205
And onward still the Scottish Lion bore,
And still the scattered Southron fled before.
Still, with vain fondness, could I trace,
Anew, each kind familiar face,
That brightend at our evening fire! 210
From the thatchd mansions grey-haird Sire,
Wise without learning, plain and good,
And sprung of Scotlands gentler blood;
Whose eye, in age, quick, clear, and keen,
Showd what in youth its glance had been; 215
Whose doom discording neighbours sought,
Content with equity unbought;
To him the venerable Priest,
Our frequent and familiar guest,
Whose life and manners well could paint 220
Alike the student and the saint;
Alas! whose speech too oft I broke
With gambol rude and timeless joke:
For I was wayward, bold, and wild,
A self-willd imp, a grandames child; 225
But half a plague, and half a jest,
Was still endured, beloved, caressd.
From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask
The classic poets well-connd task?
Nay, Erskine, nay-On the wild hill 230
Let the wild heath-bell flourish still;
Cherish the tulip, prune the vine,
But freely let the woodbine twine,
And leave untrimmd the eglantine:
Nay, my friend, nay-Since oft thy praise 235
Hath given fresh vigour to my lays;
Since oft thy judgment could refine
My flattend thought, or cumbrous line;
Still kind, as is thy wont, attend,
And in the minstrel spare the friend. 240
Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale,
Flow forth, flow unrestraind, my Tale!