Short-lived pleasure yields to sadness,
Hasty fate is on the wing!
Mark the battle, mark the ruin;
Havoc loads the groaning plain;
Ruthless vengeance, keen pursuing,
Grasps thee in her iron chain!
THE DIRGE OF WALLACE.
WHEN Scotland's great Regent, our warrior most dear, The debt of his nature did pay,
'T was Edward, the cruel, had reason to fear, And cause to be struck with dismay.
At the window of Edward the raven did croak,
Though Scotland a widow became ;
Each tie of true honor to Wallace he broke-
The raven croaked "Sorrow and shame!"
At Elderslie Castle no raven was heard,
But the soothings of honor and truth;
His spirit inspired the soul of the bard
To comfort the Love of his youth!
They lighted the tapers at dead of night,
And chanted their holiest hymn;
But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright,
Her eye was all sleepless and dim!
And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord,
When a death-watch beat in her lonely room,
When her curtain had shook of its own accord,
And the raven had flapped at her window board,
To tell of her warrior's doom.
Now sing ye the death-song, and loudly pray
For the soul of my knight so dear!
And call me a widow, this wretched day,
Since the warning of GOD is here.
For a nightmare rests on my strangled sleep;
The lord of my bosom is doomed to die!
His valorous heart they have wounded deep,
And the blood-red tears shall his country weep
For Wallace of Elderslie.
Yet knew not his country, that ominous hour,
Ere the loud matin-bell was rung,
That the trumpet of death, on an English tower,
Had the dirge of her champion sung.
When his dungeon-light looked dim and red
On the high-born blood of a martyr slain,
No anthem was sung at his lowly death-bed –
No weeping was there when his bosom bled,
And his heart was rent in twain.
When he strode o'er the wreck of each well-fought field,
With the yellow-haired chiefs of his native land;
For his lance was not shivered on helmet or shield,
And the sword that was fit for archangel to wield
Was light in his terrible hand.
Yet, bleeding and bound, though "the Wallace-wight"
For his long-loved country die,
The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight
Than William of Elderslie !
But the day of his triumphs shall never depart;
His head, unentombed, shall with glory be palmed; From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start; Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart, A nobler was never embalmed!
WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF THE CART.
HEALTH and Content forevermore abide
The sister Friends that dwell on Cartha's side!
Pleased may ye pass your rural life, and find
In every guest a pure, congenial mind!
Blessed be your sheltered cot, and sweet the walk
Where Mira, Helen and Eugenia, talk!
Where, wandering slow the pendent woods between,
Ye pass no song unheard, no flower unseen;
With kindly voice the little warbler tame,
And call familiar "Robin " by his name;
The favorite bird comes fluttering at command,
Nor fears unkindness from a gentle hand.
I bless your sheltered vale and rural cot !—
Yet why my blessing?-for ye need it not;
The charm of life forevermore endures,
Congenial Sisters, in a home like yours!
Whatever sweets descend from heaven to cheer
The changeful aspect of the circling year,-
Whatever charms the enthusiast can peruse
In Nature's face, in music, and the Muse,-
'Tis yours to taste, exalted and refined,
Beyond the pleasures of a vulgar mind.
When dew-drops glitter in the morning ray,
By Cartha's side, a smiling group, ye stray;
Or round the tufted hill delight to roam
Where the pure torrent falls in showery foam;
Or climb the castled cliff, and pause to view
Spires, villas, plains, and mountains dimly blue;
Then, down the steep, a wood-grown path explore,
And, wandering home by Elspa's cottage-door,
To greet the rustic pair a while delay,
And ask for their poor boy, in India - far away!
Congenial Sisters! when the vesper-bell
Tolls from yon village, through your echoing dell,
Around your parlor-fire your group convenes,
To talk of friends beloved, and former scenes.
Remembrance pours her visions on the sight,
Sweet as the silver moon's reflected light;
And Fancy colors, with her brightest dye,
The musing mood of pensive ecstasy.
Perhaps ye hear in heavenly measure play
The pipe of Shenstone, or the lyre of Gray;
With Eloise deplore the lover's doom;
With Ossian weep at Agandecca's tomb;
Or list the lays of Burns, untimely starred!
Or
weep for "Auburn" with the sweetest bard.
Friends of according hearts! to you belong
The soul of feeling - fit to judge of song!
Unlike the clay-cold pedantry, that draws
The length and breadth for censure and applause.
Shame to the dull-browed arrogance of schools!-
Shall apish Art to Nature dictate rules?
Shall critic hands to Pathos set the seal,
Or tell the heart to feel or not to feel?
No! let the verse a host of these defy
That draws the tear from one impassioned eye.
Congenial Friends! your Cartha's woody side
How simply sweet, beyond the city's pride!
Who would forsake your green retreat to share
The noise of life-the fashion and the glare!
To herd with souls by no fine feeling moved;
To speak, and live, unloving — unbeloved!
In noisy crowds the languid heart to drown,
And barter Peace and Nature for a town!
O, Nature Nature! thine the vivid charm.
To raise the true-toned spirit, and to warm!
Thy face, still changing with the changeful clime,—
Mild or romantic, beauteous or sublime,-
Can win the raptured taste to every scene
Kilda's wild shore, or Roslin's lovely green.
Yes I have found thy power pervade my mind,
When every other charm was left behind;
When doomed a listless, friendless guest to roam,
Far from the sports and nameless joys of home!
Yet, when the evening linnet sang to rest
The day-star wandering to the rosy west,
I loved to trace the wave-worn shore, and view
Romantic Nature in her wildest hue.
There, as I lingered on the vaulted steep,
Iona's towers tolled mournful o'er the deep;
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