THE sunset sheds a horizontal smile
O'er Highland frith and Hebridean isle,
While, gay with gambols of its finny shoals,
The glancing wave rejoices as it rolls
With streamered busses, that distinctly shine
All downward, pictured in the glassy brine;
Whose crews, with faces brightening in the sun,
Keep measure with their oars, and all in one
Strike up th' old Gaelic song:- Sweep, rowers, sweep!
The fisher's glorious spoils are in the deep.
but twilight owes the traveller soon,
To reach his bourne, a round unclouded moon,
Bespeaking long undarkened hours of time;
False hope!
- the Scots are steadfast- not their clime.
A war-worn soldier from the western land,
Seeks Cona's vale by Ballihoula's strand;
The vale, by eagle-haunted cliffs o'erhung,
Where Fingal fought and Ossian's harp was strung-
Our veteran's forehead, bronzed on sultry plains,
Had stood the brunt of thirty fought campaigns;
1 received the substance of the tradition on which this Poem is founded, in the first instance, from a friend in London, who wrote to Matthew N. Macdonald, Esq., of Edinburgh. He had the kindness to send me a circumstantial account of the tradition; and that gentleman's knowledge of the Highlands, as well as his particular acquaintance with the district of Glencoe, leave me no doubt of the incident having really happened. I have not departed from the main facts of the tradi tion as reported to me by Mr. Macdonald; only I have endeavored to color the personages of the story, and to make them as distinctive ar possible.
He well could vouch the sad romance of wars,
And count the dates of battles by his scars;
For he had served where o'er and o'er again
Britannia's oriflamme had lit the plain
Of glory and victorious stamped her name
On Oudenarde's and Blenheim's fields of fame.
Nine times in battle-field his blood had streamed,
Yet vivid still his veteran blue eye gleamed;
Full well he bore his knapsack - unoppressed,
And marched with soldier-like erected crest:
Nor sign of ev'n loquacious age he wore,
Save when he told his life's adventures o'er;
Some tired of these; for terms to him were dear,
Too tactical by far for vulgar ear;
As when he talked of rampart and ravine,
And trenches fenced with gabion and fascine-
But when his theme possessed him all and whole
He scorned proud puzzling words and warmed the soul;
Hushed groups hung on his lips with fond surprise,
That sketched old scenes-like pictures to their eyes;
The wide war-plain, with banners glowing bright,
And bayonets to the furthest stretch of sight;
The pause, more dreadful than the peal to come
From volleys blazing at the beat of drum
Till all the field of thundering lines became
Two level and confronted sheets of flame.
Then to the charge, when Marlboro's hot pursuit
Trode France's gilded lilies underfoot;
He came and kindled — and with martial lung
Would chant the very march their trumpets sung.
The old soldier hoped, ere evening's light should fail, To reach a home, south-east of Cona's vale;
But looking at Bennevis, capped with snow,
He saw its mist come curling down below,
And spread white darkness o'er the sunset glow ;
Fast rolling like tempestuous Ocean's spray,
Or clouds from troops in battle's fiery day-
So dense, his quarry 'scaped the falcon's sight,
The owl alone exulted, hating light.
Benighted thus our pilgrim groped his ground,
Half 'twixt the river's and the cataract's sound.
At last a sheep-dog's bark informed his ear
Some human habitation might be near;
Anon sheep-bleatings rose from rock to rock,
"Twas Luath hounding to their fold the flock.
Ere long the cock's obstreperous clarion rang,
And next, a maid's sweet voice, that spinning sang:
At last, amidst the greensward, (gladsome sight!)
A cottage stood, with straw-roof golden bright.
He knocked, was welcomed in; none asked his name,
Nor whither he was bound, nor whence he came;
But he was beckoned to the stranger's seat,
Right side the chimney fire of blazing peat.
Blest Hospitality makes not her home
In walled parks and castellated dome;
She flies the city's needy greedy crowd,
And shuns still more the mansions of the proud; -
The balm of savage or of simple life,
A wild-flower cut by culture's polished knife!
The house, no common sordid shieling cot,
Spoke inmates of a comfortable lot;
The Jacobite white rose festooned their door;
The windows sashed and glazed, the oaken floor,
The chimney graced with antlers of the deer,
The rafters hung with meat for winter cheer,
And all the mansion, indicated plain
Its master a superior shepherd swain.
Their supper came-the table soon was spread With eggs, and milk, and cheese, and barley bread.
The family were three- -a father hoar,
Whose age you'd guess at seventy years or more,
His son looked fifty-cheerful like her lord,
His comely wife presided at the board;
All three had that peculiar courteous grace
Which marks the meanest of the Highland race;
Warm hearts that burn alike in weal and wo,
As if the north-wind fanned their bosoms' glow!
But wide unlike their souls: old Norman's eye
Was proudly savage even in courtesy.
His sinewy shoulders - each, though aged and lean,
Broad as the curled Herculean head between,
His scornful lip, his eyes of yellow fire,
And nostrils that dilated quick with ire,
With ever downward-slanting shaggy brows,
Marked the old lion you would dread to rouse.
Norman, in truth, had led his earlier life
In raids of red revenge and feudal strife;
Religious duty in revenge he saw,
Proud Honor's right and Nature's honest law.
First in the charge and foremost in pursuit,
Long-breathed, deep-chested, and in speed of foot
A match for stags still fleeter when the prey
Was man, in persecution's evil day;
Cheered to that chase by brutal bold Dundee,
No Highland hound had lapped more blood than he. Oft had he changed the covenanter's breath
From howls of psalmody to howls of death;
And though long bound to peace, it irked him still
His dirk had ne'er one hated foe to kill.
Yet Norman had fierce virtues, that would mock
Cold-blooded tories of the modern stock,
Who starve the breadless poor with fraud and cant; -
He slew and saved them from the pangs of want
Nor was his solitary lawless charm
Mere dauntlessness of soul and strength of arm;
He had his moods of kindness now and then,
And feasted even well-mannered lowland men
Who blew not up his Jacobitish flame,
Nor prefaced with "pretender" Charles's name.
Fierce, but by sense and kindness not unwon,
He loved, respected even, his wiser son;
And brooked from him expostulations sage,
When all advisers else were spurned with rage.
Far happier times had moulded Ronald's mind,
By nature too of more sagacious kind.
His breadth of brow, and Roman shape of chin,
Squared well with the firm man that reigned within.
Contemning strife as childishness, he stood
With neighbors on kind terms of neighborhood,
And whilst his father's anger nought availed,
His rational remonstrance never failed.
Full skilfully he managed farm and fold,
Wrote, ciphered, profitably bought and sold;
And, blessed with pastoral leisure, deeply took
Delight to be informed, by speech or book,
Of that wide world beyond his mountain home,
Where oft his curious fancy loved to roam.
Oft while his faithful dog ran round his flock,
He read long hours when summer warmed the rock:
Guests who could tell him aught were welcomed warm,
Even pedlers' news had to his mind a charm;
That like an intellectual magnet-stone
Drew truth from judgments simpler than his own.
His soul's proud instinct sought not to enjoy
Romantic fictions, like a minstrel boy;
Truth, standing on her solid square, from youth
He worshipped-stern uncompromising truth.
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