To see in beauty, perfect, pure,Of human face the miniature,
And smile of being free from sin,
That had not death impress’d within.
Oh, can it ever be forgot
What Scotland had, and now has not!
Such scenes, dear Lady, now no more
Are given, or fitted as before,
To eye or ear of guilty dust;
But when it comes, as come it must,
The time when I, from earth set free,
Shall turn the spark I fain would be;
If there’s a land, as grandsires tell,
Where Brownies, Elves, and Fairies dwell,
There my first visit shall be sped—
Journeyer of earth, go hide thy head!
Of all thy travelling splendour shorn,
Though in thy golden chariot borne!
Yon little cloud of many a hue
That wanders o’er the solar blue,
That curls, and rolls, and fleets away
Beyond the very springs of day,—
That do I challenge and engage
To be my travelling equipage,
Then onward, onward, far to steer,
The breeze of Heaven my charioteer;
The soul’s own energy my guide,
Eternal hope my all beside.
At such a shrine who would not bow!
Traveller of earth, where art thou now?
Then let me for these legends claim,
My young, my honour’d Lady’s name;
That honour is reward complete,
Yet I must crave, if not unmeet,
One little boon—delightful task
For maid to grant, or minstrel ask!
One day, thou may’st remember well,
For short the time since it befel,
When o’er thy forest–bowers of oak,
The eddying storm in darkness broke;
Loud sung the blast adown the dell,
And Yarrow lent her treble swell;
The mountain’s form grew more sublime,
Wrapt in its wreaths of rolling rime;
And Newark Cairn, in hoary shroud,
Appear’d like giant o’er the cloud:
The eve fell dark, and grimly scowl’d,
Loud and more loud the tempest howl’d;
Without was turmoil, waste, and din,
The kelpie’s cry was in the linn,
But all was love and peace within!
And aye, between, the melting strain
Pour’d from thy woodland harp amain,
Which, mixing with the storm around,
Gave a wild cadence to the sound.
That mingled scene, in every part,
Hath so impressed thy shepherd’s heart,
With glowing feelings, kindling bright
Some filial visions of delight,
That almost border upon pain,
And he would hear those strains again.
They brought delusions not to last,
Blending the future with the past;
Dreams of fair stems, in foliage new,
Of flowers that spring where others grew
Of beauty ne’er to be outdone,
And stars that rise when sets the sun;
The patriarchal days of yore,
The mountain music heard no more,
With all the scene before his eyes,
A family’s and a nation’s ties—
Bonds which the Heavens alone can rend,
With Chief, with Father, and with Friend.
No wonder that such scene refin’d
Should dwell on rude enthusiast’s mind!
Strange his reverse!—He little wist—
Poor inmate of the cloud and mist!
That ever he, as friend, should claim
The proudest Caledonian name.
J. H.
Eltrive Lake, April 1st, 1818.
Chapter I
“It will be a bloody night in Gemsop this,” said Walter of Chapelhope, as he sat one evening by the side of his little parlour fire, and wrung the rim of his wet bonnet into the grate. His wife sat by his side, airing a pair of clean hosen for her husband, to replace his wet ones. She looked stedfastly in his face, but uttered not a word;—it was one of those looks that cannot be described, but it bespoke the height of curiosity, mingled with a kind of indefinite terror. She loved and respected her husband, and sometimes was wont to teaze or cajole him from his purpose; but one glance of his eye, or scowl of his eyebrow, was a sufficient admonition to her when she ventured to use such freedom.
The anxious stare that she bent on his face at this time was enquiry enough, what he meant by the short and mysterious sentence he had just uttered; but from the fulness of his heart he had said that which he could not recal, and had no mind to commit himself farther. His eldest son, John, was in the room too, which he had not remarked before he spoke, and therefore he took the first opportunity to change the subject. “Gudewife,” said he, tartly, “what are
