IN THE PASS OF KILLICRANKY, AN INVASION BEING EXPECTED, OCTOBER 1803. Six thousand Veterans practised in War's game, Tried Men, at Killicranky were arrayed Against an equal Host that wore the Plaid, Shepherds and Herdsmen.-Like a whirlwind came The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like flame; And Garry, thundering down his mountain road, Was stopped, and could not breathe beneath the load Of the dead bodies.-T was a day of shame For them whom precept and the pedantry Of cold mechanic battle do enslave.
O for a single hour of that Dundee, Who on that day the word of onset gave! Like conquest would the Men of England see; And her Foes find a like inglorious Grave.
THE MATRON OF JEDBURGH AND HER HUSBAND.
At Jedburgh, my companion and I went into private Lodgings for a few days; and the following Verses were called forth by the character and domestic situation of our Hostess.]
AGE! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers, And call a train of laughing Hours; And bid them dance, and bid them sing: And thou, too, mingle in the Ring! Take to thy heart a new delight; If not, make merry in despite
That there is One who scorns thy power:- But dance! for under Jedborough Tower, A Matron dwells, who though she bears Our mortal complement of years, Lives in the light of youthful glee, And she will dance and sing with thee.
Nay start not at that Figure-there! Him who is rooted to his chair! Look at him-look again! for lle Hath long been of thy Family. With legs that move not, if they can. And useless arms, a Trunk of Mao,
lle sits, and with a vacant eye; A Sight to make a Stranger sigh! Deaf, drooping, that is now bis doom: His world is in this single room: Is this a place for mirthful cheer? Can merry-making enter here?
The joyous Woman is the Mate Of him in that forlorn estate! He breathes a subterraneous damp; But bright as Vesper shines her lamp : He is as mute as Jedborough Tower; She jocund as it was of yore, With all its bravery on; in times When all alive with merry chimes, Upon a sun-bright morn of May, It roused the Vale to Holiday.
I praise thee, Matron! and thy due Is praise; heroic praise, and true! With admiration I behold
Thy gladness unsubdued and bold: Thy looks, thy gestures, all present The picture of a life well spent: This do I see; and something more; A strength unthought of heretofore! Delighted am I for thy sake; And yet a higher joy partake. Our Human-nature throws away Its second Twilight, and looks gay: A land of promise and of pride Unfolding, wide as life is wide.
Ah! see her helpless Charge! enclosed Within himself as seems, composed; To fear of loss, and hope of gain, The strife of happiness and pain, Utterly dead! yet in the guise
Of little Infants, when their eyes Begin to follow to and fro
The persons that before them go, He tracks her motions, quick or slow. Her buoyant Spirit can prevail Where common cheerfulness would fail : She strikes upon him with the heat Of July Suns; he feels it sweet; An animal delight, though dim! "T is all that now remains for him!
The more I looked, I wondered moreAnd, while I scanned them o'er and o'er, A moment gave me to espy A trouble in her strong black eye;
A remnant of uneasy light,
A flash of something over-bright! Nor long this mystery did detain My thoughts; she told in pensive strain That she had borne a heavy yoke, Been stricken by a twofold stroke; Ill health of body; and had pined Beneath worse ailments of the mind.
So be it!-but let praise ascend To Him who is our Lord and Friend! Who from disease and suffering Hath called for thee a second Spring;
Repaid thee for that sore distress
By no untimely joyousness;
Which makes of thine a blissful state; And cheers thy melancholy Mate!
FLY, some kind Spirit, fly to Grasmere-dale, Say that we come, and come by this day's light; Glad tidings!-spread them over field and height; But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale; There let a mystery of joy prevail, The happy Kitten bound with frolic might, And Rover whine, as at a second sight
Of near-approaching good that shall not fail:- And from that Infant's face let joy appear; Yea, let our Mary's one Companion Child, That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled With intimations manifold and dear,
While we have wandered over wood and wild, Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer.
A TALE TOLD BY THE FIRE-SIDE, AFTER RETURNING TO THE VALE OF GRASMERE.
Now we are tired of boisterous joy, Have romped enough, my little Boy! Jane hangs her head upon my breast, And you shall bring your stool and rest; This corner is your own.
There! take your seat, and let me see That you I can listen quietly; And, as I promised, I will tell That strange adventure which befel A poor blind Highland Boy.
A Highland Boy!--why call him so? Because, my Darlings, ye must know, In land where many a mountain towers, Far higher hills than these of ours! He from his birth had lived.
He ne'er had seen one earthly sight; The sun, the day; the stars, the night; Or tree, or butterfly, or flower, Or fish in stream, or bird in bower, Or woman, man, or child.
And yet he neither drooped nor pined, Nor had a melancholy mind; For God took pity on the Boy, And was his friend; and gave him joy Of which we nothing know.
His Mother, too, no doubt, above Her other Children him did love: For, was she here, or was she there, She thought of him with constant care,
And more than Mother's love.
And proud she was of heart, when clad In crimson stockings, tartan plaid, And bonnet with a feather gay, To Kirk he on the sabbath day Went hand in hand with her.
And in the lonely Highland Dell Still do they keep the Turtle Shell; And long the Story will repeat Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat,
And how he was preserved. '
It is recorded in Dampier's Voyages, that a Boy, the Son of a Captain of a Man of War, seated himself in a Turtle Shell, and floated in it from the shore to his Father's ship, which lay at anchor at the distance of half a mile. In deference to the opinion of a Friend, I have substituted such a Shell for the less elegant Vessel in which my Blind Voyager did actually entrust himself to the dangerous current of Loch Leven, as was related to me by an eye-wit
Suggested by a beautiful Ruin upon one of the Islands of Loch Lomond, a place chosen for the retreat of a solitary individual from whom this habitation acquired its name.]
To barren heath, and quaking fen, 'Or depth of labyrinthine glen; Or into trackless forest set
With trees, whose lofty umbrage met; World-wearied Men withdrew of yore,— (Penance their trust, and prayer their store; And in the wilderness were bound To such apartments as they found; Or with a new ambition raised; That God might suitably be praised.
High lodged the Warrior, like a bird of prey. Or where broad waters round him lay: But this wild Ruin is no ghost Of his devices-buried, lost! Within this little lonely Isle There stood a consecrated Pile; Where tapers burned, and mass was sung, For them whose timid spirits clung To mortal succour, though the tomb Had fixed, for ever fixed, their doom!
Upon those servants of another world When madding Power her bolts had hurled, Their habitation shook;-it fell, And perished-save one narrow Cell; Whither, at length, a Wretch retired Who neither grovelled nor aspired: He, struggling in the net of pride, The future scorned, the past defied; Still tempering from the unguilty forge Of vain conceit, an iron scourge!
Proud Remnant was he of a fearless Race, Who stood and flourished face to face With their perennial hills;-but Crime Hastening the stern decrees of Time, Brought low a Power, which from its home Burst, when repose grew wearisome; And taking impulse from the sword, And mocking its own plighted word, Had found, in ravage widely dealt, Its warfare's bourn, its travel's belt!
All, all were dispossessed, save him whose smile
Shot lightning through this lonely Isle!
No right had he but what he made
To this small spot, his leafy shade; But the ground lay within that ring To which he only dared to cling; Renouncing here, as worse than dead, The craven few who bowed the head Beneath the change, who heard a claim How loud! yet lived in peace with shame. From year to year this shaggy Mortal went (So seemed it) down a strange descent:
Till they, who saw his outward frame, Fixed on him an unhallowed name; Him-free from all malicious taint, And guiding, like the Patmos Saint, A pen unwearied-to indite,
In his loue Isle, the dreams of night; Impassioned dreams, that strove to span The faded glories of his Clan!
Suns that through blood their western harbour
And stars that in their courses fought,
Towers rent, winds combating with woods
Lands deluged by unbridled floods,—
And beast and bird that from the spell
Of sleep took import terrible,
These types mysterious (if the show
Of battle and the routed foe
Had failed) would furaish an array Of matter for the dawning day!
How disappear'd He?-ask the Newt and Toad, Inheritors of his abode;
The Otter crouching undisturb'd,
In her dank cleft;-but be thou curb'd,
O froward Fancy! 'mid a scene
Of aspect winning and serene; For those offensive creatures shun The inquisition of the sun!
And in this region flowers delight, And all is lovely to the sight.
Spring finds not here a melancholy breast, When she applies her annual test To dead and living; when her breath Quickens, as now, the wither'd heath;- Nor flaunting Summer-when he throws His soul into the briar-rose;
Or calls the lily from her sleep; Prolong'd beneath the bordering deep; Nor Autumn, when the viewless wren Is warbling near the BROWNIE's Den.
Wild Relique! beauteous as the chosen spot In Nysa's isle, the embellish'd Grot; Whither by care of Libyan Jove (High Servant of paternal I ove), Young Bacchus was convey'd-to lie Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye;
Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glow'd, Close crowding round the Infant God, All colours, and the liveliest streak A foil to his celestial cheek!
Quakes-conscious of thy power; The caves reply with hollow moan; And vibrates to its central s'one, Yon time-cemented Tower!
And yet how fair the rural scene! For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been Beneficent as strong;
Pleased in refreshing dews to steep The little trembling flowers that peep Thy shelving rocks among.
Hence all who love their country, love To look on thee-delight to rove Where they thy voice can hear; And, to the Patriot-warrior's Shade, Lord of the vale! to Heroes laid In dust, that voice is dear!
Along thy banks, at dead of night Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight; Or stands in warlike vest, Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam, A Champion worthy of the Stream, Yon grey tower's living crest!
But clouds and envious darkness hide A form not doubtfully descried:-
Their transient mission o'er,
O say to what blind region flee These Shapes of awful phantasy?
To what untrodden shore?
Less than divine command they spurn;
But this we from the mountains learn, And this the valleys show,
That never will they deign to hold Communion where the heart is cold To human weal and woe.
The man of abject soul in vain Shall walk the Marathonian Plain; Or thrid the shadowy gloom, That still invests the guardian Pass, Where stood, sublime, Leonidas, Devoted to the tomb.
Nor deem that it can aught avail For such to glide with gar or sail Beneath the piny wood,"
Where Tell once drew, by Uri's lake, His vengeful shafts-prepared to slake Their thirst in Tyrant's blood.
IN THE PLEASURE-GROUND ON THE BANKS OF THE BRAN, NEAR DUNKELD.
The waterfall, by a loud roaring, warned us when we must expect it. We were first, however, conducted into a small apartment, where the Gardener desired us to look at the picture of Ossian, which, while he was telling the history of the young Artist who executed the work, disappeared, parting in the middleflying asunder as by the touch of magic-and lo! we are at the entrance of a splendid apartment, which was almost dizzy and alive with waterfalls, that tumbled in all directions; the great cascade, opposite the window, which faced us, being reflected in innumerable mirrors upon the ceiling and against the walls.-Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Traveller.
WHAT He who 'mid the kindred throng Of Heroes that inspired his song,
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