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Gilding the scope of duller days
With oft-recurring retrospect,
With which right happily she plays.
E'en as a moving mirror will reflect
Its glancing rays on shady side

Of home or glen, when school-boys guide
With skilful hands their mimic sun

To heaven's bright sun opposed; we see
Its borrow'd sheen on fallow dun,
On meadow green, on rock and tree,
On broomy steep, on rippling spring,
On cottage thatch, and every thing.

XLIV.

And Britain's virtuous queen admired

Our gentle maid, and in her train

Of ladies will'd her to remain:

What more could young ambition have desired?
But, like the blossom to the bough,
Or wall-flower to the ruin's brow,
Or tendril to the fostering stock,
Or seaweed on the briny rock,

Or mistletoe to sacred tree,

Or daisy to the swarded lea,

So truly to her own she clung ;

And from afar, her wistful eye
Would first his graceful form descry.
E'en when he hied him forth to meet
The open air in lawn or street,
She to her casement went,

And after him, with smile so sweet,
Her look of blessing sent.

The heart's affection,-secret thing!
Is like the cleft rock's ceaseless spring,
Which free and independent flows
Of summer rains or winter snows.
The foxglove from its side may fall

The heathbloom fade or moss-flower white,
But still its runlet, bright though small,
Will issue sweetly to the light.

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Nor cared for honours vain, from courtly favour In search of meaner things, turn heavily away.

sprung.

XLV.

Nor would she in her native north,

When woo'd by one of wealth and worth,
The neighbour of her happy home,
Though by her gentle parents press'd
And flattered, courted and caress'd,
A splendid bride become.

"I may not," said her gentle heart,
"The very thought endure,

That those so kind should feel the smart
A daughter's wants might oft impart,
For Jerviswood is poor.

But yet, though poor, why should I smother
This dear regard? he'll be my brother,
And thus through life we'll love each other.
What though, as changing years flit by,
Gray grow my head, and dim his eye!
We'll meekly bear our wayward fate,
And scorn their petty spite who rate,
With senseless gibes, the single state,

Till we are join'd, at last, in heavenly bliss on high."

XLVI.

But Heaven for them decreed a happier lot:
The father of the virtuous youth,
Who died devoted for the truth,
Was not, when better times return'd, forgot:
To the right heir was given his father's land,
And with his lady's love, he won her hand.

XLVII.

Their long tried faith in honour plighted,
They were a pair by Heaven united,

Whose wedded love, through lengthen'd years,
The trace of early fondness wears.

Her heart first guess'd his doubtful choice,
Her ear first caught his distant voice,

XLIX.

But no new ties of wedded life,
That bind the mother and the wife,
Her tender, filial heart could change,
Or from its earliest friends estrange.
The child, by strong affection led,
Who braved her terror of the dead
To save an outlaw'd parent, still
In age was subject to his will.

She then was seen with matron air,
A dame of years, with countenance fair,
Though faded, sitting by his easy chair.
A sight that might the heart's best feelings move!
Behold her seated at her task of love!
Books, papers, pencil, pen, and slate,
And column'd scrolls of ancient date,
Before her lie, on which she looks
With searching glance, and gladly brooks
An irksome task, that else might vex
His temper, or his brain perplex;
While, haply, on the matted floor,
Close nestling at her kirtled feet,
Its lap enrich'd with childish store,
Sits, hush'd and still, a grandchild sweet,
Who looks at times with eye intent,
Full on its grandame's parent bent,
Viewing his deeply-furrow'd brow,
And sunken lip and locks of snow,
In serious wonderment.

Well said that graceful sire, I ween!

Still through life's many a varied scene,

Griseld our dear and helpful child hath been.

L.

Though ever cheerfully possessing

In its full zest the present blessing,

Her grateful heart remembrance cherish'd

Of all to former happiness allied,

Nor in her fostering fancy perish'd

E'en things inanimate that had supplied
Means of enjoyment once. Maternal love,
Active and warm, which nothing might restrain,
Led her once more, in years advanced, to rove
To distant southern climes, and once again
Her footsteps press'd the Belgian shore,

She would not e'en their folly chide,
But like the sun and showers of heaven,
Which to the false and true are given,
Want and distress relieved on either side.

LIV.

But soon, from fear of future change,

The town, the very street that was her home of yore. The evil took a wider range.

LI.

Fondly that homely house she eyed,
The door, the windows, every thing
Which to her back-cast thoughts could bring
The scenes of other days.-Then she applied
To knocker bright her thrilling hand,
And begg'd, as strangers in the land,
Admittance from the household dame,
And thus preferred her gentle claim:
"This house was once my happy home,
Its rooms, its stair, I fain would see;
Its meanest nook is dear to me,

Let me and mine within its threshold come."

But no; this might not be !

Their feet might soil her polish'd floor,
The dame held fast the hostile door,

A Belgian housewife she.

"Fear not such harm! we'll doff our shoes:

Do not our earnest suit refuse !

We'll give thee thanks, we'll give thee gold; Do not kind courtesy withhold !"

But still it might not be ;

The dull, unpliant dame refused her gentle plea.

LII.

With her and her good lord, who still
Sweet union held of mated will,

Years pass'd away with lightsome speed;

But ah! their bands of bliss at length were riven;
And she was clothed in widow's sable weed,

Submitting to the will of Heaven.
And then a prosperous race of children good
And tender, round their noble mother stood.
And she the while, cheer'd with their pious love,
Waited her welcome summons from above.

LIII.

But whatsoe'er the weal or wo

That Heaven across her lot might throw,
Full well her Christian spirit knew
Its path of virtue, straight and true.
When came the shock of evil times, menacing
The peaceful land-when blood and lineage tracing
As the sole claim to Britain's throne, in spite
Of Britain's weal or will, chiefs of the north,
In warlike muster, led their clansmen forth,
Brave, faithful, strong and toughly nerved,
Would they a better cause had served!
For Stuart's dynasty to fight,
Distress to many a family came,

Who dreaded more the approaching shame
Of penury's ill-favour'd mien,
Than e'en the pang of hunger keen.
How softly then her pity flow'd!
How freely then her hand bestow'd!
She did not question their opinion
Of party, kingship, or dominion:

The northern farmers, spoil'd and bare,
No more could rent or produce spare

To the soil's lords. All were distress'd,
And on our noble dame this evil sorely press'd.
Her household numerous, her means withheld;
Shall she her helpless servants now dismiss
To rob or starve, in such a time as this,
Or wrong to others do? but nothing quell'd
Her calm and upright mind.-"Go, summon here
Those who have served me many a year."
The summons went; each lowly name
Full swiftly to her presence came,

And thus she spoke: "Ye've served me long,
Pure, as I think, from fraud or wrong,
And now, my friendly neighbours, true.
And simply I will deal with you.

The times are shrewd, my treasures spent,
My farms have ceased to yield me rent;
And it may chance that rent or grain

I never shall receive again.

The dainties which my table fed,
Will now be changed for daily bread,
Dealt sparely, and for this I must
Be debtor to your patient trust,

If ye consent."-Swift through the hall,
With eager haste, spoke one and all.

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No, noble dame! this must not be !

With heart as warm and hand as free,

Still thee and thine we'll serve with pride,
As when fair fortune graced your side.
The best of all our stores afford
Shall daily smoke upon thy board;
And, shouldst thou never clear the score,
Heaven for thy sake will bless our store."
She bent her head with courtesy,
The big tear swelling in her eye,

And thank'd them all. Yet plain and spare,
She order'd still her household fare,
Till fortune's better die was cast,
And adverse times were past.

LV.

Good, tender, generous, firm and sage,
Through grief and gladness, shade and sheen,
As fortune changed life's motley scene,
Thus pass'd she on to reverend age.
And when the heavenly summons came,
Her spirit from its mortal frame
And weight of mortal cares to free,

It was a blessed sight to see,

The parting saint her state of honour keeping
In gifted, dauntless faith, whilst round her, weeping,
Her children's children mourn'd on bended knee.

LVI.

In London's fair imperial town
She laid her earthly burden down.
In Mellerstain, her northern home,

Was raised for her a graven tomb
Which gives to other days her modest, just renown.

And now, ye polish'd fair of modern times,
If such indeed will listen to my rhymes,
What think ye of her simple, modest worth,
Whom I have faintly tried to shadow forth?
How vain the thought! as if ye stood in need
For pattern ladies in dull books to read.
Will she such antiquated virtues prize,
Who with superb signoras proudly vies,
Trilling before the dear admiring crowd

With outstretch'd, straining throat, bravuras loud,
Her high-heaved breast press'd hard, as if to boast
The inward pain such mighty efforts cost:
Or on the white-chalk'd floor, at midnight hour,
Her head with many a flaunting, full-blown flower,
And bartisan of braided locks enlarged,
Her flimsy gown with twenty flounces charged,
Wheels gayly round the room on pointed toe,
Softly supported by some dandy beau:-
Will she, forsooth! or any belle of spirit,
Regard such old, forgotten, homely merit?

Or she, whose cultured, high-strain'd talents soar
Through all th' ambitious range of letter'd lore
With soul enthusiastic, fondly smitten
With all that e'er in classic page was written,
And whilst her wit in critic task engages,
The technic praise of all praised things outrages;
Whose finger, white and small, with ink-stain tipt,
Still scorns with vulgar thimble to be clipt;
Who doth with proud pretence her claims advance
To philosophic, honour'd ignorance

Of all, that, in divided occupation,

Gives the base stamp of female degradation;
Protests she knows not colour, stripe nor shade,
Nor of what stuff her flowing robe is made,
But wears, from petty, frivolous fancies free,
Whatever careful Betty may decree;
As certes, well she may, for Betty's skill
Leaves her in purfle, furbelow, or frill,
No whit behind the very costliest fair
That wooes with daily pains the public stare:
Who seems almost ashamed to be a woman,
And yet the palm of parts will yield to no man
But holds on battle-ground eternal wrangling,
The plainest case in mazy words entangling :-
Will she, I trow, or any kirtled sage,
Admire the subject of my artless page?
And yet there be of British fair, I know,
Who to this legend will some favour show
From kindred sympathy; whose life proceeds
In one unwearied course of gentle deeds,
And pass untainted through the earthly throng,
Like souls that to some better world belong.
Nor will I think, as sullen cynics do,
Still libelling present times, their number few.
Yea, leagued for good they act, a virtuous band,
The young, the rich, the loveliest of the land,
Who clothe the naked, and, each passing week,
The wretched poor in their sad dwelling seek,
Who, cheer'd and grateful, feebly press and bless
The hands which princes might be proud to kiss :-
Such will regard my tale, and give to fame
A generous, helpful maid,-a good and noble dame.

LORD JOHN OF THE EAST.

THE fire blazed bright till deep midnight,

And the guests sat in the hall,

And the lord of the feast, Lord John of the East,
Was the merriest of them all.

His dark gray eye, that wont so sly
Beneath his helm to scowl,

Flash'd keenly bright, like a new-waked sprite
As pass'd the circling bowl.

In laughter light, or jocund lay,

That voice was heard, whose sound,
Stern, loud, and deep, in battle-fray
Did foemen fierce astound;

And stretch'd so balm, like lady's palm,
To every jester near,

That hand which through a prostrate foe
Oft thrust the ruthless spear.

The gallants sang, and the goblets rang,
And they revell'd in careless state,
Till a thundering sound, that shook the ground,
Was heard at the castle gate.

"Who knocks without, so loud and stout?
Some wandering knight, I ween,
Who from afar, like a guiding star,

Our blazing hall hath seen.

« If a stranger it be of high degree, Step forth amain, my pages twain, (No churl durst make such din,)

And soothly ask him in.

"Tell him our cheer is the forest deer,
Our bowl is mantling high,

And the lord of the feast is John of the East,
Who welcomes him courteously."

The pages twain return'd again,

And a wild, scared look had they; "Why look ye so?-is it friend or foe ?" Did the angry baron say.

"A stately knight without doth wait,
But further he will not hie,

Till the baron himself shall come to the gate,
And ask him courteously."-

"By my mother's shroud, he is full proud!
What earthly man is he?"

"I know not, in truth," quoth the trembling youth, "If earthly man it be.

"In Raveller's plight, he is bedight,

With a vest of the crim'sy meet; But his mantle behind, that streams on the wind, Is a corse's bloody sheet."

"Out, paltry child! thy wits are wild,

Thy comrade will tell me true:
Say plainly, then, what hast thou seen?
Or dearly shalt thou rue."

Faint spoke the second page with fear,

And bent him on his knee, "Were I on your father's sword to swear, The same it appear'd to me."

Then dark, dark lower'd the baron's eye,
And his red cheek changed to wan;
For again at the gate more furiously,
The thundering din began.

"And is there ne'er of my vassals here,

Of high or low degree,
That will unto this stranger go,-
Will go for the love of me?"

Then spoke and said, fierce Donald the Red,(A fearless man was he,)

"Yes; I will straight to the castle gate,

Lord John, for the love of thee."

With heart full stout, he hied him out,

Whilst silent all remain ;

Nor moved a tongue those gallants among, Till Donald return'd again.

"O speak," said his lord, " by thy hopes of grace,

What stranger must we hail ?"

But the haggard look of Donald's face

Made his faltering words to fail.

"It is a knight in some foreign guise,
His like did I never behold;

For the stony look of his beamless eyes
Made my very life-blood cold.

"I did him greet in fashion meet,

And bade him your feast partake,

But the voice that spoke, when he silence broke, Made the earth beneath me quake.

"O such a tone did tongue ne'er own

That dwelt in mortal head ;

It is like a sound from the hollow ground,-
Like the voice of the coffin'd dead.

"I bade him to your social board.

But in he will not hie,

Until at the gate this castle's lord

Shall entreat him courteously.

But his loosen'd limbs shook fast, and pour'd
The big drops from his brow,

As louder still the third time roar'd
The thundering gate below.

"O rouse thee, baron, for manhood's worth!
Let good or ill befall,

Thou must to the stranger knight go forth,
And ask him to your hall."

"Rouse thy bold breast," said each eager guest, "What boots it shrinking so?

Be it fiend, or sprite, or murder'd knight,
In God's name thou must go.

"Why shouldst thou fear? dost thou not wear
A gift from the great Glendower,
Sandals blest by a holy priest,

O'er which naught ill hath power?"

All ghastly pale did the baron quail,
As he turn'd him to the door,

And his sandals blest, by a holy priest,

Sound feebly on the floor.

Then back to the hall and his merry mates all,

He cast his parting eye,

"God send thee amain, safe back again!"

He heaved a heavy sigh.

Then listen'd they, on the lengthen'd way,
To his faint and lessening tread,

And, when that was past, to the wailing blast,
That wail'd as for the dead.

But wilder it grew, and stronger it blew,
And it rose with an elrich sound,
Till the lofty keep on its rocky steep,
Fell hurling to the ground.

Each fearful eye then glanced on high,
To the lofty-window'd wall,
When a fiery trace of the baron's face
Through the casements shone on all.

"And he stretch'd him the while with a ghastly But the vision'd glare pass'd through the air,

smile,

And sternly bade me say,

'Twas no depute's task your guest to ask

To the feast of the woody bay."

Pale grew the baron, and faintly said,
As he heaved his breath with pain,
"From such a feast as there was spread,
Do any return again?

"I bade my guest to a bloody feast,

Where the death's wound was his fare,

And the isle's bright maid, who my love betray'd,

She tore her raven hair.

And the raging tempest ceased, And never more on sea or shore, Was seen Lord John of the East.

The sandals, blest by a holy priest,
Lay unscath'd on the swarded green,
But never again on land or main,
Lord John of the East was seen.

MALCOM'S HEIR.

"The seafowl screams, and the watch-tower gleams, O Go not by Duntorloch's walls

And the deafening billows roar,

Where he unblest was put to rest,

On a wild and distant shore.

"Do the hollow grave and the whelming wave

Give up their dead again?

Doth the surgy waste waft o'er its breast

The spirits of the slain ?"

When the moon is in the wane,
And cross not o'er Duntorloch's bridge,
The farther bank to gain.

For there the Lady of the Stream
In dripping robes you'll spy,
A-singing to her pale, wan babe,
An elrich lullaby.

And stop not at the house of Merne,

On the eve of good Saint John,

For then the Swathed Knight walks his rounds With many a heavy moan.

All swathed is he in coffin weeds,

And a wound is in his breast,

And he points still to the gloomy vault,
Where they say his corse doth rest.
But pass not near Glencromar's tower,
Though the sun shine e'er so bright;
More dreaded is that in the noon of day,
Than these in the noon of night.

The nightshade rank grows in the court,
And snakes coil in the wall,
And bats lodge in the rifted spire,
And owls in the murky hall.

On it there shines no cheerful light,
But the deep-red setting sun
Gleams bloody red on its battlements
When day's fair course is run.
And fearfully in night's pale beams,

When the moon peers o'er the wood,
Its shadow grim stretch'd o'er the ground
Lies blackening many a rood.

No sweet bird's chirping there is heard,
No herd-boy's horn doth blow;

But the owlet hoots, and the pent blast sobs,
And loud croaks the carrion crow.

No marvel! for within its walls

Was done the deed unblest,

And in its noisome vaults the bones
Of a father's murderer rest.

He laid his father in the tomb
With deep and solemn wo,

As rumour tells, but righteous Heaven
Would not be mocked so.

There rest his bones in the mouldering earth,
By lord and by carle forgot;

But the foul, fell spirit that in them dwelt,
Rest hath it none, I wot!

"Another night," quoth Malcom's heir,
As he turn'd him fiercely round,
And closely clench'd his ireful hand,
And stamp'd upon the ground:
"Another night within your walls

I will not lay my head,

Though the clouds of heaven my roof should be,

And the cold, dank earth my bed.

"Your younger son has now your love, And my step-dame false your ear;

"Yet rest this night beneath my roof,
The wind blows cold and shrill,
With to-morrow's dawn, if it so must be,
E'en follow thy wayward will."

But nothing moved was Malcom's heir,
And never a word did he say,

But cursed his father in his heart,

And sternly strode away.

And his coal-black steed he mounted straight,
As twilight gather'd round,
And at his feet with eager speed

Ran Swain, his faithful hound.

Loud rose the blast, yet ne'ertheless
With furious speed rode he,

Till night, like the gloom of a cavern'd mine,
Had closed o'er tower and tree.

Loud rose the blast, thick fell the rain,
Keen flash'd the lightning red,

And loud the awful thunder roar'd

O'er his unshelter'd head.

At length full close before him shot
A flash of sheeted light,

And the high-arch'd gate of Glencromar's tower,
Glared on his dazzled sight.

His steed stood still, nor step would move,
Up look'd his wistful Swain,

And wagg'd his tail, and feebly whined;
He lighted down amain.

Through porch and court he pass'd, and still
His listening ear he bow'd,

Till beneath the hoofs of his trampling steed
The paved hall echoed loud.

And other echoes answer gave
From arches far and grand;

Close to his horse and his faithful dog

He took his fearful stand.

The night-birds shriek'd from the creviced roof,
And the fitful blast sung shrill;
But ere the midwatch of the night,
Were all things hush'd and still.
But in the midwatch of the night,
When hush'd was every sound,
Faint, doleful music struck his ear,

As if waked from the hollow ground.
And loud and louder still it grew,

And upward still it wore,

Till it seem'd at the end of the farthest aisle
To enter the eastern door.

O! never did music of mortal make
Such dismal sounds contain;

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And his are your hawks, and his are your hounds, A horrid elrich dirge it seem'd,

And his your dark-brown deer.

"To him you have given your noble steed, As fleet as the passing wind;

But me have you shamed before my friends,
Like the son of a base-born hind."
Then answered him the white-hair'd chief,
Dim was his tearful eye,

"Proud son, thy anger is all too keen,
Thy spirit is all too high.

A wild, unearthly strain.

The yell of pain, and the wail of wo,

And the short, shrill shriek of fear,
Through the winnowing sound of a furnace flame
Confusedly struck his ear.

And the serpent's hiss, and the tiger's growl,
And the famish'd vulture's cry,

Were mix'd at times, as with measured skill,
In this horrid harmony.

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