ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF CULLODEN
ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF CULLODEN
Take away that star and garter—Hide them from my aching sight:Neither king nor prince shall tempt meFrom my lonely room this night;Fitting for the throneless exileIs the atmosphere of pall,And the gusty winds that shiver'Neath the tapestry on the wall.When the taper faintly dwindlesLike the pulse within the vein,That to gay and merry measureNe'er may hope to bound again,Let the shadows gather round meWhile I sit in silence here,Broken-hearted, as an orphanWatching by his father's bier.Let me hold my still communionFar from every earthly sound—Day of penance—day of passion—Ever, as the year comes round;Fatal day, whereon the latestDie was cast for me and mine—Cruel day, that quelled the fortunesOf the hapless Stuart line!Phantom-like, as in a mirror,Rise the griesly scenes of death—There before me, in its wildness,Stretches bare Culloden's heath:There the broken clans are scattered,Gaunt as wolves, and famine-eyed,Hunger gnawing at their vitals,Hope abandoned, all but pride—Pride, and that supreme devotionWhich the Southron never knew,And the hatred, deeply rankling,'Gainst the Hanoverian crew.Oh, my God! are these the remnants,These the wrecks of the arrayThat around the royal standardGathered on the glorious day,When, in deep Glenfinnan's valley;Thousands, on their bended knees,Saw once more that stately ensignWaving in the northern breeze,When the noble TullibardineStood beneath its weltering fold,With the Ruddy Lion rampingIn the field of tressured gold,When the mighty heart of Scotland,All too big to slumber more,Burst in wrath and exultation,Like a huge volcano's roar?There they stand, the battered columns,Underneath the murky sky,In the hush of desperation,Not to conquer, but to die.Hark! the bagpipe's fitful wailing:Not the pibroch loud and shrill,That, with hope of bloody banquet,Lured the ravens from the hill,But a dirge both low and solemn,Fit for ears of dying men,Marshalled for their latest battle,Never more to fight again.Madness—madness! Why this shrinking?Were we less inured to warWhen our reapers swept the harvestFrom the field of red Dunbar?Bring my horse, and blow the trumpet!Call the riders of Fitz-James:Let Lord Lewis head the column!Valiant chiefs of mighty names—Trusty Keppoch, stout Glengarry,Gallant Gordon, wise Locheill—Bid the clansmen hold together,Fast, and fell, and firm as steel.Elcho, never look so gloomy—What avails a saddened brow?Heart, man, heart! we need it sorely,Never half so much, as now.Had we but a thousand troopers,Had we but a thousand more!Noble Perth, I hear them coming!—Hark! the English cannons' roar.God! how awful sounds that volley,Bellowing through the mist and rain!Was not that the Highland slogan?Let me hear that shout again!Oh, for prophet eyes to witnessHow the desperate battle goes!Cumberland! I would not fear thee,Could my Camerons see their foes.Sound, I say, the charge at venture—'Tis not naked steel we fear;Better perish in the mêléeThan be shot like driven deer;Hold! the mist begins to scatter!There in front 'tis rent asunder,And the cloudy bastion crumblesUnderneath the deafening thunder;There I see the scarlet gleaming!Now, Macdonald—now or never!—Woe is me, the clans are broken!Father, thou art lost for ever!Chief and vassal, lord and yeoman,There they lie in heaps together,Smitten by the deadly volley,Rolled in blood upon the heather;And the Hanoverian horsemen,Fiercely riding to and fro,Deal their murderous strokes at random.—Ah, my God! where am I now?Will that baleful vision neverVanish from my aching sight?Must those scenes and sounds of terrorHaunt me still by day and night?Yea, the earth hath no oblivionFor the noblest chance it gave,None, save in its latest refuge—Seek it only in the grave!Love may die, and hatred slumber,And their memory will decay,As the watered garden recks notOf the drought of yesterday;But the dream of power once broken,What shall give repose again?What shall charm the serpent-furiesCoiled around the maddening brain?What kind draught can nature offerStrong enough to lull their sting?Better to be born a peasantThan to live an exiled king!Oh, these years of bitter anguish!—What is life to such as me,With my very heart as palsiedAs a wasted cripple's knee!Suppliant-like for alms dependingOn a false and foreign court,Jostled by the flouting nobles,Half their pity, half their sport.Forced to hold a place in pageant,Like a royal prize of war,Walking with dejected featuresClose behind his victor's car,Styled an equal—deemed a servant—Fed with hopes of future gain—Worse by far is fancied freedomThan the captive's clanking chain!Could I change this gilded bondageEven for the dusky tower,Whence King James beheld his ladySitting in the castle bower;Birds around her sweetly singing,Fluttering on the kindling spray,And the comely garden glowingIn the light of rosy May.Love descended to the window—Love removed the bolt and bar—Love was warder to the loversFrom the dawn to even-star.Wherefore, Love, didst thou betray me?Where is now the tender glance?Where the meaning looks once lavishedBy the dark-eyed Maid of France?Where the words of hope she whispered,When around my neck she threwThat same scarf of broidered tissue,Bade me wear it and be true—Bade me send it as a tokenWhen my banner waved once moreOn the castled Keep of London,Where my fathers' waved before?And I went and did not conquer—But I brought it back again—Brought it back from storm and battle—Brought it back without a stain;And once more I knelt before her,And I laid it at her feet,Saying, "Wilt thou own it, Princess?There at least is no defeat!"Scornfully she looked upon meWith a measured eye and cold—Scornfully she viewed the token,Though her fingers wrought the gold;And she answered, faintly flushing,"Hast thou kept it, then, so long?Worthy matter for a minstrelTo be told in knightly song!Worthy of a bold Provençal,Pacing through the peaceful plain,Singing of his lady's favour,Boasting of her silken chain,Yet scarce worthy of a warriorSent to wrestle for a crown.Is this all that thou hast brought meFrom thy fields of high renown?Is this all the trophy carriedFrom the lands where thou hast been?It was broidered by a Princess,Canst thou give it to a Queen?"Woman's love is writ in water!Woman's faith is traced in sand!Backwards—backwards let me wanderTo the noble northern land:Let me feel the breezes blowingFresh along the mountain-side;Let me see the purple heather,Let me hear the thundering tide,Be it hoarse as CorrievreckanSpouting when the storm is high—Give me but one hour of Scotland—Let me see it ere I die!Oh, my heart is sick and heavy—Southern gales are not for me;Though the glens are white with winter,Place me there, and set me free;Give me back my trusty comrades—Give me back my Highland maid—Nowhere beats the heart so kindlyAs beneath the tartan plaid!Flora! when thou wert beside me,In the wilds of far Kintail—When the cavern gave us shelterFrom the blinding sleet and hail—When we lurked within the thicket,And, beneath the waning moon,Saw the sentry's bayonet glimmer,Heard him chant his listless tune—When the howling storm o'ertook us,Drifting down the island's lee,And our crazy bark was whirlingLike a nutshell on the sea—When the nights were dark and dreary,And amidst the fern we lay,Faint and foodless, sore with travel,Waiting for the streaks of day;When thou wert an angel to me,Watching my exhausted sleep—Never didst thou hear me murmur—Couldst thou see how now I weep!Bitter tears and sobs of anguish,Unavailing though they be:Oh, the brave—the brave and noble—That have died in vain for me!
Take away that star and garter—
Hide them from my aching sight:
Neither king nor prince shall tempt me
From my lonely room this night;
Fitting for the throneless exile
Is the atmosphere of pall,
And the gusty winds that shiver
'Neath the tapestry on the wall.
When the taper faintly dwindles
Like the pulse within the vein,
That to gay and merry measure
Ne'er may hope to bound again,
Let the shadows gather round me
While I sit in silence here,
Broken-hearted, as an orphan
Watching by his father's bier.
Let me hold my still communion
Far from every earthly sound—
Day of penance—day of passion—
Ever, as the year comes round;
Fatal day, whereon the latest
Die was cast for me and mine—
Cruel day, that quelled the fortunes
Of the hapless Stuart line!
Phantom-like, as in a mirror,
Rise the griesly scenes of death—
There before me, in its wildness,
Stretches bare Culloden's heath:
There the broken clans are scattered,
Gaunt as wolves, and famine-eyed,
Hunger gnawing at their vitals,
Hope abandoned, all but pride—
Pride, and that supreme devotion
Which the Southron never knew,
And the hatred, deeply rankling,
'Gainst the Hanoverian crew.
Oh, my God! are these the remnants,
These the wrecks of the array
That around the royal standard
Gathered on the glorious day,
When, in deep Glenfinnan's valley;
Thousands, on their bended knees,
Saw once more that stately ensign
Waving in the northern breeze,
When the noble Tullibardine
Stood beneath its weltering fold,
With the Ruddy Lion ramping
In the field of tressured gold,
When the mighty heart of Scotland,
All too big to slumber more,
Burst in wrath and exultation,
Like a huge volcano's roar?
There they stand, the battered columns,
Underneath the murky sky,
In the hush of desperation,
Not to conquer, but to die.
Hark! the bagpipe's fitful wailing:
Not the pibroch loud and shrill,
That, with hope of bloody banquet,
Lured the ravens from the hill,
But a dirge both low and solemn,
Fit for ears of dying men,
Marshalled for their latest battle,
Never more to fight again.
Madness—madness! Why this shrinking?
Were we less inured to war
When our reapers swept the harvest
From the field of red Dunbar?
Bring my horse, and blow the trumpet!
Call the riders of Fitz-James:
Let Lord Lewis head the column!
Valiant chiefs of mighty names—
Trusty Keppoch, stout Glengarry,
Gallant Gordon, wise Locheill—
Bid the clansmen hold together,
Fast, and fell, and firm as steel.
Elcho, never look so gloomy—
What avails a saddened brow?
Heart, man, heart! we need it sorely,
Never half so much, as now.
Had we but a thousand troopers,
Had we but a thousand more!
Noble Perth, I hear them coming!—
Hark! the English cannons' roar.
God! how awful sounds that volley,
Bellowing through the mist and rain!
Was not that the Highland slogan?
Let me hear that shout again!
Oh, for prophet eyes to witness
How the desperate battle goes!
Cumberland! I would not fear thee,
Could my Camerons see their foes.
Sound, I say, the charge at venture—
'Tis not naked steel we fear;
Better perish in the mêlée
Than be shot like driven deer;
Hold! the mist begins to scatter!
There in front 'tis rent asunder,
And the cloudy bastion crumbles
Underneath the deafening thunder;
There I see the scarlet gleaming!
Now, Macdonald—now or never!—
Woe is me, the clans are broken!
Father, thou art lost for ever!
Chief and vassal, lord and yeoman,
There they lie in heaps together,
Smitten by the deadly volley,
Rolled in blood upon the heather;
And the Hanoverian horsemen,
Fiercely riding to and fro,
Deal their murderous strokes at random.—
Ah, my God! where am I now?
Will that baleful vision never
Vanish from my aching sight?
Must those scenes and sounds of terror
Haunt me still by day and night?
Yea, the earth hath no oblivion
For the noblest chance it gave,
None, save in its latest refuge—
Seek it only in the grave!
Love may die, and hatred slumber,
And their memory will decay,
As the watered garden recks not
Of the drought of yesterday;
But the dream of power once broken,
What shall give repose again?
What shall charm the serpent-furies
Coiled around the maddening brain?
What kind draught can nature offer
Strong enough to lull their sting?
Better to be born a peasant
Than to live an exiled king!
Oh, these years of bitter anguish!—
What is life to such as me,
With my very heart as palsied
As a wasted cripple's knee!
Suppliant-like for alms depending
On a false and foreign court,
Jostled by the flouting nobles,
Half their pity, half their sport.
Forced to hold a place in pageant,
Like a royal prize of war,
Walking with dejected features
Close behind his victor's car,
Styled an equal—deemed a servant—
Fed with hopes of future gain—
Worse by far is fancied freedom
Than the captive's clanking chain!
Could I change this gilded bondage
Even for the dusky tower,
Whence King James beheld his lady
Sitting in the castle bower;
Birds around her sweetly singing,
Fluttering on the kindling spray,
And the comely garden glowing
In the light of rosy May.
Love descended to the window—
Love removed the bolt and bar—
Love was warder to the lovers
From the dawn to even-star.
Wherefore, Love, didst thou betray me?
Where is now the tender glance?
Where the meaning looks once lavished
By the dark-eyed Maid of France?
Where the words of hope she whispered,
When around my neck she threw
That same scarf of broidered tissue,
Bade me wear it and be true—
Bade me send it as a token
When my banner waved once more
On the castled Keep of London,
Where my fathers' waved before?
And I went and did not conquer—
But I brought it back again—
Brought it back from storm and battle—
Brought it back without a stain;
And once more I knelt before her,
And I laid it at her feet,
Saying, "Wilt thou own it, Princess?
There at least is no defeat!"
Scornfully she looked upon me
With a measured eye and cold—
Scornfully she viewed the token,
Though her fingers wrought the gold;
And she answered, faintly flushing,
"Hast thou kept it, then, so long?
Worthy matter for a minstrel
To be told in knightly song!
Worthy of a bold Provençal,
Pacing through the peaceful plain,
Singing of his lady's favour,
Boasting of her silken chain,
Yet scarce worthy of a warrior
Sent to wrestle for a crown.
Is this all that thou hast brought me
From thy fields of high renown?
Is this all the trophy carried
From the lands where thou hast been?
It was broidered by a Princess,
Canst thou give it to a Queen?"
Woman's love is writ in water!
Woman's faith is traced in sand!
Backwards—backwards let me wander
To the noble northern land:
Let me feel the breezes blowing
Fresh along the mountain-side;
Let me see the purple heather,
Let me hear the thundering tide,
Be it hoarse as Corrievreckan
Spouting when the storm is high—
Give me but one hour of Scotland—
Let me see it ere I die!
Oh, my heart is sick and heavy—
Southern gales are not for me;
Though the glens are white with winter,
Place me there, and set me free;
Give me back my trusty comrades—
Give me back my Highland maid—
Nowhere beats the heart so kindly
As beneath the tartan plaid!
Flora! when thou wert beside me,
In the wilds of far Kintail—
When the cavern gave us shelter
From the blinding sleet and hail—
When we lurked within the thicket,
And, beneath the waning moon,
Saw the sentry's bayonet glimmer,
Heard him chant his listless tune—
When the howling storm o'ertook us,
Drifting down the island's lee,
And our crazy bark was whirling
Like a nutshell on the sea—
When the nights were dark and dreary,
And amidst the fern we lay,
Faint and foodless, sore with travel,
Waiting for the streaks of day;
When thou wert an angel to me,
Watching my exhausted sleep—
Never didst thou hear me murmur—
Couldst thou see how now I weep!
Bitter tears and sobs of anguish,
Unavailing though they be:
Oh, the brave—the brave and noble—
That have died in vain for me!
Could I change this gilded bondageEven for the dusky towerWhence King James beheld his ladySitting in the castle bower.—(above).
James I. of Scotland, one of the most accomplished kings that ever sate upon a throne, is the person here indicated. His history is a very strange and romantic one. He was son of Robert III., and immediate younger brother of that unhappy Duke of Rothesay who was murdered at Falkland. His father, apprehensive of the designs and treachery of Albany, had determined to remove him, when a mere boy, for a season from Scotland; and as France was then considered the best school for the education of one so important from his high position, it was resolved to send him thither, under the care of the Earl of Orkney, and Fleming of Cumbernauld. He accordingly embarked at North Berwick, with little escort—as there was a truce for the time between England and Scotland; and they were under no apprehension of meeting with any vessels, save those of the former nation. Notwithstanding this, the ship which carried the Prince was captured by an armed merchantman, and carried to London, where Henry IV., the usurping Bolingbroke, utterly regardless of treaties, committed him and his attendants to the Tower.
"In vain," says Mr. Tytler, "did the guardians of the young Prince remonstrate against this cruelty, or present to Henry a letter from the King his father, which, with much simplicity, recommended him to the kindness of the English monarch, should he find it necessary to land in his dominions. In vain did they represent that the mission to France was perfectly pacific, and its only object the education of the prince at the French court. Henry merely answered by a poor witticism, declaring that he himself knew the French language indifferently well, and that his father could not have sent him to a better master. So flagrant a breach of the law of nations, as the seizure and imprisonment of the heir-apparent, during the time of truce, would have called for the most violent remonstrances from any government, except that of Albany. But to this usurper of the supreme power, the capture of the Prince was the most grateful event which could have happened; and to detain him in captivity became, from this moment, one of the principal objects of his future life; we are not to wonder, then, that the conduct of Henry not only drew forth no indignation from the governor, but was not even followed by any request that the prince should be set at liberty.
"The aged King, already worn out by infirmity, and now broken by disappointment and sorrow, did not long survive the captivity of his son. It is said the melancholy news were brought him as he was sitting down to supper in his palace of Rothesay in Bute, and that the effect was such upon his affectionate but feeble spirit, that he drooped from that day forward, refused all sustenance, and died soon after of a broken heart."
James was finally incarcerated in Windsor Castle, where he endured an imprisonment of nineteen years. Henry, though he had not hesitated to commit a heinous breach of faith, was not so cruel as to neglect the education of his captive. The young King was supplied with the best masters; and gradually became an adept in all the accomplishments of the age. He is a singular exception from the rule which maintains that monarchs are indifferent authors. As a poet, he is entitled to a very high rank indeed, being, I think, in point of sweetness and melody of verse, not much inferior to Chaucer. From the window of his chamber in the Tower, he had often seen a young lady, of great beauty and grace, walking in the garden; and the admiration which at once possessed him soon ripened into love. This was Lady Jane Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset and niece of Henry IV., and who afterwards became his queen. How he loved and how he wooed her is told in his own beautiful poem of "The King's Quhair," of which the following are a few stanzas:—
"Now there was made, fast by the towris wall,A garden fair; and in the corners setAn arbour green, with wandis long and smallRailed about, and so with trees setWas all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet,That lyf was none walking there forbye,That might within scarce any wight espy."So thick the boughis and the leavis greeneBeshaded all the alleys that there were,And mids of every arbour might be seenThe sharpe, greene, sweete juniper,Growing so fair, with branches here and there,That, as it seemed to a lyf without,The boughis spread the arbour all about."And on the smalle greene twistis satThe little sweet nightingale, and sungSo loud and clear the hymnis consecratOf lovis use, now soft, now loud among,That all the gardens and the wallis rungRight of their song."And therewith cast I down mine eyes again,Where as I saw, walking under the tower,Full secretly, now comen here to plain,The fairest or the freshest younge flowerThat e'er I saw, methought, before that hour:For which sudden abate, anon astartThe blood of all my body to my heart."And though I stood abasit for a lite,No wonder was; for why? my wittis allWere so o'ercome with pleasance and delight—Only through letting of my eyen fall—That suddenly my heart became her thrallFor ever of free will, for of menaceThere was no token in her sweete face."Wherefore, Love, didst thou betray me?Where is now the tender glance?Where the meaning looks once lavishedBy the dark-eyed Maid of France?—(above).
There appears to be no doubt that Prince Charles was deeply attached to one of the princesses of the royal family of France. In the interesting collection called "Jacobite Memoirs," compiled by Mr. Chambers from the voluminous MSS. of Bishop Forbes, we find the following passage from the narrative of Donald Macleod, who acted as a guide to the wanderer whilst traversing the Hebrides:—"When Donald was asked, if ever the Prince used to give any particular toast, when they were taking a cup of cold water, or the like; he said that the Prince very often drank to the Black Eye—by which, said Donald, he meant the second daughter of France, and I never heard him name any particular health but that alone. When he spoke of that lady—which he did frequently—he appeared to be more than ordinarily well pleased."
The "gentle Locheill" may he considered as the pattern of a Highland Chief. Others who headed the insurrection may have been actuated by motives of personal ambition, and by a desire for aggrandisement; but no such charge can be made against the generous and devoted Cameron. He was, as we have already seen, the first who attempted to dissuade the Prince from embarking in an enterprise which he conscientiously believed to be desperate; but, having failed in doing so, he nobly stood firm to the cause which his conscience vindicated as just, and cheerfully imperilled his life, and sacrificed his fortune, at the bidding of his master. There was no one, even among those who espoused the other side, in Scotland, who did not commiserate the misfortunes of this truly excellent man, whose humanity was not less conspicuous than his valour throughout the civil war, and who died in exile of a broken heart.
Perhaps the best type of the Lowland Cavalier of that period, may be found in the person of Alexander Forbes, Lord Pitsligo, a nobleman whose conscientious views impelled him to take a different side from that adopted by the greater part of his house and name. Lord Forbes, the head of this very ancient and honourable family, was one of the first Scottish noblemen who declared for King William. Lord Pitsligo, on the contrary, having been educated abroad, and early introduced to the circle at Saint Germains, conceived a deep personal attachment to the members of the exiled line. He was anything but an enthusiast, as his philosophical and religious writings, well worthy of a perusal, will show. He was the intimate friend of Fénélon, and throughout his whole life was remarkable rather for his piety and virtue, than for keenness in political dispute.
After his return from France, Lord Pitsligo took his seat in the Scottish Parliament, and his parliamentary career has thus been characterised by a former writer.[3] "Here it is no discredit either to his head or heart to say, that, obliged to become a member of one of the contending factions of the time, he adopted that which had for its object the independence of Scotland, and restoration of the ancient race of monarchs. The advantages which were in future to arise from the great measure of a national union were so hidden by the mist of prejudice, that it cannot be wondered at if Lord Pitsligo, like many a high-spirited man, saw nothing but disgrace in a measure forced on by such corrupt means, and calling in its commencement for such mortifying national sacrifices. The English nation, indeed, with a narrow, yet not unnatural, view of their own interest, took such pains to encumber and restrict the Scottish commercial privileges that it was not till the best part of a century after the event that the inestimable fruits of the treaty began to be felt and known. This distant period Lord Pitsligo could not foresee. He beheld his countrymen, like the Israelites of yore, led into the desert; but his merely human eye could not foresee that, after the extinction of a whole race—after a longer pilgrimage than that of the followers of Moses—the Scottish people should at length arrive at that promised land, of which the favourers of the Union held forth so gay a prospect.
"Looking upon the Act of Settlement of the Crown, and the Act of Abjuration, as unlawful, Lord Pitsligo retired to his house in the country, and threw up attendance on Parliament. Upon the death of Queen Anne he joined himself in arms with a general insurrection of the Highlanders and Jacobites, headed by his friend and relative the Earl of Mar.
"Mar, a versatile statesman and an able intriguer, had consulted his ambition rather than his talents when he assumed the command of such an enterprise. He sunk beneath the far superior genius of the Duke of Argyle; and after the undecisive battle of Sheriffmuir, the confederacy which he had formed, but was unable to direct, dissolved like a snow-ball, and the nobles concerned in it were fain to fly abroad. This exile was Lord Pitsligo's fate for five or six years. Part of the time he spent at the Court, if it can be called so, of the old Chevalier de Saint George, where existed all the petty feuds, chicanery, and crooked intrigues which subsist in a real scene of the same character, although the objects of the ambition which prompts such arts had no existence. Men seemed to play at being courtiers in that illusory court, as children play at being soldiers."
It would appear that Lord Pitsligo was not attainted for his share in Mar's rebellion. He returned to Scotland in 1720, and resided at his castle in Aberdeenshire, not mingling in public affairs, but gaining, through his charity, kindness, and benevolence, the respect and affection of all around him. He was sixty-seven years of age when Charles Edward landed in Scotland. The district in which the estates of Lord Pitsligo lay was essentially Jacobite, and the young cavaliers only waited for a fitting leader to take up arms in the cause. According to Mr. Home, his example was decisive of the movement of his neighbours: "So when he who was so wise and prudent declared his purpose of joining Charles, most of the gentlemen in that part of the country who favoured the Pretender's cause, put themselves under his command, thinking they could not follow a better or safer guide than Lord Pitsligo." His Lordship's own account of the motives which urged him on is peculiar:—"I was grown a little old, and the fear of ridicule stuck to me pretty much. I have mentioned the weightier considerations of a family, which would make the censure still the greater, and set the more tongues agoing. But we are pushed on, I know not how,—I thought—I weighed—and I weighed again. If there was any enthusiasm in it, it was of the coldest kind; and there was as little remorse when the affair miscarried, as there was eagerness at the beginning."
The writer whom I have already quoted goes on to say—"To those friends who recalled his misfortunes of 1715, he replied gaily, 'Did you ever know me absent at the second day of a wedding?' meaning, I suppose, that having once contracted an engagement, he did not feel entitled to quit it while the contest subsisted. Being invited by the gentlemen of the district to put himself at their head, and having surmounted his own desires, he had made a farewell visit at a neighbour's house, where a little boy, a child of the family, brought out a stool to assist the old nobleman in remounting his horse. 'My little fellow.' said Lord Pitsligo, 'this is the severest rebuke I have yet received, for presuming to go on such an expedition.'
"The die was however cast, and Lord Pitsligo went to meet his friends at the rendezvous they had appointed in Aberdeen. They formed a body of well-armed cavalry, gentlemen and their servants, to the number of a hundred men. When they were drawn up in readiness to commence the expedition, the venerable nobleman, their leader, moved to their front, lifted his hat, and, looking up to heaven, pronounced, with a solemn voice, the awful appeal,—'O Lord, thou knowest that our cause is just!' then added the signal for departure—'March, gentlemen!'
"Lord Pitsligo, with his followers, found Charles at Edinburgh, on 8th October 1745, a few days after the Highlanders' victory at Preston. Their arrival was hailed with enthusiasm, not only on account of the timely reinforcement, but more especially from the high character of their leader. Hamilton of Bangour, in an animated and eloquent eulogium upon Pitsligo, states that nothing could have fallen out more fortunately for the Prince than his joining them did—for it seemed as if religion, virtue, and justice were entering his camp, under the appearance of this venerable old man; and what would have given sanction to a cause of the most dubious right, could not fail to render sacred the very best."
Although so far advanced in years, he remained in arms during the whole campaign, and was treated with almost filial tenderness by the Prince. After Culloden, he became, like many more, a fugitive and an outlaw, but succeeded, like the Baron of Bradwardine, in finding a shelter upon the skirts of his own estate. Disguised as a mendicant, his secret was faithfully kept by the tenantry; and although it was more than surmised by the soldiers that he was lurking somewhere in the neighbourhood, they never were able to detect him. On one occasion he actually guided a party to a cave on the sea-shore, amidst the rough rocks of Buchan, where it was rumoured that he was lying in concealment; and on another, when overtaken by his asthma, and utterly unable to escape from an approaching patrol of soldiers, he sat down by the wayside, and acted his assumed character so well, that a good-natured fellow not only gave him alms, but condoled with him on the violence of his complaint.
For ten years he remained concealed, but in the mean time both title and estate were forfeited by attainder. His last escape was so very remarkable, that I may be pardoned for giving it in the language of the author of his memoirs.
"In March 1756, and of course long after all apprehension of a search had ceased, information having been given to the commanding officer at Fraserburgh, that Lord Pitsligo was at that moment at the house of Auchiries, it was acted upon with so much promptness and secrecy that the search must have proved successful but for a very singular occurrence. Mrs. Sophia Donaldson, a lady who lived much with the family, repeatedly dreamt, on that particular night, that the house was surrounded by soldiers. Her mind became so haunted with the idea, that she got out of bed, and was walking through the room, in hopes of giving a different current to her thoughts before she lay down again; when, day beginning to dawn, she accidentally looked out at the window as she passed it in traversing the room, and was astonished at actually observing the figures of soldiers among some trees near the house. So completely had all idea of a search been by that time laid asleep, that she supposed they had come to steal poultry—Jacobite poultry-yards affording a safe object of pillage for the English soldiers in those days. Mrs. Sophia was proceeding to rouse the servants, when her sister, having awaked, and inquiring what was the matter, and being told of soldiers near the house, exclaimed in great alarm, that she feared they wanted something more than hens. She begged Mrs. Sophia to look out at a window on the other side of the house, when not only were soldiers seen in that direction, but also an officer giving instructions by signal, and frequently putting his fingers to his lips, as if enjoining silence.
There was now no time to be lost in rousing the family, and all the haste that could be made was scarcely sufficient to hurry the venerable man from his bed into a small recess, behind the wainscot of an adjoining room, which was concealed by a bed, in which a lady, Miss Gordon of Towie, who was there on a visit, lay, before the soldiers obtained admission. A most minute search took place. The room in which Lord Pitsligo was concealed did not escape. Miss Gordon's bed was carefully examined, and she was obliged to suffer the rude scrutiny of one of the party, by feeling her chin, to ascertain that it was not a man in a lady's night-dress. Before the soldiers had finished their examination in this room, the confinement and anxiety increased Lord Pitsligo's asthma so much, and his breathing became so loud, that it cost Miss Gordon, lying in bed, much and violent coughing, which she counterfeited, in order to prevent the high breathings behind the wainscot from being heard.
It may be easily conceived what agony she would suffer, lest, by overdoing her part, she should increase suspicion, and in fact lead to a discovery. The ruse was fortunately successful. On the search through the house being given over, Lord Pitsligo was hastily taken from his confined situation, and again replaced in bed; and, as soon as he was able to speak, his accustomed kindness of heart made him say to his servant—'James, go and see that these poor fellows get some breakfast and a drink of warm ale, for this is a cold morning; they are only doing their duty, and cannot bear me any ill-will.' When the family were felicitating each other on his escape, he pleasantly observed—'A poor prize, had they obtained it—an old dying man!'"
This was the last attempt made on the part of government to seize on the persons of any of the surviving insurgents. Three years before, Dr. Archibald Cameron, a brother of Locheill, having clandestinely revisited Scotland, was arrested, tried, and executed for high treason at Tyburn. The government was generally blamed for this act of severity, which was considered rather to have been dictated by revenge than required for the public safety. It is, however, probable that they might have had secret information of certain negotiations which were still conducted in the Highlands by the agents of the Stuart family, and that they considered it necessary, by one terrible example, to overawe the insurrectionary spirit. This I believe to have been the real motive of an execution which otherwise could not have been palliated: and, in the case of Lord Pitsligo, it is quite possible that the zeal of a partisan may have led him to take a step which would not have been approved of by the ministry. After the lapse of so many years, and after so many scenes of judicial bloodshed, the nation would have turned in disgust from the spectacle of an old man, whose private life was not only blameless, but exemplary, dragged to the scaffold, and forced to lay down his head in expiation of a doubtful crime: and this view derives corroboration from the fact that, shortly afterwards, Lord Pitsligo was tacitly permitted to return to the society of his friends, without further notice or persecution.
Dr. King, the Principal of St. Mary's Hall, Oxford, has borne the following testimony to the character of Lord Pitsligo. "Whoever is so happy, either from his natural disposition, or his good judgment, constantly to observe St. Paul's precept, 'to speak evil of no one' will certainly acquire the love and esteem of the whole community of which he is a member. But such a man is therara avis in terris; and, among all my acquaintance, I have known only one person to whom I can with truth assign this character. The person I mean is the present Lord Pitsligo of Scotland. I not only never heard this gentleman speak an ill word of any man living, but I always observed him ready to defend any other person who was ill spoken of in his company. If the person accused were of his acquaintance, my Lord Pitsligo would always find something good to say of him as a counterpoise. If he were a stranger, and quite unknown to him, my lord would urge in his defence the general corruption of manners, and the frailties and infirmities of human nature.
"It is no wonder that such an excellent man, who, besides, is a polite scholar, and has many other great and good qualities, should be universally admired and beloved—insomuch, that I persuade myself he has not one enemy in the world. At least, to this general esteem and affection for his person, his preservation must be owing; for since his attainder he has never removed far from his own house, protected by men of different principles, and unsought for and unmolested by government." To which eulogy it might be added, by those who have the good fortune to know his representatives, that the virtues here acknowledged seem hereditary in the family of Pitsligo.
The venerable old nobleman was permitted to remain without molestation at the residence of his son, during the latter years of an existence protracted to the extreme verge of human life. And so, says the author of his memoirs, "In this happy frame of mind,—calm and full of hope,—the saintly man continued to the last, with his reason unclouded, able to study his favourite volume, enjoying the comforts of friendship, and delighting in the consolations of religion, till he gently 'fell asleep in Jesus.' He died on the 21st of December, 1762, in the eighty-fifth year of his age; and to his surviving friends the recollection of the misfortunes which had accompanied him through his long life was painfully awakened even in the closing scene of his mortal career—as his son had the mortification to be indebted to a stranger, now the proprietor of his ancient inheritance by purchase from the crown, for permission to lay his father's honoured remains in the vault which contained the ashes of his family for many generations."
Such a character as this is well worthy of remembrance; and Lord Pitsligo has just title to be called the last of the old Scottish Cavaliers. I trust that, in adapting the words of the following little ballad to a well-known English air, I have committed no unpardonable larceny.
FOOTNOTES:
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 3: SeeBlackwood's Magazinefor May 1829.—Article "Lord Pitsligo."]
I.Come listen to another song,Should make your heart beat high,Bring crimson to your forehead,And the lustre to your eye;—It is a song of olden time,Of days long since gone by,And of a Baron stout and boldAs e'er wore sword on thigh!Like a brave old Scottish cavalier,All of the olden time!II.He kept his castle in the north,Hard by the thundering Spey;And a thousand vassals dwelt aroundAll of his kindred they.And not a man of all that clanHad ever ceased to prayFor the Royal race they loved so well,Though exiled far awayFrom the steadfast Scottish cavaliers,All of the olden time!III.His father drew the righteous swordFor Scotland and her claims,Among the loyal gentlemenAnd chiefs of ancient namesWho swore to fight or fall beneathThe standard of King James,And died at Killiecrankie passWith the glory of the Graemes;Like a true old Scottish cavalier,All of the olden time!IV.He never owned the foreign rule,No master he obeyed,But kept his clan in peace at home,From foray and from raid;And when they asked him for his oath,He touched his glittering blade,And pointed to his bonnet blue,That bore the white cockade:Like a leal old Scottish cavalier,All of the olden time!V.At length the news ran through the land—THE PRINCE had come again!That night the fiery cross was spedO'er mountain and through glen;And our old Baron rose in might,Like a lion from his den,And rode away across the hillsTo Charlie and his men,With the valiant Scottish cavaliers,All of the olden time!VI.He was the first that bent the kneeWhen the STANDARD waved abroad,He was the first that charged the foeOn Preston's bloody sod;And ever, in the van of fight,The foremost still he trod,Until, on bleak Culloden's heath,He gave his soul to God,Like a good old Scottish cavalier,All of the olden time!VII.Oh! never shall we know againA heart so stout and true—The olden times have passed away,And weary are the new:The fair White Rose has fadedFrom the garden where it grew,And no fond tears save those of heavenThe glorious bed bedewOf the last old Scottish cavalier,All of the olden time!
I.
Come listen to another song,Should make your heart beat high,Bring crimson to your forehead,And the lustre to your eye;—It is a song of olden time,Of days long since gone by,And of a Baron stout and boldAs e'er wore sword on thigh!Like a brave old Scottish cavalier,All of the olden time!
Come listen to another song,
Should make your heart beat high,
Bring crimson to your forehead,
And the lustre to your eye;—
It is a song of olden time,
Of days long since gone by,
And of a Baron stout and bold
As e'er wore sword on thigh!
Like a brave old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!
II.
He kept his castle in the north,Hard by the thundering Spey;And a thousand vassals dwelt aroundAll of his kindred they.And not a man of all that clanHad ever ceased to prayFor the Royal race they loved so well,Though exiled far awayFrom the steadfast Scottish cavaliers,All of the olden time!
He kept his castle in the north,
Hard by the thundering Spey;
And a thousand vassals dwelt around
All of his kindred they.
And not a man of all that clan
Had ever ceased to pray
For the Royal race they loved so well,
Though exiled far away
From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers,
All of the olden time!
III.
His father drew the righteous swordFor Scotland and her claims,Among the loyal gentlemenAnd chiefs of ancient namesWho swore to fight or fall beneathThe standard of King James,And died at Killiecrankie passWith the glory of the Graemes;Like a true old Scottish cavalier,All of the olden time!
His father drew the righteous sword
For Scotland and her claims,
Among the loyal gentlemen
And chiefs of ancient names
Who swore to fight or fall beneath
The standard of King James,
And died at Killiecrankie pass
With the glory of the Graemes;
Like a true old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!
IV.
He never owned the foreign rule,No master he obeyed,But kept his clan in peace at home,From foray and from raid;And when they asked him for his oath,He touched his glittering blade,And pointed to his bonnet blue,That bore the white cockade:Like a leal old Scottish cavalier,All of the olden time!
He never owned the foreign rule,
No master he obeyed,
But kept his clan in peace at home,
From foray and from raid;
And when they asked him for his oath,
He touched his glittering blade,
And pointed to his bonnet blue,
That bore the white cockade:
Like a leal old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!
V.
At length the news ran through the land—THE PRINCE had come again!That night the fiery cross was spedO'er mountain and through glen;And our old Baron rose in might,Like a lion from his den,And rode away across the hillsTo Charlie and his men,With the valiant Scottish cavaliers,All of the olden time!
At length the news ran through the land—
THE PRINCE had come again!
That night the fiery cross was sped
O'er mountain and through glen;
And our old Baron rose in might,
Like a lion from his den,
And rode away across the hills
To Charlie and his men,
With the valiant Scottish cavaliers,
All of the olden time!
VI.
He was the first that bent the kneeWhen the STANDARD waved abroad,He was the first that charged the foeOn Preston's bloody sod;And ever, in the van of fight,The foremost still he trod,Until, on bleak Culloden's heath,He gave his soul to God,Like a good old Scottish cavalier,All of the olden time!
He was the first that bent the knee
When the STANDARD waved abroad,
He was the first that charged the foe
On Preston's bloody sod;
And ever, in the van of fight,
The foremost still he trod,
Until, on bleak Culloden's heath,
He gave his soul to God,
Like a good old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!
VII.
Oh! never shall we know againA heart so stout and true—The olden times have passed away,And weary are the new:The fair White Rose has fadedFrom the garden where it grew,And no fond tears save those of heavenThe glorious bed bedewOf the last old Scottish cavalier,All of the olden time!
Oh! never shall we know again
A heart so stout and true—
The olden times have passed away,
And weary are the new:
The fair White Rose has faded
From the garden where it grew,
And no fond tears save those of heaven
The glorious bed bedew
Of the last old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!
Place me once more, my daughter, where the sunMay shine upon my old and time-worn head,For the last time, perchance. My race is run;And soon amidst the ever-silent deadI must repose, it may be, half forgot.Yes! I have broke the hard and bitter breadFor many a year, with those who trembled notTo buckle on their armour for the fight,And set themselves against the tyrant's lot;And I have never bowed me to his might,Nor knelt before him—for I bear withinMy heart the sternest consciousness of right,And that perpetual hate of gilded sinWhich made me what I am; and though the stainOf poverty be on me, yet I winMore honour by it, than the blinded trainWho hug their willing servitude, and bowUnto the weakest and the most profane.Therefore, with unencumbered soul I goBefore the footstool of my Maker, whereI hope to stand as undebased as now!Child! is the sun abroad? I feel my hairBorne up and wafted by the gentle wind,I feel the odours that perfume the air,And hear the rustling of the leaves behind.Within my heart I picture them, and thenI almost can forget that I am blind,And old, and hated by my fellow-men.Yet would I fain once more behold the graceOf nature ere I die, and gaze againUpon her living and rejoicing face—Fain would I see thy countenance, my child,My comforter! I feel thy dear embrace—I hear thy voice, so musical, and mild,The patient, sole interpreter, by whomSo many years of sadness are beguiled;For it hath made my small and scanty roomPeopled with glowing visions of the past.But I will calmly bend me to my doom,And wait the hour which is approaching fast,When triple light shall stream upon mine eyes,And heaven itself be opened up at lastTo him who dared foretell its mysteries.I have had visions in this drear eclipseOf outward consciousness, and clomb the skies,Striving to utter with my earthly lipsWhat the diviner soul had half divined,Even as the Saint in his ApocalypseWho saw the inmost glory, where enshrinedSat He who fashioned glory. This hath drivenAll outward strife and tumult from my mind,And humbled me, until I have forgivenMy bitter enemies, and only seekTo find the straight and narrow path to heaven.Yet I am weak—oh! how entirely weak,For one who may not love nor suffer more!Sometimes unbidden tears will wet my cheek,And my heart bound as keenly as of yore,Responsive to a voice, now hushed to rest,Which made the beautiful Italian shore,In all its pomp of summer vineyards drest,An Eden and a Paradise to me.Do the sweet breezes from the balmy westStill murmur through thy groves, Parthenope,In search of odours from the orange bowers?Still on thy slopes of verdure does the beeCull her rare honey from the virgin flowers?And Philomel her plaintive chaunt prolong'Neath skies more calm and more serene than ours,Making the summer one perpetual song?Art thou the same as when in manhood's prideI walked in joy thy grassy meads among,With that fair youthful vision by my side,In whose bright eyes I looked—and not in vain?O my adored angel! O my bride!Despite of years, and woe, and want, and pain,My soul yearns back towards thee, and I seemTo wander with thee, hand in hand, again,By the bright margin of that flowing stream.I hear again thy voice, more silver-sweetThan fancied music floating in a dream,Possess my being; from afar I greetThe waving of thy garments in the glade,And the light rustling of thy fairy feet—What time as one half eager, half afraid,Love's burning secret faltered on my tongue,And tremulous looks and broken words betrayedThe secret of the heart from whence they sprung.Ah me! the earth that rendered thee to heavenGave up an angel beautiful and young,Spotless and pure as snow when freshly driven:A bright Aurora for the starry sphereWhere all is love, and even life forgiven.Bride of immortal beauty—ever dear!Dost thou await me in thy blest abode?While I, Tithonus-like, must linger here,And count each step along the rugged road;A phantom, tottering to a long-made grave,And eager to lay down my weary load!I, who was fancy's lord, am fancy's slave.Like the low murmurs of the Indian shellTa'en from its coral bed beneath the wave,Which, unforgetful of the ocean's swell,Retains within its mystic urn the humHeard in the sea-grots where the Nereids dwell—Old thoughts still haunt me—unawares they comeBetween me and my rest, nor can I makeThose aged visitors of sorrow dumb.Oh, yet awhile, my feeble soul, awake!Nor wander back with sullen steps again;For neither pleasant pastime canst thou takeIn such a journey, nor endure the pain.The phantoms of the past are dead for thee;So let them ever uninvoked remain,And be thou calm, till death shall set thee free.Thy flowers of hope expanded long ago,Long since their blossoms withered on the tree:No second spring can come to make them blow,But in the silent winter of the graveThey lie with blighted love and buried woe.I did not waste the gifts which nature gave,Nor slothful lay in the Circéan bower;Nor did I yield myself the willing slaveOf lust for pride, for riches, or for power.No! in my heart a nobler spirit dwelt;For constant was my faith in manhood's dower;Man—made in God's own image—and I feltHow of our own accord we courted shame,Until to idols like ourselves we knelt,And so renounced the great and glorious claimOf freedom, our immortal heritage.I saw how bigotry, with spiteful aim,Smote at the searching eyesight of the sage,How error stole behind the steps of truth,And cast delusion on the sacred page.So, as a champion, even in early youthI waged my battle with a purpose keen;Nor feared the hand of terror, nor the toothOf serpent jealousy. And I have beenWith starry Galileo in his cell,That wise magician with the brow serene,Who fathomed space; and I have seen him tellThe wonders of the planetary sphere,And trace the ramparts of heaven's citadelOn the cold flag-stones of his dungeon drear.And I have walked with Hampden and with Vane—Names once so gracious to an English ear—In days that never may return again.My voice, though not the loudest, hath been heardWhenever freedom raised her cry of pain,And the faint effort of the humble bardHath roused up thousands from their lethargy,To speak in words of thunder. What rewardWas mine, or theirs? It matters not; for IAm but a leaf cast on the whirling tide,Without a hope or wish, except to die.But truth, asserted once, must still abide,Unquenchable, as are those fiery springsWhich day and night gush from the mountain-side,Perpetual meteors girt with lambent wings,Which the wild tempest tosses to and fro,But cannot conquer with the force it brings.Yet I, who ever felt another's woeMore keenly than my own untold distress;I, who have battled with the common foe,And broke for years the bread of bitterness;Who never yet abandoned or betrayedThe trust vouchsafed me, nor have ceased to bless,Am left alone to wither in the shade,A weak old man, deserted by his kind—Whom none will comfort in his age, nor aid!Oh! let me not repine! A quiet mind,Conscious and upright, needs no other stay;Nor can I grieve for what I leave behind,In the rich promise of eternal day.Henceforth to me the world is dead and gone,Its thorns unfelt, its roses cast away:And the old pilgrim, weary and alone,Bowed down with travel, at his Master's gateNow sits, his task of life-long labour done,Thankful for rest, although it comes so late,After sore journey through this world of sin,In hope, and prayer, and wistfulness to wait,Until the door shall ope, and let him in.
Place me once more, my daughter, where the sunMay shine upon my old and time-worn head,For the last time, perchance. My race is run;And soon amidst the ever-silent deadI must repose, it may be, half forgot.Yes! I have broke the hard and bitter breadFor many a year, with those who trembled notTo buckle on their armour for the fight,And set themselves against the tyrant's lot;And I have never bowed me to his might,Nor knelt before him—for I bear withinMy heart the sternest consciousness of right,And that perpetual hate of gilded sinWhich made me what I am; and though the stainOf poverty be on me, yet I winMore honour by it, than the blinded trainWho hug their willing servitude, and bowUnto the weakest and the most profane.Therefore, with unencumbered soul I goBefore the footstool of my Maker, whereI hope to stand as undebased as now!Child! is the sun abroad? I feel my hairBorne up and wafted by the gentle wind,I feel the odours that perfume the air,And hear the rustling of the leaves behind.Within my heart I picture them, and thenI almost can forget that I am blind,And old, and hated by my fellow-men.Yet would I fain once more behold the graceOf nature ere I die, and gaze againUpon her living and rejoicing face—Fain would I see thy countenance, my child,My comforter! I feel thy dear embrace—I hear thy voice, so musical, and mild,The patient, sole interpreter, by whomSo many years of sadness are beguiled;For it hath made my small and scanty roomPeopled with glowing visions of the past.But I will calmly bend me to my doom,And wait the hour which is approaching fast,When triple light shall stream upon mine eyes,And heaven itself be opened up at lastTo him who dared foretell its mysteries.I have had visions in this drear eclipseOf outward consciousness, and clomb the skies,Striving to utter with my earthly lipsWhat the diviner soul had half divined,Even as the Saint in his ApocalypseWho saw the inmost glory, where enshrinedSat He who fashioned glory. This hath drivenAll outward strife and tumult from my mind,And humbled me, until I have forgivenMy bitter enemies, and only seekTo find the straight and narrow path to heaven.
Place me once more, my daughter, where the sun
May shine upon my old and time-worn head,
For the last time, perchance. My race is run;
And soon amidst the ever-silent dead
I must repose, it may be, half forgot.
Yes! I have broke the hard and bitter bread
For many a year, with those who trembled not
To buckle on their armour for the fight,
And set themselves against the tyrant's lot;
And I have never bowed me to his might,
Nor knelt before him—for I bear within
My heart the sternest consciousness of right,
And that perpetual hate of gilded sin
Which made me what I am; and though the stain
Of poverty be on me, yet I win
More honour by it, than the blinded train
Who hug their willing servitude, and bow
Unto the weakest and the most profane.
Therefore, with unencumbered soul I go
Before the footstool of my Maker, where
I hope to stand as undebased as now!
Child! is the sun abroad? I feel my hair
Borne up and wafted by the gentle wind,
I feel the odours that perfume the air,
And hear the rustling of the leaves behind.
Within my heart I picture them, and then
I almost can forget that I am blind,
And old, and hated by my fellow-men.
Yet would I fain once more behold the grace
Of nature ere I die, and gaze again
Upon her living and rejoicing face—
Fain would I see thy countenance, my child,
My comforter! I feel thy dear embrace—
I hear thy voice, so musical, and mild,
The patient, sole interpreter, by whom
So many years of sadness are beguiled;
For it hath made my small and scanty room
Peopled with glowing visions of the past.
But I will calmly bend me to my doom,
And wait the hour which is approaching fast,
When triple light shall stream upon mine eyes,
And heaven itself be opened up at last
To him who dared foretell its mysteries.
I have had visions in this drear eclipse
Of outward consciousness, and clomb the skies,
Striving to utter with my earthly lips
What the diviner soul had half divined,
Even as the Saint in his Apocalypse
Who saw the inmost glory, where enshrined
Sat He who fashioned glory. This hath driven
All outward strife and tumult from my mind,
And humbled me, until I have forgiven
My bitter enemies, and only seek
To find the straight and narrow path to heaven.
Yet I am weak—oh! how entirely weak,For one who may not love nor suffer more!Sometimes unbidden tears will wet my cheek,And my heart bound as keenly as of yore,Responsive to a voice, now hushed to rest,Which made the beautiful Italian shore,In all its pomp of summer vineyards drest,An Eden and a Paradise to me.Do the sweet breezes from the balmy westStill murmur through thy groves, Parthenope,In search of odours from the orange bowers?Still on thy slopes of verdure does the beeCull her rare honey from the virgin flowers?And Philomel her plaintive chaunt prolong'Neath skies more calm and more serene than ours,Making the summer one perpetual song?Art thou the same as when in manhood's prideI walked in joy thy grassy meads among,With that fair youthful vision by my side,In whose bright eyes I looked—and not in vain?O my adored angel! O my bride!Despite of years, and woe, and want, and pain,My soul yearns back towards thee, and I seemTo wander with thee, hand in hand, again,By the bright margin of that flowing stream.I hear again thy voice, more silver-sweetThan fancied music floating in a dream,Possess my being; from afar I greetThe waving of thy garments in the glade,And the light rustling of thy fairy feet—What time as one half eager, half afraid,Love's burning secret faltered on my tongue,And tremulous looks and broken words betrayedThe secret of the heart from whence they sprung.Ah me! the earth that rendered thee to heavenGave up an angel beautiful and young,Spotless and pure as snow when freshly driven:A bright Aurora for the starry sphereWhere all is love, and even life forgiven.Bride of immortal beauty—ever dear!Dost thou await me in thy blest abode?While I, Tithonus-like, must linger here,And count each step along the rugged road;A phantom, tottering to a long-made grave,And eager to lay down my weary load!
Yet I am weak—oh! how entirely weak,
For one who may not love nor suffer more!
Sometimes unbidden tears will wet my cheek,
And my heart bound as keenly as of yore,
Responsive to a voice, now hushed to rest,
Which made the beautiful Italian shore,
In all its pomp of summer vineyards drest,
An Eden and a Paradise to me.
Do the sweet breezes from the balmy west
Still murmur through thy groves, Parthenope,
In search of odours from the orange bowers?
Still on thy slopes of verdure does the bee
Cull her rare honey from the virgin flowers?
And Philomel her plaintive chaunt prolong
'Neath skies more calm and more serene than ours,
Making the summer one perpetual song?
Art thou the same as when in manhood's pride
I walked in joy thy grassy meads among,
With that fair youthful vision by my side,
In whose bright eyes I looked—and not in vain?
O my adored angel! O my bride!
Despite of years, and woe, and want, and pain,
My soul yearns back towards thee, and I seem
To wander with thee, hand in hand, again,
By the bright margin of that flowing stream.
I hear again thy voice, more silver-sweet
Than fancied music floating in a dream,
Possess my being; from afar I greet
The waving of thy garments in the glade,
And the light rustling of thy fairy feet—
What time as one half eager, half afraid,
Love's burning secret faltered on my tongue,
And tremulous looks and broken words betrayed
The secret of the heart from whence they sprung.
Ah me! the earth that rendered thee to heaven
Gave up an angel beautiful and young,
Spotless and pure as snow when freshly driven:
A bright Aurora for the starry sphere
Where all is love, and even life forgiven.
Bride of immortal beauty—ever dear!
Dost thou await me in thy blest abode?
While I, Tithonus-like, must linger here,
And count each step along the rugged road;
A phantom, tottering to a long-made grave,
And eager to lay down my weary load!
I, who was fancy's lord, am fancy's slave.Like the low murmurs of the Indian shellTa'en from its coral bed beneath the wave,Which, unforgetful of the ocean's swell,Retains within its mystic urn the humHeard in the sea-grots where the Nereids dwell—Old thoughts still haunt me—unawares they comeBetween me and my rest, nor can I makeThose aged visitors of sorrow dumb.Oh, yet awhile, my feeble soul, awake!Nor wander back with sullen steps again;For neither pleasant pastime canst thou takeIn such a journey, nor endure the pain.The phantoms of the past are dead for thee;So let them ever uninvoked remain,And be thou calm, till death shall set thee free.Thy flowers of hope expanded long ago,Long since their blossoms withered on the tree:No second spring can come to make them blow,But in the silent winter of the graveThey lie with blighted love and buried woe.
I, who was fancy's lord, am fancy's slave.
Like the low murmurs of the Indian shell
Ta'en from its coral bed beneath the wave,
Which, unforgetful of the ocean's swell,
Retains within its mystic urn the hum
Heard in the sea-grots where the Nereids dwell—
Old thoughts still haunt me—unawares they come
Between me and my rest, nor can I make
Those aged visitors of sorrow dumb.
Oh, yet awhile, my feeble soul, awake!
Nor wander back with sullen steps again;
For neither pleasant pastime canst thou take
In such a journey, nor endure the pain.
The phantoms of the past are dead for thee;
So let them ever uninvoked remain,
And be thou calm, till death shall set thee free.
Thy flowers of hope expanded long ago,
Long since their blossoms withered on the tree:
No second spring can come to make them blow,
But in the silent winter of the grave
They lie with blighted love and buried woe.
I did not waste the gifts which nature gave,Nor slothful lay in the Circéan bower;Nor did I yield myself the willing slaveOf lust for pride, for riches, or for power.No! in my heart a nobler spirit dwelt;For constant was my faith in manhood's dower;Man—made in God's own image—and I feltHow of our own accord we courted shame,Until to idols like ourselves we knelt,And so renounced the great and glorious claimOf freedom, our immortal heritage.I saw how bigotry, with spiteful aim,Smote at the searching eyesight of the sage,How error stole behind the steps of truth,And cast delusion on the sacred page.So, as a champion, even in early youthI waged my battle with a purpose keen;Nor feared the hand of terror, nor the toothOf serpent jealousy. And I have beenWith starry Galileo in his cell,That wise magician with the brow serene,Who fathomed space; and I have seen him tellThe wonders of the planetary sphere,And trace the ramparts of heaven's citadelOn the cold flag-stones of his dungeon drear.And I have walked with Hampden and with Vane—Names once so gracious to an English ear—In days that never may return again.My voice, though not the loudest, hath been heardWhenever freedom raised her cry of pain,And the faint effort of the humble bardHath roused up thousands from their lethargy,To speak in words of thunder. What rewardWas mine, or theirs? It matters not; for IAm but a leaf cast on the whirling tide,Without a hope or wish, except to die.But truth, asserted once, must still abide,Unquenchable, as are those fiery springsWhich day and night gush from the mountain-side,Perpetual meteors girt with lambent wings,Which the wild tempest tosses to and fro,But cannot conquer with the force it brings.Yet I, who ever felt another's woeMore keenly than my own untold distress;I, who have battled with the common foe,And broke for years the bread of bitterness;Who never yet abandoned or betrayedThe trust vouchsafed me, nor have ceased to bless,Am left alone to wither in the shade,A weak old man, deserted by his kind—Whom none will comfort in his age, nor aid!
I did not waste the gifts which nature gave,
Nor slothful lay in the Circéan bower;
Nor did I yield myself the willing slave
Of lust for pride, for riches, or for power.
No! in my heart a nobler spirit dwelt;
For constant was my faith in manhood's dower;
Man—made in God's own image—and I felt
How of our own accord we courted shame,
Until to idols like ourselves we knelt,
And so renounced the great and glorious claim
Of freedom, our immortal heritage.
I saw how bigotry, with spiteful aim,
Smote at the searching eyesight of the sage,
How error stole behind the steps of truth,
And cast delusion on the sacred page.
So, as a champion, even in early youth
I waged my battle with a purpose keen;
Nor feared the hand of terror, nor the tooth
Of serpent jealousy. And I have been
With starry Galileo in his cell,
That wise magician with the brow serene,
Who fathomed space; and I have seen him tell
The wonders of the planetary sphere,
And trace the ramparts of heaven's citadel
On the cold flag-stones of his dungeon drear.
And I have walked with Hampden and with Vane—
Names once so gracious to an English ear—
In days that never may return again.
My voice, though not the loudest, hath been heard
Whenever freedom raised her cry of pain,
And the faint effort of the humble bard
Hath roused up thousands from their lethargy,
To speak in words of thunder. What reward
Was mine, or theirs? It matters not; for I
Am but a leaf cast on the whirling tide,
Without a hope or wish, except to die.
But truth, asserted once, must still abide,
Unquenchable, as are those fiery springs
Which day and night gush from the mountain-side,
Perpetual meteors girt with lambent wings,
Which the wild tempest tosses to and fro,
But cannot conquer with the force it brings.
Yet I, who ever felt another's woe
More keenly than my own untold distress;
I, who have battled with the common foe,
And broke for years the bread of bitterness;
Who never yet abandoned or betrayed
The trust vouchsafed me, nor have ceased to bless,
Am left alone to wither in the shade,
A weak old man, deserted by his kind—
Whom none will comfort in his age, nor aid!
Oh! let me not repine! A quiet mind,Conscious and upright, needs no other stay;Nor can I grieve for what I leave behind,In the rich promise of eternal day.Henceforth to me the world is dead and gone,Its thorns unfelt, its roses cast away:And the old pilgrim, weary and alone,Bowed down with travel, at his Master's gateNow sits, his task of life-long labour done,Thankful for rest, although it comes so late,After sore journey through this world of sin,In hope, and prayer, and wistfulness to wait,Until the door shall ope, and let him in.
Oh! let me not repine! A quiet mind,
Conscious and upright, needs no other stay;
Nor can I grieve for what I leave behind,
In the rich promise of eternal day.
Henceforth to me the world is dead and gone,
Its thorns unfelt, its roses cast away:
And the old pilgrim, weary and alone,
Bowed down with travel, at his Master's gate
Now sits, his task of life-long labour done,
Thankful for rest, although it comes so late,
After sore journey through this world of sin,
In hope, and prayer, and wistfulness to wait,
Until the door shall ope, and let him in.