NOTES.

The sunset sheds a horizontal smileO’er Highland frith and Hebridean isle,While, gay with gambols of its finny shoals,The glancing wave rejoices as it rollsWith streamered busses, that distinctly shineAll downward, pictured in the glassy brine;Whose crews, with faces brightening in the sun,Keep measure with their oars, and all in oneStrike up th’ old Gaelic song.—Sweep, rowers, sweep!The fisher’s glorious spoils are in the deep.Day sinks—but twilight owes the traveller soon,To reach his bourne, a round unclouded moon,Bespeaking long undarkened hours of time;False hope—the Scots are stedfast—not their clime.A war-worn soldier from the western land,Seeks Cona’s vale by Ballihoula’s strand;The vale by eagle-haunted cliffs o’erhung,Where Fingal fought and Ossian’s harp was strung.—Our veteran’s forehead, bronzed on sultry plains,Had stood the brunt of thirty fought campaigns;He well could vouch the sad romance of wars,And count the dates of battles by his scars;For he had served where o’er and o’er againBritannia’s oriflamme had lit the plainOf glory—and victorious stamped her nameOn Oudenarde’s and Blenheim’s fields of fame.Nine times in battlefield his blood had streamed,Yet vivid still his veteran blue eye gleamed;Full well he bore his knapsack—unoppressed—And marched with soldier-like erected crest:Nor sign of ev’n loquacious age he wore,Save when he told his life’s adventures o’er;Some tired of these; for terms to him were dearToo tactical by far for vulgar ear;As when he talked of rampart and ravine,And trenches fenced with gabion and fascine—But when his theme possessed him all and whole,He scorned proud puzzling words and warmed the soul;Hushed groups hung on his lips with fond surprise,That sketched old scenes—like pictures to their eyes:—The wide war-plain, with banners glowing bright,And bayonets to the farthest stretch of sight;The pause, more dreadful than the peal to comeFrom volleys blazing at the beat of drum—Till all the field of thundering lines becameTwo level and confronted sheets of flame.Then to the charge, when Marlbro’s hot pursuitTrode France’s gilded lilies underfoot;He came and kindled—and with martial lungWould chant the very march their trumpets sung.—The old soldier hoped, ere evening’s light should fail,To reach a home, south-east of Cona’s vale;But looking at Bennevis, capped with snow,He saw its mists come curling down below,And spread white darkness o’er the sunset glow;—Fast rolling like tempestuous Ocean’s spray,Or clouds from troops in battle’s fiery day—So dense, his quarry ’scaped the falcon’s sight,The owl alone exulted, hating light.Benighted thus our pilgrim groped his ground,Half ’twixt the river’s and the cataract’s sound.At last a sheep-dog’s bark informed his earSome human habitation might be near;Anon sheep-bleatings rose from rock to rock,—’Twas Luath hounding to their fold the flock.Ere long the cock’s obstreperous clarion rang,And next, a maid’s sweet voice, that spinning sang:At last amidst the greensward (gladsome sight!)A cottage stood, with straw roof golden bright.He knocked, was welcomed in; none asked his name,Nor whither he was bound, nor whence he came;But he was beckoned to the stranger’s seat,Right side the chimney fire of blazing peat.Blest Hospitality makes not her homeIn wallèd parks and castellated dome;She flies the city’s needy greedy crowd,And shuns still more the mansions of the proud;—The balm of savage or of simple life,A wild flower cut by culture’s polished knife!The house, no common sordid shieling cot,Spoke inmates of a comfortable lot.The Jacobite white rose festooned their door;The windows sashed and glazed, the oaken floor,The chimney graced with antlers of the deer,The rafters hung with meat for winter cheer,And all the mansion indicated plainIts master a superior shepherd swain.Their supper came—the table soon was spreadWith eggs and milk and cheese and barley bread.The family were three—a father hoar,Whose age you’d guess at seventy years or more,His son looked fifty—cheerful like her lord,His comely wife presided at the board;All three had that peculiar courteous graceWhich marks the meanest of the Highland race;Warm hearts that burn alike in weal and woe,As if the north wind fanned their bosoms’ glow!But wide unlike their souls: old Norman’s eyeWas proudly savage ev’n in courtesy.His sinewy shoulders—each, though aged and lean,Broad as the curled Herculean head between,His scornful lip, his eyes of yellow fire,And nostrils that dilated quick with ire.With ever downward-slanting shaggy brows,Marked the old lion you would dread to rouse.Norman, in truth, had led his earlier lifeIn raids of red revenge and feudal strife;Religious duty in revenge he saw,Proud Honour’s right and Nature’s honest law.First in the charge and foremost in pursuit,Long-breathed, deep-chested, and in speed of footA match for stags—still fleeter when the preyWas man, in persecution’s evil day;Cheered to that chase by brutal bold Dundee,No Highland hound had lapped more blood than he.Oft had he changed the covenanter’s breathFrom howls of psalmody to howls of death:And though long bound to peace, it irked him stillHis dirk had ne’er one hated foe to kill.Yet Norman had fierce virtues, that would mockCold-blooded tories of the modern stock,Who starve the breadless poor with fraud and cant;—He slew and saved them from the pangs of want.Nor was his solitary lawless charmMere dauntlessness of soul and strength of arm;He had his moods of kindness now and then,And feasted ev’n well-mannered lowland menWho blew not up his Jacobitish flame,Nor prefaced with “pretender” Charles’s name.Fierce, but by sense and kindness not unwon,He loved, respected ev’n his wiser son;And brooked from him expostulations sage,When all advisers else were spurned with rage.Far happier times had moulded Ronald’s mind,By nature too of more sagacious kind.His breadth of brow, and Roman shape of chin,Squared well with the firm man that reigned within.Contemning strife as childishness, he stoodWith neighbours on kind terms of neighbourhood,And whilst his father’s anger nought availed,Hisrational remonstrance never failed.Full skilfully he managed farm and fold,Wrote, ciphered, profitably bought and sold:And, blessed with pastoral leisure, deeply tookDelight to be informed, by speech or book,Of that wide world beyond his mountain home,Where oft his curious fancy loved to roam.Oft while his faithful dog ran round his flock,He read long hours when summer warmed the rock:Guests who could tell him aught were welcomed warm,Even pedlars’ news had to his mind a charm;That like an intellectual magnet-stoneDrew truth from judgments simpler than his own.His soul’s proud instinct sought not to enjoyRomantic fictions, like a minstrel boy;Truth, standing on her solid square, from youthHe worshipped—stern uncompromising truth.His goddess kindlier smiled on him, to findA votary of her light in land so blind;She bade majestic History unrollBroad views of public welfare to his soul,Until he looked on clannish feuds and foesWith scorn, as on the wars of kites and crows;Whilst doubts assailed him, o’er and o’er again,If men were made for kings or kings for men.At last, to Norman’s horror and dismay,He flat denied the Stuarts’ right to sway.No blow-pipe ever whitened furnace fire,Quick as these words lit up his father’s ire;Who envied even old Abraham for his faith,Ordained to put his only son to death.He started up—in such a mood of soulThe white bear bites his showman’s stirring pole;He danced too, and brought out, with snarl and howl,“O Dia! Dia! and Dioul! Dioul!”[100]But sense foils fury—as the blowing whaleSpouts, bleeds, and dyes the waves without avail—Wears out the cable’s length that makes him fast,But, worn himself, comes up harpooned at last—E’en so, devoid of sense, succumbs at lengthMere strength of zeal to intellectual strength.His son’s close logic so perplexed his pate,Th’ old hero rather shunned than sought debate;Exhausting his vocabulary’s storeOf oaths and nicknames, he could say no more,But tapp’d his mull,[101]rolled mutely in his chair,Or only whistled Killiecrankie’s air.Witch legends Ronald scorned—ghost, kelpie, wraith,And all the trumpery of vulgar faith;Grave matrons ev’n were shocked to hear him slightAuthenticated facts of second-sight—Yet never flinched his mockery to confoundThe brutal superstition reigning round.Reserved himself, still Ronald loved to scanMen’s natures—and he liked th’ old hearty man;So did the partner of his heart and life—Whopleased her Ronald, ne’er displeased his wife.His sense, ’tis true, compared with Norman’s son,Was commonplace—his tales too long outspun:Yet Allan Campbell’s sympathizing mindHad held large intercourse with human kind;Seen much, and gaily, graphically drewThe men of every country, clime, and hue;Nor ever stooped, though soldier-like his strain,To ribaldry of mirth or oath profane.All went harmonious till the guest beganTo talk about his kindred, chief and clan,And, with his own biography engrossed,Marked not the changed demeanour of each host;Nor how old choleric Norman’s cheek becameFlushed at the Campbell and Breadalbane name.Assigning, heedless of impending harm,Their stedfast silence to his story’s charm,He touched a subject perilous to touch—Saying, “’Midst this well-known vale I wondered muchTo lose my way. In boyhood, long ago,I roamed and loved each pathway of Glencoe;Trapped leverets, plucked wild berries on its braes,And fished along its banks long summer days.But times grew stormy—bitter feuds arose,Our clan was merciless to prostrate foes.I never palliated my chieftain’s blame,But mourned the sin, and reddened for the shameOf that foul morn (Heaven blot it from the year!)Whose shapes and shrieks still haunt my dreaming ear.What could I do? a serf—Glenlyon’s page,A soldier sworn at nineteen years of age;T’ have breathed one grieved remonstrance to our chief,The pit or gallows[102]would have cured my grief.Forced, passive as the musket in my hand,I marched—when, feigning royalty’s command,Against the clan Macdonald, Stairs’s lordSent forth exterminating fire and sword;And troops at midnight through the vale defiled,Enjoined to slaughter woman, man, and child.My clansmen many a year had cause to dreadThe curse that day entailed upon their head;Glenlyon’s self confessed the avenging spell—I saw it light on him.“It so befell:—A soldier from our ranks to death was brought,By sentence deemed too dreadful for his fault;All was prepared—the coffin and the cartStood near twelve muskets, levelled at his heart.The chief, whose breast for ruth had still some room,Obtained reprieve a day before his doom;—But of the awarded boon surmised no breath.The sufferer knelt, blindfolded, waiting death,—And met it. Though Glenlyon had desiredThe musketeers to watch before they fired;If from his pocket they should see he drewA handkerchief—their volley should ensue;But if he held a paper in its place,It should be hailed the sign of pardoning grace:—He, in a fatal moment’s absent fit,Drew forth the handkerchief, and not the writ;Wept o’er the corpse, and wrung his hands in woe,Crying ‘Here’s thy curse again—Glencoe! Glencoe!’”Though thus his guest spoke feelings just and clear,The cabin’s patriarch lent impatient ear;Wroth that, beneath his roof, a living manShould boast the swine-blood of the Campbell clan,He hastened to the door—called out his sonTo follow; walked a space, and thus begun:—“You have not, Ronald, at this day to learnThe oath I took beside my father’s cairn,When you were but a babe a twelvemonth born;Sworn on my dirk—by all that’s sacred, swornTo be revenged for blood that cries to Heaven—Blood unforgiveable, and unforgiven:But never power,since then, have I possessedTo plant my dagger in a Campbell’s breast.Now, here’s a self-accusing partisan,Steeped in the slaughter of Macdonald’s clan;I scorn his civil speech and sweet-lipped showOf pity—he is still our house’s foe:I’ll perjure not myself—but sacrificeThe caitiff ere to-morrow’s sun arise.Stand! hear me—you’re my son, the deed is just;And if I say—it must be done—it must:A debt of honour which my clansmen crave,Their very dead demand it from the grave.”Conjuring then their ghosts, he humbly prayedTheir patience till the blood-debt should be paid.But Ronald stopped him.—“Sir, Sir, do not dimYour honour by a moment’s angry whim;Your soul’s too just and generous, were you cool,To act at once the assassin and the fool.Bring me the men on whom revenge is due,And I will dirk them willingly as you!But all the real authors of that blackOld deed are gone—you cannot bring them back.And this poor guest, ’tis palpable to judge,In all his life ne’er bore our clan a grudge;Dragged when a boy against his will to shareThat massacre, he loathed the foul affair.Think, if your hardened heart be conscience-proof,To stab a stranger underneath your roof!One who has broken bread within your gate—Reflect—before reflection comes too late,—Such ugly consequences there may beAs judge and jury, rope and gallows-tree.The days of dirking snugly are gone by,Where could you hide the body privily,When search is made for’t?”“Plunge it in yon flood,That Campbells crimsoned with our kindred blood.”“Ay, but the corpse may float—”“Pshaw! dead men tellNo tales—nor will it float if leaded well.I am determined!”—What could Ronald do?No house within ear-reach of his halloo,Though that would but have published household shameHe temporized with wrath he could not tame,And said, “Come in, till night put off the deed,And ask a few more questions ere he bleed.”They entered; Norman with portentous airStrode to a nook behind the stranger’s chair,And, speaking nought, sat grimly in the shade,With dagger in his clutch beneath his plaid.His son’s own plaid, should Norman pounce his prey,Was coiled thick round his arm, to turn awayOr blunt the dirk. He purposed leaving freeThe door, and giving Allan time to flee,Whilst he should wrestle with (no safe emprise)His father’s maniac strength and giant size.Meanwhile he could nowise communicateThe impending peril to his anxious mate;But she, convinced no trifling matter nowDisturbed the wonted calm of Ronald’s brow,Divined too well the cause of gloom that lowered,And sat with speechless terror overpowered.Her face was pale, so lately blithe and bland,The stocking knitting-wire shook in her hand.But Ronald and the guest resumed their threadOf converse, still its theme that day of dread.“Much,” said the veteran, “much as I bemoanThat deed, when half a hundred years have flown,Still on one circumstance I can reflectThat mitigates the dreadful retrospect.A mother with her child before us flew,I had the hideous mandate to pursue;But swift of foot, outspeeding bloodier men,I chased, o’ertook her in the winding glen,And showed her palpitating, where to saveHerself and infant in a secret cave;Nor left them till I saw that they could mockPursuit and search within that sheltering rock.”“Heavens!” Ronald cried, in accents gladly wild,“That woman was my mother—I the child!Of you unknown by name she late and air,[103]Spoke, wept, and ever blessed you in her prayer,Ev’n to her death; describing you withalA well-looked florid youth, blue-eyed and tall.”They rose, exchanged embrace: the old lion thenUpstarted, metamorphosed, from his den;Saying, “Come and make thy home with us for life,Heaven-sent preserver of my child and wife.I fear thou’rt poor, that Hanoverian thingRewards his soldiers ill.”—“God save the king!”With hand upon his heart, old Allan said,“I wear his uniform, I eat his bread,And whilst I’ve tooth to bite a cartridge, allFor him and Britain’s fame I’ll stand or fall.”“Bravo!” cried Ronald. “I commend your zeal,”Quoth Norman, “and I see your heart is leal;But I have prayed my soul may never thriveIf thou shouldst leave this house of ours alive.Nor shalt thou; in this home protract thy breathOf easy life, nor leave it till thy death.”...The following morn arose serene as glass,And red Bennevis shone like molten brass;While sunrise opened flowers with gentle force,The guest and Ronald walked in long discourse.“Words fail me,” Allan said, “to thank arightYour father’s kindness shown me yesternight;Yet scarce I’d wish my latest days to spendA fireside fixture with the dearest friend:Besides, I’ve but a fortnight’s furlough now,To reach Macallin More,[104]beyond Lochawe.I’d fain memorialize the powers that be,To deign remembrance of my wounds and me;My life-long service never bore the brandOf sentence—lash—disgrace or reprimand.And so I’ve written, though in meagre style,A long petition to his Grace Argyle;I mean, on reaching Innerara’s shore,To leave it safe within his castle door.”“Nay,” Ronald said, “the letter that you bearEntrust it to no lying varlet’s care;But say a soldier of King George demandsAccess, to leave it in the Duke’s own hands.But show me, first, the epistle to your chief,’Tis nought, unless succinctly clear and brief;Great men have no great patience when they read,And long petitions spoil the cause they plead.”That day saw Ronald from the field full soonReturn; and when they all had dined at noon,He conned th’ old man’s memorial—lopped its length,And gave it style, simplicity, and strength;’Twas finished in an hour—and in the nextTranscribed by Allan in perspicuous text.At evening, he and Ronald shared once moreA long and pleasant walk by Cona’s shore.“I’d press you,” quoth his host—(“I need not sayHow warmly) ever more with us to stay;But Charles intends, ’tis said, in these same partsTo try the fealty of our Highland hearts.’Tis my belief, that he and all his lineHave—saving to be hanged—no right divine;From whose mad enterprise can only flowTo thousands slaughter, and to myriads woe.Yet have they stirred my father’s spirit sore,He flints his pistols—whets his old claymore—And longs as ardently to join the frayAs boy to dance who hears the bagpipe play.Though calm one day, the next, disdaining rule,He’d gore your red coat like an angry bull:I told him, and he owned it might be so,Your tempers never could in concert flow.But ‘Mark,’ he added, ‘Ronald! from our doorLet not this guest depart forlorn and poor;Let not your souls the niggardness evinceOf lowland pedlar, or of German prince;He gave you life—then feed him as you’d feedYour very father were he cast in need.’He gave—you’ll find it by your bed to-night,A leathern purse of crowns, all sterling bright:You see I do you kindness not by stealth.My wife—no advocate of squandering wealth—Vows that it would be parricide, or worse,Should we neglect you—here’s a silken purse,Some golden pieces through the network shine,’Tis proffered to you from her heart and mine.But come I no foolish delicacy, no!We own, but cannot cancel what we owe—This sum shall duly reach you once a year.”Poor Allan’s furrowed face, and flowing tear,Confessed sensations which he could not speak,Old Norman bade him farewell kindly meek.At morn, the smiling dame rejoiced to packWith viands full th’ old soldier’s havresack.He feared not hungry grass[105]with such a load,And Ronald saw him miles upon his road.A march of three days brought him to Lochfyne.Argyle, struck with his manly look benign,And feeling interest in the veteran’s lot,Created him a sergeant on the spot—An invalid, to serve not—but with pay(A mighty sum to him), twelve-pence a day.“But have you heard not,” said Macallin More,“Charles Stuart’s landed on Eriska’s shore,And Jacobites are arming?”—“What! indeed!Arrived! then I’m no more an invalid;My new-got halbert I must straight employIn battle.”—“As you please, old gallant boy:Your grey hairs well might plead excuse, ’tis true,But now’s the time we want such men as you.”In brief, at Innerara Allan stayed,And joined the banners of Argyle’s brigade.Meanwhile, th’ old choleric shepherd of GlencoeSpurned all advice, and girt himself to go.What was’t to him that foes would poind their fold,Their lease, their very beds beneath them sold!And firmly to his text he would have kept,Though Ronald argued and his daughter wept.But ’midst the impotence of tears and prayer,Chance snatched them from proscription and despairOld Norman’s blood was headward wont to mountToo rapid from his heart’s impetuous fount;And one day, whilst the German rats he cursed,An artery in his wise sensorium burst.The lancet saved him: but how changed, alas,From him who fought at Killiecrankie’s pass!Tame as a spaniel, timid as a child,He muttered incoherent words and smiled;He wept at kindness, rolled a vacant eye,And laughed full often when he meant to cry.Poor man! whilst in this lamentable state,Came Allan back one morning to his gate,Hale and unburdened by the woes of eild,And fresh with credit from Culloden’s field.’Twas feared at first, the sight of him might touchThe old Macdonald’s morbid mind too much;But no! though Norman knew him and disclosed,Ev’n rallying memory, he was still composed;Asked all particulars of the fatal fight,And only heaved a sigh for Charles’s flight;Then said, with but one moment’s pride of air,“It might not have been so had I been there!”Few days elapsed till he reposed beneathHis grey cairn, on the wild and lonely heath;Son, friends, and kindred of his dust took leave,And Allan, with the crape bound round his sleeve.Old Allan now hung up his sergeant’s sword,And sat, a guest for life, at Ronald’s board.He waked no longer at the barrack’s drum,Yet still you’d see, when peep of day was come,Th’ erect tall red-coat, walking pastures round,Or delving with his spade the garden ground,Of cheerful temper, habits strict and sage,He reached, enjoyed a patriarchal age—Loved to the last by the Macdonalds. NearTheir house, his stone was placed with many a tear;And Ronald’s self, in stoic virtue brave,Scorned not to weep at Allan Campbell’s grave.

The sunset sheds a horizontal smile

O’er Highland frith and Hebridean isle,

While, gay with gambols of its finny shoals,

The glancing wave rejoices as it rolls

With streamered busses, that distinctly shine

All downward, pictured in the glassy brine;

Whose crews, with faces brightening in the sun,

Keep measure with their oars, and all in one

Strike up th’ old Gaelic song.—Sweep, rowers, sweep!

The fisher’s glorious spoils are in the deep.

Day sinks—but twilight owes the traveller soon,To reach his bourne, a round unclouded moon,Bespeaking long undarkened hours of time;False hope—the Scots are stedfast—not their clime.A war-worn soldier from the western land,Seeks Cona’s vale by Ballihoula’s strand;The vale by eagle-haunted cliffs o’erhung,Where Fingal fought and Ossian’s harp was strung.—Our veteran’s forehead, bronzed on sultry plains,Had stood the brunt of thirty fought campaigns;He well could vouch the sad romance of wars,And count the dates of battles by his scars;For he had served where o’er and o’er againBritannia’s oriflamme had lit the plainOf glory—and victorious stamped her nameOn Oudenarde’s and Blenheim’s fields of fame.Nine times in battlefield his blood had streamed,Yet vivid still his veteran blue eye gleamed;Full well he bore his knapsack—unoppressed—And marched with soldier-like erected crest:Nor sign of ev’n loquacious age he wore,Save when he told his life’s adventures o’er;Some tired of these; for terms to him were dearToo tactical by far for vulgar ear;As when he talked of rampart and ravine,And trenches fenced with gabion and fascine—But when his theme possessed him all and whole,He scorned proud puzzling words and warmed the soul;Hushed groups hung on his lips with fond surprise,That sketched old scenes—like pictures to their eyes:—The wide war-plain, with banners glowing bright,And bayonets to the farthest stretch of sight;The pause, more dreadful than the peal to comeFrom volleys blazing at the beat of drum—Till all the field of thundering lines becameTwo level and confronted sheets of flame.Then to the charge, when Marlbro’s hot pursuitTrode France’s gilded lilies underfoot;He came and kindled—and with martial lungWould chant the very march their trumpets sung.—

Day sinks—but twilight owes the traveller soon,

To reach his bourne, a round unclouded moon,

Bespeaking long undarkened hours of time;

False hope—the Scots are stedfast—not their clime.

A war-worn soldier from the western land,

Seeks Cona’s vale by Ballihoula’s strand;

The vale by eagle-haunted cliffs o’erhung,

Where Fingal fought and Ossian’s harp was strung.—

Our veteran’s forehead, bronzed on sultry plains,

Had stood the brunt of thirty fought campaigns;

He well could vouch the sad romance of wars,

And count the dates of battles by his scars;

For he had served where o’er and o’er again

Britannia’s oriflamme had lit the plain

Of glory—and victorious stamped her name

On Oudenarde’s and Blenheim’s fields of fame.

Nine times in battlefield his blood had streamed,

Yet vivid still his veteran blue eye gleamed;

Full well he bore his knapsack—unoppressed—

And marched with soldier-like erected crest:

Nor sign of ev’n loquacious age he wore,

Save when he told his life’s adventures o’er;

Some tired of these; for terms to him were dear

Too tactical by far for vulgar ear;

As when he talked of rampart and ravine,

And trenches fenced with gabion and fascine—

But when his theme possessed him all and whole,

He scorned proud puzzling words and warmed the soul;

Hushed groups hung on his lips with fond surprise,

That sketched old scenes—like pictures to their eyes:—

The wide war-plain, with banners glowing bright,

And bayonets to the farthest stretch of sight;

The pause, more dreadful than the peal to come

From volleys blazing at the beat of drum—

Till all the field of thundering lines became

Two level and confronted sheets of flame.

Then to the charge, when Marlbro’s hot pursuit

Trode France’s gilded lilies underfoot;

He came and kindled—and with martial lung

Would chant the very march their trumpets sung.—

The old soldier hoped, ere evening’s light should fail,To reach a home, south-east of Cona’s vale;But looking at Bennevis, capped with snow,He saw its mists come curling down below,And spread white darkness o’er the sunset glow;—Fast rolling like tempestuous Ocean’s spray,Or clouds from troops in battle’s fiery day—So dense, his quarry ’scaped the falcon’s sight,The owl alone exulted, hating light.

The old soldier hoped, ere evening’s light should fail,

To reach a home, south-east of Cona’s vale;

But looking at Bennevis, capped with snow,

He saw its mists come curling down below,

And spread white darkness o’er the sunset glow;—

Fast rolling like tempestuous Ocean’s spray,

Or clouds from troops in battle’s fiery day—

So dense, his quarry ’scaped the falcon’s sight,

The owl alone exulted, hating light.

Benighted thus our pilgrim groped his ground,Half ’twixt the river’s and the cataract’s sound.At last a sheep-dog’s bark informed his earSome human habitation might be near;Anon sheep-bleatings rose from rock to rock,—’Twas Luath hounding to their fold the flock.Ere long the cock’s obstreperous clarion rang,And next, a maid’s sweet voice, that spinning sang:At last amidst the greensward (gladsome sight!)A cottage stood, with straw roof golden bright.

Benighted thus our pilgrim groped his ground,

Half ’twixt the river’s and the cataract’s sound.

At last a sheep-dog’s bark informed his ear

Some human habitation might be near;

Anon sheep-bleatings rose from rock to rock,—

’Twas Luath hounding to their fold the flock.

Ere long the cock’s obstreperous clarion rang,

And next, a maid’s sweet voice, that spinning sang:

At last amidst the greensward (gladsome sight!)

A cottage stood, with straw roof golden bright.

He knocked, was welcomed in; none asked his name,Nor whither he was bound, nor whence he came;But he was beckoned to the stranger’s seat,Right side the chimney fire of blazing peat.Blest Hospitality makes not her homeIn wallèd parks and castellated dome;She flies the city’s needy greedy crowd,And shuns still more the mansions of the proud;—The balm of savage or of simple life,A wild flower cut by culture’s polished knife!

He knocked, was welcomed in; none asked his name,

Nor whither he was bound, nor whence he came;

But he was beckoned to the stranger’s seat,

Right side the chimney fire of blazing peat.

Blest Hospitality makes not her home

In wallèd parks and castellated dome;

She flies the city’s needy greedy crowd,

And shuns still more the mansions of the proud;—

The balm of savage or of simple life,

A wild flower cut by culture’s polished knife!

The house, no common sordid shieling cot,Spoke inmates of a comfortable lot.The Jacobite white rose festooned their door;The windows sashed and glazed, the oaken floor,The chimney graced with antlers of the deer,The rafters hung with meat for winter cheer,And all the mansion indicated plainIts master a superior shepherd swain.

The house, no common sordid shieling cot,

Spoke inmates of a comfortable lot.

The Jacobite white rose festooned their door;

The windows sashed and glazed, the oaken floor,

The chimney graced with antlers of the deer,

The rafters hung with meat for winter cheer,

And all the mansion indicated plain

Its master a superior shepherd swain.

Their supper came—the table soon was spreadWith eggs and milk and cheese and barley bread.The family were three—a father hoar,Whose age you’d guess at seventy years or more,His son looked fifty—cheerful like her lord,His comely wife presided at the board;All three had that peculiar courteous graceWhich marks the meanest of the Highland race;Warm hearts that burn alike in weal and woe,As if the north wind fanned their bosoms’ glow!

Their supper came—the table soon was spread

With eggs and milk and cheese and barley bread.

The family were three—a father hoar,

Whose age you’d guess at seventy years or more,

His son looked fifty—cheerful like her lord,

His comely wife presided at the board;

All three had that peculiar courteous grace

Which marks the meanest of the Highland race;

Warm hearts that burn alike in weal and woe,

As if the north wind fanned their bosoms’ glow!

But wide unlike their souls: old Norman’s eyeWas proudly savage ev’n in courtesy.His sinewy shoulders—each, though aged and lean,Broad as the curled Herculean head between,His scornful lip, his eyes of yellow fire,And nostrils that dilated quick with ire.With ever downward-slanting shaggy brows,Marked the old lion you would dread to rouse.Norman, in truth, had led his earlier lifeIn raids of red revenge and feudal strife;Religious duty in revenge he saw,Proud Honour’s right and Nature’s honest law.First in the charge and foremost in pursuit,Long-breathed, deep-chested, and in speed of footA match for stags—still fleeter when the preyWas man, in persecution’s evil day;Cheered to that chase by brutal bold Dundee,No Highland hound had lapped more blood than he.Oft had he changed the covenanter’s breathFrom howls of psalmody to howls of death:And though long bound to peace, it irked him stillHis dirk had ne’er one hated foe to kill.

But wide unlike their souls: old Norman’s eye

Was proudly savage ev’n in courtesy.

His sinewy shoulders—each, though aged and lean,

Broad as the curled Herculean head between,

His scornful lip, his eyes of yellow fire,

And nostrils that dilated quick with ire.

With ever downward-slanting shaggy brows,

Marked the old lion you would dread to rouse.

Norman, in truth, had led his earlier life

In raids of red revenge and feudal strife;

Religious duty in revenge he saw,

Proud Honour’s right and Nature’s honest law.

First in the charge and foremost in pursuit,

Long-breathed, deep-chested, and in speed of foot

A match for stags—still fleeter when the prey

Was man, in persecution’s evil day;

Cheered to that chase by brutal bold Dundee,

No Highland hound had lapped more blood than he.

Oft had he changed the covenanter’s breath

From howls of psalmody to howls of death:

And though long bound to peace, it irked him still

His dirk had ne’er one hated foe to kill.

Yet Norman had fierce virtues, that would mockCold-blooded tories of the modern stock,Who starve the breadless poor with fraud and cant;—He slew and saved them from the pangs of want.Nor was his solitary lawless charmMere dauntlessness of soul and strength of arm;He had his moods of kindness now and then,And feasted ev’n well-mannered lowland menWho blew not up his Jacobitish flame,Nor prefaced with “pretender” Charles’s name.Fierce, but by sense and kindness not unwon,He loved, respected ev’n his wiser son;And brooked from him expostulations sage,When all advisers else were spurned with rage.

Yet Norman had fierce virtues, that would mock

Cold-blooded tories of the modern stock,

Who starve the breadless poor with fraud and cant;—

He slew and saved them from the pangs of want.

Nor was his solitary lawless charm

Mere dauntlessness of soul and strength of arm;

He had his moods of kindness now and then,

And feasted ev’n well-mannered lowland men

Who blew not up his Jacobitish flame,

Nor prefaced with “pretender” Charles’s name.

Fierce, but by sense and kindness not unwon,

He loved, respected ev’n his wiser son;

And brooked from him expostulations sage,

When all advisers else were spurned with rage.

Far happier times had moulded Ronald’s mind,By nature too of more sagacious kind.His breadth of brow, and Roman shape of chin,Squared well with the firm man that reigned within.Contemning strife as childishness, he stoodWith neighbours on kind terms of neighbourhood,And whilst his father’s anger nought availed,Hisrational remonstrance never failed.Full skilfully he managed farm and fold,Wrote, ciphered, profitably bought and sold:And, blessed with pastoral leisure, deeply tookDelight to be informed, by speech or book,Of that wide world beyond his mountain home,Where oft his curious fancy loved to roam.Oft while his faithful dog ran round his flock,He read long hours when summer warmed the rock:Guests who could tell him aught were welcomed warm,Even pedlars’ news had to his mind a charm;That like an intellectual magnet-stoneDrew truth from judgments simpler than his own.

Far happier times had moulded Ronald’s mind,

By nature too of more sagacious kind.

His breadth of brow, and Roman shape of chin,

Squared well with the firm man that reigned within.

Contemning strife as childishness, he stood

With neighbours on kind terms of neighbourhood,

And whilst his father’s anger nought availed,

Hisrational remonstrance never failed.

Full skilfully he managed farm and fold,

Wrote, ciphered, profitably bought and sold:

And, blessed with pastoral leisure, deeply took

Delight to be informed, by speech or book,

Of that wide world beyond his mountain home,

Where oft his curious fancy loved to roam.

Oft while his faithful dog ran round his flock,

He read long hours when summer warmed the rock:

Guests who could tell him aught were welcomed warm,

Even pedlars’ news had to his mind a charm;

That like an intellectual magnet-stone

Drew truth from judgments simpler than his own.

His soul’s proud instinct sought not to enjoyRomantic fictions, like a minstrel boy;Truth, standing on her solid square, from youthHe worshipped—stern uncompromising truth.His goddess kindlier smiled on him, to findA votary of her light in land so blind;She bade majestic History unrollBroad views of public welfare to his soul,Until he looked on clannish feuds and foesWith scorn, as on the wars of kites and crows;Whilst doubts assailed him, o’er and o’er again,If men were made for kings or kings for men.At last, to Norman’s horror and dismay,He flat denied the Stuarts’ right to sway.

His soul’s proud instinct sought not to enjoy

Romantic fictions, like a minstrel boy;

Truth, standing on her solid square, from youth

He worshipped—stern uncompromising truth.

His goddess kindlier smiled on him, to find

A votary of her light in land so blind;

She bade majestic History unroll

Broad views of public welfare to his soul,

Until he looked on clannish feuds and foes

With scorn, as on the wars of kites and crows;

Whilst doubts assailed him, o’er and o’er again,

If men were made for kings or kings for men.

At last, to Norman’s horror and dismay,

He flat denied the Stuarts’ right to sway.

No blow-pipe ever whitened furnace fire,Quick as these words lit up his father’s ire;Who envied even old Abraham for his faith,Ordained to put his only son to death.He started up—in such a mood of soulThe white bear bites his showman’s stirring pole;He danced too, and brought out, with snarl and howl,“O Dia! Dia! and Dioul! Dioul!”[100]

No blow-pipe ever whitened furnace fire,

Quick as these words lit up his father’s ire;

Who envied even old Abraham for his faith,

Ordained to put his only son to death.

He started up—in such a mood of soul

The white bear bites his showman’s stirring pole;

He danced too, and brought out, with snarl and howl,

“O Dia! Dia! and Dioul! Dioul!”[100]

But sense foils fury—as the blowing whaleSpouts, bleeds, and dyes the waves without avail—Wears out the cable’s length that makes him fast,But, worn himself, comes up harpooned at last—E’en so, devoid of sense, succumbs at lengthMere strength of zeal to intellectual strength.His son’s close logic so perplexed his pate,Th’ old hero rather shunned than sought debate;Exhausting his vocabulary’s storeOf oaths and nicknames, he could say no more,But tapp’d his mull,[101]rolled mutely in his chair,Or only whistled Killiecrankie’s air.

But sense foils fury—as the blowing whale

Spouts, bleeds, and dyes the waves without avail—

Wears out the cable’s length that makes him fast,

But, worn himself, comes up harpooned at last—

E’en so, devoid of sense, succumbs at length

Mere strength of zeal to intellectual strength.

His son’s close logic so perplexed his pate,

Th’ old hero rather shunned than sought debate;

Exhausting his vocabulary’s store

Of oaths and nicknames, he could say no more,

But tapp’d his mull,[101]rolled mutely in his chair,

Or only whistled Killiecrankie’s air.

Witch legends Ronald scorned—ghost, kelpie, wraith,And all the trumpery of vulgar faith;Grave matrons ev’n were shocked to hear him slightAuthenticated facts of second-sight—Yet never flinched his mockery to confoundThe brutal superstition reigning round.

Witch legends Ronald scorned—ghost, kelpie, wraith,

And all the trumpery of vulgar faith;

Grave matrons ev’n were shocked to hear him slight

Authenticated facts of second-sight—

Yet never flinched his mockery to confound

The brutal superstition reigning round.

Reserved himself, still Ronald loved to scanMen’s natures—and he liked th’ old hearty man;So did the partner of his heart and life—Whopleased her Ronald, ne’er displeased his wife.His sense, ’tis true, compared with Norman’s son,Was commonplace—his tales too long outspun:Yet Allan Campbell’s sympathizing mindHad held large intercourse with human kind;Seen much, and gaily, graphically drewThe men of every country, clime, and hue;Nor ever stooped, though soldier-like his strain,To ribaldry of mirth or oath profane.

Reserved himself, still Ronald loved to scan

Men’s natures—and he liked th’ old hearty man;

So did the partner of his heart and life—

Whopleased her Ronald, ne’er displeased his wife.

His sense, ’tis true, compared with Norman’s son,

Was commonplace—his tales too long outspun:

Yet Allan Campbell’s sympathizing mind

Had held large intercourse with human kind;

Seen much, and gaily, graphically drew

The men of every country, clime, and hue;

Nor ever stooped, though soldier-like his strain,

To ribaldry of mirth or oath profane.

All went harmonious till the guest beganTo talk about his kindred, chief and clan,And, with his own biography engrossed,Marked not the changed demeanour of each host;Nor how old choleric Norman’s cheek becameFlushed at the Campbell and Breadalbane name.Assigning, heedless of impending harm,Their stedfast silence to his story’s charm,He touched a subject perilous to touch—Saying, “’Midst this well-known vale I wondered muchTo lose my way. In boyhood, long ago,I roamed and loved each pathway of Glencoe;Trapped leverets, plucked wild berries on its braes,And fished along its banks long summer days.But times grew stormy—bitter feuds arose,Our clan was merciless to prostrate foes.I never palliated my chieftain’s blame,But mourned the sin, and reddened for the shameOf that foul morn (Heaven blot it from the year!)Whose shapes and shrieks still haunt my dreaming ear.What could I do? a serf—Glenlyon’s page,A soldier sworn at nineteen years of age;T’ have breathed one grieved remonstrance to our chief,The pit or gallows[102]would have cured my grief.Forced, passive as the musket in my hand,I marched—when, feigning royalty’s command,Against the clan Macdonald, Stairs’s lordSent forth exterminating fire and sword;And troops at midnight through the vale defiled,Enjoined to slaughter woman, man, and child.My clansmen many a year had cause to dreadThe curse that day entailed upon their head;Glenlyon’s self confessed the avenging spell—I saw it light on him.“It so befell:—A soldier from our ranks to death was brought,By sentence deemed too dreadful for his fault;All was prepared—the coffin and the cartStood near twelve muskets, levelled at his heart.The chief, whose breast for ruth had still some room,Obtained reprieve a day before his doom;—But of the awarded boon surmised no breath.The sufferer knelt, blindfolded, waiting death,—And met it. Though Glenlyon had desiredThe musketeers to watch before they fired;If from his pocket they should see he drewA handkerchief—their volley should ensue;But if he held a paper in its place,It should be hailed the sign of pardoning grace:—He, in a fatal moment’s absent fit,Drew forth the handkerchief, and not the writ;Wept o’er the corpse, and wrung his hands in woe,Crying ‘Here’s thy curse again—Glencoe! Glencoe!’”Though thus his guest spoke feelings just and clear,The cabin’s patriarch lent impatient ear;Wroth that, beneath his roof, a living manShould boast the swine-blood of the Campbell clan,He hastened to the door—called out his sonTo follow; walked a space, and thus begun:—“You have not, Ronald, at this day to learnThe oath I took beside my father’s cairn,When you were but a babe a twelvemonth born;Sworn on my dirk—by all that’s sacred, swornTo be revenged for blood that cries to Heaven—Blood unforgiveable, and unforgiven:But never power,since then, have I possessedTo plant my dagger in a Campbell’s breast.Now, here’s a self-accusing partisan,Steeped in the slaughter of Macdonald’s clan;I scorn his civil speech and sweet-lipped showOf pity—he is still our house’s foe:I’ll perjure not myself—but sacrificeThe caitiff ere to-morrow’s sun arise.Stand! hear me—you’re my son, the deed is just;And if I say—it must be done—it must:A debt of honour which my clansmen crave,Their very dead demand it from the grave.”Conjuring then their ghosts, he humbly prayedTheir patience till the blood-debt should be paid.

All went harmonious till the guest began

To talk about his kindred, chief and clan,

And, with his own biography engrossed,

Marked not the changed demeanour of each host;

Nor how old choleric Norman’s cheek became

Flushed at the Campbell and Breadalbane name.

Assigning, heedless of impending harm,

Their stedfast silence to his story’s charm,

He touched a subject perilous to touch—

Saying, “’Midst this well-known vale I wondered much

To lose my way. In boyhood, long ago,

I roamed and loved each pathway of Glencoe;

Trapped leverets, plucked wild berries on its braes,

And fished along its banks long summer days.

But times grew stormy—bitter feuds arose,

Our clan was merciless to prostrate foes.

I never palliated my chieftain’s blame,

But mourned the sin, and reddened for the shame

Of that foul morn (Heaven blot it from the year!)

Whose shapes and shrieks still haunt my dreaming ear.

What could I do? a serf—Glenlyon’s page,

A soldier sworn at nineteen years of age;

T’ have breathed one grieved remonstrance to our chief,

The pit or gallows[102]would have cured my grief.

Forced, passive as the musket in my hand,

I marched—when, feigning royalty’s command,

Against the clan Macdonald, Stairs’s lord

Sent forth exterminating fire and sword;

And troops at midnight through the vale defiled,

Enjoined to slaughter woman, man, and child.

My clansmen many a year had cause to dread

The curse that day entailed upon their head;

Glenlyon’s self confessed the avenging spell—

I saw it light on him.

“It so befell:—

A soldier from our ranks to death was brought,

By sentence deemed too dreadful for his fault;

All was prepared—the coffin and the cart

Stood near twelve muskets, levelled at his heart.

The chief, whose breast for ruth had still some room,

Obtained reprieve a day before his doom;—

But of the awarded boon surmised no breath.

The sufferer knelt, blindfolded, waiting death,—

And met it. Though Glenlyon had desired

The musketeers to watch before they fired;

If from his pocket they should see he drew

A handkerchief—their volley should ensue;

But if he held a paper in its place,

It should be hailed the sign of pardoning grace:—

He, in a fatal moment’s absent fit,

Drew forth the handkerchief, and not the writ;

Wept o’er the corpse, and wrung his hands in woe,

Crying ‘Here’s thy curse again—Glencoe! Glencoe!’”

Though thus his guest spoke feelings just and clear,

The cabin’s patriarch lent impatient ear;

Wroth that, beneath his roof, a living man

Should boast the swine-blood of the Campbell clan,

He hastened to the door—called out his son

To follow; walked a space, and thus begun:—

“You have not, Ronald, at this day to learn

The oath I took beside my father’s cairn,

When you were but a babe a twelvemonth born;

Sworn on my dirk—by all that’s sacred, sworn

To be revenged for blood that cries to Heaven—

Blood unforgiveable, and unforgiven:

But never power,since then, have I possessed

To plant my dagger in a Campbell’s breast.

Now, here’s a self-accusing partisan,

Steeped in the slaughter of Macdonald’s clan;

I scorn his civil speech and sweet-lipped show

Of pity—he is still our house’s foe:

I’ll perjure not myself—but sacrifice

The caitiff ere to-morrow’s sun arise.

Stand! hear me—you’re my son, the deed is just;

And if I say—it must be done—it must:

A debt of honour which my clansmen crave,

Their very dead demand it from the grave.”

Conjuring then their ghosts, he humbly prayed

Their patience till the blood-debt should be paid.

But Ronald stopped him.—“Sir, Sir, do not dimYour honour by a moment’s angry whim;Your soul’s too just and generous, were you cool,To act at once the assassin and the fool.Bring me the men on whom revenge is due,And I will dirk them willingly as you!But all the real authors of that blackOld deed are gone—you cannot bring them back.And this poor guest, ’tis palpable to judge,In all his life ne’er bore our clan a grudge;Dragged when a boy against his will to shareThat massacre, he loathed the foul affair.Think, if your hardened heart be conscience-proof,To stab a stranger underneath your roof!One who has broken bread within your gate—Reflect—before reflection comes too late,—Such ugly consequences there may beAs judge and jury, rope and gallows-tree.The days of dirking snugly are gone by,Where could you hide the body privily,When search is made for’t?”“Plunge it in yon flood,That Campbells crimsoned with our kindred blood.”“Ay, but the corpse may float—”“Pshaw! dead men tellNo tales—nor will it float if leaded well.I am determined!”—What could Ronald do?No house within ear-reach of his halloo,Though that would but have published household shameHe temporized with wrath he could not tame,And said, “Come in, till night put off the deed,And ask a few more questions ere he bleed.”

But Ronald stopped him.—“Sir, Sir, do not dim

Your honour by a moment’s angry whim;

Your soul’s too just and generous, were you cool,

To act at once the assassin and the fool.

Bring me the men on whom revenge is due,

And I will dirk them willingly as you!

But all the real authors of that black

Old deed are gone—you cannot bring them back.

And this poor guest, ’tis palpable to judge,

In all his life ne’er bore our clan a grudge;

Dragged when a boy against his will to share

That massacre, he loathed the foul affair.

Think, if your hardened heart be conscience-proof,

To stab a stranger underneath your roof!

One who has broken bread within your gate—

Reflect—before reflection comes too late,—

Such ugly consequences there may be

As judge and jury, rope and gallows-tree.

The days of dirking snugly are gone by,

Where could you hide the body privily,

When search is made for’t?”

“Plunge it in yon flood,

That Campbells crimsoned with our kindred blood.”

“Ay, but the corpse may float—”

“Pshaw! dead men tell

No tales—nor will it float if leaded well.

I am determined!”—What could Ronald do?

No house within ear-reach of his halloo,

Though that would but have published household shame

He temporized with wrath he could not tame,

And said, “Come in, till night put off the deed,

And ask a few more questions ere he bleed.”

They entered; Norman with portentous airStrode to a nook behind the stranger’s chair,And, speaking nought, sat grimly in the shade,With dagger in his clutch beneath his plaid.His son’s own plaid, should Norman pounce his prey,Was coiled thick round his arm, to turn awayOr blunt the dirk. He purposed leaving freeThe door, and giving Allan time to flee,Whilst he should wrestle with (no safe emprise)His father’s maniac strength and giant size.Meanwhile he could nowise communicateThe impending peril to his anxious mate;But she, convinced no trifling matter nowDisturbed the wonted calm of Ronald’s brow,Divined too well the cause of gloom that lowered,And sat with speechless terror overpowered.Her face was pale, so lately blithe and bland,The stocking knitting-wire shook in her hand.But Ronald and the guest resumed their threadOf converse, still its theme that day of dread.“Much,” said the veteran, “much as I bemoanThat deed, when half a hundred years have flown,Still on one circumstance I can reflectThat mitigates the dreadful retrospect.A mother with her child before us flew,I had the hideous mandate to pursue;But swift of foot, outspeeding bloodier men,I chased, o’ertook her in the winding glen,And showed her palpitating, where to saveHerself and infant in a secret cave;Nor left them till I saw that they could mockPursuit and search within that sheltering rock.”

They entered; Norman with portentous air

Strode to a nook behind the stranger’s chair,

And, speaking nought, sat grimly in the shade,

With dagger in his clutch beneath his plaid.

His son’s own plaid, should Norman pounce his prey,

Was coiled thick round his arm, to turn away

Or blunt the dirk. He purposed leaving free

The door, and giving Allan time to flee,

Whilst he should wrestle with (no safe emprise)

His father’s maniac strength and giant size.

Meanwhile he could nowise communicate

The impending peril to his anxious mate;

But she, convinced no trifling matter now

Disturbed the wonted calm of Ronald’s brow,

Divined too well the cause of gloom that lowered,

And sat with speechless terror overpowered.

Her face was pale, so lately blithe and bland,

The stocking knitting-wire shook in her hand.

But Ronald and the guest resumed their thread

Of converse, still its theme that day of dread.

“Much,” said the veteran, “much as I bemoan

That deed, when half a hundred years have flown,

Still on one circumstance I can reflect

That mitigates the dreadful retrospect.

A mother with her child before us flew,

I had the hideous mandate to pursue;

But swift of foot, outspeeding bloodier men,

I chased, o’ertook her in the winding glen,

And showed her palpitating, where to save

Herself and infant in a secret cave;

Nor left them till I saw that they could mock

Pursuit and search within that sheltering rock.”

“Heavens!” Ronald cried, in accents gladly wild,“That woman was my mother—I the child!Of you unknown by name she late and air,[103]Spoke, wept, and ever blessed you in her prayer,Ev’n to her death; describing you withalA well-looked florid youth, blue-eyed and tall.”They rose, exchanged embrace: the old lion thenUpstarted, metamorphosed, from his den;Saying, “Come and make thy home with us for life,Heaven-sent preserver of my child and wife.I fear thou’rt poor, that Hanoverian thingRewards his soldiers ill.”—“God save the king!”With hand upon his heart, old Allan said,“I wear his uniform, I eat his bread,And whilst I’ve tooth to bite a cartridge, allFor him and Britain’s fame I’ll stand or fall.”

“Heavens!” Ronald cried, in accents gladly wild,

“That woman was my mother—I the child!

Of you unknown by name she late and air,[103]

Spoke, wept, and ever blessed you in her prayer,

Ev’n to her death; describing you withal

A well-looked florid youth, blue-eyed and tall.”

They rose, exchanged embrace: the old lion then

Upstarted, metamorphosed, from his den;

Saying, “Come and make thy home with us for life,

Heaven-sent preserver of my child and wife.

I fear thou’rt poor, that Hanoverian thing

Rewards his soldiers ill.”—“God save the king!”

With hand upon his heart, old Allan said,

“I wear his uniform, I eat his bread,

And whilst I’ve tooth to bite a cartridge, all

For him and Britain’s fame I’ll stand or fall.”

“Bravo!” cried Ronald. “I commend your zeal,”Quoth Norman, “and I see your heart is leal;But I have prayed my soul may never thriveIf thou shouldst leave this house of ours alive.Nor shalt thou; in this home protract thy breathOf easy life, nor leave it till thy death.”

“Bravo!” cried Ronald. “I commend your zeal,”

Quoth Norman, “and I see your heart is leal;

But I have prayed my soul may never thrive

If thou shouldst leave this house of ours alive.

Nor shalt thou; in this home protract thy breath

Of easy life, nor leave it till thy death.”

...

The following morn arose serene as glass,And red Bennevis shone like molten brass;While sunrise opened flowers with gentle force,The guest and Ronald walked in long discourse.“Words fail me,” Allan said, “to thank arightYour father’s kindness shown me yesternight;Yet scarce I’d wish my latest days to spendA fireside fixture with the dearest friend:Besides, I’ve but a fortnight’s furlough now,To reach Macallin More,[104]beyond Lochawe.I’d fain memorialize the powers that be,To deign remembrance of my wounds and me;My life-long service never bore the brandOf sentence—lash—disgrace or reprimand.And so I’ve written, though in meagre style,A long petition to his Grace Argyle;I mean, on reaching Innerara’s shore,To leave it safe within his castle door.”“Nay,” Ronald said, “the letter that you bearEntrust it to no lying varlet’s care;But say a soldier of King George demandsAccess, to leave it in the Duke’s own hands.But show me, first, the epistle to your chief,’Tis nought, unless succinctly clear and brief;Great men have no great patience when they read,And long petitions spoil the cause they plead.”

The following morn arose serene as glass,

And red Bennevis shone like molten brass;

While sunrise opened flowers with gentle force,

The guest and Ronald walked in long discourse.

“Words fail me,” Allan said, “to thank aright

Your father’s kindness shown me yesternight;

Yet scarce I’d wish my latest days to spend

A fireside fixture with the dearest friend:

Besides, I’ve but a fortnight’s furlough now,

To reach Macallin More,[104]beyond Lochawe.

I’d fain memorialize the powers that be,

To deign remembrance of my wounds and me;

My life-long service never bore the brand

Of sentence—lash—disgrace or reprimand.

And so I’ve written, though in meagre style,

A long petition to his Grace Argyle;

I mean, on reaching Innerara’s shore,

To leave it safe within his castle door.”

“Nay,” Ronald said, “the letter that you bear

Entrust it to no lying varlet’s care;

But say a soldier of King George demands

Access, to leave it in the Duke’s own hands.

But show me, first, the epistle to your chief,

’Tis nought, unless succinctly clear and brief;

Great men have no great patience when they read,

And long petitions spoil the cause they plead.”

That day saw Ronald from the field full soonReturn; and when they all had dined at noon,He conned th’ old man’s memorial—lopped its length,And gave it style, simplicity, and strength;’Twas finished in an hour—and in the nextTranscribed by Allan in perspicuous text.

That day saw Ronald from the field full soon

Return; and when they all had dined at noon,

He conned th’ old man’s memorial—lopped its length,

And gave it style, simplicity, and strength;

’Twas finished in an hour—and in the next

Transcribed by Allan in perspicuous text.

At evening, he and Ronald shared once moreA long and pleasant walk by Cona’s shore.“I’d press you,” quoth his host—(“I need not sayHow warmly) ever more with us to stay;But Charles intends, ’tis said, in these same partsTo try the fealty of our Highland hearts.’Tis my belief, that he and all his lineHave—saving to be hanged—no right divine;From whose mad enterprise can only flowTo thousands slaughter, and to myriads woe.Yet have they stirred my father’s spirit sore,He flints his pistols—whets his old claymore—And longs as ardently to join the frayAs boy to dance who hears the bagpipe play.Though calm one day, the next, disdaining rule,He’d gore your red coat like an angry bull:I told him, and he owned it might be so,Your tempers never could in concert flow.But ‘Mark,’ he added, ‘Ronald! from our doorLet not this guest depart forlorn and poor;Let not your souls the niggardness evinceOf lowland pedlar, or of German prince;He gave you life—then feed him as you’d feedYour very father were he cast in need.’He gave—you’ll find it by your bed to-night,A leathern purse of crowns, all sterling bright:You see I do you kindness not by stealth.My wife—no advocate of squandering wealth—Vows that it would be parricide, or worse,Should we neglect you—here’s a silken purse,Some golden pieces through the network shine,’Tis proffered to you from her heart and mine.But come I no foolish delicacy, no!We own, but cannot cancel what we owe—This sum shall duly reach you once a year.”Poor Allan’s furrowed face, and flowing tear,Confessed sensations which he could not speak,Old Norman bade him farewell kindly meek.

At evening, he and Ronald shared once more

A long and pleasant walk by Cona’s shore.

“I’d press you,” quoth his host—(“I need not say

How warmly) ever more with us to stay;

But Charles intends, ’tis said, in these same parts

To try the fealty of our Highland hearts.

’Tis my belief, that he and all his line

Have—saving to be hanged—no right divine;

From whose mad enterprise can only flow

To thousands slaughter, and to myriads woe.

Yet have they stirred my father’s spirit sore,

He flints his pistols—whets his old claymore—

And longs as ardently to join the fray

As boy to dance who hears the bagpipe play.

Though calm one day, the next, disdaining rule,

He’d gore your red coat like an angry bull:

I told him, and he owned it might be so,

Your tempers never could in concert flow.

But ‘Mark,’ he added, ‘Ronald! from our door

Let not this guest depart forlorn and poor;

Let not your souls the niggardness evince

Of lowland pedlar, or of German prince;

He gave you life—then feed him as you’d feed

Your very father were he cast in need.’

He gave—you’ll find it by your bed to-night,

A leathern purse of crowns, all sterling bright:

You see I do you kindness not by stealth.

My wife—no advocate of squandering wealth—

Vows that it would be parricide, or worse,

Should we neglect you—here’s a silken purse,

Some golden pieces through the network shine,

’Tis proffered to you from her heart and mine.

But come I no foolish delicacy, no!

We own, but cannot cancel what we owe—

This sum shall duly reach you once a year.”

Poor Allan’s furrowed face, and flowing tear,

Confessed sensations which he could not speak,

Old Norman bade him farewell kindly meek.

At morn, the smiling dame rejoiced to packWith viands full th’ old soldier’s havresack.He feared not hungry grass[105]with such a load,And Ronald saw him miles upon his road.

At morn, the smiling dame rejoiced to pack

With viands full th’ old soldier’s havresack.

He feared not hungry grass[105]with such a load,

And Ronald saw him miles upon his road.

A march of three days brought him to Lochfyne.Argyle, struck with his manly look benign,And feeling interest in the veteran’s lot,Created him a sergeant on the spot—An invalid, to serve not—but with pay(A mighty sum to him), twelve-pence a day.“But have you heard not,” said Macallin More,“Charles Stuart’s landed on Eriska’s shore,And Jacobites are arming?”—“What! indeed!Arrived! then I’m no more an invalid;My new-got halbert I must straight employIn battle.”—“As you please, old gallant boy:Your grey hairs well might plead excuse, ’tis true,But now’s the time we want such men as you.”In brief, at Innerara Allan stayed,And joined the banners of Argyle’s brigade.

A march of three days brought him to Lochfyne.

Argyle, struck with his manly look benign,

And feeling interest in the veteran’s lot,

Created him a sergeant on the spot—

An invalid, to serve not—but with pay

(A mighty sum to him), twelve-pence a day.

“But have you heard not,” said Macallin More,

“Charles Stuart’s landed on Eriska’s shore,

And Jacobites are arming?”—“What! indeed!

Arrived! then I’m no more an invalid;

My new-got halbert I must straight employ

In battle.”—“As you please, old gallant boy:

Your grey hairs well might plead excuse, ’tis true,

But now’s the time we want such men as you.”

In brief, at Innerara Allan stayed,

And joined the banners of Argyle’s brigade.

Meanwhile, th’ old choleric shepherd of GlencoeSpurned all advice, and girt himself to go.What was’t to him that foes would poind their fold,Their lease, their very beds beneath them sold!And firmly to his text he would have kept,Though Ronald argued and his daughter wept.But ’midst the impotence of tears and prayer,Chance snatched them from proscription and despairOld Norman’s blood was headward wont to mountToo rapid from his heart’s impetuous fount;And one day, whilst the German rats he cursed,An artery in his wise sensorium burst.The lancet saved him: but how changed, alas,From him who fought at Killiecrankie’s pass!Tame as a spaniel, timid as a child,He muttered incoherent words and smiled;He wept at kindness, rolled a vacant eye,And laughed full often when he meant to cry.Poor man! whilst in this lamentable state,Came Allan back one morning to his gate,Hale and unburdened by the woes of eild,And fresh with credit from Culloden’s field.’Twas feared at first, the sight of him might touchThe old Macdonald’s morbid mind too much;But no! though Norman knew him and disclosed,Ev’n rallying memory, he was still composed;Asked all particulars of the fatal fight,And only heaved a sigh for Charles’s flight;Then said, with but one moment’s pride of air,“It might not have been so had I been there!”Few days elapsed till he reposed beneathHis grey cairn, on the wild and lonely heath;Son, friends, and kindred of his dust took leave,And Allan, with the crape bound round his sleeve.

Meanwhile, th’ old choleric shepherd of Glencoe

Spurned all advice, and girt himself to go.

What was’t to him that foes would poind their fold,

Their lease, their very beds beneath them sold!

And firmly to his text he would have kept,

Though Ronald argued and his daughter wept.

But ’midst the impotence of tears and prayer,

Chance snatched them from proscription and despair

Old Norman’s blood was headward wont to mount

Too rapid from his heart’s impetuous fount;

And one day, whilst the German rats he cursed,

An artery in his wise sensorium burst.

The lancet saved him: but how changed, alas,

From him who fought at Killiecrankie’s pass!

Tame as a spaniel, timid as a child,

He muttered incoherent words and smiled;

He wept at kindness, rolled a vacant eye,

And laughed full often when he meant to cry.

Poor man! whilst in this lamentable state,

Came Allan back one morning to his gate,

Hale and unburdened by the woes of eild,

And fresh with credit from Culloden’s field.

’Twas feared at first, the sight of him might touch

The old Macdonald’s morbid mind too much;

But no! though Norman knew him and disclosed,

Ev’n rallying memory, he was still composed;

Asked all particulars of the fatal fight,

And only heaved a sigh for Charles’s flight;

Then said, with but one moment’s pride of air,

“It might not have been so had I been there!”

Few days elapsed till he reposed beneath

His grey cairn, on the wild and lonely heath;

Son, friends, and kindred of his dust took leave,

And Allan, with the crape bound round his sleeve.

Old Allan now hung up his sergeant’s sword,And sat, a guest for life, at Ronald’s board.He waked no longer at the barrack’s drum,Yet still you’d see, when peep of day was come,Th’ erect tall red-coat, walking pastures round,Or delving with his spade the garden ground,Of cheerful temper, habits strict and sage,He reached, enjoyed a patriarchal age—Loved to the last by the Macdonalds. NearTheir house, his stone was placed with many a tear;And Ronald’s self, in stoic virtue brave,Scorned not to weep at Allan Campbell’s grave.

Old Allan now hung up his sergeant’s sword,

And sat, a guest for life, at Ronald’s board.

He waked no longer at the barrack’s drum,

Yet still you’d see, when peep of day was come,

Th’ erect tall red-coat, walking pastures round,

Or delving with his spade the garden ground,

Of cheerful temper, habits strict and sage,

He reached, enjoyed a patriarchal age—

Loved to the last by the Macdonalds. Near

Their house, his stone was placed with many a tear;

And Ronald’s self, in stoic virtue brave,

Scorned not to weep at Allan Campbell’s grave.

[99]I received the substance of the tradition on which this poem is founded, in the first instance, from a friend in London, who wrote to Matthew N. Macdonald, Esq., of Edinburgh. He had the kindness to send me a circumstantial account of the tradition; and that gentleman’s knowledge of the Highlands, as well as his particular acquaintance with the district of Glencoe, leave me no doubt of the incident having really happened. I have not departed from the main facts of the tradition as reported to me by Mr. Macdonald; only I have endeavoured to colour the personages of the story, and to make them as distinctive as possible.[100]God and the Devil—a favourite ejaculation of Highland saints.[101]Snuff-horn.[102]To hang their vassals, or starve them to death in a dungeon, was a privilege of the Highland chiefs who had hereditary jurisdictions.[103]Scotch for late and early.[104]The Duke of Argyle.[105]When the hospitable Highlanders load a parting guest with provisions, they tell him he will need them, as he has to go over a great deal ofhungry grass.

[100]God and the Devil—a favourite ejaculation of Highland saints.

[101]Snuff-horn.

[102]To hang their vassals, or starve them to death in a dungeon, was a privilege of the Highland chiefs who had hereditary jurisdictions.

[103]Scotch for late and early.

[104]The Duke of Argyle.

[105]When the hospitable Highlanders load a parting guest with provisions, they tell him he will need them, as he has to go over a great deal ofhungry grass.

And such thy strength-inspiring aid that boreThe hardy Byron to his native shore.

And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore

The hardy Byron to his native shore.

The following picture of his own distress, given by Byron in his simple and interesting narrative, justifies the description in page 7.

After relating the barbarity of the Indian cacique to his child, he proceeds thus:—“A day or two after we put to sea again, and crossed the great bay I mentioned we had been at the bottom of when we first hauled away to the westward. The land here was very low and sandy, and something like the mouth of a river which discharged itself into the sea, and which had been taken no notice of by us before, as it was so shallow that the Indians were obliged to take everything out of their canoes, and carry them over land. We rowed up the river four or five leagues, and then took into a branch of it that ran first to the eastward, and then to the northward: here it became much narrower, and the stream excessively rapid, so that we gained but little way, though we wrought very hard. At night we landed upon its banks, and had a most uncomfortable lodging, it being a perfect swamp, and we had nothing to cover us, though it rained excessively. The Indians were little better off than we, as there was no wood here to make their wigwams; so that all they could do was to prop up the bark, which they carry in the bottom of their canoes, and shelter themselves as well as they could to the leeward of it. Knowing the difficulties they had to encounter here, they had provided themselves with some seal; but we had not a morsel to eat, after the heavy fatigues of the day, excepting a sort of root we saw the Indians make use of, which was very disagreeable to the taste. We laboured all next day against the stream, and fared as we had done the day before. The next day brought us to the carryingplace. Here was plenty of wood, but nothing to be got for sustenance. We passed this night, as we had frequently done, under a tree; but what we suffered at this time is not easy to be expressed. I had been three days at the oar without any kind of nourishment except the wretched root above mentioned. I had no shirt, for it had rotted off by bits. All my clothes consisted of a short grieko (something like a bear-skin), a piece of red cloth which had once been a waistcoat, and a ragged pair of trowsers, without shoes or stockings.”

Wild Obi flies.

Among the negroes of the West Indies, Obi, or Obiah, is the name of a magical power, which is believed by them to affect the object of its malignity with dismal calamities. Such a belief must undoubtedly have been deduced from the superstitious mythology of their kinsmen on the coast of Africa. I have, therefore, personified Obi as the evil spirit of the African, although the history of the African tribes mentions the evil spirits of their religious creed by a different appellation.

Sibir’s dreary mines.

Mr. Bell, of Antermony, in his “Travels through Siberia,” informs us that the name of the country is universally pronounced “Sibir” by the Russians.

Presaging wrath to Poland—and to man!

The history of the partition of Poland, of the massacre in the suburbs of Warsaw, and on the bridge of Prague, the triumphant entry of Suwarrow into the Polish capital, and the insult offered to human nature, by the blasphemous thanks offered up to Heaven, for victories obtained over men fighting in the sacred cause of liberty, by murderers and oppressors, are events generally known.

How long was Timour’s iron sceptre swayed?

To elucidate this passage, I shall subjoin a quotation from the preface to “Letters from a Hindoo Rajah,” by Eliza Hamilton, a work of elegance and celebrity:—

“The impostor of Mecca had established, as one of the principles of his doctrine, the merit of extending it either by persuasion, or the sword, to all parts of the earth. How steadily this injunction was adhered to by his followers, and with what success it was pursued, is well known to all who are in the least conversant in history.

“The same overwhelming torrent which had inundated the greater part of Africa, burst its way into the very heart of Europe, and covering many kingdoms of Asia, with unbounded desolation, directed its baneful course to the flourishing provinces of Hindostan. Here these fierce and hardy adventurers, whose only improvement had been in the science of destruction, who added the fury of fanaticism to the ravages of war, found the great end of their conquest opposed by objects which neither the ardour of their persevering zeal, nor savage barbarity, could surmount. Multitudes were sacrificed by the cruel hand of religious persecution, and whole countries were deluged in blood, in the vain hope, that by the destruction of a part, the remainder might be persuaded, or terrified, into the profession of Mahomedism. But all these sanguinary efforts were ineffectual; and at length, being fully convinced, that though they might extirpate, they could never hope to convert, any number of the Hindoos, they relinquished the impracticable idea with which they had entered upon their career of conquest, and contented themselves with the acquirement of the civil dominion and almost universal empire of Hindostan.”

While famished nations died along the shore.

The following account of British conduct, and its consequences, in Bengal, will afford a sufficient idea of the fact alluded to in this passage.

After describing the monopoly of salt, betel nut, and tobacco, the historian proceeds thus:—“Money in this current came but by drops; it could not quench the thirst of those who waited in India to receive it. An expedient, such as it was, remained to quicken its pace. The natives could live with little salt, but could not want food. Some of the agents saw themselves well situated for collecting the rice into stores; they did so. They knew the Gentoos would rather die than violate the principles of their religion by eating flesh. The alternative would therefore be between giving what they had, or dying. The inhabitants sunk;—they that cultivated the land, and saw the harvest at the disposal of others, planted in doubt—scarcity ensued. Then the monopoly was easier managed—sickness ensued. In some districts the languid living left the bodies of their numerous dead unburied.”—Short History of the English Transactions in the East Indies, page 145.

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