And liveliest on the chords the bow did glance, But he, whose humours spurn law's awful yoke, Their foes, their friends, their rendezvous the same, Wild bowl'd the wind the forest glades along, 'T was then, that, couch'd amid the brushwood sere THE DANCE OF DEATH. NIGHT and morning were at meeting Cocks had sung their earliest greeting, For no paly beam yet shone Broad and frequent through the night Where the soldier lay, Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain, Wishing dawn of morn again, Though death should come with day. 'Tis at such a tide and hour, And ghastly forms through mist and shower, And then the affrighted prophet's ear Among the sons of men:- Had follow'd stout and stern, Valiant Fassiefern. Through steel and shot he leads no more, And proud Ben Nevis hear with awe, 'Lone on the outskirts of the host, The weary sentinel held post, And heard, through darkness far aloof, When down the destined plain And doom'd the future slain. Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard, When Scotland's James his march prepared For Flodden's fatal plain; Such, when he drew his ruthless sword, The yet unchristen'd Dane. An indistinct and phantom band, The seer, who watch'd them ride the storm, SONG. Wheel the wild dance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. Our airy feet, So light and fleet, They do not bend the rye, That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave, And swells again in eddying wave, As each wild gust blows by; But still the corn, At dawn of morn, Our fatal steps that bore, At eve lies waste, A trampled paste Of blackening mud and gore. Wheel the wild dance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. Wheel the wild dance, For you our ring makes room; Makes space full wide For martial pride, For banner, spear, and plume. Room for the men of steel! Both head and heart shall feel. Wheel the wild dance, To sleep without a shroud. Sons of the spear! In many a ghastly dream; And hear our fatal scream. With clearer sight Ere falls the night, Just when to weal or woe Your disembodied souls take flight On trembling wing-each startled sprite Our choir of death shall know. Wheel the wild dance, While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers, Redder rain shall soon be ours See, the east grows wanYield we place to sterner game, Ere deadlier bolts and drearier flame Shall the welkin's thunders shame; Elemental rage is tame To the wrath of man. At morn, gray Allan's mates with awe The legend heard him say; Ere closed that bloody day He sleeps far from his Highland heath,But often of the Dance of Death His comrades tell the tale On piquet-post, when ebbs the night, And waning watch-fires glow less bright, And dawn is glimmering pale. FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. ENCHANTRESS, farewell, who so oft hast decoy'd me, At the close of the evening through woodlands to roam, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home. Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers wild speaking, The language alternate of rapture and woe; Oh! none but some lover, whose heart-strings are breaking, The pang that I feel at our parting can know. Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came sorrow, Or pale disappointment, to darken my way, 'T was thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing, As vain those enchantments, O queen of wild numbers, EPITAPH ON MRS ERSKINE. PLAIN, as her native dignity of mind, MR KEMBLE'S FAREWELL ADDRESS, ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH STAGE. As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound, age Beneath the burning glow of gratitude? But all too soon the transient gleam is past, << Is this the man who once could please our sires!>> My life's brief act in public service flown, The last, the closing scene, must be my own. EPILOGUE TO THE APPEAL, SPOKEN BY MRS H. SIDDONS. A CAT of yore (or else old Esop lied) Yes, times are changed, for in your fathers' age However high advanced by future fate, There stands the bench (points to the Pit) that first received their weight. The future legal sage, 't was ours to sec, Doom though unwigg'd, and plead without a fee. But now astounding each poor mimic elf, But soft! who lives at Rome the pope must flatter, SON G. Here, then, adieu! while yet some well-graced parts OH, say not, my love, with that mortified air, May fix an ancient favourite in your hearts, Not quite to be forgotten, even when You look on better actors, younger men: And if your bosoms own this kindly debt O favour'd land! renown'd for arts and arms, For manly talent and for female charms, Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line, What fervent benedictions now were thine! But my last part is play'd, my knell is rung, When e'en your praise falls faltering from my tongue; And all that you can hear, or I can tell, Is-Friends and Patrons, hail, and FARE YOU WELL! That your spring-time of pleasure is flown, Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair, For those raptures that still are thine own. Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine, T is the ardour of August matures us the wine Though thy form, that was fashion'd as light as a fay's, Has assumed a proportion more round, And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze, Enough, after absence to meet me again, 1 It is necessary to mention, that the allusions in this piece are all local, and addressed only to the Edinburgh audience. The new prisons of the city, on the Calton Hill, are not far from the Theatre. At this time the public of Edinburgh was much agitated by a lawsuit betwixt the magistrates and many of the inhabitants of the city, concerning the range of new buildings on the western side of the North Bridge; which the latter insisted should be removed as a deformity. THE PALMER. «O OPEN the door, some pity to show, Keen blows the northern wind; The glen is white with the drifted snow, And the path is hard to find. «No outlaw seeks your castle gate, From chasing the king's deer, Though even an outlaw's wretched state Might claim compassion here. << A weary Palmer, worn and weak, I wander for my sin; O open, for Our Lady's sake, A pilgrim's blessing win! << I'll give you pardons from the pope, «The hare is crouching in her form, much exhausted, caused herself to be carried to the balcony of a house in Peebles, belonging to the family, that she might see him as he rode past. Her anxiety and eagerness gave such force to her organs, that she is said to have distinguished his horse's footsteps at an incredible distance. But Tushielaw, unprepared for the change in her appearance, and not expecting to see her in that place, rode on without recognizing her, or even slackening his pace. The lady was unable to support the shock, and, after a short struggle, died in the arms of her attendants. There is an instance similar to this traditional tale in Count Hamilton's Fleur d'Epine. O LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see, Can lend an hour of cheering. And slow decay from mourning, Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower, To watch her love's returning. All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, Till through her wasted hand, at night, By fits, a sultry hectic hue Across her cheek was flying; By fits, so ashy pale she grew, Her maidens thought her dying. Yet keenest powers to see and hear Seem'd in her frame residing; Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear, She heard her lover's riding; Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd, He came he pass'd-an heedless gaze, THE MAID OF NEIDPATH. WANDERING WILLIE. ALL joy was hereft me the day that you left me, Far o'er the wave hast thou follow'd thy fortune, THERE is a tradition in Tweeddale, that when Neid-O path Castle, near Peebles, was inhabited by the Earls of March, a mutual passion subsisted between a daughter of that noble family, and a son of the Laird of Tushielaw, in Ettrick Forest. As the alliance was thought unsuitable by her parents, the young man went abroad. During his absence, the lady fell into a consumption, and at length, as the only means of saving her life, her father consented that her lover should be recalled. On the day when he was expected to pass through Peebles, on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, though Oft fought the squadrons of France and of Spain; Ae kiss of welcome 's worth twenty at parting, Now I hae got my Willie again. When the sky it was mirk, and the winds they were wailing, I sat on the beach wi' the tear in my ce, And thought o' the bark where my Willie was sailing, Now that thy gallant ship rides at her mooring, That e'er o'er Inch-Keith drove the dark ocean faem. When the lights they did blaze, and the guns they did rattle, And blythe was each heart for the great victory, In secret I wept for the dangers of battle, And thy glory itself was scarce comfort to me. But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly listen, Of each bold adventure, and every brave scar, And, trust me, I'll smile though my een they may glisten; For sweet after danger 's the tale of the war. And oh, how we doubt when there 's distance 'tween lovers, When there's naething to speak to the heart thro' the ee; How often the kindest, and warmest prove rovers, And the love of the faithfulest ebbs like the sea. Till, at times-could I help it?-I pined and I ponder'd, If love could change notes like the bird on the treeNow I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae wander'd, Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to me. Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and through channel, Furnishing story for glory's bright annal, Enough now thy story in annals of glory Has humbled the pride of France, Holland, and Spain; No more shalt thou grieve me, no more shalt thou leave me, I never will part with my Willie again. HUNTING-SONG. WAKEN, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day, All the jolly chase is here, With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear; Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, Waken, lords and ladies gay, Waken, lords and ladies gay, We can show the marks he made, When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; You shall see him brought to bay, « Waken, lords and ladies gay.» Louder, louder chaunt the lay, Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk, THE VIOLET. THE violet in her green-wood bower, In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. Though fair her gems of azure hue, Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining, I've seen an eye of lovelier blue, More sweet through watery lustre shining. The summer sun that dew shall dry, Ere yet the day be past its morrow; Nor longer in my false love's eye Remain the tear of parting sorrow. TO A LADY, WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL. TAKE these flowers, which, purple waving, Warriors from the breach of danger THE BARD'S INCANTATION. WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804. THE Forest of Glenmore is drear, It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree; And the midnight wind, to the mountain deer, Is whistling the forest lullaby: The moon looks through the drifting storm, There is a voice among the trees That mingles with the groaning oakThat mingles with the stormy breeze, And the lake-waves dashing against the rock; |