The Minstrel gazed-with wishful eye;
No humbler resting-place-was nigh.
With hesitating step-at last
Th' embattled portal-arch he passed,
Whose ponderous gate-and massy bar
Had oft-rolled back the tide of war,
But never closed the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.
The Duchess-marked his weary pace,
His timid mien, and reverend face,
And bade her page-the menials tell
That they should tend the old man-well;
For she had known adversity,
Though born-in such a high degree;
In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,
Had wept-o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb.
When kindness-had his wants supplied,
And the old man—was gratified,
Began to rise-his minstrel pride:
And he began to talk, anon,
Of good Earl Francis, (dead-and gone;)
And how full many a tale he knew-
Of the old warriors-of Buccleugh;
And would the noble Duchess-deign
To listen to an old man's strain,
Though stiff-his hand, his voice-though weak,
He thought even yet,-the sooth to speak,-
That if she loved the harp to hear,
He could make music-to her ear.
The humble boon-was soon obtained;
The aged Minstrel-audience gained.
But when he reached the room of state,
Where she, with all her ladies, sate,
Perchance-he wished his boon denied:
For when to tune his harp he tried
His trembling hand had lost the ease-
Which marks security—to please;
And scenes, (long past,) of joy and pain,
Came wildering-o'er his aged brain;
He tried to tune his harp-in vain.
The pitying Duchess-praised its chime,
And gave him heart, and gave him time,
Till every string's according glee-
Was blended-into harmony.
And then, (he said,) he would full fain
He could recall an ancient strain
He never thought to sing again.
And much he wished, yet feared, to try
The long-forgotten melody.
Amid the strings-his fingers strayed,
And an uncertain warbling made;
And oft-he shook his hoary head:
But when he caught the measure wild,
The old man raised his face, and smiled;
And lightened up his faded eye
With all a poet's ecstasy!
In varying cadence, soft-or strong,
He swept the sounding chords along;
The present scene, the future lot,
His toil, his wants, were all forgot:
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,
In the full tide of song were lost;
Each blank-in faithless memory void
The poet's glowing thought supplied;
And while his harp-responsive rang,
'T was thus-the latest Minstrel sang:
"Breathes there the man, with soul-so dead,
Who never-to himself-hath said,
'This is my own,-my native land!' Whose heart-hath ne'er within him burned As home-his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering-on a foreign strand!
If such-there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him-no minstrel raptures swell:
High-though his titles, proud—his name,
Boundless-his wealth-as wish can claim,-
Despite those titles,—power, and pelf,
The wretch, concenter'd all in self,
Living-shall forfeit-fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down-
To the vile dust-from whence he sprung,
Unwept,-unhonored,—and unsung!
"O Caledonia! stern-and wild,
Meet nurse-for a poetic child!
Land-of brown heath and shaggy wood,—
Land of the mountain and the flood,-
Land of my sires!—what mortal hand—
Can e'er untie-the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand?
Still, as I view each well-known scene,
Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seems-as, to me, of all bereft,
Sole friends thy woods and streams-were left; And thus-I love them better-still,
Even in extremity—of ill.
By Yarrow's stream-still let me stray,
Though none-should guide my feeble way;
Still-feel the breeze-down Ettrick break,
Although it chill-my withered cheek;
Still lay my head-on Teviot stone,
Though there,-forgotten-and alone,
The bard-may draw his parting groan.
"Sweet Teviot! on thy silver tide
The glaring bale-fires—blaze no more;
No longer-steel-clad warriors ride-
Along thy wild-and willowed shore;
Where'er thou wind'st by dale-or hill,
All, all-is peaceful, all-is still,
As if thy waves,-since Time was born,
Since first they rolled upon the Tweed,
Had only heard the shepherd's reed,
Nor started at the bugle-horn;
Unlike the tide-of human time,
Which, though it change in ceaseless flow,
Retains each grief,-retains each crime,
Its earliest course was doomed to know;
And, darker-as it downward bears,
Is stained-with past-and present tears.”
LI. THE ROMAN SOLDIER. ATHERSTONE.
(A Roman soldier, for some daring deed
That trespassed on the laws,) in dungeon low Chained down. His-was a noble spirit,-rough,
But generous,—and brave,—and kind.
He had a son: it was a rosy boy,
A little faithful copy-of his sire
In face-and gesture. From infancy-the child
Had been his father's solace-and his care.
Of that first day-of darkness—and amaze—
He came. The iron door-was closed-for them,-
Never to open more! The day,—the night,
Dragged slowly by; nor
Impending o'er the city.
did they know the fate-
Well they heard
The pent-up thunders-in the earth beneath,
And felt its giddy rocking; and the air
Grew hot (at length,) and thick. But in his straw
The boy-was sleeping: and the father hoped
The earthquake-might pass by; nor would he wake—
(From his sound rest) the unfearing child,-nor tell
The dangers of their state. On his low couch
The fettered soldier sunk,-and-(with deep awe)-
Listened the fearful sounds:—with upturned eye-
To the great gods-he breathed a prayer ;-then-strove
To calm himself, and lose-(in sleep)—awhile
His useless terrors. But he could not sleep:
His body-burned with feverish heat;-his chains-
Clanked loud, although he moved not; deep-in earth—
Groaned unimaginable thunders :—sounds,—
(Fearful-and ominous,) arose-and died,
(Like the sad moanings—of November's wind,)
In the blank midnight. Deepest horror-chilled
His blood-that burned-before; cold, clammy sweats— Came o'er him: then,-(anon,)—a fiery thrill
Shot through his veins. Now on his couch-he shrunk, And shivered-as in fear:-now—(upright)—leaped,— As though he heard the battle-trumpet sound,
And longed-to cope with death.
A troubled,-dreamy sleep. Well-had he slept,
Never-to waken more! His hours-are few,—
But terrible-his agony.
Loudly-the father-called upon his child:
No voice-replied. Trembling-and anxiously
He searched their couch of straw:—with headlong haste—
Trod round his stinted limits,—and,—low bent,—
Groped darkling-on the earth: no child-was there.
Again he called: again at farthest stretch-
Of his accursed fetters,-till the blood
Seemed bursting-from his ears,-and from his eyes
Fire flashed: he strained, with arm-extended far,
And fingers-widely spread,-greedy-to touch-
Though but his idol's garment. Useless toil!
Yet still-renewed: still round—and round he goes,—
And strains,—and snatches,—and—(with dreadful cries)—
Calls on his boy. Mad frenzy-fires him now:
He plants against the wall-his feet; his chain—
Grasps; tugs-(with giant strength) to force away—
The deep-driven staple: yells—and shrieks—with rage,
And,-(like a desert lion-in the snare-
Raging-to break his toils,)—to and fro-bounds.
But see! the ground is opening: a blue light
Mounts,-gently waving,-noiseless: thin-and cold-
It seems,-and-like a rainbow tint, not flame;
But by its luster,—(on the earth outstretched,)—
Behold the lifeless child! His dress is singed,—
And o'er his face serene-a darkened line
Points out the lightning's track.
The father stands: no tear-is in his eye:
The thunders-bellow,—but he hears them not.
The ground lifts-like a sea,-he knows it not:
The strong walls—grind—and gape: the vaulted roof—
Takes shapes-like bubble—tossing in the wind:
See! he looks up-and smiles; for death-to him
Is happiness. Yet-could one-last embrace-
Be given, 't were still—a sweeter thing—to die.
It will be given. Look! how the rolling ground,
(At every swell,) nearer-and still more near-
Moves (toward the father's outstretched arm)—his boy!
Once he has touched his garment: how his eye-
Lightens with love,—and hope,—and anxious fears!
Ha! see, he has him now!—he clasps him round,-—
Kisses his face, puts back the curling locks—
That shaded his fine brow, looks in his eyes,
Grasps-in his own-those little dimpled hands,
Then folds him-to his breast,— -as he was wont-
To lie-when sleeping,-and-—(resigned)—awaits
Undreaded death. And death came-soon,-and swift,—
And pangless. The huge pile-sunk down—(at once)—
Into the opening earth. Walls, arches,-roof,
And deep foundation-stones,-all-mingling-fell!
LII-A WINTER SKETCH AND DOMESTIC SCENES. HOYT.
Th' blessed morn-has come again; the early gray-
Taps at th' slumberer's window-panes,—and seems t' say,—
Break,-break-from the enchanter's chain;-away,-away!
'Tis winter,-yet-there is no sound-along the air
Of winds-upon their battle-ground;-but gently there-
Th' snow is falling:-all around-how fair,-how fair!
Th' jocund fields—would masquerade,—(fantastic scene!)
Tree,-shrub,—and lawn,—and lonely glade-have cast their green,—
And joined th' revel,—-all—arrayed—so white-and clean.
Even the old posts-(th't hold th' bars)—and the old gate,-
(Forgetful of their wintry wars—and age sedate,)—
High-capped and plumed,—(like white hussars,) stand there in state.
Th' drifts-are hanging by th' sill,—the eaves,-th' door;
Th' haystack-has become a hill; all covered o'er
Th' wagons—(loaded for th' mill-the eve before.)
Maria-brings th' water-pail,-but where's—th' well?
Like magic-of a fairy tale,—(most strange-t' tell)—
All vanished,-curb,-and crank,-and rail. How deep it fell!
Th' wood-pile-too-is playing hide: the axe,-th' log,—
Th' kennel of that friend-so tried,—(the old watch-dog,)—
Th' grindstone-standing by its side,-all-(now)-incog.
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