ページの画像
PDF
ePub

My Margaret's spectre glided near;
With pride her bleeding victim saw;
And shrieked in his death-deafened ear,
Remember injured Bothwellhaugh!'

[ocr errors]

Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault !

Spread to the wind thy bannered tree!
Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow!
Murray is fallen, and Scotland free."

Vaults every warrior to his steed;
Loud bugles join their wild acclaim-
Murray is fallen, and Scotland freed!
Couch, Arran! couch thy spear of flame!"

[ocr errors]

But, see! the minstrel vision fails

The glimmering spears are seen no more:
The shouts of war die on the gales,

Or sink in Evan's lonely roar.

For the loud bugle, pealing high,

The blackbird whistles down the vale,
And sunk in ivied ruins lie

The bannered towers of Evandale.

For chiefs, intent on bloody deed,

And Vengeance, shouting o'er the slain,
Lo! high-born Beauty rules the steed,
Or graceful guides the silken rein.

And long may Peace and Pleasure own
The maids, who list the minstrel's tale;

Nor e'er a ruder guest be known

On the fair banks of Evandale!

THE GREY BROTHER.

A FRAGMENT.

THE tradition, upon which the tale is founded, regards a house upon the barony of Gilmerton, near Lasswade, in Mid-Lothian. This building, now called Gilmerton Grange, was formerly named Burndale, from the following tragic adventure:-The barony of Gilmerton belonged, of yore, to a gentleman named Heron, who had one beautiful daughter. This young lady was seduced by the Abbot of Newbottle, a richly-endowed abbey, upon the banks of the South Eske, now a seat of the Marquis of Lothian. Heron came to the knowledge of this circumstance, and learned, also, that the lovers carried on their guilty intercourse by the contrivance of the lady's nurse, who lived at this house of Gilmerton Grange, or Burndale. He formed a resolution of bloody vengeance, undeterred by the supposed sanctity of the clerical character, or by the stronger claims of natural

affection.

Choosing, therefore, a dark and windy night, when the objects of his vengeance were engaged in a stolen interview, he set fire to a stack of dried thorns and other combustibles, which he had caused to be piled against the house, and reduced to a pile of glowing ashes the dwelling, with all its inmates.

The scene with which the ballad opens, was suggested by a curious passage in the life of Alexander Peden, one of the wandering and persecuted teachers of the sect of Cameronians, during the reign of Charles II. and that of his successor James II.

THE Pope he was saying the high, high mass,

All on Saint Peter's day,

With the power to him given, by the saints in heaven,
To wash men's sins away.

The Pope he was saying the blessèd mass,
And the people kneeled around,

And from each man's soul his sins did pass,
As he kissed the holy ground.

And all among the crowded throng,
Was still, both limb and tongue,

While through vaulted roof, and aisles aloof,
The holy accents rung.

At the holiest word, he quivered for fear,
And faltered in the sound-

And, when he would the chalice rear,
He dropped it on the ground.

"The breath of one, of evil deed,
Pollutes our sacred day;
He has no portion in our creed,
No part in what I say.

A being, whom no blessed word
To ghostly peace can bring;

A wretch, at whose approach abhorred,
Recoils each holy thing.

Up, up, unhappy! haste, arise!
My adjuration fear!

I charge thee not to stop my voice,
Nor longer tarry here!"

Amid them all a Pilgrim kneeled,
In gown of sackcloth grey:
Far journeying from his native field,
He first saw Rome that day.

For forty days and nights so drear,
I ween, he had not spoke,

And, save with bread and water clear,
His fast he ne'er had broke.

Amid the penitential flock,

Seemed none more bent to pray;
But, when the Holy Father spoke,
He rose, and went his way.

Again unto his native land
His weary course he drew,
To Lothian's fair and fertile strand,
And Pentland's mountains blue.

His unblessed feet his native seat, 'Mid Eske's fair woods, regain;

Through woods more fair no stream more sweet Rolls to the eastern main.

And lords to meet the Pilgrim came,
And vassals bent the knee;

For all 'mid Scotland's chiefs of fame,
Was none more famed than he.

And boldly for his country, still,
In battle he had stood,

Ay, e'en when, on the banks of Till,
Her noblest poured their blood.

Sweet are the paths, O, passing sweet!
By Eske's fair streams that run,
O'er airy steep, through copsewood deep,
Impervious to the sun.

There the rapt poet's step may rove,
And yield the muse the day;

There Beauty, led by timid Love,

May shun the tell-tale ray;

From that fair dome, where suit is paid

By blast of bugle free,

To Auchendinny's hazel glade,

And haunted Woodhouselee.

Who knows not Melville's beechy grove,
And Roslin's rocky glen,

Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,
And classic Hawthornden ?

Yet never a path, from day to day,

The Pilgrim's footsteps range,

Save but the solitary way,

To Burndale's ruined Grange.

A woeful place was that, I ween,

As sorrow could desire;

For, nodding to the fall was each crumbling wall,

And the roof was scathed with fire.

It fell upon a summer's eve,
While on Carnethy's head

The last faint gleams of the sun's low beams
Had streaked the grey with red;

And the convent bell did vespers tell,
Newbottle's oaks among,

And mingled with the solemn knell
Our Ladye's evening song:

The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell,
Came slowly down the wind,
And on the Pilgrim's ear they fell,
As his wonted path he did find.

Deep sunk in thought, I ween he was,
Nor ever raised his eye,

Until he came to that dreary place,
Which did all in ruins lie.

He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fire,
With many a bitter groan-

And there was aware of a Grey Friar,

Resting him on a stone.

"Now, Christ thee save!" said the Grey Brother;

"Some pilgrim thou seem'st to be;'

But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze,

Nor answer again made he.

"O come ye from east, or come ye from west,

Or bring relics from over the sea;

Or come ye from the shrine of Saint James the divine, Or Saint John of Beverley?"

"I come not from the shrine of Saint James the divine, Nor bring relics from over the sea;

I bring but a curse from our father, the Pope,

Which for ever will cling to me.'

"Now, woeful pilgrim, say not so! But kneel thee down by me,

"

And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin,

That absolved thou mayst be."

"And who art thou, thou Grey Brother,

That I should shrive to thee,

When he, to whom are given the keys of earth and

heaven,

Has no power to pardon me?"

"O I am sent from a distant clime,
Five thousand miles away,
And all to absolve a foul, foul crime,
Done here 'twixt night and day."

The pilgrim kneeled him on the sand,
And thus began his saye

When on his neck an ice-cold band

Did that Grey Brother laye.

THOMAS THE RHYMER.

IN THREE PARTS.

FEW personages are so renowned in tradition as Thomas of Ercildoune, known by the appellation of The Rhymer. Uniting, or supposing to unite, in his person, the powers of poetical composition and of vaticination, his memory, even after the lapse of five hundred years, is regarded with veneration by his countrymen. To give anything like a certain history of this remarkable man would be indeed difficult; but the curious may derive some satisfaction from the particulars here brought together.

It is agreed on all hands that the residence, and probably the birthplace, of this ancient bard, was Ercildoune, a village situated upon the Leader, two miles above its junction with the Tweed. The ruins of an ancient tower are still pointed out as the Rhymer's castle. The uniform tradition bears, that his surname was Lermont, or Learmont; and that the appellation of The Rhymer was conferred upon him in consequence of his poetical compositions. There remains, nevertheless, some doubt upon the subject.

We are better able to ascertain the period at which Thomas of Ercildoune lived, being the latter end of the thirteenth century. I am inclined to place his death a little further back than Mr. Pinkerton, who supposes that he was alive in 1300 (List of Scottish Poets). It cannot be doubted that Thomas of Ercildoune was a remarkable and important person in his own time, since, very shortly after his death, we find him celebrated as a prophet and as a poet. Whether he himself made any pretensions to the first of these characters, or whether it was gratuitously conferred upon him by the credulity of posterity, it seems difficult to decide. If we may believe Mackenzie, Learmont only versified the prophecies delivered by Eliza, an inspired nun of a convent at Haddington. But of this there seems not to be most distant proof. On the contrary, all ancient authors, who quote the Rhymer's prophecies, uniformly suppose them to have been emitted by himself.

The popular tale bears, that Thomas was carried off, at an early age, to the Fairy Land, where he acquired all the knowledge which made him afterwards so famous. After seven years' residence, he was permitted to return to the earth, to enlighten and astonish his countrymen by his prophetic powers; still, however, remaining bound to return to his royal mistress, when she should intimate her pleasure. Accordingly, while Thomas was making merry with his friends in the Tower of Ercildoune, a person came running in, and told, with marks of fear and astonishment, that a hart and hind had left the neighbouring forest, and were, composedly and slowly, parading the street of the village. The prophet instantly arose, left his habitation, and followed the wonderful animals to the forest, whence he was never seen to return. According to the popular belief, he still "drees his weird" in Fairy Land, and is one day

« 前へ次へ »