After his return from France, Lord Pitsligo took his seat in the Scottish Parliament, and his parliamentary career has thus been characterised by a former writer.[3] "Here it is no discredit either to his head or heart to say, that, obliged to become a member of one of the contending factions of the time, he adopted that which had for its object the independence of Scotland, and restoration of the ancient race of monarchs. The advantages which were in future to arise from the great measure of a national union were so hidden by the mist of prejudice, that it cannot be wondered at if Lord Pitsligo, like many a high-spirited man, saw nothing but disgrace in a measure forced on by such corrupt means, and calling in its commencement for such mortifying national sacrifices. The English nation, indeed, with a narrow, yet not unnatural, view of their own interest, took such pains to encumber and restrict the Scottish commercial privileges that it was not till the best part of a century after the event that the inestimable fruits of the treaty began to be felt and known. This distant period Lord Pitsligo could not foresee. He beheld his countrymen, like the Israelites of yore, led into the desert; but his merely human eye could not foresee that, after the extinction of a whole race—after a longer pilgrimage than that of the followers of Moses—the Scottish people should at length arrive at that promised land, of which the favourers of the Union held forth so gay a prospect.

"Looking upon the Act of Settlement of the Crown, and the Act of Abjuration, as unlawful, Lord Pitsligo retired to his house in the country, and threw up attendance on Parliament. Upon the death of Queen Anne he joined himself in arms with a general insurrection of the Highlanders and Jacobites, headed by his friend and relative the Earl of Mar.

"Mar, a versatile statesman and an able intriguer, had consulted his ambition rather than his talents when he assumed the command of such an enterprise. He sunk beneath the far superior genius of the Duke of Argyle; and after the undecisive battle of Sheriffmuir, the confederacy which he had formed, but was unable to direct, dissolved like a snow-ball, and the nobles concerned in it were fain to fly abroad. This exile was Lord Pitsligo's fate for five or six years. Part of the time he spent at the Court, if it can be called so, of the old Chevalier de Saint George, where existed all the petty feuds, chicanery, and crooked intrigues which subsist in a real scene of the same character, although the objects of the ambition which prompts such arts had no existence. Men seemed to play at being courtiers in that illusory court, as children play at being soldiers."

It would appear that Lord Pitsligo was not attainted for his share in Mar's rebellion. He returned to Scotland in 1720, and resided at his castle in Aberdeenshire, not mingling in public affairs, but gaining, through his charity, kindness, and benevolence, the respect and affection of all around him. He was sixty-seven years of age when Charles Edward landed in Scotland. The district in which the estates of Lord Pitsligo lay was essentially Jacobite, and the young cavaliers only waited for a fitting leader to take up arms in the cause. According to Mr. Home, his example was decisive of the movement of his neighbours: "So when he who was so wise and prudent declared his purpose of joining Charles, most of the gentlemen in that part of the country who favoured the Pretender's cause, put themselves under his command, thinking they could not follow a better or safer guide than Lord Pitsligo." His Lordship's own account of the motives which urged him on is peculiar:—"I was grown a little old, and the fear of ridicule stuck to me pretty much. I have mentioned the weightier considerations of a family, which would make the censure still the greater, and set the more tongues agoing. But we are pushed on, I know not how,—I thought—I weighed—and I weighed again. If there was any enthusiasm in it, it was of the coldest kind; and there was as little remorse when the affair miscarried, as there was eagerness at the beginning."

The writer whom I have already quoted goes on to say—"To those friends who recalled his misfortunes of 1715, he replied gaily, 'Did you ever know me absent at the second day of a wedding?' meaning, I suppose, that having once contracted an engagement, he did not feel entitled to quit it while the contest subsisted. Being invited by the gentlemen of the district to put himself at their head, and having surmounted his own desires, he had made a farewell visit at a neighbour's house, where a little boy, a child of the family, brought out a stool to assist the old nobleman in remounting his horse. 'My little fellow.' said Lord Pitsligo, 'this is the severest rebuke I have yet received, for presuming to go on such an expedition.'

"The die was however cast, and Lord Pitsligo went to meet his friends at the rendezvous they had appointed in Aberdeen. They formed a body of well-armed cavalry, gentlemen and their servants, to the number of a hundred men. When they were drawn up in readiness to commence the expedition, the venerable nobleman, their leader, moved to their front, lifted his hat, and, looking up to heaven, pronounced, with a solemn voice, the awful appeal,—'O Lord, thou knowest that our cause is just!' then added the signal for departure—'March, gentlemen!'

"Lord Pitsligo, with his followers, found Charles at Edinburgh, on 8th October 1745, a few days after the Highlanders' victory at Preston. Their arrival was hailed with enthusiasm, not only on account of the timely reinforcement, but more especially from the high character of their leader. Hamilton of Bangour, in an animated and eloquent eulogium upon Pitsligo, states that nothing could have fallen out more fortunately for the Prince than his joining them did—for it seemed as if religion, virtue, and justice were entering his camp, under the appearance of this venerable old man; and what would have given sanction to a cause of the most dubious right, could not fail to render sacred the very best."

Although so far advanced in years, he remained in arms during the whole campaign, and was treated with almost filial tenderness by the Prince. After Culloden, he became, like many more, a fugitive and an outlaw, but succeeded, like the Baron of Bradwardine, in finding a shelter upon the skirts of his own estate. Disguised as a mendicant, his secret was faithfully kept by the tenantry; and although it was more than surmised by the soldiers that he was lurking somewhere in the neighbourhood, they never were able to detect him. On one occasion he actually guided a party to a cave on the sea-shore, amidst the rough rocks of Buchan, where it was rumoured that he was lying in concealment; and on another, when overtaken by his asthma, and utterly unable to escape from an approaching patrol of soldiers, he sat down by the wayside, and acted his assumed character so well, that a good-natured fellow not only gave him alms, but condoled with him on the violence of his complaint.

For ten years he remained concealed, but in the mean time both title and estate were forfeited by attainder. His last escape was so very remarkable, that I may be pardoned for giving it in the language of the author of his memoirs.

"In March 1756, and of course long after all apprehension of a search had ceased, information having been given to the commanding officer at Fraserburgh, that Lord Pitsligo was at that moment at the house of Auchiries, it was acted upon with so much promptness and secrecy that the search must have proved successful but for a very singular occurrence. Mrs. Sophia Donaldson, a lady who lived much with the family, repeatedly dreamt, on that particular night, that the house was surrounded by soldiers. Her mind became so haunted with the idea, that she got out of bed, and was walking through the room, in hopes of giving a different current to her thoughts before she lay down again; when, day beginning to dawn, she accidentally looked out at the window as she passed it in traversing the room, and was astonished at actually observing the figures of soldiers among some trees near the house. So completely had all idea of a search been by that time laid asleep, that she supposed they had come to steal poultry—Jacobite poultry-yards affording a safe object of pillage for the English soldiers in those days. Mrs. Sophia was proceeding to rouse the servants, when her sister, having awaked, and inquiring what was the matter, and being told of soldiers near the house, exclaimed in great alarm, that she feared they wanted something more than hens. She begged Mrs. Sophia to look out at a window on the other side of the house, when not only were soldiers seen in that direction, but also an officer giving instructions by signal, and frequently putting his fingers to his lips, as if enjoining silence.

There was now no time to be lost in rousing the family, and all the haste that could be made was scarcely sufficient to hurry the venerable man from his bed into a small recess, behind the wainscot of an adjoining room, which was concealed by a bed, in which a lady, Miss Gordon of Towie, who was there on a visit, lay, before the soldiers obtained admission. A most minute search took place. The room in which Lord Pitsligo was concealed did not escape. Miss Gordon's bed was carefully examined, and she was obliged to suffer the rude scrutiny of one of the party, by feeling her chin, to ascertain that it was not a man in a lady's night-dress. Before the soldiers had finished their examination in this room, the confinement and anxiety increased Lord Pitsligo's asthma so much, and his breathing became so loud, that it cost Miss Gordon, lying in bed, much and violent coughing, which she counterfeited, in order to prevent the high breathings behind the wainscot from being heard.

It may be easily conceived what agony she would suffer, lest, by overdoing her part, she should increase suspicion, and in fact lead to a discovery. The ruse was fortunately successful. On the search through the house being given over, Lord Pitsligo was hastily taken from his confined situation, and again replaced in bed; and, as soon as he was able to speak, his accustomed kindness of heart made him say to his servant—'James, go and see that these poor fellows get some breakfast and a drink of warm ale, for this is a cold morning; they are only doing their duty, and cannot bear me any ill-will.' When the family were felicitating each other on his escape, he pleasantly observed—'A poor prize, had they obtained it—an old dying man!'"

This was the last attempt made on the part of government to seize on the persons of any of the surviving insurgents. Three years before, Dr. Archibald Cameron, a brother of Locheill, having clandestinely revisited Scotland, was arrested, tried, and executed for high treason at Tyburn. The government was generally blamed for this act of severity, which was considered rather to have been dictated by revenge than required for the public safety. It is, however, probable that they might have had secret information of certain negotiations which were still conducted in the Highlands by the agents of the Stuart family, and that they considered it necessary, by one terrible example, to overawe the insurrectionary spirit. This I believe to have been the real motive of an execution which otherwise could not have been palliated: and, in the case of Lord Pitsligo, it is quite possible that the zeal of a partisan may have led him to take a step which would not have been approved of by the ministry. After the lapse of so many years, and after so many scenes of judicial bloodshed, the nation would have turned in disgust from the spectacle of an old man, whose private life was not only blameless, but exemplary, dragged to the scaffold, and forced to lay down his head in expiation of a doubtful crime: and this view derives corroboration from the fact that, shortly afterwards, Lord Pitsligo was tacitly permitted to return to the society of his friends, without further notice or persecution.

Dr. King, the Principal of St. Mary's Hall, Oxford, has borne the following testimony to the character of Lord Pitsligo. "Whoever is so happy, either from his natural disposition, or his good judgment, constantly to observe St. Paul's precept, 'to speak evil of no one' will certainly acquire the love and esteem of the whole community of which he is a member. But such a man is the rara avis in terris; and, among all my acquaintance, I have known only one person to whom I can with truth assign this character. The person I mean is the present Lord Pitsligo of Scotland. I not only never heard this gentleman speak an ill word of any man living, but I always observed him ready to defend any other person who was ill spoken of in his company. If the person accused were of his acquaintance, my Lord Pitsligo would always find something good to say of him as a counterpoise. If he were a stranger, and quite unknown to him, my lord would urge in his defence the general corruption of manners, and the frailties and infirmities of human nature.

"It is no wonder that such an excellent man, who, besides, is a polite scholar, and has many other great and good qualities, should be universally admired and beloved—insomuch, that I persuade myself he has not one enemy in the world. At least, to this general esteem and affection for his person, his preservation must be owing; for since his attainder he has never removed far from his own house, protected by men of different principles, and unsought for and unmolested by government." To which eulogy it might be added, by those who have the good fortune to know his representatives, that the virtues here acknowledged seem hereditary in the family of Pitsligo.

The venerable old nobleman was permitted to remain without molestation at the residence of his son, during the latter years of an existence protracted to the extreme verge of human life. And so, says the author of his memoirs, "In this happy frame of mind,—calm and full of hope,—the saintly man continued to the last, with his reason unclouded, able to study his favourite volume, enjoying the comforts of friendship, and delighting in the consolations of religion, till he gently 'fell asleep in Jesus.' He died on the 21st of December, 1762, in the eighty-fifth year of his age; and to his surviving friends the recollection of the misfortunes which had accompanied him through his long life was painfully awakened even in the closing scene of his mortal career—as his son had the mortification to be indebted to a stranger, now the proprietor of his ancient inheritance by purchase from the crown, for permission to lay his father's honoured remains in the vault which contained the ashes of his family for many generations."

Such a character as this is well worthy of remembrance; and Lord Pitsligo has just title to be called the last of the old Scottish Cavaliers. I trust that, in adapting the words of the following little ballad to a well-known English air, I have committed no unpardonable larceny.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: See Blackwood's Magazine for May 1829.—Article "Lord Pitsligo."]



THE OLD SCOTTISH CAVALIER

I.

Come listen to another song, Should make your heart beat high, Bring crimson to your forehead, And the lustre to your eye;— It is a song of olden time, Of days long since gone by, And of a Baron stout and bold As e'er wore sword on thigh! Like a brave old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time!

II.

He kept his castle in the north, Hard by the thundering Spey; And a thousand vassals dwelt around All of his kindred they. And not a man of all that clan Had ever ceased to pray For the Royal race they loved so well, Though exiled far away From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers, All of the olden time!

III.

His father drew the righteous sword For Scotland and her claims, Among the loyal gentlemen And chiefs of ancient names Who swore to fight or fall beneath The standard of King James, And died at Killiecrankie pass With the glory of the Graemes; Like a true old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time!

IV.

He never owned the foreign rule, No master he obeyed, But kept his clan in peace at home, From foray and from raid; And when they asked him for his oath, He touched his glittering blade, And pointed to his bonnet blue, That bore the white cockade: Like a leal old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time!

V.

At length the news ran through the land— THE PRINCE had come again! That night the fiery cross was sped O'er mountain and through glen; And our old Baron rose in might, Like a lion from his den, And rode away across the hills To Charlie and his men, With the valiant Scottish cavaliers, All of the olden time!

VI.

He was the first that bent the knee When the STANDARD waved abroad, He was the first that charged the foe On Preston's bloody sod; And ever, in the van of fight, The foremost still he trod, Until, on bleak Culloden's heath, He gave his soul to God, Like a good old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time!

VII.

Oh! never shall we know again A heart so stout and true— The olden times have passed away, And weary are the new: The fair White Rose has faded From the garden where it grew, And no fond tears save those of heaven The glorious bed bedew Of the last old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time!



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS



BLIND OLD MILTON

Place me once more, my daughter, where the sun May shine upon my old and time-worn head, For the last time, perchance. My race is run; And soon amidst the ever-silent dead I must repose, it may be, half forgot. Yes! I have broke the hard and bitter bread For many a year, with those who trembled not To buckle on their armour for the fight, And set themselves against the tyrant's lot; And I have never bowed me to his might, Nor knelt before him—for I bear within My heart the sternest consciousness of right, And that perpetual hate of gilded sin Which made me what I am; and though the stain Of poverty be on me, yet I win More honour by it, than the blinded train Who hug their willing servitude, and bow Unto the weakest and the most profane. Therefore, with unencumbered soul I go Before the footstool of my Maker, where I hope to stand as undebased as now! Child! is the sun abroad? I feel my hair Borne up and wafted by the gentle wind, I feel the odours that perfume the air, And hear the rustling of the leaves behind. Within my heart I picture them, and then I almost can forget that I am blind, And old, and hated by my fellow-men. Yet would I fain once more behold the grace Of nature ere I die, and gaze again Upon her living and rejoicing face— Fain would I see thy countenance, my child, My comforter! I feel thy dear embrace— I hear thy voice, so musical, and mild, The patient, sole interpreter, by whom So many years of sadness are beguiled; For it hath made my small and scanty room Peopled with glowing visions of the past. But I will calmly bend me to my doom, And wait the hour which is approaching fast, When triple light shall stream upon mine eyes, And heaven itself be opened up at last To him who dared foretell its mysteries. I have had visions in this drear eclipse Of outward consciousness, and clomb the skies, Striving to utter with my earthly lips What the diviner soul had half divined, Even as the Saint in his Apocalypse Who saw the inmost glory, where enshrined Sat He who fashioned glory. This hath driven All outward strife and tumult from my mind, And humbled me, until I have forgiven My bitter enemies, and only seek To find the straight and narrow path to heaven.

Yet I am weak—oh! how entirely weak, For one who may not love nor suffer more! Sometimes unbidden tears will wet my cheek, And my heart bound as keenly as of yore, Responsive to a voice, now hushed to rest, Which made the beautiful Italian shore, In all its pomp of summer vineyards drest, An Eden and a Paradise to me. Do the sweet breezes from the balmy west Still murmur through thy groves, Parthenope, In search of odours from the orange bowers? Still on thy slopes of verdure does the bee Cull her rare honey from the virgin flowers? And Philomel her plaintive chaunt prolong 'Neath skies more calm and more serene than ours, Making the summer one perpetual song? Art thou the same as when in manhood's pride I walked in joy thy grassy meads among, With that fair youthful vision by my side, In whose bright eyes I looked—and not in vain? O my adored angel! O my bride! Despite of years, and woe, and want, and pain, My soul yearns back towards thee, and I seem To wander with thee, hand in hand, again, By the bright margin of that flowing stream. I hear again thy voice, more silver-sweet Than fancied music floating in a dream, Possess my being; from afar I greet The waving of thy garments in the glade, And the light rustling of thy fairy feet— What time as one half eager, half afraid, Love's burning secret faltered on my tongue, And tremulous looks and broken words betrayed The secret of the heart from whence they sprung. Ah me! the earth that rendered thee to heaven Gave up an angel beautiful and young, Spotless and pure as snow when freshly driven: A bright Aurora for the starry sphere Where all is love, and even life forgiven. Bride of immortal beauty—ever dear! Dost thou await me in thy blest abode? While I, Tithonus-like, must linger here, And count each step along the rugged road; A phantom, tottering to a long-made grave, And eager to lay down my weary load!

I, who was fancy's lord, am fancy's slave. Like the low murmurs of the Indian shell Ta'en from its coral bed beneath the wave, Which, unforgetful of the ocean's swell, Retains within its mystic urn the hum Heard in the sea-grots where the Nereids dwell— Old thoughts still haunt me—unawares they come Between me and my rest, nor can I make Those aged visitors of sorrow dumb. Oh, yet awhile, my feeble soul, awake! Nor wander back with sullen steps again; For neither pleasant pastime canst thou take In such a journey, nor endure the pain. The phantoms of the past are dead for thee; So let them ever uninvoked remain, And be thou calm, till death shall set thee free. Thy flowers of hope expanded long ago, Long since their blossoms withered on the tree: No second spring can come to make them blow, But in the silent winter of the grave They lie with blighted love and buried woe.

I did not waste the gifts which nature gave, Nor slothful lay in the Circean bower; Nor did I yield myself the willing slave Of lust for pride, for riches, or for power. No! in my heart a nobler spirit dwelt; For constant was my faith in manhood's dower; Man—made in God's own image—and I felt How of our own accord we courted shame, Until to idols like ourselves we knelt, And so renounced the great and glorious claim Of freedom, our immortal heritage. I saw how bigotry, with spiteful aim, Smote at the searching eyesight of the sage, How error stole behind the steps of truth, And cast delusion on the sacred page. So, as a champion, even in early youth I waged my battle with a purpose keen; Nor feared the hand of terror, nor the tooth Of serpent jealousy. And I have been With starry Galileo in his cell, That wise magician with the brow serene, Who fathomed space; and I have seen him tell The wonders of the planetary sphere, And trace the ramparts of heaven's citadel On the cold flag-stones of his dungeon drear. And I have walked with Hampden and with Vane— Names once so gracious to an English ear— In days that never may return again. My voice, though not the loudest, hath been heard Whenever freedom raised her cry of pain, And the faint effort of the humble bard Hath roused up thousands from their lethargy, To speak in words of thunder. What reward Was mine, or theirs? It matters not; for I Am but a leaf cast on the whirling tide, Without a hope or wish, except to die. But truth, asserted once, must still abide, Unquenchable, as are those fiery springs Which day and night gush from the mountain-side, Perpetual meteors girt with lambent wings, Which the wild tempest tosses to and fro, But cannot conquer with the force it brings. Yet I, who ever felt another's woe More keenly than my own untold distress; I, who have battled with the common foe, And broke for years the bread of bitterness; Who never yet abandoned or betrayed The trust vouchsafed me, nor have ceased to bless, Am left alone to wither in the shade, A weak old man, deserted by his kind— Whom none will comfort in his age, nor aid!

Oh! let me not repine! A quiet mind, Conscious and upright, needs no other stay; Nor can I grieve for what I leave behind, In the rich promise of eternal day. Henceforth to me the world is dead and gone, Its thorns unfelt, its roses cast away: And the old pilgrim, weary and alone, Bowed down with travel, at his Master's gate Now sits, his task of life-long labour done, Thankful for rest, although it comes so late, After sore journey through this world of sin, In hope, and prayer, and wistfulness to wait, Until the door shall ope, and let him in.



HERMOTIMUS

Hermotimus, the hero of this ballad, was a philosopher, or rather a prophet, of Clazomenae, who possessed the faculty, now claimed by the animal-magnetists, of effecting a voluntary separation between his soul and body; for the former could wander to any part of the universe, and even hold intercourse with supernatural beings, whilst the senseless frame remained at home. Hermotimus, however, was not insensible to the risk attendant upon this disunion; since, before attempting any of these aerial flights, he took the precaution to warn his wife, lest, ere the return of his soul, the body should be rendered an unfit or useless receptacle. This accident, which he so much dreaded, at length occurred; for the lady, wearied out by a succession of trances, each of longer duration than the preceding, one day committed his body to the flames, and thus effectually put a stop to such unconnubial conduct. He received divine honours at Clazomenae, but must nevertheless remain as a terrible example and warning to all husbands who carry their scientific or spiritual pursuits so far as to neglect their duty to their wives.

It is somewhat curious that Hermotimus is not the only person (putting the disciples of Mesmer and Dupotet altogether out of the question) who has possessed this miraculous power. Another and much later instance is recorded by Dr. George Cheyne, in his work entitled, The English Malady, or a Treatise of Nervous Diseases, as having come under his own observation; and, as this case is exactly similar to that of the Prophet, it may amuse the reader to see how far an ancient fable may be illustrated, and in part explained, by the records of modern science. Dr. Cheyne's patient was probably cataleptic; but the worthy physician must be allowed to tell his own story.

"Colonel Townshend, a gentleman of honour and integrity, had for many years been afflicted with a nephritic complaint. His illness increasing, and his strength decaying, he came from Bristol to Bath in a litter, in autumn, and lay at the Bell Inn. Dr. Baynard and I were called to him, and attended him twice a-day; but his vomitings continuing still incessant and obstinate against all remedies, we despaired of his recovery. While he was in this condition, he sent for us one morning; we waited on him with Mr. Skrine, his apothecary. We found his senses clear, and his mind calm: his nurse and several servants were about him. He told us he had sent for us to give him an account of an odd sensation he had for some time observed and felt in himself; which was, that, by composing himself, he could die or expire when he pleased; and yet by an effort, or somehow, he could come to life again, which he had sometimes tried before he had sent for us. We heard this with surprise; but, as it was not to be accounted for upon common principles, we could hardly believe the fact as he related it, much less give any account of it; unless he should please to make the experiment before us, which we were unwilling he should do, lest, in his weak condition, he might carry it too far. He continued to talk very distinctly and sensibly above a quarter of an hour about this surprising sensation, and insisted so much on our seeing the trial made, that we were at last forced to comply. We all three felt his pulse first—it was distinct, though small and thready, and his heart had its usual beating. He composed himself on his back, and lay in a still posture for some time: while I held his right hand, Dr. Baynard laid his hand on his heart, and Mr. Skrine held a clean looking-glass to his mouth. I found his pulse sink gradually, till at last I could not find any by the most exact and nice touch. Dr. Baynard could not feel the least motion in his heart, nor Mr. Skrine the least soil of breath on the bright mirror he held to his mouth; then each of us by turns examined his arm, heart, and breath, but could not, by the nicest scrutiny, discover the least symptom of life in him. We reasoned a long time about this odd appearance as well as we could, and all of us judging it inexplicable and unaccountable; and, finding he still continued in that condition, we began to conclude that he had indeed carried the experiment too far; and at last were satisfied he was actually dead, and were just ready to leave him. This continued about half an hour. As we were going away, we observed some motion about the body; and, upon examination, found his pulse and the motion of his heart gradually returning. He began to breathe gently and speak softly. We were all astonished to the last degree at this unexpected change; and, after some further conversation with him, and among ourselves, went away fully satisfied as to all the particulars of this fact, but confounded and puzzled, and not able to form any rational scheme that might account for it."



HERMOTIMUS

I.

"Wilt not lay thee down in quiet slumber? Weary dost thou seem, and ill at rest; Sleep will bring thee dreams in starry number— Let him come to thee and be thy guest. Midnight now is past— Husband! come at last— Lay thy throbbing head upon my breast."

II.

"Weary am I, but my soul is waking; Fain I'd lay me gently by thy side, But my spirit then, its home forsaking, Through the realms of space would wander wide— Everything forgot, What would be thy lot, If I came not back to thee, my bride?"

III.

"Music, like the lute of young Apollo, Vibrates even now within mine ear; Soft and silver voices bid me follow, Yet my soul is dull and will not hear. Waking it will stay: Let me watch till day— Fainter will they come, and disappear."

IV.

"Speak not thus to me, my own—my dearest! These are but the phantoms of thy brain; Nothing can befall thee which thou fearest, Thou shalt wake to love and life again. Were this sleep thy last, I should hold thee fast, Thou shouldst strive against me but in vain."

V.

"Eros will protect us, and will hover, Guardian-like, above thee all the night, Jealous of thee, as of some fond lover Chiding back the rosy-fingered light— He will be thine aid: Canst thou feel afraid When his torch above us burneth bright?"

VI.

"Lo! the cressets of the night are waning— Old Orion hastens from the sky; Only thou of all things art remaining Unrefreshed by slumber—thou and I. Sound and sense are still; Even the distant rill Murmurs fainter now, and languidly."

VII.

"Come and rest thee, husband!"—And no longer Could the young man that fond call resist: Vainly was he warned, for love was stronger— Warmly did he press her to his breast. Warmly met she his; Kiss succeeded kiss, Till their eyelids closed with sleep oppressed.

VIII.

Soon Aurora left her early pillow, And the heavens grew rosy-rich, and rare; Laughed the dewy plain and glassy billow, For the Golden God himself was there; And the vapour-screen Rose the hills between, Steaming up, like incense, in the air.

IX.

O'er her husband sate Ione bending— Marble-like and marble-hued he lay; Underneath her raven locks descending, Paler seemed his face, and ashen gray, And so white his brow— White and cold as snow— "Husband! Gods! his soul hath passed away!"

X.

Raise ye up the pile with gloomy shadow— Heap it with the mournful cypress-bough!— And they raised the pile upon the meadow, And they heaped the mournful cypress too; And they laid the dead On his funeral bed, And they kindled up the flames below.

XI.

Swiftly rose they, and the corse surrounded, Spreading out a pall into the air; And the sharp and sudden crackling sounded Mournfully to all the watchers there. Soon their force was spent, And the body blent With the embers' slow-expiring glare.

XII.

Night again was come; but oh, how lonely To the mourner did that night appear! Peace nor rest it brought, but sorrow only, Vain repinings and unwonted fear. Dimly burned the lamp— Chill the air and damp— And the winds without were moaning drear.

XIII.

Hush! a voice in solemn whispers speaking Breaks within the twilight of the room; And Ione, loud and wildly shrieking, Starts and gazes through the ghastly gloom. Nothing sees she there— All is empty air, All is empty as a rifled tomb.

XIV.

Once again the voice beside her sounded, Low, and faint, and solemn was its tone— "Nor by form nor shade am I surrounded, Fleshly home and dwelling have I none. They are passed away— Woe is me! to-day Hath robbed me of myself, and made me lone."

XV.

"Vainly were the words of parting spoken; Evermore must Charon turn from me. Still my thread of life remains unbroken, And unbroken ever it must be; Only they may rest Whom the Fates' behest From their mortal mansion setteth free."

XVI.

"I have seen the robes of Hermes glisten— Seen him wave afar his serpent-wand; But to me the Herald would not listen— When the dead swept by at his command, Not with that pale crew Durst I venture too— Ever shut for me the quiet land."

XVII.

"Day and night before the dreary portal, Phantom-shapes, the guards of Hades, lie; None of heavenly kind, nor yet of mortal, May unchallenged pass the warders by. None that path may go, If he cannot show His last passport to eternity."

XVIII.

"Cruel was the spirit-power thou gavest— Fatal, O Apollo, was thy love! Pythian! Archer! brightest God and bravest, Hear, O hear me from thy throne above! Let me not, I pray, Thus be cast away: Plead for me—thy slave—O plead to Jove!"

XIX.

"I have heard thee with the Muses singing— Heard that full, melodious voice of thine, Silver-clear throughout the ether ringing— Seen thy locks in golden clusters shine; And thine eye, so bright With its innate light, Hath ere now been bent so low as mine."

XX.

"Hast thou lost the wish—the will—to cherish Those who trusted in thy godlike power? Hyacinthus did not wholly perish; Still he lives, the firstling of thy bower; Still he feels thy rays, Fondly meets thy gaze, Though but now the spirit of a flower."

XXI.

"Hear me, Phoebus! Hear me and deliver! Lo! the morning breaketh from afar— God! thou comest bright and great as ever— Night goes back before thy burning car; All her lamps are gone— Lucifer alone Lingers still for thee—the blessed star!"

XXII.

"Hear me, Phoebus!"—And therewith descended Through the window-arch a glory-gleam, All effulgent—and with music blended, For such solemn sounds arose as stream From the Memnon-lyre, When the morning fire Gilds the giant's forehead with its beam.

XXIII.

"Thou hast heard thy servant's prayer, Apollo; Thou dost call me, mighty God of Day! Fare-thee-well, Ione!"—And more hollow Came the phantom-voice, then died away. When the slaves arose, Not in calm repose, Not in sleep, but death, their mistress lay.



OENONE

On the holy mount of Ida, Where the pine and cypress grow, Sate a young and lovely woman, Weeping ever, weeping low. Drearily throughout the forest Did the winds of autumn blow, And the clouds above were flying, And Scamander rolled below.

"Faithless Paris! cruel Paris!" Thus the poor deserted spake— "Wherefore thus so strangely leave me? Why thy loving bride forsake? Why no tender word at parting? Why no kiss, no farewell take? Would that I could but forget thee— Would this throbbing heart might break!

"Is my face no longer blooming? Are my eyes no longer bright? Ah! my tears have made them dimmer, And my cheeks are pale and white. I have wept since early morning, I will weep the livelong night; Now I long for sullen darkness, As I once have longed for light.

"Paris! canst thou then be cruel? Fair, and young, and brave thou art— Can it be that in thy bosom Lies so cold, so hard a heart? Children were we bred together— She who bore me suckled thee; I have been thine old companion, When thou hadst no more but me.

"I have watched thee in thy slumbers, When the shadow of a dream Passed across thy smiling features, Like the ripple of a stream; And so sweetly were the visions Pictured there with lively grace, That I half could read their import By the changes on thy face.

"When I sang of Ariadne, Sang the old and mournful tale, How her faithless lover, Theseus, Left her to lament and wail; Then thine eyes would fill and glisten, Her complaint could soften thee: Thou hast wept for Ariadne— Theseus' self might weep for me!

"Thou may'st find another maiden With a fairer face than mine— With a gayer voice, and sweeter, And a spirit liker thine: For if e'er my beauty bound thee, Lost and broken is the spell; But thou canst not find another That will love thee half so well.

"O thou hollow ship that bearest Paris o'er the faithless deep, Wouldst thou leave him on some island, Where alone the waters weep? Where no human foot is moulded In the wet and yellow sand— Leave him there, thou hollow vessel! Leave him on that lonely land!

"Then his heart will surely soften, When his foolish hopes decay, And his older love rekindle, As the new one dies away. Visionary hills will haunt him, Rising from the glassy sea, And his thoughts will wander homewards Unto Ida and to me.

"O! that like a little swallow I could reach that lonely spot! All his errors would be pardoned, All the weary past forgot. Never should he wander from me— Never should he more depart, For these arms would be his prison, And his home would be my heart."

Thus lamented fair Oenone, Weeping ever, weeping low, On the holy mount of Ida, Where the pine and cypress grow. In the self-same hour Cassandra Shrieked her prophecy of woe, And into the Spartan dwelling Did the faithless Paris go.



THE BURIED FLOWER

In the silence of my chamber, When the night is still and deep, And the drowsy heave of ocean Mutters in its charmed sleep,

Oft I hear the angel-voices That have thrilled me long ago,— Voices of my lost companions, Lying deep beneath the snow.

O, the garden I remember, In the gay and sunny spring, When our laughter made the thickets And the arching alleys ring!

O the merry burst of gladness! O the soft and tender tone! O the whisper never uttered Save to one fond ear alone!

O the light of life that sparkled In those bright and bounteous eyes! O the blush of happy beauty, Tell-tale of the heart's surprise:

O the radiant light that girdled Field and forest, land and sea, When we all were young together, And the earth was new to me:

Where are now the flowers we tended? Withered, broken, branch and stem; Where are now the hopes we cherished? Scattered to the winds with them.

For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones! Nursed in hope and reared in love, Looking fondly ever upward To the clear blue heaven above:

Smiling on the sun that cheered us, Rising lightly from the rain, Never folding up your freshness Save to give it forth again:

Never shaken, save by accents From a tongue that was not free, As the modest blossom trembles At the wooing of the bee.

O! 'tis sad to lie and reckon All the days of faded youth, All the vows that we believed in, All the words we spoke in truth.

Severed—were it severed only By an idle thought of strife, Such as time might knit together; Not the broken chord of life!

O my heart! that once so truly Kept another's time and tune, Heart, that kindled in the spring-tide, Look around thee in the noon.

Where are they who gave the impulse To thy earliest thought and flow? Look around the ruined garden— All are withered, dropped, or low!

Seek the birth-place of the lily, Dearer to the boyish dream Than the golden cups of Eden, Floating on its slumbrous stream;

Never more shalt thou behold her— She, the noblest, fairest, best: She that rose in fullest beauty, Like a queen, above the rest.

Only still I keep her image As a thought that cannot die; He who raised the shade of Helen Had no greater power than I.

O! I fling my spirit backward, And I pass o'er years of pain; All I loved is rising round me, All the lost returns again.

Blow, for ever blow, ye breezes, Warmly as ye did before! Bloom again, ye happy gardens, With the radiant tints of yore!

Warble out in spray and thicket, All ye choristers unseen; Let the leafy woodland echo With an anthem to its queen!

Lo! she cometh in her beauty, Stately with a Juno grace, Raven locks, Madonna-braided O'er her sweet and blushing face:

Eyes of deepest violet, beaming With the love that knows not shame— Lips, that thrill my inmost being With the utterance of a name.

And I bend the knee before her, As a captive ought to bow,— Pray thee, listen to my pleading, Sovereign of my soul art thou!

O my dear and gentle lady, Let me show thee all my pain, Ere the words that late were prisoned Sink into my heart again.

Love, they say, is very fearful Ere its curtain be withdrawn, Trembling at the thought of error As the shadows scare the fawn.

Love hath bound me to thee, lady, Since the well-remembered day When I first beheld thee coming In the light of lustrous May.

Not a word I dared to utter— More than he who, long ago, Saw the heavenly shapes descending Over Ida's slopes of snow:

When a low and solemn music Floated through the listening grove, And the throstle's song was silenced, And the doling of the dove:

When immortal beauty opened All its grace to mortal sight, And the awe of worship blended With the throbbing of delight.

As the shepherd stood before them Trembling in the Phrygian dell, Even so my soul and being Owned the magic of the spell;

And I watched thee ever fondly, Watched thee, dearest! from afar, With the mute and humble homage Of the Indian to a star.

Thou wert still the Lady Flora In her morning garb of bloom; Where thou wert was light and glory, Where thou wert not, dearth and gloom.

So for many a day I followed For a long and weary while, Ere my heart rose up to bless thee For the yielding of a smile,—

Ere thy words were few and broken As they answered back to mine, Ere my lips had power to thank thee For the gift vouchsafed by thine.

Then a mighty gush of passion Through my inmost being ran; Then my older life was ended, And a dearer course began.

Dearer!—O, I cannot tell thee What a load was swept away, What a world of doubt and darkness Faded in the dawning day!

All my error, all my weakness, All my vain delusions fled: Hope again revived, and gladness Waved its wings above my head.

Like the wanderer of the desert, When, across the dreary sand, Breathes the perfume from the thickets Bordering on the promised land;

When afar he sees the palm-trees Cresting o'er the lonely well, When he hears the pleasant tinkle Of the distant camel's bell:

So a fresh and glad emotion Rose within my swelling breast, And I hurried swiftly onwards To the haven of my rest.

Thou wert there with word and welcome, With thy smile so purely sweet; And I laid my heart before thee, Laid it, darling, at thy feet!—

O ye words that sound so hollow As I now recall your tone! What are ye but empty echoes Of a passion crushed and gone?

Wherefore should I seek to kindle Light, when all around is gloom? Wherefore should I raise a phantom O'er the dark and silent tomb?

Early wert thou taken, Mary! In thy fair and glorious prime, Ere the bees had ceased to murmur Through the umbrage of the lime.

Buds were blowing, waters flowing, Birds were singing on the tree, Every thing was bright and glowing, When the angels came for thee.

Death had laid aside his terror, And he found thee calm and mild, Lying in thy robes of whiteness, Like a pure and stainless child.

Hardly had the mountain violet Spread its blossoms on the sod, Ere they laid the turf above thee, And thy spirit rose to God.

Early wert thou taken, Mary! And I know 'tis vain to weep— Tears of mine can never wake thee From thy sad and silent sleep.

O away! my thoughts are earthward! Not asleep, my love, art thou! Dwelling in the land of glory With the saints and angels now.

Brighter, fairer far than living, With no trace of woe or pain, Robed in everlasting beauty, Shall I see thee once again,

By the light that never fadeth, Underneath eternal skies, When the dawn of resurrection Breaks o'er deathless Paradise.



THE OLD CAMP

WRITTEN IN A ROMAN FORTIFICATION IN BAVARIA

I.

There is a cloud before the sun, The wind is hushed and still, And silently the waters run Beneath the sombre hill. The sky is dark in every place, As is the earth below: Methinks it wore the self-same face Two thousand years ago.

II.

No light is on the ancient wall, No light upon the mound; The very trees, so thick and tall, Cast gloom, not shade, around. So silent is the place and cold, So far from human ken, It hath a look that makes me old, And spectres time again.

III.

I listen, half in thought to hear The Roman trumpet blow— I search for glint of helm and spear Amidst the forest bough: And armour rings, and voices swell— I hear the legion's tramp, And mark the lonely sentinel Who guards the lonely camp.

IV.

Methinks I have no other home, No other hearth to find; For nothing save the thought of Rome Is stirring in my mind. And all that I have heard or dreamed, And all I had forgot, Are rising up, as though they seemed The household of the spot.

V.

And all the names that Romans knew Seem just as known to me, As if I were a Roman too— A Roman born and free: And I could rise at Caesar's name, As though it were a charm To draw sharp lightning from the tame, And brace the coward's arm.

VI.

And yet, if yonder sky were blue, And earth were sunny gay, If nature wore the summer hue That decked her yesterday, The mound, the trench, the rampart's space, Would move me nothing more Than many a sweet sequestred place That I have marked before.

VII.

I could not feel the breezes bring Rich odours from the trees; I could not hear the linnets sing, And think on themes like these. The painted insects as they pass In swift and motley strife, The very lizard in the grass Would scare me back to life.

VIII.

Then is the past so gloomy now That it may never bear The open smile of nature's brow, Or meet the sunny air? I know not that—but joy is power, However short it last; And joy befits the present hour, If sadness fits the past.



DANUBE AND THE EUXINE

"Danube, Danube! wherefore com'st thou Red and raging to my caves? Wherefore leap thy swollen waters Madly through the broken waves? Wherefore is thy tide so sullied With a hue unknown to me; Wherefore dost thou bring pollution To the old and sacred sea?"

"Ha! rejoice, old Father Euxine! I am brimming full and red; Noble tidings do I carry From my distant channel-bed. I have been a Christian river Dull and slow this many a year, Rolling down my torpid waters Through a silence morne and drear; Have not felt the tread of armies Trampling on my reedy shore; Have not heard the trumpet calling, Or the cannon's gladsome roar; Only listened to the laughter From the village and the town, And the church-bells, ever jangling, As the weary day went down. So I lay and sorely pondered On the days long since gone by, When my old primaeval forests Echoed to the war-man's cry; When the race of Thor and Odin Held their battles by my side, And the blood of man was mingling Warmly with my chilly tide. Father Euxine! thou rememb'rest How I brought thee tribute then— Swollen corpses, gashed and gory, Heads and limbs of slaughter'd men? Father Euxine! be thou joyful! I am running red once more— Not with heathen blood, as early, But with gallant Christian gore! For the old times are returning, And the Cross is broken down, And I hear the tocsin sounding In the village and the town; And the glare of burning cities Soon shall light me on my way— Ha! my heart is big and jocund With the draught I drank to-day. Ha! I feel my strength awakened, And my brethren shout to me; Each is leaping red and joyous To his own awaiting sea. Rhine and Elbe are plunging downward Through their wild anarchic land, Everywhere are Christians falling By their brother Christians' hand! Yea, the old times are returning, And the olden gods are here! Take my tribute, Father Euxine, To thy waters dark and drear. Therefore come I with my torrents, Shaking castle, crag, and town; Therefore, with the shout of thunder, Sweep I herd and herdsman down; Therefore leap I to thy bosom, With a loud triumphal roar— Greet me, greet me, Father Euxine, I am Christian stream no more!"



THE SCHEIK OF SINAI IN 1830

FROM THE GERMAN OF FREILIGRATH

I.

"Lift me without the tent, I say,— Me and my ottoman,— I'll see the messenger myself! It is the caravan From Africa, thou sayest, And they bring us news of war? Draw me without the tent, and quick! As at the desert well The freshness of the purling brook Delights the tired gazelle, So pant I for the voice of him That cometh from afar!"

II.

The Scheik was lifted from his tent, And thus outspake the Moor:— "I saw, old Chief, the Tricolor On Algiers' topmost tower— Upon its battlements the silks Of Lyons flutter free. Each morning, in the market-place, The muster-drum is beat, And to the war-hymn of Marseilles The squadrons pace the street. The armament from Toulon sailed: The Franks have crossed the sea."

III.

"Towards the south, the columns marched Beneath a cloudless sky: Their weapons glittered in the blaze Of the sun of Barbary; And with the dusty desert sand Their horses' manes were white. The wild marauding tribes dispersed In terror of their lives; They fled unto the mountains With their children and their wives, And urged the clumsy dromedary Up the Atlas' height."

IV.

"The Moors have ta'en their vantage-ground, The volleys thunder fast— The dark defile is blazing Like a heated oven-blast; The lion hears the strange turmoil, And leaves his mangled prey— No place was that for him to feed; And thick and loud the cries, Feu!—Allah! Allah!—En avant! In mingled discord rise; The Franks have reached the summit— They have won the victory!"

V.

"With bristling steel, upon the top The victors take their stand: Beneath their feet, with all its towns, They see the promised land— From Tunis, even unto Fez, From Atlas to the seas. The cavaliers alight to gaze, And gaze full well they may, Where countless minarets stand up So solemnly and gray, Amidst the dark-green masses Of the flowering myrtle-trees."

VI.

"The almond blossoms in the vale; The aloe from the rock Throws out its long and prickly leaves, Nor dreads the tempest's shock: A blessed land, I ween, is that, Though luckless is its Bey. There lies the sea—beyond lies France! Her banners in the air Float proudly and triumphantly— A salvo! come, prepare! And loud and long the mountains rang With that glad artillery."

VII.

"'Tis they!" exclaimed the aged Scheik. "I've battled by their side— I fought beneath the Pyramids! That day of deathless pride— Red as thy turban, Moor, that eve, Was every creek in Nile! But tell me—" and he griped his hand— "Their Sultaun. Stranger, say— His form—his face—his posture, man? Thou saw'st him in the fray? His eye—what wore he?" But the Moor Sought in his vest awhile.

VIII.

"Their Sultaun, Scheik, remains at home Within his palace walls: He sends a Pasha in his stead To brave the bolts and balls. He was not there. An Aga burst For him through Atlas' hold. Yet I can show thee somewhat too. A Frankish Cavalier Told me his effigy was stamped Upon this medal here— He gave me with others For an Arab steed I sold."

IX.

The old man took the golden coin: Gazed steadfastly awhile, If that could be the Sultaun Whom from the banks of Nile He guided o'er the desert path— Then sighed and thus spake he— "'Tis not his eye—'tis not his brow— Another face is there: I never saw this man before— His head is like a pear! Take back thy medal, Moor—'tis not That which I hoped to see."



EPITAPH OF CONSTANTINE KANARIS

FROM THE GERMAN OF WILHELM MUeLLER

I am Constantine Kanaris: I, who lie beneath this stone, Twice into the air in thunder Have the Turkish galleys blown.

In my bed I died—a Christian, Hoping straight with Christ to be; Yet one earthly wish is buried Deep within the grave with me—

That upon the open ocean When the third Armada came, They and I had died together, Whirled aloft on wings of flame.

Yet 'tis something that they've laid me In a land without a stain: Keep it thus, my God and Saviour, Till I rise from earth again!



THE REFUSAL OF CHARON[4]

FROM THE ROMAIC

Why look the distant mountains So gloomy and so drear? Are rain-clouds passing o'er them, Or is the tempest near? No shadow of the temptest Is there, nor wind nor rain— 'Tis Charon that is passing by, With all his gloomy train.

The young men march before him, In all their strength and pride; The tender little infants, They totter by his side; The old men walk behind him, And earnestly they pray— Both old and young imploring him To grant some brief delay.

"O Charon! halt, we pray thee, Beside some little town, Or near some sparkling fountain, Where the waters wimple down! The old will drink and be refreshed, The young the disc will fling, And the tender little children Pluck flowers beside the spring."

"I will not stay my journey, Nor halt by any town, Near any sparkling fountain, Where the waters wimple down: The mothers coming to the well, Would know the babes they bore, The wives would clasp their husbands, Nor could I part them more."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: According to the superstition of the modern Greeks, Charon performs the function which their ancestors assigned to Hermes, of conducting the souls of the dead to the other world.]

THE END.