UC-NRLF 
 
 B 2 fiEfi T3M 
 
'BERKELEY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 . CALIFORNIA 
 
THE 
 
 PEASANT; 
 
 A POEM, IN NINE CANTOS; 
 
 WITH 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN NEVAY. 
 
 Of him who walks in glory and in joy, 
 Following the plough upon the mountain's side. 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 EDINBURGH : 
 
 GEORGE ABERCROMBY DOUGLAS, 
 
 19 CASTLE STREET; 
 
 LEWIS SMITH, ABERDEEN; FREDERICK SHAW, Dl \ 
 AND GEORGE SMITH, FORFAR. 
 
 1834. 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
 PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, 
 EDINBURGH. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 Page. 
 
 Dedication,... v 
 
 The Peasant, 9 Cantos, , 1—199 
 
 Lyrical Pieces. 
 
 The Music of the Lyre, 201 
 
 The Harp of the Winds, 202 
 
 Address to the Rainbow, 204 
 
 To the Swallow, 205 
 
 To the Yeldron, 210 
 
 To a Young Lady Veiled, 212 
 
 The Walk of Beauty, 218 
 
 The Emigrant's Love-letter, 215 
 
 Selkirk's Last Farewell, 220 
 
 To the Shade of Burns, 224 
 
 Death and Burial of the Great, 227 
 
 Eld, 231 
 
 947 
 
%* In the Volume there will be found some typographical, 
 and other slips. These cannot now be properly rectified ; and 
 to offer any apology for them might be useless. Yet, when it is 
 known that the Author, during the progress of the work through 
 the press, resided nearly sixty miles distant from it, the reader — 
 if a reasonable one — will pass by such slips with this gracious 
 remark, that they are marvellously few and trivial. 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 5, line 13 , for melanchoy read melancholy. */ 
 — • 21, line 11, for ideot read idiot. : 
 
 29, end of the 10th line, put a colon. '-" 
 
 29, end of the 14th line, put a semicolon. is 
 
 38, line 12,/or hill read hill. ^ 
 
 43, line 10, for moon-clouds read morn-clouds. */■ 
 
 - 60, line 17, for dare read durst. 
 
 .was. */ 
 
 
 t 
 
TO 
 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 THE COUNTESS OF AIRLY. 
 
 LADY, 
 
 I haye been so much obliged by, and 
 am so deeply indebted to your Ladyship's munificence, 
 that I know not how to express my thankfulness. To 
 say that I am, and ever will be grateful, would be but 
 to use the commonplace language of hundreds, who are 
 apt to forget it as soon almost as it is spoken : like the 
 foot-print made on the sea-sand, which by the n» \t 
 wave is obliterated for ever. Gratitude is a debt which, 
 by too many, is thought to be easily and soon paid. 
 Gratitude, to a noble-minded Benefactress, is not merely 
 in speech and writing, — how eloquent soever these may 
 be — but mainly in virtuous action. The best \\n\. 
 
vi DEDICATION. 
 
 consequently, to be grateful for a favour received, is, 
 to deserve the boon. 
 
 It shall be mine to teach my children to love and 
 honour the ancient and noble Houses to which your 
 Ladyship belongs, — and to which your truly Christian 
 benevolence is an imperishable ornament. And, here, 
 it is a duty incumbent on me to acknowledge to your 
 Ladyship, and to the world, that, but for your Lady- 
 ship's unparalleled liberality, the following simple effu- 
 sions had never, perhaps, come before the public eye. 
 
 To have been honoured with the attention of the 
 Countess of Airly, — to have been patronized by a 
 Lady of the classical, as well as chivalrous House of 
 Drummond, — by a Lady who can claim propinquity of 
 blood to most of the " crowned heads"* in Europe, 
 
 * 4nnabella, daughter of Lord Drummond of Stobhall, was the 
 Royal Consort of Robert III. and Queen of Scotland, and the mother of 
 James the First, whence the Royal Family of Great Britain, &c— Genea- 
 logical Memoir of the House of Drummond. 
 
DEDICATION. vii 
 
 are distinctions which might gratify any poet ; and they 
 shall always be considered among the happiest incidents 
 in the life of, 
 
 LADY, 
 
 Your Ladyship's 
 
 Much obliged, 
 Ever-grateful and obedient Servant, 
 
 JOHN NEVAY. 
 
 Forfar, 2ith May 1834. 
 
THE PEASANT. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 
 That makes her loved at home, revered abroad. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 I. 
 Harp of my love ! to simple theme devote, 
 Fair Truth thy diapason hallows o'er ! 
 And, Fancy, come with the poetic thought, 
 Sweet as the sun-shower on the sycamore ! 
 Sweet as the melody of silver springs 
 When Rainbow spans the heaven — earth -miles with 
 lovely things. 
 
2 THE PEASANT. Canto t 
 
 II. 
 
 Our chosen theme is humble, but not mean — 
 For worth is noble wheresoever found : 
 O sweeter far to sing the peaceful scene, 
 And dearer to the good its pleasures sound, 
 Than the dire turmoil of War's barbarous art — 
 Like the dark condor feeding on a living heart. 
 
 III. 
 
 Come then, my Harp ! and, in thy faunic lay, 
 The moral mind may find a charm to soothe 
 After the weary labour of the day ; 
 May in it feel the force of love and truth ; 
 And in it see the happiness of home, 
 From which, if peace our aim, the heart must never^ 
 never roam. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And manhood — as if mirrored in a dream — 
 May see its boyhood pictured pleasingly ; 
 May hear the music of its gushing stream ; 
 And chase, with cap in hand, the butterfly — 
 Wiled from life's hollow joys, and syren show, 
 To learn that love of self is virtue's subtlest foe. 
 
Canto I. THE PEASANT. 3 
 
 V. 
 
 In Learning's fane, above his gay compeers, 
 Young Henry shone, by the preceptor loved ; 
 Yea, he would vie with those of higher years ; 
 And while his emulous spirit was approved, 
 More sedulous would he his lesson con, 
 
 And hence sweet praise, and many a trophy-tome were 
 won. 
 
 VI. 
 Yet much he loved the feats of Childhood's play — 
 Its chivalrous disports, and mimic war ; 
 As chieftain, oft, he led the plumed array, 
 And in the battle-field sought young Fame's star ; 
 While all War's rage was shewn, and all its art — 
 
 The coward treacherous, and the heroic heart. 
 
 VII. 
 
 How sweet, to Memory's view, is Childhood's time, 
 When all was innocent, and all was joy ! 
 'Tis Nature's poesy in its sweetest chime ; 
 And every day brought its new, pleasing, toy !— * 
 Gay, careless, lives the boy, without a plan, 
 All vainly deeming happiness the lot of man. 
 
4 THE PEASANT. Canto I. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 To nurse, to truth's bright way, their hopeful Boy— 
 Sponsorial duty of the Christian sire — 
 His Parents' aim ; and 'twas their highest joy 
 To see the child imbibe the sacred fire, 
 Which, fann'd through life, each low desire consumes, 
 Outlives the sun, and Hope's celestial tour illumes. 
 
 IX. 
 Through boyhood's maze, as by an angel meek, 
 Was Henry led ; inculcating the while 
 The sacred precepts, prompting him to seek 
 True wisdom's way supreme ; to shun the smile 
 Of evil genius, which, with subtle art, 
 Would soon assay to snare his young and sanguine heart. 
 
 X. 
 
 How kindly vigilant a mother's eye ! 
 And, still, how wakeful the maternal fears ! 
 Alas ! it costs her many a bosom-sigh, 
 Lest — after she has nurst his tender years — 
 The youth associate with the fool and knave, 
 And bring her hoary hairs with sorrow to the grave. 
 
Canto I. THE PEASANT. 
 
 XI. 
 Yet vain the rede of mother, or of sire, 
 And vain the sacred warnings of the soul ; 
 For, in life's torrid noon, unhallowed fire 
 Kindles the heart, and, then, it scorns control ; 
 And the enchantress, Pleasure, is its hride — 
 Youth revels with her singing, " Life must be enjoyed!" 
 
 XII. 
 Charmed with the Atheist's ridicule and wit, 
 All eager, Henry sought to know — whence glcaifd, 
 The attic fire ? — Religion's tenets, sweet, 
 Denounced, as superstitions ; while a fiend — 
 Dark Infidelity — approached the Youth . 
 
 " Read here," he said, " the laws of Reason, and of 
 Truth." 
 
 XIII. 
 But when alone, in melanch^mood 
 He mused — thought on the days gone by, 
 Ere his young heart with folly was imbued,— 
 When glad as song that greets the morning sky, — 
 As streamlet glistening to the noontide ray,— 
 
 Km luvcze of oecid< ni thai fatisthe vtirmd , 
 
6 THE PEASANT. Canto I. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Alas ! how few, when once in Error's thrall — 
 How few there are who break the gordian charm, 
 And make escape from his enchanted hall — 
 Where promenade the syrens, arm in arm, 
 Who often hold the heart in silken snare, 
 Till, at the last, it sinks to Ruin's fatal lair ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 Yet Error, alway, to poetic mind, 
 Is a sharp moralist ; — its feelings strong 
 Of mystic power, the serpent spell 's untwined, 
 Or broken by the flow of sacred song : 
 Now Virtue, to her temple, hailed, with joy, 
 The prodigal returned — her own, her much-loved Boy. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 He left the world— not hating, but in love, 
 And glad far from the tangled maze to be ; 
 He felt the joy of Noah's missioned dove 
 When it the palm saw 'mid the deluge-sea ; — 
 He knew himself unfit to learn the arts 
 By which thousands wax rich, and fill Trade's crowded 
 marts. 
 
Canto I. THE PEASANT. 7 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The world's philosophy is — to get gold, 
 Without which, man's a mere non-entity ; 
 Hence for it, oft, morality is sold : — 
 But who will dare, in the rich man, to see 
 A fault, a vice, or error ? he is sage, 
 Or when he sins, or grins — even in his impious rage." 
 
 xvm. 
 
 Henry was wronged — traduced by many a tongue, 
 By those who kneel and worship Fortune's smile ; 
 And shunn'd by some, whom, when they all were J 
 He far surpass'd in pleasures juvenile, 
 And cleared the lesson to their doltish eyes ; 
 Yet proudly they received, though he had won, the prize. 
 
 XIX. 
 His heart was in the country ; he saw there 
 A cot untenanted, and little farm ; 
 Though wild its fields, his fancy made them fair. 
 And broider'd them with many a vernal charm. 
 He hated not the world, but much its ways f 
 M Nought on the earth," he said, " but virtue, merits 
 praise." 
 
8 THE PEASANT, Canto L 
 
 XX. 
 
 Thus far was he a misanthrope ; and but 
 For one, in feature lovely as in mind, 
 He might have lived a hermit in his hut, 
 Nor held communion more with human-kind i 
 He saw old friendships end in bitter strife, — 
 That woman's love 's the strongest, holiest link of life, 
 
 XXI. 
 
 His sweet companion, now, the lovely Maid — 
 His Amy fair, chaste mistress of his heart; 
 Like beauteous floweret of the woodland shade, 
 She bloom'd — a stranger to the flaunting art 
 Which vulgar maidens show : her smile, her eye, 
 Her form, her soul, spoke love's harmonious symmetry, 
 
 XXII. 
 Pure was their converse in the trysting hour, 
 As far from man they walked by bower and stream ; 
 Congenial feelings owned love's holy power 
 To raise the heart, and prompt the tender theme : 
 It was a sweet — mysterious dream of joy, 
 For not a word of love spoke the impassioned Boy. 
 
Canto I. THE PEASANT. 
 
 XXIII. 
 Nor in the deep recess, at summer-e'en, 
 Was Amy with the Youth afeard to go ; 
 Though by all eyes, save that of Heaven, unseen, — 
 Though in that scene his love might warmer glow, 
 From sensibility — which, then, was bliss — 
 He never yet had dared the vestal lip to kiss. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And he would lead her through the sylvan maze, 
 Till the bright moon their fairy -path arrayed ; 
 Though much he long'd his Amy to embrace, — 
 Such is the dignity of virtuous maid, 
 And such, o'er noble heart, her chaste control 
 Recoil'd the soft desire into his chasten'd soul. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And they would saunter by the godlike oceafl 
 Whose scenes majestic, Henry loved to view ; 
 That lift romantic heart to high emotion, 
 To tad luroic, friendship, or to woo 
 The beauteous maid, with love as strong and hi 
 As tin* fiim nick that mocks the* dash of ocean's 
 
10 THE PEASANT. Canto I. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Bright years of courtship shone — to them divine — 
 Until love's heaven-approved, and cherished flame, 
 Now lit the lovers to the holy shrine — 
 Blest consummation of the mutual aim ! 
 There, heart with heart, and soul with soul, werejoin'd, 
 — Beauty with truth, and love with dignity of mind. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 But who, the consecrated, sacred while, 
 O ! who could Amy's thrilling aspect paint ? 
 There, something sweeter than the sweetest smile 
 Rose from a bosom noble — innocent ; — 
 As her fair hand in soul-felt love was given, 
 Her meek eyes shone like holy saint's in view of heaven. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Now came the bridal-feast, and festive night, 
 And many a merry roundelay was sung ; 
 And many a glass went round to the delight 
 Of the young Bride, so lovely — and so young ; 
 And lastly Henry — now no more a swain — 
 Thus sang — and Amy, smiling, listened to the strain :— - 
 
Canto I. THE PEASANT. 11 
 
 d)e aBjrt&egroom'* ©ong* 
 1. 
 Where now is the wooed one? where now the fond lover ? 
 The witching romance of our courtship is over,— 
 The bright blaze of Love's summer sun now is set ; 
 And wilt thou not feel, Bride, the softest regret, 
 
 To bid an adieu to thy maidens dear ? 
 With thy bridal day, haply, are gone and for aye, 
 Love's happiest moments — the careless and gay ; — 
 Though love with the bridegroom for ever may be, 
 — 'Twill not be like that by the stream of the lea — 
 
 All beauty to see, and all music to hear. 
 
 2. 
 
 That chaplet of roses, which hallows thy brow, 
 To-morrow will lie, Bride, all wither'd, and low ; 
 The blush and the balm of the rose is the maid, 
 But the blooming and freshness of youth must fade, 
 
 What, then, is remaining to please and to charm ? 
 Yes ! in that fair bosom the sweet sympathies — 
 The feelings of kindness — the bland smile of peace, — 
 These, Bride, are the flowers in the garden of Love ; 
 And, blest, there will nestle his own white dove, 
 
 And mine it shall be, still, to shield it from harm. 
 
12 THE PEASANT. Canto I. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Such is the love that God looks on with joy, 
 And guerdons with the prime fond wish of all — 
 The happy lot which riches cannot huy — 
 Domestic peace, that, since man's rueful fall, 
 Is all of Eden's happiness remains 
 To cheer the resting-hour of the o'er-laboured swains. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 See ! He is blest with a congenial lot, 
 
 In yon green valley of the pleasant streams. 
 
 Ye sons of fortune, on his rural cot, 
 
 Look you disdainfully? — though mean it seems, 
 
 There wonnes a wight, whose genius, in its mirth, 
 
 Could — were it worth the while — your pride crush to 
 the earth. 
 
 XXXI. 
 He tills his little mailen ; sings the joys 
 That simple Nature gives to musive minds : 
 The woods and streams, the vales, the hills and skies, 
 — Time's light and shade — the music of the winds ; 
 Each in the drama perfect in its part, 
 
 Wisely devised and wrought by Heaven's poetic art. 
 
Canto I. THE PEASANT. |J 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 And while the poet wakes the pastoral lyre 
 To sing the pleasures of the rural reign, 
 Forgets he not to laud great Nature's Sire — 
 Parent of all his joys, on hill and plain, 
 And all his walks ; and, as he walks, arise 
 The solemn strains that seek the laurel of the skies. 
 
 ^ettrg — to W ^arg. 
 My Harp of simple Minstrelsy — my joy 
 In sadness — thou, that charm'd me when a boy, 
 As with rude hand I touched thy trembling strings — 
 Thy music wild, as when the woodland rings 
 Responsively unto the daedal song, 
 That, in young spring, bursts from the sylvan throng 
 To Nature's God, — thou, still, my pleasure art, 
 For ever chaste, kind soother of my heart. 
 But, haply, thou wantst power, and I the skill, 
 The polished ear of classic taste to thrill ; 
 And Fame, in these bright literary days, 
 Will never listen to thy faunic lays. 
 Yet, what the much-pursued, much-worshipp'dfarae? 
 What is it but — the breathing of a name? 
 
14 THE PEASANT. Canto I. 
 
 And is this all ? — Is it not brotherhood, 
 
 And fellow-feeling with the bright and good?— 
 
 It is not mine — and it may never be, 
 
 To charm thy strings to that loved harmony — 
 
 Blest union of sweet words and beauteous things, 
 
 O'erhallowed with high imaginings ; 
 
 Yet to thy moral tones it may be given 
 
 To merit the approving voice of Heaven. 
 
 It is my duty — be it, too, my bliss, 
 Whether at home, or in the wilderness, 
 To feed my soul with Nature's sacred fire, 
 And tune to God the consecrated lyre ; 
 Hence be it mine ■ — the fame that never dies, 
 That blooms on the green earth, and shines in the 
 bright skies : 
 
 I see it in the blossoming of flowers, — 
 I hear it thrilling in the vocal bowers ; 
 I see it in the dew-drop's twinkling sheen, 
 And in the firmament's deep blue serene 
 I see it in the genial wake of morn — 
 At midnight, when heaven's myriad lustres burn 
 
Canto I. THE PEASANT. 15 
 
 I see it in the fragrant violet's balm, — 
 Behold it in the rainbow's holy calm ; 
 I see it in the sun's resplendent noon, 
 And in the silver disc of the round moon ; 
 Softly it whispers in the vernal breeze, 
 Loud in the blast that strips the groaning trees ; 
 Sweetly it gurgles in the streamlet's voice, 
 And sounds a mighty chord in ocean's noise : 
 These the grand poetry of earth and heaven ; 
 And to the soul — to which the boon is given 
 To see and feel their loves and sympathies — 
 They shine and sound the fame that never dies : 
 
 I see it in the smile that lights her eye — 
 Love's morning star — star of my destiny ; 
 More dear to me than all the world could give 
 That in the spousal smile my song should live : 
 
 In life's last scene, ere Death the cloud shall drop, 
 I'll see it in the smile of heavenly hope ; 
 And hear it in the seraph-strain that cheers 
 The soul of saint away to palmy spheres* 
 
1G THE PEASANT. Canto L 
 
 But sweetest, holiest, happiest above, 
 My soul will taste it in the bliss of Love. 
 There lives, my Harp, the fame that never dies, 
 That which the poet's hope will realize ; 
 And in the blissful gardens of the Vine, 
 Thy anthem-melodies will flow divine. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Now, for brief while, his harp is hung aside, 
 But not upon the willow-tree; — young Spring 
 Demands the Poet's hand the plough to guide ; 
 And from the glebe the rustic Bard will bring 
 Thoughts that may give his lyre a higher tone, 
 For Nature is, though old, still a phenomenon ! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Still new — still various, yet for aye the same ; 
 Or wild, or soft — fair, sweet, or beautiful ; 
 Sublimely circling 'mid ethereal flame — 
 Grand changeful harmony, and never dull ; — 
 To worship Him who made, and moves the whole, 
 Is the best — highest action of the brightest soul. 
 
Canto I. THE PEASANT. 17 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Like hope to maiden's breast where virtue dwells, 
 To earth comes Spring from her ethereal clime ; 
 And as she breathes, the bud with freshness swells, 
 With love the bosom glows that knows no crime, — 
 The daisy on the bank, like beauty's cheek, 
 Pure white and crimson-tinct, expands its blossom meek. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Then follow, glad, the many-coloured train — 
 The fairy flowers ; all beautiful and balm, 
 As erst they were in Eden's blest domain. 
 O ! sweet vicissitude of life and calm, 
 After stern Winter's war ! — and every thing, 
 Reanimate, delightedly hails early Spring. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 The redbreast leaves the garden arbour now, 
 Again love in his tuneful bosom glows ; 
 Far in the wild wood, on the budding bough, 
 He to the sunbeam spreads his downy rwc, 
 And amatory sonnet sweetly chaunts, 
 Led by his love through all the greenwood's faery haunt>. 
 
18 THE PEASANT. Canto I. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 His little mistress, charm'd, from tree to bush* 
 Like a coquette, flutters most amorously ; 
 Oft near him hops, as if to view the blush 
 Of red that ever fascinates her eye ; 
 Then is the happy moment — thrilling time ! 
 And all the passion of his heart he pours sublime. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 How seldom man enjoys a love like this, 
 So true, and simple — full of extasy ! 
 There ever is to mar his present bliss — 
 The future, or the past, still makes him sigh ; 
 Or jealousy to frenzy fires his breast, 
 And without cause is tortured when he should be blest. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Now all is love, and cheerful industry : 
 The happy pairs carol the nuptial song; 
 While shrill is heard the rustic ploughman's glee, 
 As proud to see the furrows so straight along ; 
 There his ambition ends — there all his aim. 
 And to his simple mind it is the highest fame. 
 
Canto I. THE PEASANT. 19 
 
 XLI. 
 
 But there are cottage-born of feelings higher : 
 See, at the plough, on yonder sunward knoll 
 The peasant, Henry ; he has native fire 
 For all the nobler purposes of soul : 
 And first his pure love of the Mighty One, 
 In which the virtues smile as Nature to the sun. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 And gifted with true philosophic thought, 
 That triumphs still, whatever may betide — 
 A boon by Fortune never can be bought ; 
 Yet to be humble is his highest pride, 
 And he is noble in a lowly sphere, 
 While opulence is mean in vice's mad career, 
 
 XLIII. 
 O grudge not, man, that thou hast here to toil, — 
 It is thy glory, and a hero's part : 
 Life without work would be a wretched coil, 
 And savage passions prey upon the heart ; 
 Even God himself in indolence lies not, 
 Else earth and heaven, and all therein, would die and rot. 
 
20 THE PEASANT. Caxto I. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Six days works Henry with a cheerful heart, 
 Which makes the Seventh a blessed one indeed : 
 Unused lie all the implements of art, 
 And quiet Nature wears a holier weed, 
 And sings a sweeter song : God this day blest, 
 And gave it to the soul, and bade the body rest* 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Shut is the sluice, and still the mill-wheel stands ; 
 All dry the stones o'er which the mill-burn runs 
 On other days ; the crows, in fearless bands, 
 Come near to man ; and mute are slaughtering guns ; 
 The anvil, too, and smithy's merry scene ; 
 And Vulcan s face is Washed astonishingly clean I 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Comes, on the light- wing'd breeze, the solemn tone 
 Of morning church-bell, echoing sublime 
 Over the woods and vales, and up the loan ; — 
 While all around is heard the pealing chime, 
 With lifted hearts the cotters take the road, — 
 More regular than monarchs to the house of God, 
 
Cakto I. THE PEASANT. 21 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 How rich the poorest peasant, when, in truth 
 
 And love, he walks with God ! His gladden'd soul 
 
 Feels all the vigour of immortal youth 
 
 To run life's race, nor fears the dreary goal, 
 
 At which the atheist trembles to think on, 
 
 While, to the Christian, Hope smiles from a heavenly 
 throne. 
 
 XLVIIL 
 And his are Nature^ beauties — ever fair 
 To him who worships nature's God aright : 
 He who sees not the great Creator there, 
 Is blind to beauty — dead to all delight, — 
 As idtot, dark — yet of his knowledge proud, 
 
 A living mummy stalking in the sceptic's shroud. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 But what deters the man from villany 
 Of darkest deeds, for purposes of sel£ 
 Who owns no God — no immortality ? 
 To ravish for his pleasures, rob for pelt 
 Would be no crime, but for the laws of men : 
 Were most men atheists, what a world it would be then ! 
 
22 THE PEASANT. Canto I. 
 
 L. 
 
 Ah ! darker, bloodier far than pagan times, 
 Were our sea-isle from Zion's grace to fall ! — 
 Then comes our " reign of terror," with such crimes, 
 And outrage, as would even the bad appal ! 
 The good would flee to Nature's desert caves, 
 And, happy in despair, die by their sylvan graves. 
 
THE PEASANT. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 I. 
 
 The busy seed-time o'er, his little farm, 
 With taste and skill well cultured, smiles to beaten ; 
 The fruits of honest labour have a charm 
 That to rich indolence is never given : — 
 Around his marches, on their daisied balks, 
 Blithe, Henry goes, — for peace is in his verdant walks. 
 
 II. 
 His garden, next, demands his vernal care — 
 The early flowers are peeping from the eartli i 
 Spring, eloquent, breaths to the sun her prayer, 
 And from their citadel the bees come forth ; — 
 The lark in heaven — the linnet on the tree, — 
 All Nature, now, is music, love, and liberty. 
 
24 THE PEASANT. Canto II. 
 
 III. 
 
 As wisdom prompts, first to utility 
 He gives his hand ; to beauty then he turns : 
 There, from the glen, the rock, the wood, the lea, 
 Many a lovely bloom his plat adorns ; 
 Nor can exotics shame the flowery throng — 
 For they are Scotland's gems, and blossom in her song, 
 
 IV. 
 
 In sunny nook, anew, the arbour 's wove — 
 Of woodbine, lilac, and laburnum tree, 
 And it is sacred to connubial love : 
 There, in their leisure moments, you might see 
 Henry and his loved Amy, in the bower, 
 Discoursing chastely on the functions of each flower. 
 
 V. 
 
 Even as the flowers, fair Amy's thoughts are chaste— 
 Her bosom is a garden of sweet things ; 
 And happy love and pleasure make their nest 
 Among the fresh and balmy blossomings ; 
 While, as she speaks, her words are poesy. 
 Lit by the beauteous imagery in her eye. 
 
Canto II. THE PEASANT. 25 
 
 VI. 
 
 There is — let Novelist say what he may — 
 A purer, surer bliss in wedded life 
 Than in the flaming noon of courtship's day : 
 In loved, and lovely, and a loving wife, 
 Are all the beauties of a landscape bright, 
 And love is free to revel in most chaste delight. 
 
 VII. 
 There, too, a healing balm for every care — 
 The soft embrace that guerdons all our toil, — 
 The sympathies tliat all our fortunes share ; 
 And dearer to the heart than brightest smile, 
 When comes adversity, the tear that 's shed — 
 
 The dew of love — soothes when all other friends have 
 fled. 
 
 VIII. 
 Now, from the bink, the shears and pruning-hook 
 Are taken down, and whetted keen of edge 
 To mow the wild shoots clean as they are strook : 
 He moves along the thorn and sweet-brier hedge ; 
 And soon, to Henry's strong and skilful arm, 
 
 The garden -fence resumes a neat, and graceful form. 
 
26 THE PEASANT. Canto II. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And there, as wont, the goldfinch and the shilf, 
 The yeldron of the shrill pathetic strain, 
 And he whose mellow song charms every Sylph, 
 Anon will build the various nest again : 
 These are the minstrel's spring and summer joy, 
 Nor cat, nor hawk, nor plundering boy, dare them annoy. 
 
 X. 
 
 And thick, around, the long green haulm will spring, 
 With many a little flower of glowing hue, 
 Whence bee, on thrifty and excursive wing, 
 On sunny day, extracts the honey-dew, — 
 Whence children, the fresh bouquet fair and sweet, 
 
 Will weave ; love, innocence, and blooms congenerous 
 meet. 
 
 XL 
 And last, and best — the heart of all his joys — ♦ 
 His cottage-home he handily repairs ; 
 While, as he works, the " music of a voice" — 
 His Amy thrilling Scotia's matchless airs — 
 Encheers her Henry at his rural toil ; 
 
 And all his work is aye to win her loveliest smile. 
 
Canto II. THE PEASANT. 27 
 
 XII. 
 
 His new-thatched cot is safe from rain and wind, 
 And Elegance hath neatly shorn the eaves ; 
 Still, the pert sparrow there will entrance find, 
 And form the nest among the wheat-straw leaves ; 
 Nor, from his house, will the kind Henry drive 
 The prating tribe — his joy to see all nature thrive. 
 
 XIII. 
 That love of Nature is from heaven— from Him 
 Whose uncreate, eternal essence — love ! 
 That glows in the bright-flaming seraphim, 
 And in the beauty of the orange-grove, ~ 
 In the lark's song, and violet's peerless dye — 
 
 Through all His glorious works — in ocean, earth, and 
 sky. 
 
 XIV. 
 And shall the sun from summer's azure shine 
 On Henry's cottage-walls unwashed, unclean ? 
 And shall the ivy and the eglantine, 
 Untrellised shoot along their scions green ?— 
 'Tis done ; — all have received the crowning charm, 
 
 And fair his shealing smiles over a thriving farm. 
 
28 THE PEASANT. Canto II. 
 
 XV. 
 Green o'er the hamlet hangs an ancient elm, 
 That — as old legend says — was a young tree, 
 When on the throne of Caledonia's realm 
 Sate Mary of the hapless dynasty ; — 
 The beauteous Mary — like a blooming vine 
 Torn by a ruffian tempest — doomed in woe to pine. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And on that ancient tree, the boding-bird — 
 The magpie — doth its plaster'd lodging rear J 
 But the loquacious chatterer is not heard 
 By Henry with a superstitious fear ! 
 Hence, by his family, at earliest spring, 
 The bird is ever welcomed as a cheerful thing. 
 
 XVII. 
 His bonny sleeked kine are on the sward, 
 And the pet-ewe that nibbles with them, tame ; 
 Between them and the dewy springing braird 
 Stands the herd-boy, embrown'd by the sun's flame, 
 Now whistling shrill, now rudely humming o'er 
 Some legendary lay of Scotland's lyric lore. 
 
Canto II. THE PEASANT. 29 
 
 XVIII. 
 From their far winter-home in milder climes — 
 Italia, haply, or the palmy land 
 Which God hath bless'd with beauty, men with crimes 
 Have curs'd — to Britain's rocky strand, 
 In flight sublime, the twittering tribes have come, 
 To make our Island of the Sea their summer home, 
 
 XIX. 
 Where lie the implements of rustic toil, 
 There, in the wain-shed, a blithe colony, — 
 Their clayey nests embellish'd with the spoil 
 Of many wings — of midge, and gold-wing'd fly. 
 The habitants of air, as well as earth, 
 Prey on each other, or for food, or in their mirth 
 
 XX. 
 
 Now, the domestic race are free to rove, 
 Or by the hedge to bask in sunny ray ) 
 And there, — amid the harem of his love, — 
 The war-bird, sacred to the god of day ; 
 Proud as an eastern chief, he claps his wing, 
 And with his clarion shrill defies the neighbour king. 
 
30 THE PEASANT. Canto II. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Apart, the mother-hen, with her young brood, 
 Strays garrulous ; and frugal, still, to feed 
 Her downy, cheeping care, o'er many a rood 
 She goes, keen scratching for the latent seed ; 
 While oft, by spaniel, gled, or raven-bird, 
 Her watchful heart and wing to wrathful mood is stirr'd. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 There, — in the burn, clear-glittering to the ray 
 Of morn, and gurgling o'er its pebbles fine, — 
 The ducks, like happy Naiads, swim and play ; 
 Now forming crescent-curve, and now in line, -*. 
 Now dive altern, — now to the surface spring 
 Erect, and, quacking glad, winnow the silver wing. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Among the arns, where eddies sweetly play, 
 His children chase the minnow, trout and eel, 
 And push, from 'neath the flowery sylvan brae, 
 The fugitives : — The eel, with subtle skill, 
 Eludes their search, and 'neath some old stone twines, 
 And, cunning, snaps the worm still from their hookless 
 lines. 
 
Canto II. THE PEASANT. 31 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 How sweet are Henry's feelings, as he views 
 The living poesy round his rural cot ! 
 To him, how beautiful the pastoral Muse, 
 When from her he obtains the harp of thought, 
 With smiles that trance him in Elysian dream ! 
 And, and as she smiles, thus inspirates the happy 
 theme : — 
 
 ©on& of tfje JJptt*e. 
 
 O ! glorious is the peasant-man, 
 
 And dear to universal Pan, 
 
 Who, nurst on Nature's naked breast — 
 
 Nature with every blessing blest — 
 
 Till charm'd he wanders in the wild, 
 
 And loves her as a filial child ; 
 
 Who can the sons of Fortune view, — 
 
 Their luxuries, which they may rue, — 
 
 Their gardens gay, and splendid halls, — 
 
 Their tapestry-hung, and pictured, walls, — 
 
 Their woods and hills — their lawns and groves, — 
 
 And envy not, though these he loves ; 
 
32 THE PEASANT. Canto II. 
 
 While heart and eye turn to a spot — 
 Dearest on earth — his lowly cot ; 
 For smiling love awaits him there — 
 His own, his loved, his faithful Fair. 
 
 O I glorious is the peasant-man, 
 Who knows the Muse's mystic plan ; 
 And looks with true poetic eye 
 On Nature's works — earth, sea, and sky, 
 In Spring — in Summer — Autumn mild, 
 And Winter stern, with weather wild, — 
 Giving their beauties to his lyre, 
 Their dewy blooms — their stars of fire ; 
 And twines around the loved-one's name 
 A wreath of beauty, and of flame. 
 
 O ! glorious is the peasant-man, 
 Who can his forte and weakness scan ; 
 Who, when his sunlight toil is o'er, 
 Can well employ the leisure hour, — 
 Join with his children in their cheer, 
 A child in manners, in soul a seer, 
 To teach a moral in their mirth, 
 Supporting, still, a parent's worth, — 
 
Canto II. THE PEASANT. 33 
 
 Can take a volume from the shelf — 
 The world forgetting and its pelf, 
 And commune with the wise of old, 
 The glorious lights of human kind, 
 Enriching with the purest gold 
 The various energies of mind ; 
 Or with the bright of modern time — 
 Of thy own loved — thy native clime : 
 What land a nobler song can boast 
 Than Ednam's bard — himself a host ? 
 God bade the harmonious seasons roll, 
 And Thomson sang the " perfect whole ;" 
 And Coila's poet-peasant — Burns, 
 Nurtured at Nature's sacred urns — 
 Her love-intoxicated child 
 Swept his wild harp in rapture wild, 
 And with wild imagery wove 
 The immortal song of Scotland's love ; 
 And Scott, the pride of Caledon, 
 Her laureate on the Muses' throne ; 
 The prince of Chivalry's romance, — 
 Where poesy glitters, like a lance, 
 
34 THE PEASANT. Canto IT. 
 
 Keen gleaming to the sunlight air, 
 
 In the white hand of warrior fair, — 
 
 Where bright thoughts glow along each line, 
 
 Like the wild borealis' shine 
 
 Along the starry hall of night, 
 
 And awe the heart, yet charm the sight ! 
 
 And many more, whom, but to name 
 
 Would fill the immortal tome of Fame — 
 
 Our gifted sons, whose thrilling strains 
 
 Delight the city and the- plains ; 
 
 To Scotland dear their patriot themes, v 
 
 As are her hills, glens, vales, and streams. 
 
 See, too, in clear and cloudless sky, 
 
 The mild sun of Philosophy, 
 
 With sacred aim, and steady light, 
 
 Discloses, to the wondering wight, 
 
 The riches of the earth and sea — 
 
 The handiwork of Deity — 
 
 Wherein His power and love are shown, 
 
 For He in Nature must be known. 
 
 Now are the rugged paths made smooth, 
 
 And Science, happy, smiles on Truth ; 
 
 In which the modern far transcends 
 
 The seers of Greece — his ancient friends. 
 
Canto II. THE PEASANT. 35 
 
 O ! glorious is the peasant-man, 
 Who, as he guides the plough, may fan 
 • The patriot fire — the free-born thought, 
 — Of the world's fame ambitious not, 
 But of Heaven's charter'd rights of man, 
 From God — his metropolitan ; 
 With soul of true nobility — 
 The sworn resolve — still to be free ; 
 Firm friend to social order, peace ; 
 
 Stern foe to every despot thing 
 That would the sons of Labour fleece, 
 
 Still — loyally true to Freedom's king. 
 
 O ! glorious is the peasant-man, 
 Who looks beyond this mortal span, — 
 Whose hymn, at morn, at noon, at even, 
 Goes with the seraph, Hope, to heaven ; 
 Who sees, through yonder azure scroll, 
 The destined regions of the soul — 
 Love's viny bowers of chaste delight, 
 Aye holy, beautiful, and bright ; — 
 Who lives not in the fear of death, — 
 Inhaling from Religion's breath. 
 
m THE PEASANT. Canto II. 
 
 Amid the world's turmoil and strife, 
 The love of Love — the life of Life, 
 Till Truth, great sun, shall break the gloom, 
 And shine in triumph o'er the tomb. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 So sung the Muse, whom Henry ever wooed, 
 His love simplicity's chaste lyric strain ; 
 Not his the song of battle-field, imbued, 
 Red with the carnage of ten thousand slain ; 
 Nor that, though famed, which breathes unhallowed 
 fire 
 From the Voluptuary's morals-tainting lyre. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And, hence, the sweet harp of the "North Countrie," 
 — Struck with a plectrum of the Muse's gold, 
 And dipt in fount of native Castalie, — 
 Him much delights, as on the lily wold 
 He meditates the bards of other days, 
 Whose brightest monument — their own immortal lays, 
 
Canto II. THE PEASANT. 37 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 That treasured are in every lumined breast, 
 And oft the " colloquy divine" adorn, 
 When youth and maiden fair meet in the blest — 
 The trysting hour — under the fragrant thorn, 
 Or 'neath the moon, amid the golden grain 
 That to the west wind rustles in melodious strain. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 To Henry, Nature has such charms, he views 
 
 The city's grandeur and magnificence — 
 
 Its towers, as splendid ruins ; hence, his muse 
 
 Turns to the glories of Omnipotence — 
 
 The sun-lit hills and vales — lakes, rivers, seas, 
 
 And skies, while, rapt, his soul is on the heaven-wing'd 
 breeze. 
 
 XXIX. 
 Still, as he walks o'er Summer's broider'd sod — 
 And frequent in the wilds he loves to rove — 
 He deems liim in the temple of his God, 
 Where He is ever present, and in love, 
 To hallow and sublime the thoughts that breathe 
 
 To Him due praise, which, with the sweets of Natun 
 wreathe. 
 
38 THE PEASANT. Canto II. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 O ! not in vain seeks he the scenic wild, 
 Since Nature'e daedal features he can scan. 
 As round him mountains rise on mountains piled, 
 He sees — he feels the littleness of man : 
 In deep and silent glen there speaks a voice 
 More awful, haply, than the restless ocean's noise* 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 But no less awful, and still more sublime, 
 When overhead the thunder-cloud hangs dark, 
 While panic-smit, from his ethereal clime, 
 Mute to his grassy covert flies the lark ; 
 Then gleams the levin-flash, and bursts the peal ! 
 Rock, trembling, speaks to rock, and hill replies to hill. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 From the rent lurid heaven, the torrent-rain 
 Comes rushing, like a cataract, to earth, 
 And o'er the beetling rocks, abrupt — amain, 
 From thousand urns, it pours; while, in its mirth, 
 The spirit of the spate is heard to yell, 
 And streams, dark-brown, to ocean boil o'er bank and 
 fell. 
 
Canto II. THE PEASANT. S9 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 More vivid gleams the fire-bolt ! It is riven — 
 The oak-tree fails ! Its strong arms scathed brown ! 
 Loud, and more loud breaks peal and peal from heaven, 
 And deeper, darker sweeps the Tiver down ! 
 The horse and kine run fearful down the loan, 
 And fish, and fowl, and beast, are all to covert gone — 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 AH, save the Erne -. on yon grey pinnacle, 
 In fearless triumph he looks sternly round, 
 Grasping a victim in his talons fell, 
 — His curved beak red with the lamb's death-wound ; 
 Now, mid the storm, he mounts in savage glee — 
 Away to feast in some far island of the sea. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 At Henry's feet, his Luath cowers with fear ! 
 Not so the poet — with a pleasure wild 
 He views the war-clouds in their dark career, — 
 For he was ever Nature's filial child, 
 With love-devoted soul to all her forms — 
 In darkness, and in light — in beauty, and in storms. 
 
40 THE PEASANT. Canto If. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 And still, — as Fancy, of the rainbow-wings, 
 Him visits from her palace in the sky, — 
 Rapt, those he gives to the sweet music-strings 
 Of his loved harp ; and the hymn-minstrelsy 
 Lifts up his soul, with adoration warm, 
 To Him who views the earth as but a little farm. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 The storm is past : from yon cloud's silver fleece 
 The sun in glory comes — - meek as a lamb ; 
 He bids the radiant Iris shine in peace — 
 His bright child clasps the heaven, and earth is calm ; 
 Up from the greensward rise ten thousand voices, 
 Again fair beauty smiles, and the fresh earth rejoices. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 Now Henry, cheerful, on his homeward way, 
 Slow, musing, wends ; his cot not distant far, 
 O'er which the rainbow streams in bright array, 
 Triumphant o'er the elemental war ; — 
 " Would thus," he says, " the strife of nations cease, 
 And the white banner wave to universal peace ! 
 
Canto II. THE PEASANT. 41 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 " Alas ! on earth it cannot be, while man 
 Bows to the despot self an abject slave ! 
 For self Napoleon sought the warrior- van 
 Of Gallia's legions ; but, the truly brave 
 Deem peace best blessing of this transient life, 
 While dark ambition ever loves the field of strife. 
 
 XL. 
 
 " The fate of battle much depends on chance ! 
 There to ambition gleams a meteor hope — 
 A sword, a bullet — bayonet, or lance, 
 May turn the scale of victory, and ope 
 A way to his advancement — to a throne ! 
 Then, farewell gentle peace and freedom — they are gone ! 
 
 XLI. 
 
 " And is it so ? God of the virtuous brave ! 
 Then war is honour — " war even to the knife !'* 
 The enlightened Christian will not be a slave 
 All meek in peace, — a lion in the strife ; 
 He who the lamb feeds, like a tender sire, 
 For freedom in his bosom feels a warrior's fire. 
 
42 THE PEASANT. Canto II. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 " Sweet peace is freedom, freedom gentle peace, 
 Love-wedded even by God, and they are one — 
 O ! never will their hallowed union cease ! 
 They, — like the radiant moon, and brighter sun — 
 That -day and night from heaven's high temple shine, — 
 Should bless the universe with light and life divine. 
 
 XLIII. 
 " After the thunder-storm, how beautiful 
 The freshened fields, breathing of vernal health ! 
 The bleating sheep — the lowing kine and bull, 
 And horse, graze cheerful 'mid the verdant wealth : 
 The earth seems an enchanted Eden, now, 
 Hung from the purple sky on the celestial bow." 
 
 XLIV. 
 So Henry mused — until his children dear 
 Game meeting him at the green hedge-row stile : 
 O ! nought on earth a parent's heart can cheer 
 Like the sweet greeting and the sunny smile 
 Of filial love — Love's happy harbingers 
 From her, who, by the hearth, the rural feast prepares. 
 
Canto II. THE PEASANT. 4S 
 
 XLV. 
 
 See how the blithe elves run, and strive who first 
 Shall meet and win their father's hand ; and fast 
 Adown the green and daisy-broider'd hyrst, 
 They bicker gleefully ; — to him, the last 
 Not least in love — alike to each it yearns i 
 " God bless ye all," he says, " my bonny thriving bairns P 
 
 XLVI. 
 And, now, the youngest child is in his arms, 
 And, proud to be exalted, sweetly sings : 
 The youngest ever has the softest charms, 
 Like summer m«)*ti-clouds on their dewy wings ; 
 For innocence, pure as the melody, 
 Hallows the filial love-smiie of the beamy eye. 
 
 XLVII. 
 O ! not on Scottish ground may happier be 
 Than Henry now, I ween; — by his own hearth 
 He sits content ; while from his Amy's ee, 
 The love-beam glistens soft — as when to earth 
 The queen of heaven, from her blue throne divine. 
 Her silver radiance flings on some tall mountain pine. 
 
44 THE PEASANT. Canto II. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 And his fair elfin circle, round, are blithe — 
 Dancing with joyance ! He hath given to each 
 Some wild-flower beautiful, or hazel withe — 
 They wanted nothing more, and they are rich ! 
 There, Luath in his way is happy too : 
 The dog to home and rural mirth is ever true. 
 
THE PEASANT. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 L 
 
 Thrice chanticleer — bird of the blood-red wing — 
 The cottage ivatchman true, to morning crowed : 
 It is the peasant's hour of worshipping, 
 And Henry humbly kneels unto his God. 
 To wake from death-like sleep it is sublime : 
 How pleasing unto God, when the glad, solemn time 
 
 II. 
 
 Is consecrated by the early prayer 
 Of pious cottager, breathing content 
 And thankfulness, like Nature, fresh and fair, 
 Giving to Heaven her incense innocent, 
 Where pureness dwells — where nought impure can 
 dwell — 
 The God of Nature is the God of Israel. 
 
4C THE PEASANT. Canto III. 
 
 III. 
 He rises blest, as if his soul had been 
 Just bathed in holy fountain of the skies ; 
 And forth he fares, as the meek dawn serene, 
 With which his musings sweetly harmonize : 
 How unlike him, the wight with pleasure worn, 
 Who never knows the calm — the blessedness of morn t 
 
 IV. 
 
 How can the creature, vice-debased and sunk, 
 Taste the enjoyments of the sacred dawn — 
 As often, then, he staggers homeward, drunk, 
 Blind to the beautiful of hill and lawn, — 
 And hears not the soft crood of early dove, 
 Nor the lark's sweeter, holier hymn — the song of love ? 
 
 V. 
 
 Nor heeds he him, who, with still holier voice, 
 To earth speaks from amid the silver mist, 
 Himself rejoicing, who bids all rejoice — 
 The rising sun, supernal botanist ; 
 Who, as he wooes the lovely goddess — Spring, 
 Gives light, and life, and love to every vernal thing. 
 
Canto III. THE PEASANT. 47 
 
 VI. 
 
 Nor heeds he Him — the universal Soul 
 Of all that's lovely, beautiful, and good, — 
 Creator of the great, the perfect whole, 
 Earth's low sojourn — heaven's high infinitude ; 
 All-seeing to know, all just to judge aright ; 
 Vice hateful, Virtue ever lovely, in His sight. 
 
 VII. 
 
 O ! none more worthy, howsoever poor, 
 
 Of the balm-love of Holiness, than he 
 
 Who knows the right — who feels the heart impure, 
 
 And from his errors struggles to be free : 
 
 God marks the efforts of the virtuous brave, 
 
 And marking says, " My child, thou shalt not be a 
 slave." 
 
 VIII. 
 Where is the silvery and gauze-like veil 
 Of morning — pure, as if it had been wove 
 By fingers softer than the asphodel 
 To hide the loves of angels, as they rove 
 Beneath the bright moon, in the milky-way, 
 
 Sweet carolling to God the vernal hymn of May ? 
 
48 THE PEASANT. Canto III. 
 
 IX. 
 The sun is up — bright in his path of blue, 
 And rich the earth is with his beamy gold ; — 
 On sunny brae the lambkin licl^^he dew, 
 The tender leveret crops the clover wold ; — 
 And there is Henry — happy man, I ween — 
 Among the yellow broom, and pearly brakens green. 
 
 X. 
 
 To him, how sweet to see the wild-flower ope, 
 And rear its petals, to the kind sun-beam ; 
 While in its balm-folds rolls the twinkling drop 
 Of dew, like the bright thought of poet's dream, — 
 Or the soul-thrilling tear on maiden's cheek, 
 In holy sympathy the beautiful and meek. 
 
 XI. 
 
 O ! it is sweet to Henry, there to scan 
 Fair Nature's philosophic mysteries — 
 Tracing the God-concatenated plan, 
 From smallest things to where the eye must cease — 
 Lost in the infinitude of things above, 
 While Reason, with the morning star, sings — " There 
 dwells Love !" 
 
Canto III. THE PEASANT. 4<J 
 
 XII. 
 And Love is God, God immortality ; 
 And immortality is bliss with Him : 
 Love meeteth loye in truth, and cannot die — 
 The holy union of the seraphim, 
 Of soul to soul in conjugal abode, — 
 And highest, purest, sweetest — all in all in God. 
 
 XIII. 
 And will the vile, self- loving libertine — 
 Low pleasure's slave, this wisdom ridicule — 
 The wisdom which all Nature owns divine ? 
 Yet let him think, and own himself — a fool, 
 When, far, the modest maiden shuns his path, 
 As if his very breath her innocence would scath. 
 
 XIV. 
 Say, whence the sacred laws that thus control 
 The vestal's heart to virtue, hating vice ? — 
 Yet, O how she can love ! her star-like soul 
 Is fed by Love, and heaven is in her eyes •, 
 There speaks a power — and eloquent as true, 
 That man unchaste, unhallowed love must ever rue. 
 
 D 
 
50 THE PEASANT. Canto III. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Such was the lovely Amy, when she wrought 
 Her mother's work by yon clear burn's green side ; 
 Such was she when the youthful Henry sought 
 And won her heart and hand to be his bride ; 
 And such she is even now — his wedded wife — 
 Still beautiful, still chaste — the sweetner of his life. 
 
 XVI. 
 Her love it is that gives the mavis' song 
 Its thrilling dulcetness, as, now, he sings 
 In yon green copse, — that to the flowery throng 
 Gives odour, — to the beautiful of things 
 Adds beauty, — sweetness to the honey-comb, — 
 That makes yon humble hamlet his delightful home. 
 
 XVII. 
 Now comes the thrifty bee with ardent boom ; 
 The dew is off the grass, and blithe he roves, 
 Like the young poet's thought, from bloom to bloom — 
 Now on the hill — the vale, now in the groves, —, 
 And, now, among the mossy springs he pries, 
 And from their thousand blossoms loads his hairy thighs. 
 
Canto III. THE PEASANT. 51 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Well, for its wisdom, Henry loves the bee — . 
 A model of economy to man ! 
 Its laws and legislative polity — 
 Under a Queen — shame Reason's proudest plan ! 
 Rich with its winter-store, from moor and fell, 
 It hopes to live till spring in the wax citadel. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 But Luxury — that spares not the meek lamb — 
 Ah ! will he spare the honey-making bee ? 
 Insatiate he demands the luscious balm. 
 Alas ! for you, then, sons of Industry ! 
 The work of death and robbery goes on — 
 Your treasured nectar feeds, at last, the lazy drone. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Sedate, and slow, the well-known chapman comes, 
 Elwand in hand, his pack o'er shoulder hung : 
 
 Welcome o'er all — wight of an hundred homes, 
 
 For he has wares, gloss'd by his cunning tongue, 
 Can charm the matron's, and the young bride's eye- 
 Shawls, kerchiefs — Brussels' lace, and silken drapery. 
 
01 THE PEASANT. Caxto Ilf. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 As they are wont, slow, o'er the verdant floor, 
 They wend their way ; and well the pedlar knows 
 That, by the hospitable hearth, is sure 
 His breakfast-meal, and garrulous he goes ; 
 While, with peculiar tact, which much avails, 
 The uncos of the town and country he details. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 He is a wily and imposing wight 
 As e'er unclasp'd a pack to maiden's eyne ; 
 So neatly he unfolds his goods to sight, 
 That things but second-rate grow superfine ! 
 " Be sure," he says, " the lady o* the hall, 
 Just yester-even, coft the marrow o' this shawl." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " That pretty silken kerchief has a charm 
 Outvying the bright bosom of the dove ; — 
 How beautiful is Amy's polished arm 
 Beneath its softness !" — Henry glows with love ; 
 The pedlar smiles in triumph ; it is bought, 
 And kept to grace the coming Sabbath, as it ought. 
 
Cakto III. THE PEASANT. SB 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 In Amy's lovely bosom there is nought 
 Of flaunting vanity ; yet fine her taste, 
 And simple, as the sky-lark's music-thought, 
 When in the heaven he spreads his dew-wet breast 
 To morning's sunbeam mild, — and all her pride 
 To keep that love which loved her when a maiden bride. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 What 'vails the satin rich, and jewels rare, 
 With all the glories of the gorgeous Ind, 
 To ornament immodest silly fair ? 
 They shine and rustle but unto the wind : — 
 Such things must be adorn d with purer gem 
 Which sacred makes the humblest maiden's garment hem. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 O, Modesty ! all innocent as bright, 
 The heavenly asphodel of woman's soul, — . 
 The charm — the extacy of love's delight, 
 With power the savage lion to control ! 
 Without thee, Nature's sweets would bloom in vain, — 
 Without thee, die the poet's noblest, holiest strain. 
 
54 THE PEASANT. Canto III. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 With thee, best virtue, simple rural maid, 
 Yclad in russet gear, in charms may vie 
 With high-born dame bedeck'd in rich brocade : 
 The delicate, soft hand of Symmetry 
 Moulds the fair form, — Beauty lits the eye to shine, 
 But, Modesty, 'tis thou that givest the grace divine. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 The boiling water plays melodiousry, 
 And beautifully the streamy steam emits j 
 And in the pan salt bam and fresh eggs fry ; 
 Among the embers the black teapot sits ; 
 And while the herb of China is infusing. 
 The poet-pedlar sings this legend of his musing : — 
 
 k 
 
 On the bleak turrets of Balfour 
 Hung, Kke a robe, the silver mist, 
 While, from her couch in prison bower. 
 The victim of a lustful priest, 
 Rose, like a lone star o'er the sea, 
 The hapless Mary Ogilvie, 
 
Canto III. THE PEASANT. 
 
 2. 
 
 She stood on the high bartizan — 
 How beautiful in her despair ! 
 Adown her cheek, wo-blanch'd and wan, 
 Waved carelessly her ebon hair : 
 With wish intense her bosom moves — 
 To see, once more, the home she loves. 
 
 3. 
 
 And she the crucifix has kiss'd, 
 
 That rests soft on her bosom-flowers ; 
 
 The sun of morn breaks through the mist, 
 
 And gilds her father's distant towers — 
 
 To her the sight is luxury, 
 
 And all her soul burns in her eye. 
 
 4. 
 " There's sorrow in my father's hall, 
 He knows not of his prison'd child ! 
 But, to the unholy Cardinal, 
 Hath Mary Ogilvie ne'er smiled ; 
 Nor ever shall his loathed embrace 
 Dishonour child of Airly'3 race. 
 
Ml THE FEASANT. Canto III. 
 
 5. 
 
 " There's sorrow in my father's hall, 
 And tears are shed, and vows are vow'd t 
 
 — They ken not the base Cardinal, 
 Else, like the bursting of a cloud 
 
 That from the mountain sweeps the strath, 
 On him would fall a brother's wrath." 
 
 6. 
 O'er Mary's head the laverock sung, 
 And, as a voice from Heaven, it said — 
 Alas ! that one so fair, so young, 
 Should, by a priest, be thus betrayed ; 
 But, maiden, thou art innocent, 
 
 — A curse waits the pretended saint I 
 
 7. 
 
 Her crucifix she kiss'd once more, 
 
 And stretched her white arms toward heaven : — 
 
 "Of Jesu Christ, whom I adore, 
 
 Thou seest my maiden heart is riven ! 
 
 Farewell, farewell, my parents dear ! 
 
 With white flowers strow your Mary's bier.** 
 
Canto III. THE PEASANT. M 
 
 8. 
 Then took she from her throbbing breast 
 The crystal phial fraught with death — 
 She drinks ! Behold, with furious haste, 
 A rider sweeps across the heath ! 
 " 'Tis he ! I know his plume — his steed ! 
 God of my fathers, give him speed ! 
 
 9. 
 " Quick through my veins the philtre runs, 
 And Nature's charms wane dim — dim — dim ! 
 And yet I see a thousand suns ! — 
 Art thou one of the seraphim ? 
 Ye white-robed maidens, bring that pall ; 
 — 'Tis beautiful — but dark withal. 
 
 10. 
 " My brother ! ay, I know thee well — 
 The gallant Donald, kind and brave : 
 Alas ! thou lookest deadly pale ! 
 But all around me seems a grave. 
 Save me from the vile Cardinal ! 
 Haste, bear me to my father's hall !" 
 
58 THE PEASANT. Canto III. 
 
 11. 
 
 She spoke no more ; life's orbs were set, 
 Death's mildew cold lay on her breast ; 
 Pale, pale her lips ; her locks of jet 
 Lay on her bosom — now at rest. 
 In Donald's arms she meekly died, 
 Arrayed in white — the grave's young bride. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Now, breakfast o'er, the happy pedlar goes ; 
 
 Ere nightfall he will traverse many a mile ; 
 
 And may he find at even a kind repose ! 
 
 Henry is in his fields ; Amy, the while, 
 
 Prepares their children for the school in time, 
 Knowing they'll play a while among the flowers and 
 thyme. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And, there, to man, the elfins may impart 
 
 The sweetest lesson in their frolic ploys ; — 
 
 Theirs is the unContaminated heart, 
 
 — From heaven their liberty and all its joys. 
 
 Nature delights to see them gambolling, 
 And cherishes their love, as the sun her own spring. 
 
Canto III. THE PEASANT. 5£ 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And oft the philosophic sage descends — 
 Fair virtue's halo round his temples wove — 
 And with their sports his star-like wisdom blends, 
 — A child among the children ; and they love 
 His precepts for his sake ; and soon they see 
 What his grand aim — to teach the love of Deity. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 There, meek, the rural seminary stands, 
 By its peculiar aspect ever known : 
 Slates, inkhorns, copies, and the " Ten Commands," 
 Horn-books, and Bibles, carelessly bestrown, 
 In each large window-sole ; and all around 
 Its sacred site, the feats of childhood mark the ground. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 He comes — the sovereign of the little state, 
 And keeps the accustomed footpath to a hair — 
 Yea, steady as if piloted by fate ! 
 He wears a dignified and solemn air : 
 Though it is said, he is at times a fool — 
 As all men are — he is a wise man in the school. 
 
m THE PEASANT. Cawto III. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 As if by magic, into being start 
 His subjects loyal, and crowd around the door. 
 Hark, from the desk his prayer of the heart ! 
 Now hundred tongues resume their various lore ; 
 Loud and more loud the little Babel rings ; 
 Now shines the Dominie among earth's noblest things. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 No pedant he, nor wolf in fleece of wool ; 
 The birch is not his forte ; and then he loves 
 The poor and rich alike — a golden rule ; 
 The dunce he philosophically reproves ; 
 But truant-playing, and breaking the Lord's day, 
 Demands the reprehension of the ferula. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 He is a social wight, and has, at times, 
 With Henry — trusty friend — his glass and song : 
 'Tis true that a convivial hour sublimes 
 The chords of friendship, and inspires the tongue ; 
 Divines would tell us so, if they dut-?. speak, 
 And, if I could translate — 'tis in the ancient Greek. 
 
Canto III. THE PEASANT. CI 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 It is, I ween, a most delightful time 
 When these true cronies in the cottage meet ; 
 Chaste humour, wit, and mirth, so sweetly chime, 
 In sooth it is, the while, the Muses' seat : 
 Men, books, and politics are criticised ; 
 And worth, wherever found, is justly, nobly prized. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 Both friends to temperance and virtue, still, 
 Theirs is a nodes in the rural cot ; 
 And to the friends of industry, they fill 
 The sparkling glass — crown'd with the enlighten'd 
 
 thought ; 
 Then the toast to the honest statesman flows, 
 Whether he wears the Thistle, Shamrock, or the Rose. 
 
THE PEASANT. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 I. 
 
 Again, their little Eden craves their care, 
 To check the noisome weeds — rank from their birth : 
 As stars burn brighest in the dark blue air, 
 So the young flowers smile fairest when the earth 
 Is clean around, and weedless, — not a thing, 
 Living or dead, to mar their heaven-ward blossoming. 
 
 II. 
 
 And Amy, with a fair congenial hand, 
 Assists to nurse the beautiful and sweet : 
 See, glorious Nature ! see, her fingers bland, 
 The vernal sunbeam, and thy blossoms meet ; 
 Elate, these lift their heads, seeming to vie, 
 Which, on her balmier bosom, first shall sweetly die. 
 
Canto IV. THE PEASANT. 63 
 
 III. 
 O ! which of all these beauteous things shall be 
 First honoured with a place on Amy's breast ? 
 The tulip — jasmine — rose — anemone — 
 The daisy — violet — lily — primrose chaste, 
 Or that which bows its head in meek salaam ? 
 She loves them all — all beautiful, all fair, all balm. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But there is one — a dearer, sweeter one, 
 Which Henry, in his kerchief, long ago, 
 Brought from the desert — offspring of the sun, — . 
 A faery bloom — a gem of living snow ; 
 Two stars hang on its stem, like maid and youth, 
 And Henry, in his freaks, yclept them—." Love and 
 Truth." 
 
 V. 
 Well, Henry, it may be thy bosom's pride 
 That such a holiness of Love is thine, 
 To slumber on the pillow by thy side, 
 Or on thy bosom — her love-hallowed shrine,— 
 To ply the needle by the cheerful fire, 
 And list, delighted, as thou play'st thy happy lyre. 
 
64 THE PEASANT. Canto IV. 
 
 VI. 
 Now, on her bosom, to her kirtle white, 
 Her gentle hand hath fixed the star -leaved gem ; 
 And, like a dream of infancy's delight, 
 Exalted there, it smiles ; as if its stem 
 Drank purer incense from her fairer breast ; 
 Whate'er in love her bosom toucheth, it is blest. 
 
 VII. 
 
 O there is wisdom in the heart that loves 
 To cultivate the beauteous things, or view 
 Them in the wilderness, where holy doves, 
 In Nature's sylvan temple, loving, coo ; 
 And all the winged quire — earth's cherubim, 
 Sweet worshippers of God, carol the Eden -hymn. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 That blessed bird, beneath the sun's bright wings, 
 So sweetly singing over Henry's cot, 
 As up and up it soars, and sweetlier sings — 
 Say, Nature, is it there without a thought? 
 Is it a model to the human soul ? 
 For, still, o'er innocence, it hath a soft control. 
 
Canto IV. THE PEASANT. H 
 
 IX. 
 
 How is it that a soulless thing excels 
 That which immortal is ? Morn, noon, and even, 
 The blithe aerial minstrel never fails 
 To chaunt its sacred melodies to heaven : 
 Among the sons of men, how few there be 
 Who give the praise due to the Parent Deity ! 
 
 X. 
 
 Day's king sublime is on his central throne — 
 The gay flowers honour him in sweet salaam ; 
 The gnomon's shadow on the dial-stone 
 Points to the north ; it is a solemn calm — 
 And Nature, bathed in universal light, 
 At God's own altar, breathes the holy incense-rite. 
 
 XI. 
 Now is the hour when forth comes reverend Eld 
 To bask in the warm sunshine, — he, who long 
 With God, and Nature, hath communion held ; 
 His heart subdued — estranged from every wrong — 
 Led from the cottage by the hand of love, 
 He comes — but blind, alas ! to all but heaven above. 
 
 x 
 
U THE PEASANT. Canto IV. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " My daughter, this is kindly done," lie says, 
 " And God wilt well reward thy filial task ; — 
 O ! if He listens as a Christian prays, 
 
 — I for myself have nought on earth to ask — 
 To thee domestic blessings stiH will come, 
 
 And smile, like cheerful seraphs, in thy hamlet -home.** 
 
 XIII. 
 
 On the smooth green, in the oak elbow-chair, 
 Reclines the patriarch beside the hive ; 
 Though nought he sees> he knows that all is fair — 
 Feeling that fragrant beauty is alive ; 
 He hears around the buzz of many a bee, 
 And the glad shilfa's sonnet on the ilex-tree. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 His sight m darkness sleeps ; but on his face 
 There is a smile, like that of dreaming child ; 
 
 — It is the smile of innocence and grace, 
 For unto God his soul is reconciled : 
 
 To him the welcome hour of death will be 
 A wedding-day of love — a day of jubilee. 
 
Canto IV. THE PEASANT. 67 
 
 XV. 
 
 O ! blessing of old age, to be resigned — 
 Happy to meet the inevitable hour, . 
 When all, save Faith and Hope, have left the mind ; 
 Who — like two doves, that, in the leafless bower, 
 Each other soothe, till gay spring shall return — 
 The throbbing spirit cheer, till smiles the heavenly morn. 
 
 XVI. 
 Around, his cherub oyes are gambolling, 
 And chase the voiceless, flower-like butterfly 
 From bloom to bloom — as still, with fickle wing, 
 Like yellow leaves blown by the wind awry, 
 It flutters to and fro with ceaseless roam, 
 As if it had nowhere on earth a moment's home. 
 
 XVII. 
 There, is a little seraph bright as fair, 
 And blithe as bright : around her lily brow, 
 Soft, to the sun-breeze, curls her flaxen hair ; 
 And in her mien her mother's beauties glow, 
 And in her bosom all her filial love — 
 See, for her grandsire loved, she hath a garland wove ; — 
 
m THE PEASANT. Canto IV. 
 
 XVIII. 
 And she has laid her head upon his knee. 
 Hear ! as he gives the holy benison, 
 While the joy -tear suffuses in Ins ee : 
 " God bless thee, now and aye, sweet little one I 
 His grace be thine, to hush thy bosom's fears, 
 Until thou be, like me, a child of many years." 
 
 XIX. 
 Thus, Eld should ever find a holy calm, 
 Well-merited, when all his toils are o'er,—. 
 A home of peace, with filial love to balm 
 And nurse his second childhood, — and to pour 
 Into his cup the milk and honey blest, 
 Till his freed spirit rest on its loved Saviour's breast, 
 
 XX. 
 
 Where age is honour'd, blessed is the house ; 
 Where age is honoured, blest that country, too: 
 As Henry marks the kindness of his spouse 
 To his loved sire, Heaven tells her heart is true : 
 Seraphic virtue ! hallowing all those charms, 
 Which kings might envy in an humble peasant's arms. 
 
Canto IV. THE PEASANT. M 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Ah ! human bliss is ne'er complete on earth ! 
 It cannot be, else heaven would lose its charms. 
 Even now, — amid the universal mirth 
 Of Nature, and of home, — a thought alarms 
 The old man's heart ! — " Where is my sailor boy ?" 
 Sweeps o'er his soul, and almost chills the present joy. 
 
 XXII. 
 n My Edwin ! twelve long years have now gone by 
 Since thou left home to cross the Atlantic wave — 
 Against mine and thy mother's will ; yet I 
 Forgive thee — and thy mother 's in her grave. 
 Alas ! it broke her heart to think on thee : 
 Of that thou knowest not, child of the restless sea! 
 
 XXIII. 
 " When, from the east, the sea-blast fiercely blew, 
 There ever rose a wildness in her ee : 
 She said — as o'er her head her cloak she drew — 
 1 I cannot rest — my Boy is on the sea !' 
 Then she would wander up the lonely hill, 
 Awd, raving there alone, bid the wild storm b< till 
 
70 THE PEASANT. Canto IV. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " And in her wildered visions of the night, 
 Her soul was on the dark perturbed brine, 
 Seeking the ship whereon was her delight : 
 Now, she beheld it like a thing divine, 
 Flying to heaven on wings magnificent, 
 And there her much-loved Edwin cheerful as a saint I 
 
 XXV. 
 " But, suddenly, an argosy of hell 
 She saw, with drunkenness and blasphemings, — 
 Beheld her Edwin there, an infidel, 
 And to the raging waves, in scorn, he flings 
 His Bible ; then, 'mid swearing and rude cheers, 
 The surf-struck barque in a dread moment disappears I 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 ." Oh ! am I thinking of the quick or dead ? 
 I cannot know ! Haply the insatiate wave 
 Rolls weltering o'er my child in his last bed — 
 Uncoffmed — shroudless — in his ocean-grave ; 
 Or with some lawless Corsair he may be, 
 Whose wicked crew live by their plunder on the sea* 
 
Canto IV. THE PEASANT. U 
 
 XXVII. 
 " O gracious Heaven ! could he— -my lovely Boy— 
 Stretch hand to rob, or lift the murderous arm? — 
 And yet, alas ! bad men may soon decoy 
 The best, the bravest heart I They have a charm 
 To snare the youthful soul to impious creed, 
 And then, oft-times, the blackest, fellest crimes succeed. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 u Than leagued with such, O God ! it better were 
 That he lay thousand fathoms in the deep — 
 Deep sea ! — But 1 will hope — yea, in despair, 
 I hope it is not so. I cannot weep — 
 The spirit of my Helen gives me joy ! 
 The spirit of my blessed Helen sees our boy J" 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Amy perceives the old man's reverie, 
 And the deep melancholy of his soul; 
 She knows his thoughts are on the far, far sea — 
 As oft they wander wild from pole to pole, 
 Seeking his long-lost boy on the great main — 
 And her sweet sympathy consoles his mental pain. 
 
72 THE PEASANT. Canto IV. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " Thou, Amy, art like angel of the morn I 
 Read me ' The Isle of Palms,' my soul to cheer : 
 Now, I can hope my Edwin will return. 
 
 ! that is sweet — 'tis extasy to hear ! 
 
 1 see the gallant barque moored in the bay, 
 
 Her rainbow-pennons streaming to the sun-breeze gay. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " Now, at the pier, I see my mariner, 
 His once-fair face swarthed by the tropic climes ; 
 How dark his locks, that once were flaxen-fair ! 
 Welcome, my Boy! thy heart's unstain'd with crimes." 
 Such was the vision of his sailor's lot, 
 And Amy saw the blessed dream, and broke it not. — 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 ' Tis past — the gorgeous noon of day ; all bright, 
 The clouds are congregating in the west, 
 To meet the coming king : to Fancy's sight 
 They seem the purple chariots of the blest, 
 With many a beauteons habitant of heaven 
 In joyous jubilee ! — This is a holy Even — 
 
Canto IV. THE PEASANT. 7 I 
 
 XXXIII. 
 The last of Spring : with vernal glory crown'd, 
 She, to her blissful solitude, again 
 Retires — on earth, and in the sky renown'd 
 For beauty, love, and music's happiest strain. 
 At early morn the cock, the lark, and rail, 
 Will to the broidered fields the bright-mien'd season hail. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Yet ere the Goddess fair shall leave the plain, 
 And to her sister, Summer bright, resign 
 The beamy sceptre, o'er yon green domain — 
 Yon little farm — once more, with smile benign, 
 She'll pay a grateful visit ; pleased to see 
 All flourishing beneath the hand of Industry. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Methinks I see her, with her harp divine, 
 On wings, bright as the rainbow, hovering o'er 
 Yon arbour of sweet-brier and eglantine, 
 Where Amy sits, weaving the silken flower ; 
 Meanwhile, tuned to her chaste domestic thoughts, 
 Prow bush, and tree, and air, the soul of music floats. 
 
74 THE PEASANT. Canto IV. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Again 'tis finished — Henry's garden-toil, 
 Flower-plat and walk all elegantly dight ; 
 And now are ready to receive the smile 
 Of Summer beautiful, as from the height 
 Of heaven's benevolence, in golden rain, 
 She comes, and fills with light the garden and the plain. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Now enters he the green ambrosial cove, 
 The setting sun engilds its verdant eaves : 
 And now — which guerdons well 'his toil — from love, 
 His Amy dear, he thrilling kiss receives. 
 There, they the sweet connubial converse hold, 
 Till the young flowers in balmy sleep their petals fold. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 Still, as it is his Amy's pleasure, he 
 Tells some pathetic tale — of hapless love, 
 Or virtue struggling with adversity — 
 And all the fame he seeks, that she approve. 
 Loving his country, and acquainted well 
 With its rich annals, many a legend he can tell. 
 
Canto IV. THE PEASANT. 7* 
 
 TlTfje 89art4>t'$ <Btai)e. 
 1. 
 Among the birks, by Prosen's stream, 
 
 There is a bonny green, 
 Where blossoms many a sweet wild-flower, 
 And ripens many a gean. 
 
 2. 
 
 It is, in sooth, a lovely spot 
 
 As summer could adorn ; 
 Yet, often, there, a lady fair 
 
 Went with her child to mourn. 
 
 3. 
 Beneath a fair wild cherry-tree, 
 
 Amid the vocal glade, 
 There is a grassy ancient grave — 
 
 A Martyr there was laid. 
 
 4. 
 He was a meek and holy man 
 
 Amid Religion's strife, 
 And he, his pious rural flock, 
 
 Fed with the bread of life. 
 
H THE PEASANT. Canto IV. 
 
 5. 
 
 But Persecution's blood-hounds found 
 
 The pastor of the Lord, 
 And marked him as a victim fit 
 
 For bullet, or for sword. 
 
 Warn'd by his Christian friends, he fled, 
 
 And in wild cavern dwelt ; 
 Where, by his pious knee, is marked 
 
 The stone whereon he knelt ! 
 
 7. 
 
 Still, for the Pastor, day and night, 
 
 His persecutors howl'd ; — 
 Along the straths, and up the glens, 
 
 The bloody red-coats prowl'd. 
 
 8. 
 Yet, from his cave-home, he would steal 
 
 To the lone temple-dell, 
 And with the faithful worship Him — 
 
 The Christ of Israel. 
 
Canto IV. THE PEASANT. 
 
 9. 
 There, on a sweet and blessed noon — 
 
 The sabbath of their God — 
 The hallowed elements were Spread 
 
 On the green flowery sod. 
 
 10. 
 Round him his glad communicants 
 
 Gather'd in peace and love ; — 
 The ceiling of their temple was 
 
 The bright blue heaven above. 
 
 11. 
 
 As they sat at the feast of love, 
 The sun beam'd on each head — 
 
 The brighter Sun of Righteousness 
 As they partook the bread. 
 
 12. 
 
 O ! brief, but holy, was the time 
 
 Devoted to the Lord ! 
 They might have heard the bullet whiz, 
 
 Or clash of horseman's sword. 
 
THE PEASANT. Canto IV. 
 
 13. 
 
 Now each, of his loved Pastor, took 
 
 A kind and warm farewell ; 
 And, with a boding fear, all left 
 
 The sanctuary dell. 
 
 14. 
 
 Far had the reverend man to go 
 
 Unto his desert home ; — 
 His loved wife from him could not part, 
 
 But with him she would roam. 
 
 15. 
 
 The Pastor took his daughter -child 
 
 To his fond heart's embrace ; — 
 The tear that trickled dow r n his clieek 
 
 Fell on her lovely face. 
 
 16. 
 The cherub smiled and cried by turns ; 
 
 His wife hung o'er his heart. 
 Blest time ! — alas ! too sweet to last. 
 
 For they, anon, must part. 
 
Canto IV. THE PEASANT. VJ 
 
 17. 
 
 At sunset calm, a shot was heard, 
 
 And then a yell of cheer ! 
 In strath, and bught, and hollow glen,. 
 
 The echoes sounded drear ! 
 
 18. 
 The bullet pierced the Pastor's heart ! 
 
 And, in the wild afar, 
 He lay, alone, a stiffen'd corse 
 
 To evening's pensive star. 
 
 19. 
 Came many mourners to the spot, 
 
 Whose lilies with blood were red ; 
 His flock, now, feared no human power, 
 
 And gather'd round the dead. 
 
 20. 
 It was his wish — and he was borne 
 
 And laid by Prosen's wave : — 
 That which his Christian temple was, 
 
 Is now his sylvan grave. 
 
m THE PEASANT. Canto IV. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 " To-morrow, Amy, is the sabbath day: 
 Together, to the Martyr's sepulchre, 
 We'll take a walk, to see the birches, gray 
 With eld revered, and breathe its sacred air ; 
 For there is inspiration round the place, 
 Too much neglected by this world's day- working race." 
 
 XL. 
 
 Why is it lost — that noble fervency, 
 Which fired the holy Martyr's heart of old, — 
 That sunlike zeal, which made them — makes us free? 
 The faithful shepherds of the Christian fold 
 Unmonumented, and forgotten, sleep ; 
 But Nature venerates their dust — a sacred keep ! 
 
THE PEASANT. 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 I. 
 
 Cottage of love ! on yonder thymy slope, 
 The poet delights to lie, and muse on thee ; 
 Thine is the happy scene, which sunny hope 
 Hath often pictured to his reverie. 
 Now realized ; — around thy smiling field 
 
 There blossom charms, which palace-garden may not 
 yield. 
 
 II. 
 The ancient bards, who sung the age of gold, 
 From scenes like thine, their inspiration drew ; — 
 A peasant-cottage on some flowery wold, 
 With happy nuptial love, holy and true ; 
 Henca the sweet magic of the idyl-song, 
 
 When sung Theocritus, and his loved Greece 
 
 i 
 
32 THE PEASANT. Canto V. 
 
 III. 
 See ! Henry, now, amid the yellow broom, 
 Musing, reclines : and yet, amid the gladness 
 Of Summer in the splendour of her bloom, 
 Sweeps o'er his soul a wildly pensive sadness, 
 And he exclaims in his high reverie — 
 ** Ah t why, beyond yon sky, lies all in mystery ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Return, my soul, unto thy native clime — 
 To earth, and meditate on earthly things : 
 Yon blessed lark, above the cloud sublime, 
 As o'er my cottage-home he sweetly sings, 
 Knows more of heaven than man ! — My soul, return I 
 Thou canst not look into yon fierce sun's burning urn. 
 
 V. 
 
 *' Yet, is this earth the birth-place of the soul, — 
 Spirit of beautiful imaginings ? 
 
 That which o'er earth and sea — from pole to pole — 
 Can, in bright moment, fly on fancy's wings, — 
 That, which ethereal vigil ever keeps, 
 Like an undying star, that never, never sleeps. 
 
fl 
 
 Canto V. THE PEASANT. S3 
 
 VI. 
 
 ** Thou everlasting, and all-radiant sky, 
 When the rapt eye views thy delightful blue, 
 The soul pants for its immortality, 
 And could in joyance bid the earth adieu ; 
 Oft from the sweet and fair to thee it turns, 
 While all the God within it, holier — holier burns. 
 
 VII. 
 * 4 It is enough I at once I see and feel, 
 That God is good and great, and kind as good ! 
 Here, in His sky-roofed temple, let me kneel 
 To Him — life-centre of infinitude, — 
 Source unbeginning, whence all sprung and springs, — 
 Soul inexhaustible of uncreated things ; — 
 
 VIII. 
 u O'er all, in all, round all, and all above, — 
 Sole mover and sustainer of the whole ! 
 1 bow in adoration, and in love, 
 In all the blessed liberty of soul, — 
 Not as the slave bows to the tyrant's rod, 
 liut free unto my King, my Parent, Friend, and <iod ! 
 
«4 THE PEASANT. Canto V. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Yes, man is free ! — God made not him to mourn, 
 Else, in the heaven, yon glorious orb of light 
 Had never shone to cheer his low sojourn 
 Upon the earth ; an universal night 
 Had hung upon the world — a hell of crimes, 
 A sunless sky, with tideless seas, and desert climes. 
 
 X. 
 
 " We break the sacred laws of God ! — what then ? 
 Then mourn we surely, or make others mourn : — 
 But mark ! If virtue suffers mental pain, 
 A balm is poured from a celestial urn ! 
 God is adored ! In sorrow virtue sings : — 
 
 He comes ! He comes in love, with healing on His 
 wings ! 
 
 XI. 
 " Henceforth, my soul, associate with the fair 
 And innocent, whether of earth or heaven : 
 Or be it that which balms the desert air — 
 For many a sweet and radiant thing is given 
 Unto the wilderness, which none may see 
 
 But the blest child of Nature, and the fine-eyed bee ; — 
 
Canto V. THE PEASANT. 85 
 
 XII. 
 " Or be it night, amid the balm of things, 
 When all is silent but the prattling rill, — 
 When Contemplation seeks the hallowed springs, — 
 When Poesy comes from her star-light hill 
 To meet young Fancy on the enamel'd lea, 
 And the rapt Bard lists to their heaven-taught harmony. 
 
 XIII. 
 " O ! sweeter far the hum of passing bee, 
 Seeking the heather-bell the broom among, 
 Than all the gorgeous pomp and pageantry, 
 And rout discordant of the million -throng 
 Of city in a coronation hour, — 
 For often war treads in the wake of pride and power. 
 
 XIV. 
 " The hand of man can rear the palace-tower, 
 And city all magnificent to see, — 
 But what are these, compared with lily-flower — 
 So beautiful in its simplicity? 
 And it will blossom to the vernal sky, 
 When palace-tower and city in oblivion lie. 
 
8« THE PEASANT. Canto V. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " How is it the young Poet loves to sing 
 The happiness and fragrance of each flower ? 
 That they arise to grace his walks in Spring, 
 Or that they speak a renovating Power — 
 Whence, by analogy, he, in their bloom, 
 May see that man will rise in beauty from the tomb ? 
 
 XVI. 
 " Yes ! man in Nature may Religion see — 
 His birth, and life, and death, the seasons tell. 
 Speak they not, too, of immortality — 
 His resurrection, God's grand miracle ? — 
 Whate'er has life, or had, will never die, 
 But live in the green earth, or in the blessed sky. 
 
 XVIII. 
 " Nature's a Bible, and of wisdom'full ! 
 And he that runs may read a lesson there, — 
 Sublimely bright and fair, and never dull : — 
 Religion, writ on earth, in sea, and air, 
 Still magnifies their great Creator's name — 
 Revealed and Natural, though different, still the same ! 
 
Canto V. THE PEASANT. 87 
 
 XVIII. 
 " In every human heart, are they not graven — 
 The holy laws of God, as with a pen 
 Dipt in the ever-living fire of heaven? — 
 They writ were in the hearts of heathen men, 
 Long ere, on Sinai, the living God 
 Yet bade the prophet-bard indite His moral code. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Greece had her sages, and she nursed them well : — 
 They, in their unassisted visions, saw 
 The bliss of heaven, — the misery of hell ; 
 They scann'd the heart, and found a moral law — 
 The soul's philosophy, — the voice of peace, 
 That sung the beautiful of life to Socrates. 
 
 XX. 
 
 ** And Plato in sublimer light would soar, 
 With wing of seraph, up the milky way ; — 
 His soul — erewhile illumed by Nature's lore — 
 Lit by the radiant, but mysterious ray, 
 Which, to its God, unites the moral mind, — 
 Believed a God, and immortality divined. 
 
88 THE PEASANT. Canto V. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " But last, and best, in heaven-loved Palestine, 
 The day-spring broke bright in the Virgin's Child ; 
 And His alone, of all, was light divine, — 
 Sublime as simple, beautiful as mild ; 
 His own religion holy, pure from heaven, 
 Himself its minister — to man in mercy given.. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 • " In every climate, and in every age, 
 By holy men, Gocl has been worshipped : — 
 Inspired by Him, the prophet, bard, and sage, 
 Or venerable patriarch, who fed 
 His flock and herds where'er green pastures smiled^ — 
 Still worshipped God, and Nature nursed her pious child. 
 
 XXIII. 
 " Perhaps from city and from courts afar,. 
 True worship ever sought the sacred calm 
 Beneath Religion's own benignant star, 
 Which on the heart pours a peculiar balm. 
 That, while it soothes, illumes the pious breast — 
 The sabbath of the soul, its blessedness, its rest. 
 
Canto V. THE PEASANT. 80 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 1 * Pride dwells in courts ; where, fed by luxury, 
 Man's idol, Pleasure, smiles with syren luxe. 
 The pamper'd youth presumes, that he is free 
 To revel in voluptuousness impure ; 
 Titled seduction deems he cannot err, 
 And prides himself in ruining the maiden fair. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " But courts have often been, and yet may be, 
 The hot-beds of pollution. Read the page 
 Of honest and unbiass'd history, — 
 See the state-actors on the world's great stage — 
 Impiety, ambition, lewdness, strife, 
 There consummate the tragedy of human life. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " From such a source, can peace — can freedom spring? 
 Can Nature smile unto the dread siroc ? — 
 Behold ! beneath the northern Vulture's wing, 
 Now bleeds the beautiful of Poland's flock ! 
 Is Poland, then, no more, with all her brave ? 
 The Pole no more an honoured name — a despot's slave ? 
 
90 THE PEASANT. Canto V. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " No : Freedom is immortal ! — from the tomb 
 Of her fallen heroes in the battle-plain, 
 Her guardian Genius, like a flaming bomb, 
 Will yet arise, and shout — ' To arms again ! 
 The God, who fired of old the patriot Pole, 
 Is with you still — Rise ! spurn the galling protocol ! ' 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " What should a king be? — Guardian of the right, 
 Religion, liberty ; by nature great ; 
 With knowledge, learning, and true wisdom bright : 
 Servant of God, not proud of high estate, — 
 Who, in his people's welfare, sees his own, 
 With worth to grace a cottage, or adorn a throne. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 All, from the palace to the hamlet down, 
 Would feel the elysian reign of such a king ; 
 Men of integrity and fair renown, 
 Like vernal clouds around the sun of Spring, 
 Would halo round their monarch and their friend, 
 Whose virtue, like the sun, would shine for some great 
 end. s 
 
Canto V. THE PEASANT. 01 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " Ah ! where the people — where the happy land, 
 Blest with a king of such transcendent worth ? 
 And where the Christian senate — patriot band, 
 The bright, the brave — friends of the social hearth, 
 Gravely acute the various heart to scan, 
 To bless life's cup to every honest-hearted man ? 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " Experience, say, what makes a nation great, 
 Invincible in arms, yet hating war ? 
 Economy, prime sinew of a state, 
 With wisdom emanating wide and far, 
 Cheering the sons of moral industry, 
 When both the rulers and the ruled are blest and free. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 u This is reform — 'Tis, too, a sacred word s 
 High Heaven demands reform of every soul ; 
 It is not won by faggot, fire, and sword, 
 But self-denial, and virtue's stern control : 
 Then thrives religion in the cultured soil, 
 And love celestial guerdons well our mental toil. 
 
92 THE PEASANT. Canto V. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " What is the use of knowledge? what should be 
 Its great result ? To cultivate the soul, 
 And make it worthy of its Deity, — 
 To bring the passions under its control, — 
 To nurse the young idea as its springs, 
 That it may still delight in chaste and beauteous things. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 " And first, and best — to know what God hath done 
 For fallen man, debased by every crime ; 
 To hail the advent of His martyr Son, — 
 To mark his words and miracles sublime — 
 His wisdom, meekness — his redeeming death — 
 His glorious rising from the tomb, and fix our faith. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 " Whatever has, — in Nature or in Art, 
 In men or books — of good or evil charms 
 To rouse our scorn, or stimulate the heart, — 
 A corrupt senate or the world in arms, 
 When every vice, and many a virtue fair. 
 Are stirr'd to action, — read, and con a moral there. 
 
Canto V. THE PEASANT. 93 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 " Study the Christian, Atheist, Infidel — 
 These three prime actors on the stage of life : 
 The first, if insincere, is worthiest hell — 
 A knave at heart, a coward in the strife, — 
 His smile a mask — hypocrisy his speech, — 
 A tyrant o'er the poor, a menial to the rich. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 " Here every one must act a part ; and each — 
 Left by the love and wisdom of his God, 
 Though zealots other creed erroneous preach — 
 Is free to act, first law of Nature's code ; 
 Hence, there is no such thing in life as fate, 
 Else how could this be a probationary state? 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 u Yet, while we others scan, shall we forget 
 To look into ourselves — and blindly grope 
 Our way through life, or servile imitate, 
 As if our fame were in another's hope ? 
 1 Man, know thyself!' else thou canst ne'er be free, 
 Nor learn what thou amongst mankind art fit to !>« 
 
04 THE PEASANT. Canto V. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 " Knowledge of self — the source of wisdom, fame, 
 And every virtue, in whatever sphere — 
 Decides the character, and gives an aim 
 To genius, — cherishes its bright career, — 
 Subdues our errors, and illumes the soul, 
 True to its welfare as the needle to the pole. 
 
 XL. 
 " 'Tis a severe, but most delightful, war, 
 Which Virtue with the passions wild doth wage ; 
 It is a war of years, — until the star 
 Of moral triumph shines. Then is the sage 
 True to himself, to God, and all mankind — 
 A citizen of Nature with ennobled mind. 
 
 XLI. 
 " This is the acme of the soul. Yet meek 
 Is he, who to the glorious height attains — 
 Meek as the wild-flower on the mountain's peak 
 That rears its head sublime above the plains ; 
 Yet oft, from speculation bright as mild, 
 Descends the godlike sage to teach the little child. 
 
Canto V. THE PEASANT. 05 
 
 XLII. 
 " Delightful task, and holy ! Be it mine, 
 That wisdom which can teach the child aright, — 
 To rouse the latent thought, that, else, supine 
 Might sleep, — to give the young inquirer light : 
 — Many and strange the child's inquiries are, 
 Nor answer'd easily, knows the philosopher." 
 
 XLIII. 
 So Henry — as the lark above its nest 
 Sings to its consort on the clover fields — 
 Mused on the green hill's sunward thymy breast, 
 That, from the north, his happy cottage shields, 
 Till his blind sire, led by the eldest beam, 
 Reposed beside him on the bank of thyme and fern. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Then came his Amy, bearing in her arms 
 Her smiling babe. All resting on the brae, 
 Before them spreads a scene of happiest charms — 
 Green wood and vale, fair cot, and ruins gray — 
 This last the theatre of feudal crimes, 
 Of which, thus Henry sings, in wildly simple rhymes ;— 
 
9G THE PEASANT. Canto V. 
 
 ^Eije aiXinoiB'je: Curiae, 
 
 When, in yon dark-red mouldering towers, 
 
 By Lemla's muddy bourne, 
 The fierce Lindsaye, with feudal sway, 
 
 Made many a vassal mourn, 
 
 Behind Phinaven's fir-crown'd hill, 
 
 A shepherd's shieling stood ; 
 And with him wonned his shepherdess — 
 
 His Marion, fair and good. 
 
 To sing the lovely maiden's charms, 
 
 Foii'd every minstrel's skill : 
 And legend says — There ne'er was lass 
 
 Like Marion of the hill ! 
 
 No marvel, then, that she should be 
 
 Her father's joy and pride : 
 And though he wish'd, yet much he feared, 
 
 To see his child a bride. 
 
Cakto V. THE PEASANT. I 
 
 Blithe tended she her happy flock 
 
 On yon green sunny brae ; 
 Blithe walk'd in harvest on yon hill, 
 
 To pull the berries blae. 
 
 Oft by the fount, that from the rock 
 
 Still trickles cool and clear, 
 She sate and sang, till echoes rang, 
 
 Which she much liked to hear. 
 
 Earl Lindsay, there, oft saw the fair, 
 
 As he rode hunting by ; 
 And he would leave the knights and 'squires, 
 
 With passion in his eye — 
 
 " 0, by the Rood ! I have not seen, 
 
 Among our damsels bright, 
 Such eyne as these, so formed to please 
 
 And give an Earl delight !" 
 
 The Maiden blushed, and fixed her eyes 
 On the young gowan's flower : 
 
 Her heart was innocent as it, 
 And fear'd no earthly power. 
 
 (; 
 
08 THE PEASANT. Canto V. 
 
 The Earl rode on, and to the chase — 
 
 Still he on Marion thought ; 
 But dark his soul, as were his looks — 
 
 He set that soul to plot. 
 
 He loved no one upon the earth, 
 
 And no one e'er loved him ; 
 Even his own children, when they durst, 
 
 Would shun his presence grim ! 
 
 None on the earth feared he, but one -— 
 
 The Widow of the den ! 
 He thought she was a midnight witch, 
 
 To weird the fate of men. 
 
 « 
 
 She was a spinster of the sun, 
 
 And rose with morning wan : 
 Fine, as the gossamer, the threads 
 
 Her bony fingers span. 
 
 As he rode by her hovel door, 
 
 To hunt the love-eyed stag, 
 A feign'd smile trembled in his eye 
 
 To the supposed hag. 
 
C*kto V. THE PEASANT. 
 
 With fear he mark'd her small gray eyne ; 
 
 And if their look was bland, 
 He rode, — and many an antler bright, 
 
 That day lay on the land. 
 
 But should his black steed halt and snort, 
 His hounds howl as they pass'd, 
 
 Back to his gloomy towers he sped, 
 Lest he, by cantrip-cast, 
 
 Might o'er yon dizzy crag be flung, 
 Mangled among the gorse ! — . 
 
 Nor vain his fears ; — old Janet had 
 For him a secret curse. 
 
 Young Duncan was the Widow's son ; 
 
 He loved the Shepherd's child — 
 And he was blest as blest could be 
 
 When Marion on him smiled. 
 
 To win the simple maiden's heart, 
 
 No artful wiles had he ; 
 Mis love for her was warm and true 
 
 As sunshine to the tree. 
 
LOD THE PEASANT. Canto V. 
 
 And he would chase the fox and wolf,. 
 
 That took her lambs away, — 
 And on the hill the adder kill, 
 
 That in her flower-path lay ;. 
 
 And he would tear the eagle from 
 
 His eyry on the rock, 
 And lay him stretched before his lovev 
 
 Beside her bleating flock. 
 
 From infancy he was inured 
 
 To sun-heat, and to storm, — 
 A muscular and stalwart youth* 
 
 — Firm as the oak his form 8 
 
 His. arm was strength, his foot was speed — 
 
 His heart truth's purest glow ; 
 Uncap'd he went ; and on the bent 
 
 He oft outran the roe ! 
 
 Yea, by the antlers he would take 
 
 The irritated stag ; 
 And from his keep, in forest deep, 
 
 The desert's idol drag L 
 
CtxxoV. THE PEASANT. 5'H 
 
 Yet, though in strength a Hercules, 
 
 He, as the kid, was meek, — 
 Knew not to boast — good-natured stiK, 
 
 And helper of the weak. 
 
 His dam, with a peculiar love, 
 
 Loved her gallant boy : 
 In him she saw his father's strength, 
 
 His kindness, and his joy. 
 
 She knew he was her champion, 
 To avenge the wrongs of three — 
 
 Himself, hfs mother — father, too ; — 
 He died on gallows tree, 
 
 Earle Lindsaye plotted day and night, 
 
 In tower, and forest wild, 
 How he could snare, to his foul lair, 
 
 The Shepherd's lovely child. 
 
 At last his heart devised an art — 
 
 A witching scheme, and rare : 
 He had a harper of such power — 
 
 It joy gave to despair ! 
 
MB THE PEASANT. Canto V. 
 
 Young Marion loved the lark's love-song — 
 
 Loved all the woodland quire : 
 But she had never heard the harp, 
 
 Whose strains the soul inspire ! 
 
 "Fwixt Oatlaw and his brother-alp, 
 
 Shone Eve's mild-raying sun ; 
 And there was a soft golden light 
 
 On vale and mountain dun. 
 
 Penn'd was the flock — her care and joy ; 
 
 And, with her own fair lamb, 
 Adown the footpath 'mid the broom, 
 
 Where all things breathed of balm, 
 
 The maiden took her vesper- walk : 
 
 The breeze was lulled to sleep, 
 And even the aspen rustled not ; — 
 
 With soft and silvery sweep, 
 
 The Esk was scarcely heard to flow ; 
 
 While, on her raptured ear, 
 Fell strain so sweet, so soft, so pure,. 
 
 It. seem'd from heavenly sphere I 
 
Canto V. THE PEASANT. 103 
 
 She paused — she listened — it was gone ! 
 
 And she resumed her walk : 
 " O ! could I hear the strain again !" 
 
 Was Marion's mental talk. 
 
 Of fays and fairies she had heard, — 
 Of their music sweet and bland : 
 
 It, haply, might be them, she thought, 
 From happy Faeryland.df'. 
 
 'Twas played again — and sweeter still 
 
 The fascinating air ! 
 'Twas in the wood, not distant far, 
 
 — And Marion enter'd there. 
 
 The summer sun, with setting beam, 
 On the green trees shone bright ; 
 
 Her sylvan path was green and gold, 
 And music gave delight. 
 
 The damsel laid her down to iv-i 
 So charm'd; she almost wept ! 
 The siren-harp played on and on — 
 1 1« r heart o'erpowered, she lie] 
 
L« THE PEASANT. Canto T. 
 
 For this the tyrant's vassal-slaves 
 
 Prepared had duly been ; — 
 On eider-couch, they bore her through 
 
 The forest's deep serene. 
 
 Soon in the castle's gayest bower, 
 
 And on the softest couch, 
 The sleeping Shepherdess was laidv 
 
 — But no rude hand dare touch ; 
 
 For, over sacred innocence*, 
 
 May guardian angel be ; 
 While guilt in his own snare is caught — 
 
 His own ill destiny. 
 
 The Shepherd's daughter- child is lost r 
 
 And well might he surmise, 
 That she is in Earl Lindsaye's power, 
 
 And sad in secret sighs ; 
 
 For, should he dare bis plaint to make^. 
 
 The pit, the axe, and block — 
 The donjon-cell, and gibbet-tree* 
 
 His misery would mock L 
 
Caxto V. THE PEASANT. H4 
 
 He left his shieling — left his flock 
 
 On the green hills to stray : 
 His faithful dog tended the sheep 
 
 For two nights and a day. 
 
 Meanwhile, young Duncan dearn'd the wood. 
 
 And den and cave search'd he : 
 Ah ! he but found his Marion's lamb 
 
 Under the greenwood tree. 
 
 He clasp'd it in his arms, and took 
 
 The silent mourner home : 
 " O ! now, my mother, feed this lamb, 
 
 For I again must roam !" 
 
 " My boy," she said, " I gang wi' thee ; 
 
 We'll seek the lost together ; — 
 She is thy love — she, eke, is mine, 
 
 An' she loved me as a mother." 
 
 Away, between the light and dark, 
 
 The son and mother went ; 
 And long ere yet the sun was in 
 
 The mist-veil'd firmament. 
 
10(> THE PEASANT. Canto V. 
 
 By Lemla's sluggish stream they stood, 
 
 Beneath the fatal tree, 
 Whereon the husband — father died, 
 
 — But not for felony. 
 
 " Look up, my boy ! there is the to we 
 That choked thy father's breath ! 
 
 Hew down that branch ! for it maun help 
 To do a deed of death ! 
 
 " By dawn of morn, Earl Lindsaye took 
 
 Your father from my side, 
 Because I would not sair his lust 
 
 When I was a young bride. 
 
 " He hangit your father on that tree, 
 
 In this same widdie raip ; 
 The bloody Earl stood by, the while, 
 
 And leugh at his death-gape ! 
 
 " Thy heart is bald, thy arm is Strang 
 
 To wiel' this rung o' aik, — 
 Beneath this tree, then, swear to me, 
 
 Earl Lindsay e's life to take." 
 
Canto V. THE PEASANT. 107 
 
 An uncouth laugh burst from his heart ! 
 
 Then he his mother kiss'd : 
 u That I will do, my mother dear, 
 
 Or may I ne'er be blest !" 
 
 The curse was out ! The murderer's days 
 
 Were number'd on the spot, — 
 The son and mother went their way 
 
 To their secluded cot. 
 
 The mist-cloud, floating o'er the vale, 
 
 Seem'd an aerial lake ; 
 While on the dark blue hills afar, 
 
 The sun was seen to break. 
 
 Up rose the kernes — anon the reek 
 
 From many a hut 'gan curl : — 
 The strong and lusty steers were yoked 
 
 By the bare-headed churl. 
 
 Far west the hill, a horn was blown, 
 
 Till strath and mountain rang ; 
 Another from Phinaven's towers, 
 
 Answer'd with sullen twang. 
 
108 THE PEASANT. Canto 
 
 Earle Lindsaye heard, and curFd his lip i 
 
 He knew the distant horn ; 
 And there were din and hurry in 
 
 Phinaven's towers that morn : 
 
 The clasping of maily armour on, 
 And girding of glaive and sword — 
 
 The warders trode — the Lindsayes rode 
 O'er dike, and ditch, and ford. 
 
 First on the green, in his clotted mail, 
 
 Earl Lindsaye stood, with his black blood- 
 hound ; 
 
 He cursed the groom for a lazy loon, 
 And fell'd the caitiff to the ground i 
 
 He chid the sun, as his rising Tay 
 
 Played on his visage dark ; 
 He fixed his steel-cap on his brow, 
 
 And cursed the cheerful lark ! 
 
 The Lindsayes gather'd fast and throng 
 On the smooth bowling-park : — 
 
 "Their life was feud, and they joy'd in blood - 
 Their hearts and homes were dark. 
 
Canto V. THE PEASANT. 109 
 
 In breathless haste, came from the west 
 
 A simple peasant man : — 
 " Earl Airly's on Phinaven's- hiH, 
 
 With his brave highland clan/' 
 
 A cloud came o'er Earl Lindsaye's brow, 
 That struck the kerne with dread : — 
 
 " Now give the coward loon a groat, 
 — But see you take his head V 
 
 Loud, from the western bartizan, 
 
 The warder blew his horn ; 
 Answer'd another from the hil>, 
 
 Bold sounding scorn for scorn. 
 
 With Airly and his Christian knights, 
 The good old shepherd stood, — 
 
 Had sought their aid, to retrieve the maid •— 
 His Marion fair and good. 
 
 Many, and oft, have sought the aid 
 
 Of the noble Ogilvie ; 
 Nor sought in vain — if gold or steel 
 
 The applicant could free 
 
110 THE PEASANT. Canto V. 
 
 Young Duncan's out — the mother, too, 
 
 Their sylvan hovel leaves : 
 *' Revenge ! revenge !" she cried, and fired 
 
 The dark hut's broomy eaves. 
 
 Quick spread the flame ! the rafters crack'd ! 
 
 The wind burst from its cloud ! 
 It caught the blaze, and nYd the trees ; — 
 
 The Widow laugh'd aloud ! 
 
 Thick from the den, the adders sprang 
 
 Across the beaten path — 
 Up rode the Lindsaye clan, and saw 
 
 The weird-hag in her wrath ! 
 
 Her snakes twined round the black blood-hound> 
 
 And stung him to the death ! — 
 *' Next Lindsaye dies !" the widow cries — 
 
 " Follow me to the heath I" 
 
 But — a stern Scot — his heart quail'd not : 
 " Come on, brave knights, with me ! — 
 
 I have the will, but cannot kill 
 That hag of devilry !" 
 
Canto V. THE PEASANT. Ill 
 
 The chase was o'er ; — two stags had bled, 
 And red were horse and man : — 
 
 Rode up the good and valiant knights, 
 With Airly in their van. 
 
 Arrayed they stood in bitter feud, 
 
 And burning clan view'd clan ; 
 While Airly spoke — " Lord Lindsaye, dost 
 
 Thou know this good old man ? 
 
 " Know'st thou of his lost daughter fair? 
 
 — If she be in thy power, 
 Restore her to her father's heart 
 
 Within this very hour!" 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! 'tis easy so to vaunt ! 
 
 — I love the peasant-girl. 
 Proud Ogilvie ! be thine the plea 
 
 Of the old craven churl." 
 
 " Lord Lindsaye, I nor hate nor fear— . 
 
 Justice and God our word ! — 
 Come on with me, my chivalry ! 
 
 A good cause whets the sword." 
 
112 THE PEASANT. Canto V. 
 
 Quick, as the red bolt from the cloud, 
 Flashed glaive and sword from sheath ! — 
 
 While, mid the host, the weird crone rushed, 
 And gave a pause to death. 
 
 u Yet, hear my prayer, thou murderer J 
 
 My curse be on thy head ! 
 Thou shalt not die by one but him 
 
 Whom thou an orphan made !" 
 
 As bounds the lion from the copse, 
 Young Duncan forward rushed ! — 
 
 Thus challenged by a peasant youth, 
 Blood-red the Lindsaye blushed. 
 
 Now Airly's kinsmen laugh'd outright 
 
 The unequal match to see ; 
 Which blew the fire of Lindsay e's ire 
 
 Against the Ogilvie. 
 
 " Come down, Earl Lindsaye !" Duncan cried, 
 
 " An' shake a paw wi' me ! — 
 Oich ! gin ye winna, wi' gude will, 
 
 I'll help my lord a wee." 
 
Canto V. THE PEASANT. US 
 
 By hoof and fetlock, Duncan grasped 
 
 Earl Lindsaye's foaming steed : 
 Down horse and rider came ! — The knights 
 
 All mute beheld the deed. 
 
 " Now draw Earl Beardi's lang braid sword 
 
 Against mine aiken rung ! 
 Ken ye this twig, ye murderer ¥ 
 
 On it my dad ye hung. 
 
 44 On thee will I avenge his death — 
 His wraith now gi'es me strength!" 
 
 He struck Earle Lindsaye's flashing blade — 
 A yard fell from its length. 
 
 " FJing o'er the craig that broken thing, 
 
 As I toss my staff o' aik ; — 
 Now, you or I maun follow it, 
 
 For my murder 'd father's sake !' v 
 
 And now they grappled stiff and stern — 
 They knew 'twas life or death ; 
 
 But Duncan's hand was like a vice, 
 His foot strong on the heath 
 ii 
 
114 THE PEASANT. C*W*o V 
 
 Like friends they hug, like fiends they tug. 
 
 And, still, as bull-dogs, mute ; 
 'Till on the precipice is placed 
 
 Earl Lindsaye's trembling foot ! 
 
 Now bend they o'er the fearful crag *— 
 
 Full forty fathoms deep : 
 As if from hell, the witch did yell, 
 
 And sprang toward the steep ! 
 
 One, o'er the brink, is toppled down u. 
 
 The crash sounds horridly ! 
 A shiver thrills the stoutest heart — 
 
 The Lindsayes turn and flee. 
 
 The Widow howl'd an eldrich laugh ; 
 
 Then wept for very joy : 
 She thanked God — she clasp'd her son, 
 
 And call'd him gallant boy. 
 
 " Now will your father's spirit rest — 
 
 Now we hae won his love ; — 
 Nae mair he'll haunt the den unblest, 
 
 But fly in his cloud above." 
 
Canto V. THE PEASANT. 115 
 
 In durance-bower, the Shepherd's Flower 
 
 Lone drooping sheds the tear ; 
 The lover -youth, through ways uncouth, 
 
 Runs quick as hunted deer. 
 
 The Lindsayes, sly, in ambush lie : 
 " He comes !" they softly cried. 
 
 Six arrows stuck round Duncan's heart — 
 He jump'd — he fell — and died ! 
 
 Earl Airly, with his gallant knights, 
 
 Stands by the castle-wall : — 
 By noble deed, the maid is freed, — 
 
 She saw the Lindsayes fall. 
 
 Airly, the grateful blushing maid, 
 
 To her glad father gave : — 
 He, on his knee, bless'd the Ogilvie, 
 
 The generous and the brave. 
 
 u Now drive your flocks to Airly's hills, 
 
 And tend them there in peace. 
 And from this hour, may tyrant power, 
 
 For aye in Scotland cease !" 
 
116 THE PEASANT. Canto V. 
 
 " Haste I burn that clog and bloody axe, 
 
 And shut that hell of death ! 
 That block no more shall drink man's gore — 
 
 That dark pond drown his breath." 
 
 So Airly spoke : — then turned his steed 
 
 From many a horrid sight : 
 The battle won, o'er vale and dun 
 
 Rode he with squire and knight. 
 
 From war's alarms, to love's soft charms, 
 
 Lady Airly hail'd her lord ; 
 And with her fair hand wreathed green bays 
 
 Around the Chieftain's sword. 
 
 At Cortachy, in wassail glee, 
 
 Is held the festal night : — 
 Along the hills the pibroch trills — 
 
 The Highland Chief's delight. 
 
 And in the hall the festival 
 
 Is cheer'd by many a string : 
 " In social life, forget the strife," 
 
 The wine-joy'd minstrels sing. 
 
Canto V. THE PEASANT. 117 
 
 XLV. 
 
 " We live in happy times ; the fountain-springs 
 Of knowledge are unlock'd to all, and free. 
 The sacred Nile, from his rich mountains, brings 
 Beauty to earth, and water to the sea, — 
 And Knowledge, from her philosophic height, 
 Gives freedom to the heart, and to the soul delight. 
 
 XLVI. 
 " We live in happy days ; and happier, still, 
 May these succeed. The light has gone abroad ; 
 The cloud, that hung o'er millions, dark and chill, 
 Is dissipated by the sons of God : — 
 His lovely daughters, too — creation's joy — 
 Their powers, bright as their smiles, in Reason's cause 
 employ. 
 
THE PEASANT. 
 
 CANTO VI, 
 
 I. 
 
 Summer, the season all magnificent, 
 Is loved by all, — and by young lovers most : 
 With sweetness beauty, warmth with light, is blent, 
 And wild, and way-side, with fair things emboss'd : — 
 There, children, like young Hope, weave the flower- 
 toy, 
 And all that swim, fly, leap, and walk, their loves enjoy, 
 
 II. 
 
 — All happy ! Glorious day of Nature's prime I 
 And it is celebrate most gloriously : 
 Creation's beauty — God's last work sublime, 
 A-field walk in their radiant drapery, 
 That rustles round their forms all polish'd fine, 
 — Shown by the blessed breeze that fans their breasts 
 divine. 
 
Can to VI. THE PEASANT. 119 
 
 III. 
 
 Go where thou wilt, in all the rural reign, 
 And beauty charms the eye, music the ear, — 
 Or by the stream, or in the green domain 
 Of ancient wood — to Contemplation dear, — 
 Or on the broider'd wold, — or in the grove, — 
 Or on the hill, where shepherd chawnts his song oflovr . 
 
 IV. 
 
 O ! what a cheering prospect round me lies ! 
 Of hill and dale — of forest, moor, and lea, — 
 And brae-framed tarn, a mirror to the skies ; 
 And, like huge serpent, twining to the sea, 
 The curved Esk, whose animating chime, 
 And sylvan scenery, recall the joyous time 
 
 V. 
 Of boyhood gay : — Associations sweet 
 Crowd on my mind ! — and yet, in melancholy, 
 These recollections with the present meet : — 
 Is it that they reproach me for the folly 
 Which 1 have followed nooe the hairy >n day 
 I sought the stream? — or t hit ill )tyl are gone f<> 
 
120 THE PEASANT. Canto VI. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Still dear to me the music of yon stream I 
 Whether it pours o'er rocks, or gently glides; 
 Between its sylvan braes as in a dream, — 
 Or when in spate the Kelpie on it rides, 
 Fed by an hundred tributary burns, 
 
 That sweep red-rushing down from their high mountairv- 
 urns. 
 
 VII. 
 Among the few remaining cottages 
 That, smiling, cheer Eneia's* fertile vale, 
 There is not one in elegance and grace 
 Like that fair shieling, which the Muses' hail, 
 And the bard-peasant's leisure-hour inspire, — 
 
 'Tis Henry's — happy master of the soothing Lyre I 
 
 VIII. 
 
 From yonder hay -field comes the measured sound 
 Of the keen scythe — 'tis Henry at his toil : 
 Behind him He the wreaths on the mow'd ground ; 
 And that, before, in many a beauteous coil 
 Waves to the breeze ; while light, and shadow dark, 
 F?om sun and cloud, alternate, roll along the park. 
 
 * Angus — by the Romans called, Eneia. 
 
Canto VI. THE PEASANT. 121 
 
 IX. 
 
 In these he sees the sadness, and the joy — 
 The light and shade, that o'er the pensive heart, 
 By turns, course frequent : and its thoughts employ 
 In solemn contemplation, — and impart, 
 Like sun and cloud unto his mailen fine, 
 That which, at last, matures the " faculty divine." 
 
 X. 
 
 Approach the precincts of his smiling farm : — 
 O ! it is sweet and pleasant to behold 
 The hand of genius finishing the charm, 
 Which realizes the pure age of gold, — 
 The work of love, while love inspires his skill — 
 The love of Nature, and of Amy — dearer still I 
 
 XI. 
 See ! every thing, well cultivated, thrives, 
 As if it were a part of the bright soul, 
 Which, in its fine imagining, contrives, 
 Arranges, and completes the genial whole, — 
 Wrought by the art of pure simplicity, 
 And Nature, smiling, owns 'tis as it ought to be* 
 
122 THE PEASANT. Canto VI. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Such, haply, was the field and rural home 
 Of him who thrice his country saved — the great, 
 The noble Cincinnatus — shield of Rome ! 
 He who preferr'd Retirement's calm estate, 
 And lowly cot, the ploughshare to control, 
 Even to a throne in the bright " City of the soul." 
 
 XIII. 
 Such was the cottage of the gifted wight ; 
 Such the song-hallowed mailen, that was ploughed 
 By him so dear to all the sons of light, 
 Of whom each Scottish heart may well be proud, — 
 The home of Burns — "a mottie, misty clime," 
 Till entered Coila's Muse, and all was light sublime ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Such is the rural domicile of him — 
 Nature's sweet oracle, her holy bard, 
 Whose lyre was tuned by the mild seraphim, 
 Among the lilies of the summer sward, — 
 Who led him up the hill, and by the stream, 
 And on his tuneful lips breathed the Excursion-theme. 
 
Canto VI. THE PEASANT. 123 
 
 XV. 
 Compared with these, what is the pompous dome 
 In all the pride of Architecture's art, 
 Hung with the pencil's glories ? Not the home 
 Of love — the sanctuary of the heart — 
 But splendid vice, and fashionable strife, — 
 Its jockey-master galloping a blackguard life. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 To what sequestered seat hath Virtue gone ? 
 Or wanders she from courts and camps afar ? 
 How keenly she can scrutinize a throne, 
 And vice detect beneath the glittering star ! 
 Bad men, and their bad measures, are her scorn, — 
 They know it well, and shun her seraph eyes that burn ! 
 
 XVII. 
 But is not Virtue, in the cottage, fair ? 
 Yea, loveliest among the blossoms gay : 
 In happiest hamlet there is many a care, 
 Which, without virtue, would the heart dismu\ 
 'Tis she alone that makes the statesman great, 
 — The enlightened peasant blessed in his low estate. 
 
124 THE PEASANT. Canto VI. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Seest thou these wild-flowers blossoming so gay, 
 Whose hues outvie the rainbow's drapery ? 
 Hearst thou the goudspink's and the shilfa's lay — 
 The boom of mountain and of garden bee — 
 The rustling music of the elm-trees green ? 
 Seest thou the lovely-one, who consecrates the scene ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 How light her faery-feet kiss the soft grass ! 
 How fair her smile among the fairest things ! 
 Still she hath all the beauties of the lass ; 
 For Time, in passing, gently with his wings 
 Has touched her charms, — yea, she is lovelier now 
 Than even when a maid, in all her rosy glow. 
 
 XX. 
 
 There is a holy blitheness in her mien, 
 That speaks the happy wife, and mother blest : 
 And, — as the mother-swan, in the serene 
 Of waters, leads her swanlings from the nest, — 
 Amy her fair elves leads o'er the green haulm, 
 And in their wake is Innocence — a household lamb. 
 
\ 
 
 Canto VI. THE PEASANT. 125 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Now, on the bonny primrose bank, above 
 The stream sweet-gurgling by its rocky base, 
 While round them play the pledges of their love, 
 Henry and Amy sit : — a sacred place, 
 Which he, in a poetic reverie, 
 Yclept — " Pan's summer sofa, by the wild gean-tree." 
 
 XXII. 
 As on that seat, amid the bee-loved thyme, 
 Beneath the gay laburnum's tassell'd gold, 
 A soft love-legend of the olden time, 
 In numbers simply eloquent, is told ; — 
 Delighted, Amy lists the tale to hear, 
 And as it flows, brightens the smile, or falls the tear 
 
126 THE PEASANT. Canto VI. 
 
 S^nty of atjonftourne, 
 l. 
 Not oft in palace-tower or lordly hall, 
 Where pleasure, nightly, doth deep wassail keep 
 Till hamlet-chanticleer, with clarion call, 
 Arouses the strong hind from balmy sleep 
 To sweat and labour up life's rugged steep, 
 Is nobleness of soul, and virtue found ; 
 Nor love's balm words aye on fair lady's lip : 
 Oft sweetest floweret seeks a lowly ground, 
 And blossometh to heaven, with summer's sunbeams 
 crowned. 
 
 2. 
 Lo ! yonder weather-beaten rowan-tree, 
 Over the fern-hyrst, mid the waving corn, 
 Whereon the redbreast whistles pensively, 
 As if its thrilling strain had sense to mourn, 
 To see the wonted winter-refuge torn, — 
 J Tis all remains, in these unthrifty days, 
 Of the once-thriving village — Avonbourne, 
 That to a frugal patriarchal race, 
 Some two score years gone by, was a loved dwelling- 
 place. 
 
Cawto VI. THE PEASANT. 127 
 
 3. 
 
 O Heaven ! it surely is sad sight to see 
 The desolation of the good ! The plough 
 Has long gone o'er the home, whose sons to Thee — 
 As still at morn and eve the hymn would flow — 
 Breathed from the heart devotion's fervid glow. 
 Alas ! those days have pass'd away — and Pride, 
 Who seeketh not the love of God to know, 
 On fickle fortune proudly now astride, 
 With ribbald-tongue doth many a sacred thing deride. 
 
 4; 
 
 Oh lovely Avonbourne ! — alas for thee, 
 The pride and glory once of Angus-dale ! 
 Alas for all thy hapless family, 
 Far-scattered by Ambition's sweeping gale ! 
 Long o'er thy ashes shall the poet wail : 
 Dark was the day, and fateful the alarm — 
 For it to hoary eld was a death-knell — 
 When came this edict : M Flit at the first term !" 
 Which buried all thy comforts in an eight-plough farm 
 
128 THE PEASANT. Canto VL 
 
 5. 
 
 Thy two-score little gardens, neatly dight, 
 With all their sweet and modest blooms — that smiled 
 To the young sun of spring and summer bright, 
 Were razed ; — the daisy, Nature's dearest child — 
 The perfumed violet — the primrose wild, 
 And thrift from the far sea — the thyme renowned 
 In pastoral song — and marygold all mild, 
 Wherewith they wont to dye the yellow pound, 
 And eke the fair curd of the moon-like kebbuck round. 
 
 6. 
 And every garden had a hive, or two, 
 With many a balmy flower, whence thrifty bee, 
 With wondrous art, extracts the nectar dew ; 
 Round each green fence, the silver willow-tree — 
 Ash, birches, elms, — whereon, melodiously, 
 The small birds sang their loves at earliest morn 
 And dewy eve, secure from town-boy's ee,, — 
 With sweet-briar bush, and incense-breathing thorn, 
 And crystal fountains,' with fair lilies to adorn. 
 
Canto VI. THE PEASANT. 130 
 
 7. 
 And on the white-washed wall, facing the sun, 
 As over Sidlaw's hills he passed by, 
 The maiden -loved balm honeysuckle won 
 Its way, up-trellising so fairily — 
 Now climbing straight, now gracefully awry, 
 Twining a lattice -bower, so fair to see, — 
 Whereat young Mary sat, in Christian joy, 
 With the Ha'- Bible on her lovely knee, 
 And to her aged parents read right holily. 
 
 8. 
 Or she was in the bonny thrift-edged walks 
 Of her own garden, the young flowers among : 
 Her vernal joy to rear their slender stalks, 
 And wed them tenderly, with silken thong, 
 Unto green withe of willow — to prolong 
 Their beautiful and balmy blossoming — 
 While, at sweet intervals, her happy song 
 Was heard : She seem'd the genial queen of spring — 
 Fair fairer was — sweet sweeter — to bet cherishing. 
 
 i 
 
130 THE PEASANT. Canto VI. 
 
 9. 
 
 She had a milk-white dove, tamed by her hand, 
 And it would perch upon her arboured tree, 
 And trim its wing, or deck its bosom bland ; — 
 Oft sate sofVcooing on her kindly knee, 
 And watched the gentle look of Mary's ee 
 As mused she on her Norman far away ; 
 For he a wanderer was, like the wild bee, 
 Seeking the mysteries of Nature aye, 
 And from his home was absent many a summer day. 
 
 10. 
 He was a stately youth, like all the rest 
 Of Nature's children in the streamy wild, — 
 For he was nurtured on her copious breast, 
 And in his mien romantic beauty smiled ; — 
 His blue and sun-lit eye, like to the mild 
 Of a May morning, when the silver mist 
 Has left the clear blue heaven to music's child, 
 And the sun rises, seemingly to list 
 To the glad love-hymn of the skyward vocalist. 
 
Cakto VI. THE PEASANT. 131 
 
 II. 
 
 His features spoke sweet music — harmony ; 
 His vision wild — now near, now far away; 
 And it saw things which were a mystery, 
 As lone he bask'd in the light streaming ray ; 
 He mused — was pensive, — now he smiled — was gay ; 
 Then to the sylph-bower green, through furze and fern 
 He bounded fleet ! — Here, listening to the lay 
 Of each wild wood-bird, he assayed to learn 
 Their strains of love, or sorrow, as they sang altern. 
 
 12. 
 
 He sought and found their nests — O what a sight ! 
 
 The bill-built structure on the chosen bough, 
 
 The many-coloured eggs ; — then what delight 
 Would in his thrill'd and wondering bosom glow ! 
 He clung, and gazed as if he there would grow : 
 It was young admiration — it was love 
 For the sweet tribes, and hence he felt a woe, 
 That they should shun the bush, the tree, the grove, 
 Their young — when he, though innocent, might near by 
 
i.'>2 THE PEASANT. Canto VI. 
 
 13. 
 This stamp'd a moral on his dreamy mind, 
 For Nature was to him a school : His young 
 Thoughts grew like sunbeams of the glowing Ind ; 
 And then, perchance, the morning-star of song 
 Arose to hallow them ; while, right and wrong 
 Would wage hot war in his reflective soul : — 
 Ah ! though in man the sense of right is strong, 
 His passions wild he cannot aye control, — 
 For these like meteors are, that burn from pole to pole. 
 
 14. 
 
 He was a lover of the pathless wild, 
 And where the flowers ne'er felt the tread of man 
 He roved ; oft where the horrid cauldron boil'd 
 Beneath the cataract, — like a young Pan 
 Waiting the coming of some lovely Faun, — 
 He clung to the wild rock, rifted and gray, 
 Gazing in love of Nature's wildest plan ; 
 While o'er him swept, scanning his nightly prey, 
 The owl, whose screech he loved to hear at close of day. 
 
Canto VI. THE PEASANT. BS 
 
 15. 
 Oft Mary met him in the walk afar, 
 Home coming by the light of Cynthia's shine, 
 Who, from her silver urn, quenched every star 
 Save two — his Mary's brighter love-lit eyne ; — 
 Yet in their radiancy there was a sign 
 Of fear for Norman in his wanderings lone — 
 A tenderness, that made her love divine, 
 And gave unto her voice a holier tone, 
 As earth and sky receive from the sun-coloure d zone. 
 
 16. 
 
 Came the bleak Martinmas, with many tears : 
 It was a melancholy day, I ween — 
 What wonder, since, for near two hundred years, 
 Their fathers and forefathers there had been ? 
 Now it was flitting-day — heart-rending scene ! 
 The reverend patriarch, and the matron hoar, 
 In their old age, turn'd out upon the green, 
 With all their furniture, and rural store, — 
 And Avonbourne — the sweet, the lovely, — was bo 
 more ! 
 
m THE PEASANT. Canto VI. 
 
 17. 
 The cotters, now, are in the borough-towr>, 
 And eke the lovely maid — thek Mary dear. 
 Ye would have known her by the russet-gown, 
 Her auburn tresses — healthy aspect clear, — 
 Her eyes, like star- light in a cloudless sphere, 
 So bright and innocent, — a holiness 
 Of love was there, and told that heaven was near; 
 While o'er her features moved a hallowing grace 
 That thrill'd the soul — a beauty eye could never trace ! 
 
 18. 
 Now, libertine deem'd she would be a prey 
 To his foul pleasures. O thou beauteous earth ! 
 Crawls many a human monster on thy gay 
 And flowery walks, seducing maiden worth : 
 But vain his arts ! Mary loved not that mirth, 
 Which oft distinguished! the wanton maid ; 
 Still was she lovely by her parents' hearth, 
 Working their work — their comforter and aid t 
 iC They cannot thrive who help- not parents old," she 
 said. 
 
Canto VI. THE PEASANT. 136 
 
 19. 
 
 At Avonbourne, in their loved rural cot, 
 She was a blithe and happy lass ; but now — 
 As if lamenting o'er her parents' lot — 
 Soft, on her fair and thoughtful-seeming brow, 
 A shadowy pensiveness was seen to grow, — 
 Like moonlight on the lily, when it sleeps 
 In balmyness beneath the verdant bough, 
 Which all the night long on the floweret weeps 
 The dewy tear, — and prayer was frequent on her lips. 
 
 29. 
 She saw in poverty her parents dear, 
 And filial grief was in her bosom meek, 
 Like worm eating the blossom of the pear : 
 Now, frequently, the hectic-red would streak 
 The fearful death-rose on her paly cheek ! 
 And then her soul was in the sleepless dream, 
 That speaks of winding-sheets — of pall-cloth bleak — 
 Of graves and kindred bones ; while all was dim 
 Before her, as when clouds pass o'er the lunar Ixaiii 
 
IS* THE PEASANT. Canto VI. 
 
 21. 
 
 She knew it was Consumption — felt his signs ; 
 And she saw Death — yet was her bosom calm ! 
 She thought on the day-lily, how it resigns 
 Its beauty to the earth, while its soul-balm 
 Goes up to heaven : still, as she felt a qualm, 
 She said, the lily was her sister ; and, 
 Like its pure essence, with a holy psalm, 
 Her soul would go to heaven, hand in hand 
 With angel, to the God who bless'd her father-land. 
 
 22. 
 
 Now from his Mary, Norman could not be, — 
 Love-wedded were they in their hearts for aye, 
 In their blithe her ding-days, on yonder lea; — 
 He by her bed-side sate the live -long day, 
 Sad, marking the pale progress of decay ; 
 While she would sleep, and dream, and smile, and call 
 On her own Norman; then awake, and say — 
 " Norman ! thou must be at my funeral, 
 To lay thy Mary's head — thou'lt let it gently fall ?" 
 
Caxto VI. THE PEASANT. 137 
 
 23. 
 
 Held he her hand — her pure-bleached hand, the while ? 
 Ay — and the big tear blent with the cold dew 
 On her fine fingers bland ; and she would smile 
 To see that still her Norman's heart was true, 
 — But such a smile ! — more faint and dim it grew, — 
 It was a smile that told that death was near, — . 
 It was to earthly love her soul's adieu, — 
 It like a sunbeam was on her own bier : — 
 No tear had she to shed — its fountain-urn was sear. 
 
 24. 
 Thrice the cock clapped his wings, and thrice crew he 
 At midnight dreary : — Mary heard the same ; 
 " That is," she said, " the death- warning to me ! 
 A chilly tremor thrills through all my frame ! 
 There, too, the death-spell 'neath the taper's flame ! — 
 My father, and my mother, leave us now — 
 Norman and me — our true-love this may claim. 
 Oh ! it will give me joy in heaven, to vow, 
 Once more, our spotless love in this last hour below ! " 
 
Ill THE PEASANT. Canto VI. 
 
 25. 
 
 Heaven ! it was a solemn hour, and given 
 To love of the most holy kind — that kind 
 Which is to be for ever in the heaven 
 Where truth and love meet purified — refined 
 To all the blissful energies of mind : 
 
 But no one ever knew what pass'd between 
 The hapless twain — it cannot be defined ! 
 Soul wed to soul, in this last solemn scene, 
 They even were happier now than they had ever been ! 
 
 26. 
 Gray morning dawn'd on the green earth ; and from 
 The greensward rose the cheerful voice of spring — 
 The hymn of early lark : — " That song of home," 
 The dying Mary faintly said, " will sing 
 My soul beyond this mortal suffering ! 
 Yet, sweet ! this is the dawn of heavenly day ! — 
 Thou spirit blest ! to that fair love-spread wing, 
 
 1 come ; — this, Lord, is bliss !" — She slept away, 
 Like the last star of morn absorbed in heaven's own ray. 
 
Canto VI. THE PEASANT. 139 
 
 27. 
 
 And the young Mary was no more ! — Her white 
 Stretched hand lay on her bosom ; closed her eye, 
 As dew-drop in the cowslip flower by night, 
 When low in heaven the summer moon glides by ; — 
 Death had not turn'd one lineament awry — 
 Still beautiful, — and every feature told 
 How blessedly the innocent can die ! 
 The first — last kiss Norman press'd on her cold 
 Cold lips, while o'er his soul a wild delirium roll'd ! — 
 
 28. 
 His was the grief of love ! — And now his heart 
 That grief loved as a luxury ; and he 
 Wandered a lonely youth, skilPd in the art 
 To nurse his woe ! And by the greenwood tree, 
 Like shadow in the moonlight, he would be, 
 Where they in blessed moments oft had been, 
 Still wildly dreaming Mary's shade to see 
 In their love-haunted sylvan alley green, 
 And for it he would hail wan Luna's flickering sheen. 
 
140 THE PEASANT. Canto VI. 
 
 XXIII. 
 M In yonder churchyard, Amy, side by side, 
 Beneath the alder -tree, the lovers lie, — 
 And in the grave Mary is Norman's bride ; 
 — It, haply, was their wish such destiny : — 
 Yet in the tomb their married souls sleep not — 
 Where death will never be, in blessedness they float. 
 
 XXIV. 
 " We, too, my Amy, in yon sunny spot, 
 Will sleep together in the narrow bed ; 
 And let it sanctify the happy thought, 
 That o'er us, ours the filial tear may shed, 
 Which they must follow soon, and gather round 
 Their parents once again, with Christian honours crown'd." 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Such is the strain that charmeth Amy's breast, 
 
 Which glows to find such holiness of love 
 
 In Henry's heart : — while thought meets thought all 
 
 chaste, 
 Making sweet music, they are lift above 
 The coward fear of death, to high imaginings, 
 And cheerful as the bird that near the rainbow sings. 
 
Canto VI. THE PEASANT. 141 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 O ! lovely is the bosom, that can mourn 
 For beauty blighted in its opening bloom ; 
 Divine the soul, which, from its holy urn, 
 Pours the pure tear-drop o'er the maiden's tomb, — 
 Down Amy's lily-rivalling cheek there steals 
 A sacred pearl, which all her loveliness reveals. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 That sympathy to Henry's heart more dear 
 Than all the praise the wide world could bestow : 
 In the sweet source, whence springs that twinkling tear, 
 There is a pride that such soft musings flow 
 From the true heart, which she can call her own, — 
 Unconscious that her love gives them a hallowing tone. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 Henry and Amy to their cottage walk, 
 Their little ones before them playful run. 
 As, by the blossomed thorn, they lingering talk, 
 The young enquirer asks, M Where is the sun?" 
 And he is answer'd — " Now to foreign soil 
 He rises glad, to light the labourer to his toil." 
 
142 THE PEASANT. Cakto VI. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Green is the earth, and purple-robed the sky ; 
 How sweet to view the fields of summer-even ! 
 The frequent tree, and various ; while the eye 
 Holds converse with the beautiful of heaven 
 And earth, — conveying every feature fair 
 To the tranced soul, till all is softly mirrored there. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The lark comes down from heaven, like angel mild, 
 With vesper-song of peace and rest to man, — 
 A welcome strain to him, who, in the wild, 
 Has laboured sore since the long day began, — 
 The cottager's tattoo : — as home he goes, 
 Meets him his faithful dog, and hails him to repose. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The lowing kine wend slowly through the broom — 
 The milk-maid waits them, with the ample pail ; 
 Through the hushed air the beetle, with bass-boom, 
 Startles the lonely muser on the vale ; 
 The owl darts from the ruin ; and the bird-mouse, 
 Of leathern wing, mysterious flies round tree and house. 
 
Canto VI. THE PEASANT. 143 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 There is a solemnness when day is gone, 
 And when the toil of industry is by, — 
 A peace, a joy, a mellowness of tone 
 
 In loving hearts, when Evening veils the sky, 
 
 Sweet as the sacred hymn of Philomel ; — 
 Then feels the moral mind the bliss of living well. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 Round Henry's dwelling all is hush'd — a calm 
 Which speaks the sanctity that dwells within ; 
 And Nature listens to the vesper-psalm 
 
 That's poured to Him who ransomed man from sin, 
 
 From hearts that feel His love, and own it too — 
 Still to their God, as they are to each other, true. 
 
THE PEASANT. 
 
 CANTO VII. 
 
 I. 
 
 ! what a blissful scene expands around, 
 Beneath the rays of a maturing sun ! 
 While to the west wind the rich corn-fields sound 
 — Sweeter than that when victory is won : 
 Full is the grateful heart, to see the wold 
 A granary of mellow grain — the peasant's gold. 
 
 IL 
 
 Well might that landscape glad the heart of man ! 
 There plenty smiles to him — to bird, and brute. 
 How fair and simple — yet sublime — the plan 
 From bud to bloom, from bloom to generous fruit ! 
 Delight of heaven and earth — the varied year : 
 The power and goodness God's, — ours to enjoy — revere! 
 
Cakto VII. THE PEASANT. 145 
 
 III. 
 
 Yet, without love, the seasons smile in vain — 
 Where love is not, even plenty wears a gloom ! 
 So was it with the ground's first tiller — Cain. 
 Man, without love, walks in a living tomb, — 
 He sees not Nature, hears not her sweet voice — 
 The diapason-chord that bids the heart rejoice. 
 
 IV. 
 
 See yonder mansion, in the ancient bower 
 Of elms and lindens green — love is not there ; 
 And its proud lord knows not the happy hour 
 That oft is tasted by the cottage-pair : — 
 Thank Heaven ! that opulence it cannot buy, 
 Else happiness would soon be a monopoly. 
 
 V. 
 
 My Muse, turn from it — to yonder hamlet turn 
 See, where he walks — the subject of our lay — 
 Behind the reapers cheerful. — While the corn 
 Yields to the sickle, every heart is g 
 And many a merry country-tale is told, 
 Or sung the heart-felt songs, which Nature's charms 
 unfold. K 
 
146 THE PEASANT. Canto VII. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Sweet to the husbandman, when harvest sm*les> 
 And he in peace can reap his little fields ! 
 How sweet to see the sheaves in golden files 
 Rise on the stubble, as the bandster builds 
 Them to the sunny west wind winnowing, 
 
 While Autumn crowns the works of Summer and of 
 Spring ! 
 
 VII. 
 God gives the seed, the sun, the shower, and breeze ; 
 'Tis ours to- cultivate and sow the ground — 
 Unblest is indolence, inglorious ease ; 
 By industry and art the world is crown'd 
 With every comfort. — Reason ! these are thine; — 
 
 Above the brute, thy origin and end divine. 
 
 VIII. 
 How glorious reason, when by love inspired \ 
 Reason to man as the sun to the year : 
 When taste and genius at his shrine are fired, 
 How noble is the structure which these rear ! 
 Or in the domes of the metropolis — 
 In ducal towers, or peasant's cot, mature the bliss. 
 
CaktoVII. THE PEASANT. 147 
 
 IX. 
 
 That philosophic truth, well Henry knows : 
 Hence thrive to love his cottage and his farm. 
 Reason — who can subdue a thousand foes — 
 Is yet a slave to Beauty's sacred charm ! 
 Nor is this imbecility of soul, — 
 The noblest owns, and yields to love's supreme control. 
 
 X. 
 
 His Amy sees that all for her is done, 
 And brighter smiles her lily cheek adorn : 
 To keep the heart, that she, unconscious, won, 
 Thoughts ever holier in her bosom burn, 
 And nurse to him a thousand joys of balm, 
 That are, to him, as sun-showers to the parched palm 
 
 XI. 
 Her heart is cheerful as the innocent — 
 The lamb that gambols on the mountain's crest ; 
 Yet with that happy cheerfulness is blent 
 A tone of melancholy in her breast, — 
 A holy chord — her pure soul's harmony, — 
 The music of her nature, hymning earth and ikj, 
 
1*8 THE PEASANT. Canto VI I. 
 
 XII. 
 
 After the sickle, Henry careful gleans, 
 And yet lie takes not all ; — his sympathy 
 Yearns for the cheerers of the rural scenes : — 
 How they would mourn, sad, on the leafless tree, 
 Were they of every " diadem-icker" reft, 
 And to the loved songsters many a grain is left. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Yet that by man neglected, heaven is kind, 
 And gives a portion to the creatures wild : — 
 As o'er the corn-fields flies the ripening wind, 
 Many a grain unto the feather 'd child, 
 Falls rustling down — and by the breeze's wing, 
 Are sown the seeds of wild plants for another spring. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 There is a sympathy in Henry's breast, 
 
 Which communes aye with heaven, and earth, and 
 
 sea ; — 
 Around that feeling live the affections blest : 
 'Tis not unlike the silent energy — 
 The fine mysterious power, that goes between 
 The sky and earth, and gives to this its lovely green. 
 
Canto VII. THE PEASANT. )Vi 
 
 XV. 
 
 With Nature's course, the happy temperament 
 Congenial blends, — with the young buds it springs, — 
 With the gay lark's, its hymn to heaven is sent, 
 That, hope, from the celestial visit, brings, — 
 With summer fair, magnificent, and bright, 
 It glows in love, eipands in beauty and in light, — 
 
 XVI. 
 
 With the rich fruitful season — Autumn mild, 
 'Tis soft and mellow as the sapphire heaven, — 
 With Winter in his tempest, it is wild'; 
 And as the snow-flakes to and fro are driven, 
 Making the trees a forest of white flowers, 
 That sympathy is stirred to its sublimest powers. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 In all, the wisdom of a God he sees — 
 And to that wisdom Henry gives his s.ul ; 
 Or on the storm-blast fierce, or gentle biv 
 He knows 'twill reach at last a happ} got! I — 
 While, like a star, he views this mortal striir, 
 Ga*6 nor vicissitude can mar bk piOUl 
 
150 THE PEASANT. Canto VII. 
 
 XVIII. 
 This the result should be of man's desire — 
 Of true religion, and philosophy ; 
 And these should dignify the poet's lyre, 
 With sacred knowledge of the earth and sky ; 
 While fancy flings, o'er the bland horoscope, 
 Her rainbow-charm, bright-glowing with immortal hope. 
 
 XIX. 
 Now Henry, even while at his rustic toil, 
 Rapt, meditates the song of harvest-home,*— 
 Inhaling inspiration from the soil, 
 To him yet sweeter than the honey-comb : — 
 From grateful soul, the pure ideas rise, 
 And with the hymn and balm of earth ascend the skies. 
 
 XX. 
 
 And Amy's lovely hand the sickle wields, 
 Even there a thrilling gracefulness is seen ; — 
 She is the flower yet of the harvest fields, 
 As she was when a maiden on the green ; 
 And Henry's heart beats with a noble pride, 
 As it was wont, when reaping by her lovely side. 
 
Caxto VII. THE PEASANT. 131 
 
 XXL 
 
 So was Lucretia beautifully fair, 
 And lovely with the distaff on her knee, 
 Twining the silken woof fine as the hair 
 That hung — like dew-threads on the linden-tree — 
 Adown her swan-like neck, — and thus retired, 
 The Tarquin saw — to fatal love his heart was fired. 
 
 XXII. 
 Once, the rich lord of yonder castled grove, 
 Saw Amy in her walk among the flowers — 
 His proud patrician heart was fired to love ; 
 And by seduction's soft, but hell-born powers, 
 He thought to win the maiden to his arms, 
 And, kneeling, own'd himself a slave unto her charms ! 
 
 XXIIL 
 
 While he confess'd a most important truth — 
 A truth the simple Amy knew withal — 
 That worth and loveliness in lowly booth 
 Can cope with that even in the proudest hall, — 
 That all mankind by Nature are the same, — 
 That, without virtue, fame is but — an empty 
 
152 THE PEASANT. Caxto VII. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 But Amy ever had a lively sense 
 Of female Worth ; hence, with indignant scorn, 
 She spurn'd the flatterer's vile eloquence, 
 And left him in unhallowed fire to burn : — 
 In vain he offered the rich-jewell'd boon, — 
 In vain the profTer'd fortune, and the gay saloon. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 See, the reward of virtue ! She is blest, 
 Both with the love of God, and Henry dear ; — 
 These loves are cherished in her pious breast, 
 Immortal blossoms in a blissful sphere : — 
 Her hope of heaven, and calm domestic joys, 
 Blend like the hymn and music of the harp and voice; 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 i 
 Thus should the pastoral fields of Scotland be — 
 
 Ay, and of every land : — The peasant's arms 
 
 Blest with the fruits of love and industry ; — 
 
 The green vales portioned out in little farms — 
 
 The happy nursuries of honest men — 
 
 No proud monopoly in all the rural reign. 
 
Canto VII. THE PEASANT. 1 »3 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Nor in tlie city, nor upon the sea — 
 The sea ! the rich, the fathomless, the broad — 
 To every honest argosy should be 
 Free, as is now the sacred word of God — 
 Long kept in thrall, hid from the peasant man 
 By the unholy tyrants of the Vatican. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Then myriads had no guide to heaven but one — 
 Green Nature's loved and lovely cherubim, 
 That morn, and noon, and even, hailed the sun — 
 The songsters of the sweet and holy hymn, 
 That skyward soar'd, and cheer'd the darken'd hind, 
 Till rose Reform — bright day-star to the march of mind ! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " Yet there is much," 'tis said, " in church and state 
 Untouched by the ameliorating power. " 
 When demagogues and the mob legislate, — 
 Not like the rainbow and its blissful shower. 
 But the wild-warring elements of heaven, — 
 Then crowns, roh i'> own law* are 
 
 riven. 
 
154 THE PEASANT. Canto VII. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The people — not the rabble — roused to think, 
 Look round for patriot-men : it is too late, 
 When the state-vessel hangs on ruin's brink, 
 And pilotless, — when mutiny and hate, 
 And all the hell- ward passions revel free ; 
 Then reigns the darkest and the bloodiest tyranny. 
 
 ^|je patriot. 
 
 He loves his country with a filial love, 
 For he has nurst it from his earliest years — 
 Since o'er his native vale he wont to rove, 
 All free and cheerful, with his school compeers ; 
 Even then the patriotic wreath was wove 
 Around the Thistle of the unconquer'd spears ; — 
 Though wild and poor the land that gave him birth, 
 To him is Scotland dearest, fairest of the earth. 
 
t axto VII. THE PEASANT. 153 
 
 2. 
 
 He loves her mountans of sublime renown, — 
 Her streams, that through the rifted rocks of old 
 To the far sea impetuously rush down, 
 Like Highland host to battle, stern and bold, — 
 Her birchen glens, and moors with heather brown, — 
 Her valleys rich with lilies' living gold, — 
 Her woods and lakes, — her birds of sweet delight, — 
 Her mists of summer morn, — her storms of winter night. 
 
 3. 
 
 The white-washed cottage by the rowan-tree, 
 Its corn-fields thriving to the vernal breeze, — 
 A moral and industrious peasantry, 
 Living in love, in liberty and peace, 
 Are the true patriot's delight to see ; 
 His hate the heartless tyrant, who would fleece 
 And rob the labourer — even of a tithe : 
 Protect the diligent, and let their hearts be blithe. 
 
156 THE PEASANT. Canto VII. 
 
 He loves to see the city, and the town 
 With commerce flourishing — with science bright, 
 Reveres the genius of the laurel-crown, 
 Whether patrician, or plebeian wight — 
 Their feelings are congenial with his own, 
 To sing their country's praise — her battles fight 
 In senate-hall, or on the tented field : — 
 The heaven-devoted Patriot is his country's shield. 
 
 5. 
 
 Nor to his natal soil, alone, confined 
 The Patriot's zeal — it goes to every clime, — 
 It knows God is the Sire of all mankind, 
 Writ in the annals of primeval time ; 
 Hence he, of liberal and enlighten'd mind, 
 Sees, with emotion sacred and sublime, 
 Bright knowledge walk r.broad — before whose ray 
 Must quail the despot, the slave's fetters melt away. 
 
Canto VII. THE PEASANT. 157 
 
 6. 
 
 He owes it to himself, mankind, and God — 
 Integrity — the virtue of his soul ; 
 And — like the sun in the celestial road, 
 Encheering traveller from pole to pole, 
 From palace high to peasant's low abode — 
 And not to bless a party, but the whole — 
 The Patriot looks ; and still his steadfast aim 
 To be an honest man — the statesman's noblest fame. 
 
 7. 
 
 His life a day of glory, though of toil, 
 Of war continuous with virtue's foes — 
 Bad men, who, like the cunning serpent, coil 
 Round freedom's tree, and pluck the fruit that grows, 
 Which else would beautify and bless the soil : — 
 God give the Patriot strength such to oppose, 
 And triumph till the voice of Error cease, 
 And earth behold the sun of universal peace ! 
 
158 THE PEASANT. Canto VI I. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 But history is a huge epic tale 
 Of despots, rebels, and black anarchy, — 
 Of war — the pastime of a few — the bale 
 Of millions — led without a proper plea, 
 To blooming fields, to hew and slay each other, 
 While earth groans under them, like a distracted mother ! 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 And this is called — the bed of honour — glory I 
 Mankind, it seems, are but half-civilized : — 
 Though tens of thousands in the conflict gory 
 Are slaughter'd, there's but one immortalized ! 
 Yet no great mind will envy such a fame, 
 
 Since deep with human blood is writ the conqueror's 
 name. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 The greatest conqueror, Napoleon, was 
 But an illustrious fiend, — the field of strife — 
 The imperial throne and palace, and his laws 
 Burst from the cannon's mouth ; while, with their life,. 
 Myriads obey'd ! — Earth for the dead was riven, 
 
 Till vain the cannon's roar against the breath of heaven. 
 
Canto VII. THE PEASANT. 1M 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Harsh facts are these ; still, facts they are, we learn ; 
 And many a wight will at them sneer, we know ; — 
 But truth has a fair, honest front, though stern. 
 The parasite is the most subtle foe 
 To kings — he blinds them with a gilded lie, 
 
 Which chains to earth, but truth would lift them to the 
 sky. 
 
 XXXV. 
 Eternal glory once was in his power — 
 To bless the world with freedom : — To decide. 
 He from the world retired — eventful hour ! 
 First Virtue spoke : He heard, and smiled. Then Pride, 
 Arrayed in purple robes, herself a host, 
 
 Said, " Be a God !" and in that moment all was lost. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 O ! worthier far than greatest conqueror, he, 
 The wight who in yon humble shieling wonnes : — 
 Stern independence gives him energy 
 To labour for his wife and little ones : 
 Blest realm in miniature, with love its mu 
 And love alone the various-passion'd heart subdues. 
 
100 THE PEASANT. Canto VII 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 These are digressive strains ; but it belongs 
 Unto the vagrant muse to ramble free, 
 And wild as free ; — hence are an hundred songs 
 Wove into one ; even as the magic bee, 
 From many-blossom'd Nature rich, distils 
 A sweetness which the most fastidious palate thrills. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Around the cottage, by the burn afar, 
 How sweet and tranquil is the hour of Even^ 
 When but one bright — one solitary star 
 Shines like a polished diamond of heaven ! 
 As now r it climbs above the silent hills, 
 And sees its pure reflection in a thousand rills. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 It is the lover's star, as o'er the sward — 
 His soul glad as its rays — he fares to meet 
 The lovely damsel dear ; — Star of the bard — 
 Now, with the streamlet murmuring at his feet, 
 Lone musing on young pleasures long gone by, 
 To memory sweet as streams of far-off melody ; — 
 
Canto VII. THE PEASANT. Ml 
 
 XL. 
 
 Star of the cottager — as homeward, tired, 
 He plods the grassy footway o'er the lea ; 
 And oft-times on his way has he respired — 
 Or by the cromlech hoar, or old beech tree : 
 Sore has he toil'd, and journeyed many a mile, 
 Yet cheerful, knowing that, anon, his home will smile ; — 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Star of the reapers — now the maiden's ta'en, 
 And by a maiden home in triumph borne, — 
 Safe in the spence is placed the sacred grain, — 
 Now merrily goes round the flowing horn, 
 Rich mantled with the nappy's glorious foam, — 
 The kebbuck now — it is the feast of Harvest-home. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 There Amy, mistress of the rustic feast, 
 Amid the maidens, smiles — a rural queen — 
 Like Eve's bright star, sprung from the cloudless east, 
 Amid the galaxy in the serene 
 
 Of sapphire skies Listen ! the fiol loandi | 
 
 And to its vivifying charms each bosom bounds. 
 
1« THE PEASANT. Caxto VII. 
 
 XLIII. 
 Now is the dance arranged — the happy pairs 
 Stand throbbing side by side, and fain as gay ; 
 The minstrel wales the prime of Scotia's airs — 
 Old Rothiemurchus, beautiful strathspey ! 
 Light leap the maids, and dearn the foursome reel, 
 The swains their fingers snap, and fling the athletic heel. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 There is the soul of mirth all unalloyed, 
 No villain the confiding lass to lure — 
 All, but the present, seems to them a void : 
 The brawny ploughmen beat the clayey floor, — 
 Strathspey and reel inspire love's brightest look, — 
 The young elves dance, and eld smiles by the chimney 
 nook. 
 
 XLV. 
 In heartsome merriment the night is spent — 
 Till chanticleer proclaim the dawn of East ; 
 The gods love mirth when it is innocent. 
 Yet — kens the Sage — the lasses must be kiss'd, — 
 His thairms are knitted to the wish of all — 
 Fair wave the kerchiefs — kisses crown the rural ball. 
 
Canto VII. THE PEASANT. 1C3 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 O ! seldom in the lustre-lighted hall, 
 With all its jewell'd pomp and luxury, 
 Such joy as — at that rustic festival — 
 Thrills in the simple bosom gushingly : 
 When Art the place of Nature takes, we miss 
 That happy flow of heart, which is life's sunniest bliss. 
 
THE PEASANT. 
 
 CANTO VIII. 
 
 I. 
 
 November ! this is very beautiful, 
 As unexpected pleasure is most sweet ; 
 For thou are wont to be all wild, or dull, 
 With storm-winds, creeping fogs, or winged sleet,. 
 When forth walks not the lovely damosel 
 To cheer and animate the scene, as by a spell. 
 
 II. 
 
 On Sidlaw's western peak sublime, the sun 
 Now rests the rim of his broad streaming shield, 
 And, like true patriot when freedom's won, 
 He seems to look in glory o'er each field 
 From Sidlaw to the sea — the rich Strathmore — 
 As glad to see the hamlets blest with winter store. 
 
CaktoVIII. THE PEASANT. Ufc 
 
 III. 
 
 And he has thrown a splendid bridge of gold 
 Over the tarn, soft rippling to the wind : 
 There floats the milk-white swan, graceful and bold, 
 Like a love-thought in the young poet's mind ; 
 Amid the undulating wreathed foam 
 The broken reeds unto the margin rustling come. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And see ! a school-boy group are gathering them, 
 
 The little mimic-clarionet to make ; 
 
 Each, very proud of self-made music gem, 
 
 Elate, away they march along the lake, 
 
 In military order nicely rank'd, 
 And their blue bonnets with the wild-duck's feathers 
 prankt. 
 
 V. 
 
 See, too, with happy hearts, a nobler band, 
 
 Afloat their little jolly shallop shove ; 
 
 Tight to the favouring breeze its wings expand, — 
 
 Loud cheer the boys ! Away — a thing of love — 
 
 Like happy maiden-bride and filial daughh r. 
 The pageant boundeth o'er the sweetty-clumiog water. 
 
166 THE PEASANT. Canto VIII. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And yet, to heaven, one flower is blossoming — 
 The bonny child-loved lily of the mead, 
 Like sacred Hope, who tells of heaven's own spring, 
 When every other mental bloom is dead, — 
 Immortal Hope ! who smiles amid the blast, — 
 The friend who cheers us first, and cheers us to the last t 
 
 VII. 
 And yonder walk two sister-beauties fair, — 
 Beauty is ever true to sunny day, 
 The rural saunter and the breezy air, — 
 Nature their love, their hearts are ever gay ; 
 The genial sparkling eye, the vernal cheek, 
 Unto the Muse unutterable things can speak. 
 
 VIII. 
 And, now, with skilful eye, the angler sees 
 The gently-crisped water's colour fine ; 
 And, charm'd with its old music to the breeze* 
 There he is with his taper'd rod, and line : 
 O certes, true Philosophy must say, 
 'Tis wise to take our pleasure in propitious day. 
 
Canto VIII. THE PEASANT. 167 
 
 IX. 
 
 The woods are voiceless, mute is every tongue — 
 The small birds sing not to the falling leaf; 
 In peopled scenes the redbreast trills his song, 
 Where in the wintry day he finds relief, — 
 In shelter'd garden, or on the barn-floor, 
 There charms he lady fair, and here the rustic boor. 
 
 X. 
 
 Southward the fatten'd crows, in blackening train, 
 Fly numberless ; and all things seem prepared 
 To meet the buffetings of Winter's reign : 
 The slyvan tribes, in love so lately paired, 
 Know not each other now, — their young forgot ; — 
 But love to man alone is an immortal thought 
 
 XI. 
 Cleared are the fields — the harvest toil is o'er ; 
 And the potato, utile esculent, 
 Safe in the rounded bing, — the oaten store — 
 Old Scotland's chief, and healthy aliment, — 
 And barley — her best drink, in nut-brown ale, 
 Or mountain dew, — in stackyard safe (rum win 
 hail. 
 
1C8 THE PEASANT. Canto VIII. 
 
 XII. 
 
 These make bleak winter cheerful as the spring, 
 And Henry sees, nor fears, the coming blast, 
 For he has fodder to the beasts to fling — 
 The poor man suffers when the ox must fast : 
 Kind to his horse and kine, they serve him well, 
 To plough the glebe, and fill with milk the ample pail. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Blest with his wish supreme — poetic ease, 
 The well-earn'd fruit of his own industry, 
 Content with Henry dwells. — Yet, while he sees 
 This once-so-happy Island of the sea 
 Torn by conflicting powers, and woe, and want, 
 Drive o'er the Atlantic wave the frequent Emigrant. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Just indignation kindles in his soul ; 
 By haughty pride the sons of labour crushed — 
 The strength, support, and basis of the whole — 
 From the heart's dear associations pushed, 
 Pushed from the home for which their fathers fought — 
 For Scotland's freedom fought, and reared the rustic cot. 
 
Canto VIII. THE PEASANT. 1W 
 
 XV. 
 
 Dense-crowded is the city, and the town, 
 The country is unpeopled, — few dwell there, 
 But proud monopolist, and stupid clown : — 
 What though the land well-cultured be, and fair ? 
 Without a peasantry and cottages, 
 The gayest summer-landscape is a desert place. 
 
 XVI. 
 Where there are not a numerous peasantry 
 And free, that realm is certes near its fall, 
 Or fearful change : — as ships on the wide sea, 
 That comforts waft reciprocal to all, 
 Cheering the waves with their white sails unfurl'd, — 
 So many cottages are to the rural world. 
 
 XVII. 
 O ! it were passing sweet, in prime of spring, 
 Or summer morn, ere yet the early orb 
 Had tinct with aureal beam the mountain ling, 
 To see the hush'd blue air the reek absorb — 
 Fantastically curling up to heaven 
 From hamlets numberless, that long in peace had thriven. 
 
170 THE PEASANT. Canto VIII. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 This the millenial dream would realize, 
 
 Which many Christians hope on earth to see ; 
 
 The age on which young poets rhapsodize — 
 
 True age of gold — the reign of Deity ; 
 
 The march of mind, with Virtue on the earth, 
 When Pride would see, and own a Peasant's equal 
 worth. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Britannia ! this should be thy moral state, 
 
 Which, to thy crown, would give the brightest gem ; 
 
 A happy people makes a nation great ; 
 
 And to the head that wears thy diadem, 
 
 A thriving people is the noblest shield, — 
 For each looks on thy Isle as his paternal field. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Yet it will never make the good man proud 
 That he is equal with — sometimes above 
 Those in a high estate ; — he sees the passing crowd, 
 From God the meanest there can claim his love — 
 A brother's love : — But Virtue, weeping, cries — 
 That Pride and Vice have broken the fraternal ties ! 
 
Canto VIII. THE PEASANT. 1J1 
 
 XXI. 
 
 As Henry views the living map of life, 
 With a deep-scanning philosophic eye, 
 He sees the scene of discontent and strife, 
 Where vulgar minds ween there is every joy : — 
 He turns him to his home, — the happy while, 
 His harp of love thus guerdons the connubial smile : — 
 
 ©ong of earty Hotoe* 
 
 O ! Amy mine, our trysting hours, 
 
 So sweet, so dear to memory, 
 
 Still bloom fair as the lily-flowers 
 
 That gem Eneia's bonny lea. 
 
 Our love was like the wild-bee's path, 
 
 By stream, and bower, and greenwood tree - 
 
 But in the sunny verdant strath 
 
 There never bloomed a flower like theew 
 
172 THE PEASANT. Canto VIII. 
 
 Young love had many a blithesome ploy 
 Where Nature's breath the gay heart balms ; — 
 How glad the hour — sae full of joy — 
 When we would pull the silky palms ! 
 And many a merry hallowe'en, 
 Beneath its silver moon, we roved : 
 What we are now — what we have been, 
 Tell that we love, and ever loved. 
 
 And we have welcomed, many a time, 
 The infant year, in love's bright dream, — 
 And at the twalt hour's magic chime 
 Aye took the fountain's sacred cream ; 
 And thou the limpid cup wouldst sip — 
 Not purer than thyself, I ween ; 
 Then sweet to drink, where the unkiss'd lip 
 Had in its balminess just been. 
 
 I see thee now, at gay sixteen, 
 A lovely lassie blithe, yet coy ; — 
 Though thy pearl-smile was seldom seen, 
 Still in thy eyes were love and joy. 
 
Canto VIII. THE PEASANT. «3 
 
 O ! Amy mine, we'll ne'er forget 
 The happy hours that we have seen ; 
 Nor care, nor poverty can fret, 
 While we talk o'er each trysting scene. 
 
 XXII. 
 A happy minstrel he, to virtue dear, 
 And loved of heaven, — still piety dignifies 
 His idyl-song : — to sing the daedal year, 
 As on the seasons roll in native skies, 
 His pleasure high ; and still his musive soul, 
 Burning with love, breathes praise to Him who bids 
 them roll. 
 
 XXIII. 
 He Nature loves ! because she smiles, though faint, 
 A type of heaven ; and from her aspects grand 
 And beautiful, his Muse is taught to paint 
 Those holier climes above : — The landscape bland, 
 Gay crown'd with vernal plumes of every dye, — 
 And there the azure that with heaven's own blue might 
 vie; 
 
174 THE PEASANT. Canto VIII. 
 
 XXIV, 
 
 The silver streamlet, and the sylvan seat, — 
 The emblossom'd lawn, the hum of honied bees, — 
 The daisied upland and its flocks' soft bleat, ■ — 
 The song of birds on the green garland trees, — 
 God on the balm-winds guiding all in love, 
 Give him a sweet presentiment of joys above. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Hence his domestic peace and comforts mild, 
 His little ones at once his care and joy : — 
 Alike his love is portioned to each child — 
 No favourite daughter, and no pamper'd boy, — 
 But form'd to tenderness the female mind, 
 His sons to hardihood, as Heaven, all-wise, design'd. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 He knows how eager children list to hear 
 The hero -deed — thus to the heart address'd : 
 How Rome's young victor, in war's grand career, 
 His lovely captive — beauteous, young, and chaste — 
 Restored unto her lover, though a foe ! 
 The great alone such soul-ennobling virtue know. 
 
Canto VIII. THE PEASANT. 175 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 A purer joy it gave to Scipio's soul, 
 And weaves a brighter halo round his name, 
 Than had he vanquished earth from pole to pole, 
 Its captains, and its kings of proudest fame ! 
 Well it the Muse's theme might dignify, 
 As Hesper's eye of light adorns the evening sky. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 To tell, how once two pious sons of yore, 
 When Etna's burning spirit raged in ire, 
 Abandon'd all their riches and their store, 
 Filial, to save their parents from the fire 
 Of the volcanic fury ; and how each 
 
 Saved what, in the eye of heaven, made him for ever 
 rich. 
 
 XXIX. 
 Thus, from historic page, as Memory views, 
 And points to incidents of virtue rare, — 
 Or from the numbers of the ethic Muse, 
 When love and friendship bless the youthful pair, — 
 He quotes to edify ; — but chief and best — 
 
 From Him on whom the soul for blessedness must rest. 
 
176 THE PEASANT. Canto VIII. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Tutored to love their native land, — prime source 
 Of many a noble virtue, — freedom's shield, 
 That still repels the shock of tyrant force, — 
 Gives courage, energy, and strength to wield 
 The conquering sword amid the battle's roar, — 
 And peace and joy domestic when the conflict's o'er. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 When round the winter-hearth the circle forms, 
 From Scotland's annals — records of high fame — 
 He sings her heroes, and their deeds in arms ; — 
 The boy, — fired by the patriotic flame, 
 His eye beaming with light, — high waves his hand 
 To hear the history of the Unconquered Land. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 As muses he on aulic honours lost, 
 And kingless palace-towers of Holyrood, 
 Bright to him rise the brave immortal host, 
 That for those honours poured the reeking flood, — 
 Her Princes and her Chiefs of freedom's fame — 
 The Wallace and the Bruce, the Douglas and the Graeme. 
 
Canto VIII. THE PEASANT. 177 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Yet Henry hails the Thistle and the Rose, 
 As these bloom glorious on Britannia's crest ; — 
 Though still the border-fiver, Teutha, flows, 
 The southron is no more a foreign guest. 
 Why, o'er the Union, frowns green Inisfail ? 
 Repealed — soon would we hear both the isle-sisters 
 wail. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 Long years and dark has she had cause to mourn 
 O'er many wrongs ; — but, as the infidel 
 Oft turns to purest Christian, she may turn 
 From friend to bitterest foe. Her citadel, 
 Wall'd by the beetling rock, and circling wave, 
 She views exulting, and exclaims — " My sons are 
 brave !" 
 
 XXXV. 
 Let friendship be the bond of union, then, — 
 For oft Oppression is Rebellion's sire, 
 And rouses the quiescent citizen ; 
 Yea, oft the wild, but patriotic, fire 
 Flames in the bosom of the gentlest belle ; 
 And how the fair can fight — let Saragossa t«U ! 
 
 M 
 
178 THE PEASANT. Ca^to VIII. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 He, joyous, sees, though from the throne afar, 
 Edina, happiest city of the earth, 
 Fair-flourishing beneath her northern star, 
 Garden of genius, and of moral worth ! — 
 When flows her minstrelsy from beauty's tongue, 
 The world must yield the palm to Caledonia's song. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 'Tis Henry's pride — well may it be — to boast 
 The various genius of his native land, — 
 All -glorious towering, like her alpine coast, 
 Wildly majestic, beautifully grand, — 
 Brave in the field, bright on the poet's page, — 
 Pure in the pulpit — and in council just and sage ; 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 In manners simple, — true in love, and chaste,—, 
 While worth and beauty charm the noble heart, — 
 In friendship — best affection of the breast — 
 Ingenuous still, devoid of every art ; — 
 Meek in religion, holy by its word, 
 And humble only to the Universal Lord. 
 
Canto VIII. THE PEASANT. 179 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Such is the moral picture Henry draws 
 Of Caledonia, as on yonder lea 
 He ploughs the glebe, far from the world's applause ; 
 His highest wish a patriot-swain to be, 
 Singing his country's praise — to prompt her youth 
 To seek the happy path of virtue, and of truth. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Hence, happy parent ! in his cot he sees 
 The school of virtue and religion rise, 
 Which can alone ensure domestic peace, 
 And holier knit their loves, and friendship's ties : — 
 Beloved at home, by all the good revered, 
 In Nature loving God, to Him he is endeared. 
 
THE PEASANT. 
 
 CANTO IX. 
 
 I. 
 
 I have no pleasure in the motley crowd — 
 It never was, nor is my element ; 
 The vain, the selfish — vicious, and the proud, 
 Are, in the world's affairs, too eloquent 
 For me, — a dolt in happy bargainings, 
 I must be mute on all pecuniary things. 
 
 II. 
 
 In the world's estimate, the happy man 
 Is he whose wily genius dictates gain, — 
 He, who, through fair and foul, pursues a plan 
 With the word profit written in his brain ; 
 And, regular as soldier to the drum, 
 He plods, and grubs, until acquired the sacred plum. 
 
Canto IX. THE PEASANT. 181 
 
 i 
 III. 
 
 What then? doth he content himself with this, 
 
 And sit down happily under his vine ? 
 
 O not at all ! now profit is his bliss, 
 
 And to his notions nothing is divine 
 
 But gold — which both his heart and soul absorbs, 
 
 And nought but gold can bless his money-loving orbs. 
 
 IV. 
 
 To such the happiest song can have no charms, 
 And he who sweetest sings is dubb'd a fool ; 
 No fancy-glow his icy feelings warms — 
 He never read a volume but at school ! — 
 Give me the generous and enlighten'd heart, 
 Which, while it tastes life's joys aright, can joy impart. 
 
 V. 
 
 And give me, Heaven, the happy leisure hour, 
 To social virtue, and to thee devote ; 
 And in my saunter let the gentle power — 
 Ethereal fancy, lit the flower-like thought, 
 That it may bloom and gem the pastoral strain, 
 As the star-blossom'd daisy decorates the plain. 
 
1*2 THE PEASANT. Canto IX, 
 
 VI. 
 
 Delightful sounds ! the music of the heart, 
 And rosy health is in their echoing mirth ; 
 Not summer dearer pleasure could impart, 
 With all its sunshine and its flowery earth : — 
 Mine was that pastime, once, and all its joy, 
 And they must leave it, too, to the succeeding boy. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Quick o'er the icy plain the skaters go, 
 Along the lake the sounding race is run ; 
 Nor think the racers on the depth below — 
 The boy is ever fearless in his fun, — 
 Nor heeds he cold, nor hunger, in his play : 
 While it is innocent, let the young heart be gay. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But much the mother fears ; for yestereven 
 Upon the ice was seen a death-light drear, 
 Around which, dancing, there were spirits seven, 
 And Kelpie laughing loud, amid their cheer : — 
 But for the idle tale nought cares the boy, 
 And with his skates away wends to his winter joy. 
 
Caxto IX. THE PEASANT. 183 
 
 IX. 
 
 Though there is peril in youth's disports wild, 
 Yet who has power the young heart to control f — 
 The sage forgets that he was once a child, — 
 That often he, with play-devoted soul, 
 Reck'd not the warnings of parental love, 
 And for his pleasures far o'er hill and dale would rove. 
 
 X. 
 
 Who, once, so fond as Henry of the joys 
 Of bird-like boyhood, gaily frolicking, — 
 The hero-leader of an hundred boys. 
 In all their mimic-tournaments the king? — 
 His was a feeling heart, yet brave and two., 
 And, though ho despot, well the traitor could subdue. 
 
 XI. 
 Amid the high and clamorous rookery, 
 Upon the wind-rock'd beech oft have we swung : 
 Then were we on the top of freedom's tree, 
 And many a cheerful lay to her was sung, — 
 The mountains, vales, and streams, bound with her 
 zone, 
 Wc view'd in pure delight — thau these were all our own. 
 
184 THE PEASANT. Canto IX. 
 
 XIL 
 
 To him I owe my life ! In peril's hour 
 His sinewy arm once snatched me from the wave, — 
 Strong on the aquatic element his power, 
 And willing was his generous heart to save : 
 He, like a merman 'mid the ocean's spray, 
 On the foam-crested billow's top could sport and play. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 To him the strain poetic grateful flows, 
 And he is worthy of the noblest strain, — 
 Firm friend to truth, sworn foe to freedom's foes, 
 And upstart pride he views with just disdain ; 
 But when right virtue in high rank appears, 
 Than Henry no one warmer loves, nor more reveres., 
 
 XIV. 
 His friendship's mine : — I would not forfeit this 
 For all the favours that the proud could give ! 
 Rooted in love, it yet will bloom in bliss, 
 And we in heaven's pure harmony must live —. 
 He with his Amy loved, I with my Jean, 
 Together wiH we visit every hallowed scene*. 
 
Canto IX. THE PEASANT. 185 
 
 XV. 
 
 Still to his cot am I a welcome guest, 
 And often in my walks I saunter there ; 
 His Amy's smile — his Amy ever chaste — 
 Gives to their rural lodge a purer air. 
 Their happy bairntime, smiling, round me come, 
 And Lnalh, with kindly paw, me welcomes to his home. 
 
 XVI. 
 O, there he comes — the first to greet me aye ; 
 Were I unwelcome here, he soon would tell. 
 The dog will never flatter to betray, 
 A trusty and sagacious sentinel ; 
 He kens the vagabond — nay more, he knows, 
 By instinct marvellous, his master's friends and foes ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The sounds of husbandry inspire delight ! 
 On the barn-floor the flail-tree's measured stroke, *- 
 The rumbling fanners, as the corn is dight, — 
 The lasses riddling, and the frequent joke, — 
 The straw soft-rustling to the wieathed heap. 
 Are sounds that alway make my heart with joy to leap. 
 
18G THE PEASANT. Canto IX. 
 
 XVIII. 
 Still, Nature has her music ! On that elm, 
 Though leafless, the gregarious tribes are met 
 Congenerous, and blithely chirp and chelm ; 
 And there are youthful pairs, who, never yet, 
 Have known the pleasures of spring's happy time, 
 But for it they prepare, and chaunt the amorous chime. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 In language sweet, the lover woos his love, 
 And she in transport listens to the strain ; 
 He sings, how happy they will be to rove 
 When the young leaves are on the trees again, — 
 That he will build for her a cozie home, 
 And line with wool, or softer down, the sylvan dome. 
 
 XX. 
 
 From sprig to sprig loved Robin, hoping, chaunts, 
 And shakes the hoar-frost from the bending withe : 
 Alike the country and the town he haunts, 
 A philosophic pilgrim, ever blithe ; 
 With song in every season he is blest, 
 And all the daedal year, the rose blooms on his breast. 
 
Cakto IX. THE PEASANT. 187 
 
 XXI. 
 
 There walks Apollo's bird — the crested cock ! 
 The hawk-defying — amid his houris fair, — 
 The useful cock, the cotter's matin clock, 
 True to the morn, and never known to err i 
 He crows — from earth vanish night's witching powers; 
 And his progressive crowings tell the advancing hours. 
 
 XXII. 
 These to the Muse are dear ; but dearer still 
 That group of playful cherubs, as they slide, 
 With clamorous glee, along the frozen rill ; — 
 It is the youngest urchin's very pride 
 The novel art, — he blows, at every turn, 
 His nipping nails, with breath that steams as from an urn. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 There goes a shot ! and, see ! the hound pursues, 
 Over the stubble field, the timid hare ; 
 And from yon broomy knoll the huntsman views 
 The savage sport. Ha ! in despair, the liar, 
 Has an asylum found in Henry's byre ; 
 And from the noble Luath the hound must retire. 
 
188 THE PEASANT. Canto IX. 
 
 XXIV. 
 Poor puss is safe as in a sanctuary — 
 And she will crop the clover blade again. 
 'Tis Henry's joy to see the harmless — free, 
 To humble the tyrannical, and vain : 
 For this his Amy loves him still the more, — 
 In virtuous heart, there are nobility and power. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 This is retirement's sweetest, loveliest scene, 
 Round which even winter's landscape has a charm ! 
 And Henry sees it with a heart serene — 
 His children's morals there secure from harm : 
 No vice contagious there — no impious word — 
 O happy state ! within that domicile is heard. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 There smiles the cottage-queen — the happy spouse, 
 And she is lovely with her milking-pail : 
 Her kine — or in the byre, or when they browze, 
 Their mistress ken ; and on the summer vales 
 They kindly low to see her in her walks, 
 For many a bite she gives them from the honied balks. 
 
Ca.vto IX. THE PEASANT. 189 
 
 XXVII. 
 Here industry harmoniously goes on, 
 Even as the sun his course diurnal runs ; 
 Without that power, the human race would groan 
 In want and wretchedness, like naked Huns ; 
 It is the source of comfort, and of wealth : 
 How sweet the toil-won meal, ensuring happy health ! 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Yet, in the vacant hour, neglect they not 
 To cultivate their minds with knowledge fair : 
 Behold these shelves — that little world of thought ; 
 And above all, the inseparable pair — 
 The holy two, love-wedded, and God-given, — 
 The sacred key to freedom, blessedness, and heaven. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 For these our hero-martyrs peril'd life 
 Against throned powers and principalities, — 
 Died at the stake, or in the glorious strife, 
 And followed Christ on earth — to Zion's peace : — 
 Yet now forgot their being and their name ! 
 But they a temple raised to God, and not to Fame. 
 
190 THE PEASANT. Canto IX. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 It is noon-day ! A dense and solemn gloom 
 Hangs o'er the earth, and not a bow-shot round 
 The eye can trace, — 'tis like the day of doom ! 
 Amid the hoary rime, the sun seems drown'd ; 
 And not a breath of air comes from the hill ; 
 Old Nature seems defunct, and all her beauty chill. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The experienced shepherd drives his bleating care 
 Down to the vale, — as if the awful form, 
 That hovers o'er the mighty hills in air, 
 Had given him warning of a coming storm ; 
 Well, too, knows he — that toil-worn ditcher-hind — 
 That, mid the gloom, works the dread spirit of the wind. 
 
 XXXII. 
 The gallant cock collects his harem round ; 
 And with his mistresses he lingers near 
 The wain-shed's shelter : seldom is the sound 
 Of his blithe clarion heard, that wont to cheer, 
 In quick succession, all the village train, — 
 He sees that soon the snow will flood the pathless plain. 
 
Canto IX. THE PEASANT. 191 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 This night-like day, wrapt in a rimy shroud, 
 Is like the fixed gloom of my destiny i 
 Around me is a mystery — a cloud, 
 And Fortune's sunshine I can never see ; 
 But riches, thanks to Heaven, is not my aim ; — 
 Give gold to misers — me a Poet's dearer name ! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 The sweet, the fair, the beautiful — sublime, 
 Delight by turns, — and, Scotland, these are thine : 
 Be mine to sing thy charms, my native clime ! — 
 Thy Muse, to me, the dearest of the Nine ! — 
 My highest wish is — with thy " sons of song" 
 To rank — then let my harp be on the willows hung. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 My pleasure is the solitary walk — 
 Th' untrodden wild no solitude to me ; 
 The streamlet prattling by the flowerless balk, — 
 The linnet churming summer's elegy, — 
 The old elm-tree — harp of the spirit-wind, — 
 All Nature, many- voiced, speaks music to the mind 
 
192 THE PEASANT. Canto IX. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 These flakes are ominous ! silent and slow 
 They fall to earth upon the wither'd blade ; 
 The pensive songsters flutter to and fro, 
 And their congeners quit the native glade ; 
 The rook flies devious round, and here and there, — 
 Nor heard his sounding caw along the dreary air. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Strange it may seem, that I this gloom should love ! 
 Yet I do love to see it, and feel blithe 
 As if I listened to the vocal grove, 
 And saw the flowers in their bright colours kythe : 
 I feel myself a part of the great whole, — 
 In sunshine, storm, and gloom, with Nature goes my soul. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 As if approaching tempest heralding, 
 Mutters the wind along the ancient wood ; 
 The crows unto the dark firs closer cling, 
 Anticipating sad the want of food ; 
 A-field the labourer hears the sough, and starts — 
 Now hastens homeward ere the sunless day departs. 
 
Cakto IX. THE PEASANT. 193 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 More thick and fast the whirling snow descends 
 The glad-careering winds are all abroad ! 
 Our hero, far from home, thinks on his friends, 
 And sternly meets the drift upon the road i 
 With firm-clenched hand, he holds his bonnet fast, 
 While tempted is his tongue to curse the ruthless blast. 
 
 XL. 
 
 The fortune-favoured pass him, like a shot, 
 In coach recumbent, cozy, and secure : 
 He moralizes on the various lot 
 Of human being — how myriads must endure 
 Fatigue and hardship all their mortal days, — 
 Yet there are wants and woes in fortune's proudest ways. 
 
 XLI. 
 At length the white roof of his home appears, 
 And through the window, now, he sees the light, 
 The cheerful voices of his children hears, 
 And Amy's happy smile crowns his delight 
 The heart-refreshing tea is in the pot, 
 And, by his own loved hearth, the tempest is forgot. 
 
194 THE PEASANT. Canto IX. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Like a fair barque, far on the weltering main, 
 When the worn mariner clings to the shrouds, 
 The dim and labouring moon doth wax and wane — 
 Now seen, now lost among the broken clouds, 
 That seem the surf of an ethereal sea, 
 By heaven's winds lashed, and white and black alternately. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 The tempest raves ! Now home is doubly dear — 
 Though poor our shieling, yet it is our own. 
 The houseless wretch — who may have felt, severe, 
 Misfortune's scowl — O let us not disown ! 
 The rich man pities, but the poor relieves. — . 
 
 Wild and more wild it blows ! — the snow 's up to the 
 eaves. 
 
 XLIV. 
 The hours of labour by, around the hearth — 
 The ingle gleaming up to the crook-tree — 
 The cotters sit ; — in his accustomed berth 
 The patriarch rests, — on Edwin and the sea 
 He ruminates : " Now, either drowns my Boy, 
 
 Or he is coming home to bless my eld with joy ! 
 
Canto IX. THE FEASANT. 195 
 
 XLV. 
 " Forget not, Amy, the poor homeless wight — 
 Your lodger in the barn — his supper-meal : 
 Sure he 's unfortunate, and has a right 
 To our protection : — Charity must seal 
 Our faith in Him who feeds the Christian flock ; 
 Without that mildest virtue, we His sufferings mock." 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Never reluctant to relieve the poor, 
 Amy prepares a dish of rural fare. 
 u Though he were of the gipsies on the moor, 
 A portion of our comfort we should spare : — 
 My Henry, bring the wanderer in — the night 
 Is cold, — and we have here an ingle blazing bright." 
 
 XLVII. 
 He comes ! a way-worn wight in ragged guise — 
 Nature no longer could the trial bear i 
 11 My father ! O forgive me !" Edwin cries. 
 And clasps around his knees in th' elbow chafe, 
 The father sobb'd with pure paternal joy — 
 41 O! welcome, welome to my heart, m\ l..< 1 11<t Boy!" 
 
196 THE PEASANT. Canto IX. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 The brothers, glad, fraternally embrace, 
 
 And Amy's welcome-smile his bosom cheers ; — 
 
 The honest Edwin, with true seaman-grace, 
 
 Pulls from beneath his rags the gain of years 
 
 A purse of gold, with many a radiant gem, 
 And to his aged parent, filial, offers them*. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Now is the board with daintiest viands spread, 
 With sweet- milk kebbuck, and stout home-brew'd ale. 
 Yet the rough mariner a tear must shed 
 For his loved mother, as the mournful tale 
 Is by his father told so feelingly, — 
 That her last prayer was for her Edwin on the sea. 
 
 L. 
 
 The feast goes on — the dainties circle round, 
 
 And deep and deeper all quaff the good ale, 
 Till Mirth sees Sorrow in the nappy drown'd. 
 And Edwin tells them many a sea-born tale — 
 
 Of hair-breadth 'scapes from tempests of the sea, 
 
 How they the corsair fought, and won rich victory. 
 
Canto IX. THE PEASANT. 1«7 
 
 LI. 
 
 But ever and anon, on Edwin's lip 
 Trembles a question he's afraid to ask, — 
 He thinks on one as on a well-rigg'd ship, 
 And true love prompts him to the tender task : — 
 " Does Agnes live?" he whispers Amy soft. 
 She smiles ! — " Then all is right below, and all aloft ! 
 
 LIL 
 
 u I have an argosy moored in the port, 
 Laden with riches to my Nanny dear : — 
 And now our courting needs must be but short — 
 Though distant far, I've courted many a year, — 
 I'll kiss, and make her bride this very night ! 
 My Henry, fetch her, and the Clerk the banns to write." 
 
 LIII. 
 At this the old man feels such happiness, 
 His sorrows vanish ; and with fervent lip 
 He calls on Heaven their union-vow to bless ! — 
 11 With God," says Edwin, " and a well-built ship, 
 I fear'd nor winds, nor waves — with Nan, my wife, 
 Pleasant and fair shall be our voyage of wedded life. ' 
 
198 THE PEASANT. Canto IX. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 She comes — she hears her Edwin speak the same, 
 And flings herself into his gallant arms : 
 Each tastes a joy, so sweet, it has no name ! 
 With one warm kiss she gives him all her charms. 
 All, in bright joy, their mutual love, behold; 
 While in her lap the sailor flings uncounted gold. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Now comes our Clerk — the soul of social fun, 
 For whom, anon, the toddy-bowl must smoke : — 
 " No longer, Agnes, thou wilt live — a Nun ! 
 I give thee joy — thou ever liked a joke. 
 We long have wished to see this happy hour, 
 Now it is come, and thou art yet a summer -flower." 
 
 LVI. 
 
 A happier scene is not in Christendie ; 
 Old Scotland never saw a happier hour ; — 
 In his bright altitudes, the Dominie 
 Chaunts many a song of mirth-inspiring power, — 
 And tells such tales of parson, 'squire, and boor, 
 That the loud laugh is heard far o'er the moonlight 
 
Canto IX. THE PEASANT. 199 
 
 LVII. 
 
 With this deb'ghtful night, my rural tale 
 Draws to a close. The lost is found ! — 
 And near to Henry's, in his native vale, 
 Edwin a cottage rears ; and plants, around, 
 Fair shrubs and favourite trees ; there with his wife 
 To live in love, and brave no more the billows' strife. 
 
 LVIII. 
 One cadence more, my Harp ! and let the last 
 Chord sound the triumph of philosophy s — 
 Through yonder desert halls the wintry blast 
 Howls dreary to the raven on the tree — 
 Result of wild extravagance and vice : 
 The Peasant's Cot, with Virtue, is a Paradise. 
 
LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 THE MUSIC OF THE LYRE. 
 
 Rapt are the poet's thoughts ! He takes the Lyre — 
 
 His bosom glowing with the purest fire. 
 
 To love and beauty, first, are tuned the strings ; 
 
 His loved-one spotless as the unspread rose, 
 
 To her, and for her, O how sweetly flows 
 
 The music-strain of his imaginings ! — 
 
 To Virtue, now, he sweeps the ennobling chords, ^ 
 
 And Truth gives to the song appropriate words, 
 
 Sweet as on green bower falls the silver rain ; 
 
 Then, Nature's beauties, minor'd in his soul, 
 
 Float o'er the Lyre in varied harmony — 
 
 Spring — Summer — Autumn — Winter ! — then the 
 
 the strain, 
 That the Creator rule* the mighty whole ; 
 The Lyre's last, holiest cadence — Immortality ! 
 
202 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 THE HARP OF THE WINDS. 
 
 Alone ! left on the hill alone, 
 
 Last tree on the old forest's site ! 
 
 O ! many and fleet years have flown, 
 
 Chequer'd with care, woe, and delight, 
 Harp of the Winds ! since first I clasp'd mine arms 
 In joy around thee, pleasured with thy charms ! 
 
 When soft and softer breathes young Spring, 
 And to thy buds gives the sun-beam, 
 And o'er thy chords sweeps her bright wing, 
 Prelusive of the vernal theme, 
 The little bird, charm'd with the sylvan strain, 
 Sits on the bough, and sings in joy again. 
 
 When Summer's wanton zephyr plays 
 
 Soft on thy rustling foliage green, 
 
 The Hours list to thy music-lays ; 
 
 Then, thine is a love-haunted scene, — 
 The happy youth and happier maiden meet, 
 And twine love's roses with its kisses sweet. 
 
THE HARP OF THE WINDS. 203 
 
 When Autumn's mellowing west-wind blows, 
 
 How sweetly wild thy melody ! 
 
 Thy clustered beauty red, red glows 
 
 In glory round — the perfect tree ; 
 'Tis then thou tempt'st the roving schoolboy's eye ; 
 Then, by thy side, the poet loves to lie. 
 
 He is like thee ; — but who may sing 
 
 His love, his sorrow, and his joy ? — 
 
 A spirit, oft, like the Wind's wing, 
 
 Attunes the heart of minstrel boy : 
 His feelings — various as the clouds of Even — 
 His harp of thought played by the breath of heaven. 
 
 When all the stars are hid from earth, 
 
 In the long winter-night, and drear, 
 
 And the storm-demons of the North 
 
 Rush o'er thy chords in wild career, 
 Far-off, I listen to thy tones sublime, 
 And hear a tale of Scotland's stormy clime. 
 
204 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Ethereal child of dark and bright, 
 Clasping the heaven as in delight, 
 While in thy soft and balmy arms 
 Glad Nature smiles with fresher charms, 
 And man and beast, and tree and flower, 
 Feast on thy shining and thy shower ; 
 Thou coronal of Summer's sky, 
 What art thou to poetic eye ? — 
 An arch tri-coloured, rich and rare, 
 Whence hallowed saints and seraphs fair, 
 In joyous bands, may view delighted 
 The genial earth with heaven united ; — 
 The grand harp of the Deity 
 With music in its chords for me, 
 Still pouring from its golden strings 
 An anthem to the King of kings ; 
 While earth sends up her breath of balm 
 To mingle with the holy psalm ; — 
 The matchless banner-flag of Him 
 Who quelled the rebel seraphim, 
 
ADDRESS TO THE RAINBOW. 205 
 
 And in its stream of glowing hues 
 Inwoven the verse of the holy Muse ; 
 " Love, and peace, and felicity, — » 
 Follow ye Christ, and these will be, 
 When sun and stars have passed away, 
 Your portion in eternal day ! 
 
 Rainbow ! thou art like the rapt bard's thought, 
 
 Sublime midst the light and cloud of his lot, 
 
 The radiant Iris that spans his soul, 
 In a heaven of fancy from pole to pole ; 
 A thing all beauty, and softness, and fire, 
 Where hangs in glory his own loved lyre. 
 
 TO THE SWALLOW. 
 
 SwiFT-pinioned pilgrim of the sun, 
 Lover of summer's light and fun, 
 Thou, o'er the main, from palmy clime, 
 Hast winged thy way— a flight sublime ! - 
 
206 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 And without compass, guide, or chart, 
 A navigator in thy heart. 
 Still, wheresoever thou dost rove, 
 For thee in every heart is love, — 
 A sacred bird to sage and boy, 
 With thee come light and vernal joy. 
 Thrice welcome to our skies again, 
 O'erhead to chirple thy sweet strain, 
 Or 'neath the eaves or window-nook, 
 Or in the arch that spans the brook, 
 Or in the cottage-shed — beside 
 Blithe chanticleer of crested pride ; 
 Or in the crystal stream to dip 
 Thy dappled breast, and gently sip ; 
 Or with thy wing and feathered feet 
 To sweep along the lane and street, 
 Or lowly o'er the emerald plain, 
 With zig-zag wing, predicting rain ; 
 Or in the fair and cloudless day, 
 To soar far in the milky-way, 
 To thin the buzzing hosts that dance 
 In myriads 'neath the blue expanse,. 
 
TO THE SWALLOW. 207 
 
 And but for thee would fill the air, 
 And pest mankind unto despair ! 
 
 The genius of the angling art 
 Thy advent hails with joyous heart : 
 Then come his halcyon sport and theme — 
 The mottled trout plays in the stream ; 
 And to the tarn or mountain burn, 
 Amid the mist at earliest morn, 
 Ere yet the lark is in tlie skies, 
 Away alone, he whistling hies, 
 With all his piscatory gear, 
 To him dear as the vital air ! 
 
 The ancient hoary-headed sire, 
 Who all the winter, by the fire 
 Has been a weary prisoner, 
 Glad hails thee to his native air ; 
 And out of doors creeps, though with pain. 
 To see spring's beauteous face again. 
 Tired of the city's ceaseless hum, 
 The fair long much for thee to come ; 
 
208 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Like thee, they love change and the sun, 
 And in the flowery season wonne, 
 Like happy sylphs, amid the trees, 
 And carol to the balmy breeze. 
 
 But none more blithe to see thy wing 
 Than the heath-crown'd — the gipsy king, 
 And his swart race, as now they roam 
 O'er nature, their delightful home, 
 To pitch their tents in moor or wood, 
 An isolated brotherhood. 
 
 Yet, gentle bird, thou dearest art 
 To the congenerous poet's heart, 
 For, to his fancy, thou canst sing 
 Far Afric's bright and gorgeous spring. 
 And by the cottage, and the stream, 
 Scenes, which with health and pleasure teem, 
 It is his joy, his heaven on earth, 
 When all around is love and mirth, 
 When Fancy's fire, like summer, warms, 
 With thee to carol Nature's charms. 
 
TO THE SWALLOW. 209 
 
 Migrating thus from clime to clime, 
 Evading Winter's despot rime, 
 And frost that chains all beauteous things, 
 Thou givest unto him who sings 
 The sweetest rede of poesie, — 
 Whether at home or on the lea, 
 To take the summer joys of life — 
 The joys that never end in strife. 
 
 Hail to our Island of the sea, 
 Blest bird of Summer's liberty ! 
 And joyous in its free air rove — 
 Thou goest in peace and com'st in love. 
 
210 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 TO THE YELDRON * 
 
 Beautiful Bird ! there was a time 
 
 I persecuted thee ; 
 For then I thought an evil sound 
 
 Was in thy tehee ! tehee ! tehee ! 
 
 'Twas said, thou wert the 111 One's bird, 
 
 And in thy song a curse ! 
 " We'll drown ye in the deep Red Sea," 
 
 Came fearful from the gorse I 
 
 Much-injured bird ! it is not so, 
 For Heaven inspires thy tongue 
 
 To carol the soft song of love ; 
 And we have done thee wrong. 
 
 * Among schoolboys a ridiculous prejudice still obtains, that the Yel- 
 dron, or Yellow-hammer, is in compact with the devil ! — that every May- 
 morning, before sunrise, behind Balma-Shinar hill, it drinks three drops 
 of blood from his Satanic majesty ! Then from the furze thicket it ever 
 and anon cries — M We'll drown ye in the deep Red Sea !" On which this 
 wveeUvoieed and beautiful creature is cruelly persecuted. 
 
TO THE YELDROX. 211 
 
 We took thy eggs, or killed thy young, 
 
 And tore thy shelter'd nest ; 
 From bush to bush pursued thee still, 
 
 And would not let thee rest. 
 
 Beautiful bird ! whose golden breast 
 
 Vies with the tassell'd broom ; 
 Thou seem'st part of the yellow bough, 
 
 — Thy bosom a spread bloom. 
 
 We sought the paths where Nature's truth 
 
 Inspires the moral thought, 
 And found a lesson thrilling sweet 
 
 In every songster's note. 
 
 The days of prejudice are gone — 
 
 Of superstition, too ; — 
 Sing on, sing on, sweet bird, in peace, 
 
 A consort-mate to woo. 
 
 As if it were an holy truth, 
 
 I'll teach the little child 
 To love — be kind to thee, on whom 
 
 Beauty and sweetness smiled. 
 
212 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY VEILED. 
 
 Why, lovely Maid, thy beauties shroud, 
 
 Like spring behind a wintry cloud, 
 
 With gauzy sable veil ? 
 
 Is it in modesty or pride, 
 
 Or worn from vulgar stare to hide 
 
 Love's pure and sacred spell ? 
 
 i 
 
 Thus heaven, with yon fine web of blue, 
 
 Conceals its joys from every view 
 
 In this terrene abyss. 
 
 That veil removed, what extacy 
 
 To gaze upon thy naked eye, 
 
 And lips that glow with bliss ! 
 
 O ! is there one — a blessed one 
 On whom that radiant eye has shone 
 With love's unclouded beam ? 
 Whoe'er he be — the favoured youth 
 Must smile with look of love and truth, 
 Else heaven will frown on him. 
 
THE WALK OF BEAUTY. 213 
 
 And yet vouchsafe, thou peerless Maid, 
 
 To draw aside that silken shade 
 
 That the rapt Muse may know, 
 
 From thy pure form, thy mien, thy eyes, 
 
 To paint a seraph of the skiei, 
 
 For thou art one below.. 
 
 THE WALK OF BEAUTY. 
 
 The voice of Spring is in the sky, 
 Charming the heaven with melody, — 
 The vestal gowan is on the lay, 
 Blithe smiling to the vernal ray ; — 
 Fair Rosa lays her soft lute by, 
 — Young love is smiling in her eye, — 
 May's mild sun shines with gentle power, 
 Streaking with gold her cliamber-bower -, 
 On Rosa's cheek a sunbeam glows — 
 It never kiss'd a purer rose ! 
 Her chesnut ringlets, rarely wove, 
 Shine glossy 'neath the ray of love. 
 
IH LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 But where the lovely damsel now ? 
 O ! she is by the fairy-knowe, 
 Walking where the daisy springs, 
 And the laverock o'er her sings, — 
 Where the honey-bee is bumming 
 Blithe to see each wild-flower coming, — 
 Where the lambs are deftly sporting, 
 And the sylvan lovers courting, 
 While Zephyr, passing from the purpled west^ 
 Steals sacred fragrance from her bloomy breast j 
 Balmier far than on its wings 
 It from the honey-blossoms brings. 
 
 She walks in light of beauteous mien, 
 As if herself the virgin queen 
 Who, with her fingers soft as fair, 
 Decks nature's carpet, rich and rare, 
 With every flower of lovely bloom, 
 And on them breathing balm perfume* 
 
 Now where the siller burnie rows, 
 And where the broom gold-tassell'd glows, — 
 Now in the birchen emerald dell, 
 And by the pure faun-haunted well ; 
 
THE EMIGRANT'S LOVE-LETTEIt 2)3 
 
 With music wild the woodland rings, 
 And wakes the angel in her breast ; 
 Much loves she these congenial things, 
 They, like herself, are sweet and chaste. 
 
 Be far away each prying eye — 
 Seek not love's sacred mystery ; 
 Rosa has met her lover-boy, 
 — But none shall ken their trysting joy; 
 Like May's sun and the vernal south, 
 Between them there are love and truth. 
 
 THE EMIGRANT'S LOVE-LETTER. 
 
 My young heart's lave ! twal years hae beea 
 
 A century to me ; 
 I hae na seen thy smile, nor heard 
 
 Thy voice's melodie. 
 The mony hardships I hae tholed, 
 
 Sin* I left Larocklea, 
 I maun na tell, for it wad briag 
 
 The saut tear iu thine ee. 
 
216 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 But I hae news — an' happy news 
 
 To tell unto my luve, — 
 What I hae won, to me mair dear 
 
 That it my heart can prove : — 
 Its thochts unchanged, still it is true. 
 
 An' surely sae is thine ; 
 Thou never, never canst forget 
 
 That twa waur ane langsyne. 
 
 The simmer sun blinks on the tarn* 
 
 An* on the primrose brae, 
 Where we, in days o' innocence, 
 
 Waur wont to daff an' play ; 
 An' I amang the mossy springs 
 
 Wade for the hinie blooms, — 
 To thee the rush tiara wove 
 
 Bedeck'd wi' lily plumes. 
 
 I glegly dearn'd the thieket furze 
 Where the rose-lintie bigs — 
 
 Though, it I luved, I luved thee mak, 
 An' teuk its sprainglit eggs 
 
THE EMIGRANT'S LOVE-LETTER. 217 
 
 To be a necklace to my luve ; 
 
 I chased the gairy bee 
 Amang the weabows far, an' brocht 
 
 The hinie-blob to thee. 
 
 When on the ferny knowe we sat — 
 
 A happy, happy pair, 
 Thy comely cheek laid on my knee, 
 
 I plaited thy gouden hair. 
 
 ! then I felt the holiest thocht 
 That e'er enter'd my mind, 
 
 — It, Mary, was to be to thee 
 For ever true an' kind. 
 
 Though fair the flowers that bloom around 
 
 My dwallin owre the sea, — 
 Though bricht the streams, an' green the bowers, 
 
 They are na tae to me. 
 
 1 hear the bulbul's mellow leed 
 
 Upo' the gorgeous paum, — 
 The sweet cheep o' the feather'd bee* 
 Amang the fields o' bauni ; 
 
 • The Humming-bird. 
 
218 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 But thir are nae auld Scotland's burds, 
 
 Sae dear to childhood's days — 
 The laverock, lintie, shulf, an' yyoite, 
 
 That taught us luve's sweet lays : 
 Gin thou e'er wauk'st alane to think 
 
 On him that's owre the sea, 
 Their cheerfu' saft luve-lilts will tell 
 
 My heart's luve-thochts to thee. 
 
 What 'vails this villa, — thir rich fields, 
 
 An' garden fair to see ? 
 Its fruit hangs not to thy saft loof, 
 
 Its flowers smile not to thee. 
 But though I had a kingdom here, 
 
 Wi' mony a rich goud mine, 
 My heart wad leave them a' to seek 
 
 The scenes o' dear langsyne. 
 
 Nae ancient city rears its towers 
 Like our Edina bricht, — 
 
 There's naething here to Memory dear 
 Like Bruce an' Wallace wight, — 
 
THE EMIGRANT'S LOVE-LETTER. 219 
 
 Nor birken brae, nor flowery howm 
 
 O' legendary fame, — 
 An' nocht to fan the low o' luve, 
 
 Or nurse the patriot-flame. 
 
 I daunder in an Eden here, 
 
 Amid the fair an* sweet, 
 But there is something wanting still 
 
 To mak the bliss complete, — 
 An' ilka sweet bloom seems to say, 
 
 Bring thy fair Mary here ; — 
 For me, O Mary^! wadst thou leave 
 
 Thy childhood's hame sae dear ? — 
 
 Gin thou hast for its ploys sic luve 
 
 As I hae ever had, 
 Thy saft, saft heart will grow wi' bliss. 
 
 Sae sweet it will be sad. 
 To tak thee frae the happy scenes, 
 
 Like luve it wad na be ; 
 Na, Mary, na ! the storm micht blaw, 
 
 An* braid, braid is the sea. 
 
220 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Lat joy be in thy leal true heart, 
 
 An' bricht smile in thine ee — 
 The bonnie barque is in the bay, 
 
 I'm comin' hame to thee ; 
 I'm coming hame to thee, Mary, 
 
 Wi' mony a pearl fine, — 
 An' I will lay them in thy lap, 
 
 For the kiss o' sweet langsyne. 
 
 SELKIRK'S LAST FAREWELL. 
 
 My native Land ! when far away 
 
 O'er the loud-moaning sea, 
 How false has been my every hope 
 
 How vain my dreams of thee ! 
 I thought to find thee as thou wert, 
 
 With many a well-known face ; — 
 The happy playmates of my youth 
 
 Now seem another race. 
 
SELKIRK'S LAST FAREWELL. 221 
 
 I thought to find their hearts the same 
 
 As when I left my home ; — 
 And is home dearest to the heart, 
 
 When from it far we roam ? — 
 Ah ! many a peril have I braved 
 
 To see these scenes once more ! 
 Alas ! the joys have pass'd away 
 
 Which time can ne'er restore ! 
 
 My home is changed — its pleasures gone. 
 
 Its friendship, and its mirth ; 
 A stranger in my native land, 
 
 I have no home on earth. 
 I seek the solitary path, 
 
 Mix with the busy crowd, 
 But sunshine never breaks on me — 
 
 Still o'er me hangs a cloud. 
 
 Am I invited to the feast? 
 
 Strange faces meet me there ; 
 Their smiles, their joys, and luxuries, 
 
 In heart I cannot share. 
 
222 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 The church-bells ring a solemn peal, 
 On God's own hallowed day, 
 
 — They have not the sweet silver twang 
 Which they were wont to play. 
 
 And many a fair maid flutters forth 
 
 With gaudy flaunting flare : 
 In scenes like these I am not blithe — 
 
 My heart's love is not there. 
 Alas ! she in the church-yard lies 
 
 Who could all joys have given ; — 
 My sole hope now — a blessed one — 
 
 To meet my love in heaven. 
 
 Bear me, again, some friendly barque, 
 
 Back to my ocean -isle ! 
 Its solitude my happiness, 
 
 There life again would smile. 
 With tears I left the silvan bower 
 
 That looks o'er the wild wave ; 
 Long years it was my lonely home, — 
 
 Yet may it be my grave ! 
 
SELKIRK'S LAST FAREWELL. M 
 
 For me no human eye shall weep — 
 
 For me not mourn one human breast ; 
 But sea- winds pipe among the trees 
 
 That blossom o'er my place of rest : 
 The beetling rocks my monument ; 
 
 My epitaph, the eagle's screech ; 
 My elegy, the booming surf 
 
 That breaks along the desert beach. 
 
 O, my loved sea-isle ! there I was 
 
 A child of Nature — free ; 
 And Nature's children knew me well, 
 
 — But not for cruelty. 
 I climb'd the sea-crags with my goats, 
 
 And gather'd the ripe fruit, — 
 It was my Eden ; and I lived 
 
 In peace with bird and brute. 
 
 I was their sovereign-lord and king — . 
 
 They loyal were to me : 
 Where can I happy be, but on 
 
 My Island of the sea ! 
 
224 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Waft me again, some friendly barque, 
 Back to the hermit shore ! 
 
 Farewell ! my native land, farewell ! 
 Farewell for evermore ! 
 
 TO THE SHADE OF BURNS. 
 
 Where art thou, shade of Nature's child, 
 
 Bard of the heart — of passion wild ? 
 
 In some high sphere — bright, fair and mild, 
 
 Aboon the lift, 
 Blest in that Being who on thee smiled, 
 
 And gave thee gift — 
 
 The boon that makes auld Scotland proud 
 That thou art hers, — that tuned aloud 
 Thy harp of fire mid storm and cloud 
 
 Of life's turmoil ; 
 For stern Misfortune's rough-share ploughed 
 
 Thy heart's rich soil. 
 
TO THE SHADE OF BURNS. 223 
 
 Yet, in its core, empassioned, Strang, 
 
 The wild and deep-tinged flower-thoughts sprang ; 
 
 Thy genius wreathed them into sang, 
 
 And gave 't to fame ; 
 Then the wide world delighted rang 
 
 Loud with thy name. 
 
 Where art thou, Shade of Scotland's bard ? 
 Thy lot below was sharp and hard ; 
 Enjoyest thou now the meet reward 
 
 Of matchless lays — 
 A spirit-bard of high regard, 
 
 And blissful days ? 
 
 Walk'st thou with each fame-honoured shade, 
 Bright spirits of the illustrious dead, 
 Thy brows with holly garlanded, 
 
 The chosen wreath, 
 Where " rustling play the berric> 
 
 To Rune'i bifan bt 
 
226 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Now far on grand poetic tour, 
 Now in the God-lit bloomy bower 
 With Mary — bonny Highland flower, 
 
 Once thy heart's queen, 
 Yet wishing for the holier hour 
 
 Will give thy Jean ?* 
 
 Where art thou, minstrel spirit, where ? 
 Comest thou on the cloudlet rare 
 Of gloaming grey, or morning fair, 
 
 Or 'neath the moon, 
 Revisiting the braes of Ayr, 
 
 And bonny Doon ? 
 
 Streams, as they nobly race along, 
 Wake in the brave heart feelings strong 
 Of liberty, of love and song, 
 
 Auld Scotland's fame, 
 And, poured from every patriot-tongue, 
 
 Wreathe round thy name. 
 
 * These Verses were written a long while previous to the demise 
 of Mrs. Burns. 
 
TO THE SHADE OF BURNS. 
 
 O ! when is heard thy wild harp's note, 
 As in it glows the soul of thought, 
 Where is the heart that feeleth not 
 
 Sublime sensation ? 
 The soulless clod, he is a blot 
 
 In the creation. 
 
 Though loud the bards of Scotia sing, 
 Though far and high on eagle-wing 
 They soar, yet thou'lt for aye be king 
 
 Of her best lyre, — 
 It has a charm — it has a String 
 
 Aboon the choir. 
 
 DEATH AND BURIAL OF THE GREAT. 
 
 It was a holy jubilee above — 
 
 Seraph and saint met in the bliss of love ; 
 
 God spake the Poet's name, — and with that word 
 
 Was every bright eye turned to Abbotaford, — 
 
223 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 " His hour is come — this hour shall we receive 
 With joy the minstrel-spirit. Fair seraph, weave 
 His crown of glory." Mild, from Scotland's heaven, 
 As comes the sunbeam of an holy even, 
 The angel came, and with the gentlest breath 
 Breathed o'er the mighty heart — the strain was death 1 
 Here all that once was great in various song, 
 And all that once was bright in soul, and strong, 
 Was lulled into an ever-blessed rest, — 
 The world for centuries sees not such a fall ! 
 Away, to north and south — to east and west — 
 To city and to town — to cot and hall, 
 Quick as the herald-dove, the tidings fly ; f 
 
 As if it had been thought he ne'er would die, 
 Struck with the news, each poet's lyre was mute, 
 And Beauty heard, and dropt her dulcet lute. 
 While kings and statesmen, in the festal hour, 
 Heard of the death, the wine-cup lost its power ; 
 And all might feel as in a troubled dream 
 Viewing his spirit's last departing beam. 
 
 The ploughman whistled, and the milkmaid sung, 
 Came the sad tale — and palsied was each tongue. 
 
BURIAL OF THE GREAT. 2* 
 
 Amid her blithe maids sate the smiling bride, 
 
 The bridegroom viewed her with a gallant pride, 
 
 — The tale of death runs through the bridal room, 
 
 And every cheek is like a wither'd bloom, — 
 
 Sir Walter is no more ! Ceased music's chords, 
 
 And Silence mused on the heart-chilling words. 
 
 Far they are wafted o'er the moaning sea, 
 
 And universal is the elegy. 
 
 To genius and just taste, in every zone, 
 
 The mighty Master of the heart is known ; 
 
 For not more bright in mind, than good of heart, 
 
 Was he whose was the spell of Nature's art — 
 
 The grand and beautiful of gifted light 
 
 Which millions charmed — the vulgar, and the bright. 
 
 The hour is come — round these enchanted towers 
 There breathes a spell that all the heart o'erpowers. 
 Scarcely is heard to flow the classic stream, 
 Like the low moan of one in a dark dream ; 
 From the unshaken trees the sear leaf falls, 
 Its mournful rustle the true heart appals — 
 It speaks of him who li»< within these walls, 
 And the deep mourning of their sable hall- 
 
230 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Lo ! it is come — the dark departure's come r 
 And Abbotsford is a bereaved home. 
 The sigh of myriads consecrates that pall, 
 For every heart is at his funeral. 
 In sable circle round the sacred corse, 
 Fall solemnly the foot of man and horse ; 
 Sublime departure ! holy, breathless scene ! 
 That cloud of witnesses in dark serene, 
 Mourners and friends, and the slow-moving hearse, 
 The poetry of death — an awful verse ! 
 
 O'er Caledonia hangs a sacred gloom ; 
 All look as if their loves were in the tomb, — 
 As if the sun had set to rise no more, — 
 As if at summer noon a mildew hoar 
 Had come upon the earth with sudden blight, 
 And darkness where were beauty and delight. 
 
 Come genius — goodness — softly halo round. 
 Silent are earth and heaven. The laurel-crown'd 
 
 Is sepulchred Thou, Fame, the rest must speak, 
 
 As reverently, his place of rest to seek, 
 
 The frequent pilgrim comes Another shrine, 
 
 O'er which the star that never dies will shine. 
 
ELD. 231 
 
 A thousand years shall pass — and with his name 
 The heart will glow as with ethereal flame ; 
 A thousand years shall pass — still will be seen 
 The laurel of our Shakespeare fresh and green ! 
 
 ELD. 
 
 Far in the vale of years he walks, 
 
 Respected in his age, 
 Beloved by all the neighbours round — 
 
 A patriarchal sage. 
 There, on a grassy dais, in 
 
 The garden of his youth, 
 He sits to taste the warm breeze of 
 
 The kind and balmy south. 
 
 The sun shines on his snowy locks — 
 
 And seems to shine with joy, 
 While on the daisied green, around, 
 
 Plays many a lovely oy ; 
 Upon his ivory-headed staff 
 
 He leans his feeble hand, — 
 His heart*9 prayer up to heaven is sent 
 
 To bless the kindred band. 
 
232 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Calm is the evening of his life — 
 
 His peace with heaven is made ; 
 To God's love bloom his virtues fair, 
 
 His sins are in the shade : 
 As linnet greets the coming spring, 
 
 Blithe on the budding tree, 
 So sings his soul in holiest hope 
 
 Of immortality. 
 
 And well he is prepared to meet 
 
 The inevitable hour, 
 — Against the fear of it, he has 
 
 A charm of sacred power ; 
 And oft — as friend with friend — he holds 
 
 Mild conference with Death I 
 Truth's eloquence is on his lips — 
 
 His talisman is faith. 
 
 UNIVERSITY PRESS }| 
 EDINBURGH.