THE violet in her green-wood bower, Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. Though fair her gems of azure hue, Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining; I've seen an eye of lovelier blue, Moresweet through wat'ry lustre shining. The summer sun that dew shall dry, Ere yet the day be past its morrow; Nor longer in my false love's eye Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow. TO A LADY. WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL. Written in 1797, on an excursion from Gillsland, in Cumberland. See Life, vol. i. p. 365. TAKE these flowers which, purple waving, On the ruin'd rampart grew, Where, the sons of freedom braving, Rome's imperial standards flew. Warriors from the breach of danger Pluck no longer laurels there; They but yield the passing stranger Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair. WAR-SONG OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS. Written in 1797, during the apprehension of a French invasion. To horse! to horse! the standard flies, From high Dunedin's towers we come, Though tamely couch'd to Gallia's frown And, foaming, gnaw the chain; Oh! had they mark'd the avenging call‡ Their brethren's murder gave, Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, Dress our pale cheek in timid smile, Or brook a victor's scorn? No! though destruction o'er the land For gold let Gallia's legions fight, If ever breath of British gale Then farewell home! and farewell friends! Resolved, we mingle in the tide, To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; THE BARD'S INCANTATION. WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804. THE forest of Glenmore is drear, It is all of black pine and the dark oak tree; And the midnight wind, to the mountain Is whistling the forest lullaby: storm, But the troubled lake reflects not her For the waves roll whitening to the land, That mingles with the groaning oak- There is a voice within the wood, "Wake ye from your sleep of death, "Souls of the mighty, wake and say, To what high strain your harps were When Lochlin plow'd her billowy way, strung, And on your shores her Norsemen flung? "Mute are ye all? No murmurs strange Mimic the harp's wild harmony! "O yet awake the strain to tell, By every deed in song enroll'd, For Albion's weal in battle bold :- "By all their swords, by all their scars, For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain, Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears, At the dread voice of other years- The foremost of the band were we, The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a As the bard of Glenmore through the received two bloody defeats. forest past. HELVELLYN. [1805.] In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I CLIMB'D the dark brow of the mighty mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide; All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, [plied. And starting around me the echoes reOn the right, Striden-edge round the Redtarn was bending, [fending, And Catchedicam its left verge was deOne huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain-heather, Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd to weather, [tenantless clay. Till the mountain-winds wasted the Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, [attended, For, faithful in death, his mute favourite The much-loved remains of her master defended, [away. And chased the hill-fox and the raven How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start? thou number, How many long days and long weeks didst [thy heart? Ere he faded before thee, the friend of And, oh! was it meet, that-no requiem read o'er him[plore him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deAnd thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart? When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded, [lighted hall; The tapestry waves dark round the dimWith scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, [pall: And pages stand mute by the canopied Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming; [are beaming; In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, [fall. Lamenting a Chief of the people should But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, [mountain lamb, To lay down thy head like the meek When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, [dam. And draws his last sob by the side of his And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, [flying, Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, [dicam. In the arms of Helvellyn and Catche THE DYING BARD. AIR-Daffydz Gangwen. The Welsh tradition bears, that a Bard, on his death-bed, demanded his harp, and played the air to which these verses are adapted; requesting that it might be performed at his funeral. Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride, [tatyn's side; But where is the harp shall give life to And chase the proud Saxon from Prestheir fame? their name? And where is the bard shall give heroes With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin the Old, And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold. VI. And adieu, Dinas Emlinn! still green be thy shades, [thy maids! Unconquer'd thy warriors, and matchless And thou, whose faint warblings my weakness can tell, [farewell! Farewell, my loved Harp! my last treasure, THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE. [1806.] AIR-The War-Song of the Men of The Welsh, inhabitinga mountainous country, and possessing only an inferior breed of horses, were usually unable to encounter the shock of the Anglo-Norman cavalry. Occasionally, however, they were successful in repelling the invaders; and the following verses are supposed to celebrate a defeat of CLARE, Earl of Striguil and Pembroke, and of NEVILLE, Baron of Chepstow, Lords-Marchers of Monmouthshire. Rymny is a stream which divides the counties of Monmouth and Glamorgan: Caerphili, the scene of the supposed battle, is a vale upon its banks, dignified by the ruins of a very ancient castle. No more the stamp of armed steed Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead; Nor trace be there, in early spring, Save of the Fairies' emerald ring. THE MAID OF TORO. [1806.] the flood. O, LOW shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro, [the dark wood, And weak were the whispers that waved All as a fair maiden, bewilder'd in sorrow, Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept to [lowly bending; "O saints! from the mansions of bliss Sweet Virgin! who hearest the supNow grant my petition, in anguish ascendpliant's cry, [ing, My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die!" All distant and faint were the sounds of the battle, [breezes they fail, With the breezes they rise, with the Till the shout, and the groan, and the conflict's dread rattle, And the chase's wild clamour, came Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so loading the gale. [dreary; Slowly approaching a warrior was seen; Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so [mien. weary, Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his "O, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying! [is low! O, save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian Deadly cold on yon heath thy brave Henry is lying, [proaches the foe." And fast through the woodland apScarce could he falter the tidings of sorrow, And scarce could she hear them, be numb'd with despair: [of Toro, And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake For ever he set to the Brave and the Fair. THE PALMER. [1806.] "O, OPEN the door, some pity to show, "No outlaw seeks your castle gate, O, open, for Our Lady's sake! "I'll give you pardons from the Pope, "The hare is crouching in her form, "You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar, "The iron gate is bolted hard, At which I knock in vain ; The owner's heart is closer barr'd, Who hears me thus complain. "Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant, When old and frail you be, You never may the shelter want, That's now denied to me." The Ranger on his couch lay warm, And heard him plead in vain; But oft amid December's storm, He'll hear that voice again: For lo, when through the vapours dank, A corpse amid the alders rank, THE MAID OF NEIDPATH. [1806.] THERE is a tradition in Tweeddale, that, when Neidpath Castle, near Peebles, was inhabited by the Earls of March, a mutual passion subsisted between a daughter of that noble family and a son of the Laird of Tushielaw, in Ettrick Forest. As the alliance was thought unsuitable by her parents, the young man went abroad. During his absence, the lady fell into a consumption; and at length, as the only means of saving her life, her father consented that her lover should be recalled. On the day when he was expected to pass through Peebles, on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, though much exhausted, caused herself to be carried to the balcony of a house in Peebles, belonging to the family, that she might see him as he rode past. Her anxiety and eagerness gave such force to her organs, that she is said to have distinguished his horse's footsteps at an incredible distance. But Tushielaw, unprepared for the change in her appearance, and not expecting to see her in that place, rode on without recognising her, or even slackening his pace. The lady was unable to support the shock; and, after a short struggle, died in the arms of her attendants. There is an incident similar to this traditional tale in Count Hamilton's "Fleur d'Epine." O, LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see, And love, in life's extremity, Can lend an hour of cheering. All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, Across her cheek was flying; As on the wing to meet him. |