ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND CONSIDERED AS THE SUBJECT OF POETRY I H—, thou return'st from Thames, whose naiads long Have seen thee lingering, with a fond delay, 'Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day, Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song. Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth Whom, long-endeared, thou leav'st by Levant's side; Together let us wish him lasting truth, And joy untainted, with his destined bride. Thou need'st but take the pencil to thy hand, II There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill; How, winged with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly; Nor thou, though learn'd, his homelier thoughts neglect; Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sustain: These are the themes of simple, sure effect, That add new conquests to her boundless reign, III Even yet preserved, how often may'st thou hear, Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crowned: Whether thou bid'st the well-taught hind repeat The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave, When every shrieking maid her bosom beat, And strewed with choicest herbs his scented grave; Or whether, sitting in the shepherd's shiel, Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's alarms, When, at the bugle's call, with fire and steel, The sturdy clans poured forth their bony swarms, And hostile brothers met to prove each other's arms. IV "Tis thine to sing, how, framing hideous spells, When o'er the watery strath or quaggy moss Their [destined] glance some fated youth descry, And rosy health, shall soon lamented die. For them the viewless forms of air obey, Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair. V [To monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray, In the first year of the first George's reign, They mourned in air, fell, fell Rebellion slain! And as, of late, they joyed in Preston's fight, Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crowned, They raved, divining, through their second sight, Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drowned! Illustrious William! Britain's guardian name! One William saved us from a tyrant's stroke; He, for a sceptre, gained heroic fame; But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast broke, To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke! VI These, too, thou'lt sing! for well thy magic Muse Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake, Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes, If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise. VII Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest indeed! Whom, late bewildered in the dank, dark fen, Far from his flocks and smoking hamlet then, To that sad spot [where hums the sedgy weed:] On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood, Shall never look with Pity's kind concern, But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood O'er its drowned bank, forbidding all return. Or, if he meditate his wished escape To some dim hill that seems uprising near, To his faint eye the grim and grisly shape, In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear. Meantime, the watery surge shall round him rise, Poured sudden forth from every swelling source. What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs? His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthly force, And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse. VIII For him, in vain, his anxious wife shall wait, Her travelled limbs in broken slumbers steep, Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek, At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; Nor e'er of me one hapless thought renew, While I lie weltering on the oziered shore, Drowned by the kelpie's wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee more!' IX Unbounded is thy range; with varied style Thy Muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle To that hoar pile which still its ruin shows: In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found, Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows, And culls them, wondering, from the hallowed ground! Or thither, where, beneath the showery West, No slaves revere them, and no wars invade: X But oh, o'er all, forget not Kilda's race, On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides, Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, ΧΙ Nor need'st thou blush, that such false themes engage Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possessed; For not alone they touch the village breast, But filled in elder time th' historic page. There Shakespeare's self, with every garland crowned,— [Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen!] In musing hour, his wayward Sisters found, And with their terrors dressed the magic scene. From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design, Before the Scot afflicted and aghast, The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant passed. |