Sidor som bilder
PDF
ePub

But Cadyow's towers, in ruins laid,
And vaults, by ivy mantled o'er,
Thrill to the music of the shade,

Or echo Evan's hoarser roar.
Yet still, of Cadyow's faded fame,
You bid me tell a minstrel tale,
And tune my harp, of Border frame,
On the wild banks of Evandale.
For thou, from scenes of courtly pride,
From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst
turn,

To draw oblivion's pall aside,

And mark the long-forgotten urn. Then, noble maid! at thy command,

Again the crumbled halls shall rise; Lo! as on Evan's banks we stand,

The past returns -the present flies. Where, with the rock's wood cover'd side, Were blended late the ruins green, Rise turrets in fantastic pride,

And feudal banners flaunt between : Where the rude torrent's brawling course Was shagg'd with thorn and tangling sloe,

The ashler buttress braves its force,

And ramparts frown in battled row. 'Tis night-the shade of keep and spire Obscurely dance on Evan's stream; And on the wave the warder's fire

Is chequering the moonlight beam. Fades slow their light; the east is gray; The weary warder leaves his tower; Steeds snort; uncoupled stag-hounds bay, And merry hunters quit the bower. The drawbridge falls-they hurry out— Clatters each plank and swinging chain,

As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout

Urge the shy steed, and slack the rein. First of his troop, the Chief rode on; His shouting merry-men throng behind;

The steed of princely Hamilton

Was fleeter than the mountain wind. From the thick copse the roebucks bound, The startled red-deer scuds the plain, For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound

Has roused their mountain haunts again.

[blocks in formation]

Proudly the Chieftain mark'd his clan,

On greenwood lap all careless thrown, Yet miss'd his eye the boldest man

That bore the name of Hamilton. "Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place,

Still wont our weal and woe to share? Why comes he not our sport to grace?

Why shares he not our hunter's fare?"-Stern Claud replied, with darkening face,

(Grey Paisley's haughty lord was he,) "At merry feast, or buxom chase,

No more the warrior wilt thou see. "Few suns have set since Woodhouselee Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets foam,

When to his hearths, in social glee,

The war-worn soldier turn'd him home. "There, wan from her maternal throes, His Margaret, beautiful and mild, Sate in her bower, a pallid rose, And peaceful nursed her new-born child.

"O change accursed! past are those days; False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, And, for the hearth's domestic blaze,

Ascends destruction's volumed flame. "What sheeted phantom wanders wild, Where mountain Eske through woodland flows,

Her arms enfold a shadowy child—
Oh! is it she, the pallid rose?
"The wilder'd traveller sees her glide,
And hears her feeble voice with awe-
'Revenge,' she cries, 'on Murray's pride!
And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh!'
He ceased-and cries of rage and grief
Burst mingling from the kindred band,
And half arose the kindling Chief,

And half unsheathed his Arran brand.

But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and rock,

Rides headlong, with resistless speed, Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke Drives to the leap his jaded steed; Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs glare,

As one some vision'd sight that saw, Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair?

'Tis he ! 'tis he! 'tis Bothwellhaugh. From gory selle,* and reeling steed, Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound,

And, reeking from the recent deed,

He dash'd his carbine on the ground. Sternly he spoke-"'Tis sweet to hear

In good greenwood the bugle blown, But sweeter to Revenge's ear,

To drink a tyrant's dying groan. "Your slaughter'd quarry proudly trode, At dawning morn, o'er dale and down, But prouder base-born Murray rode Through old Linlithgow's crowded

town.

"From the wild Border's humbled side, In haughty triumph marched he, While Knox relax'd his bigot pride,

And smiled, the traitorous pomp to see. *Selle-Saddle. A word used by Spenser, and other ancient authors.

"But can stern Power, with all his vaunt, Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare, The settled heart of Vengeance daunt, Or change the purpose of Despair? "With hackbut bent, my secret stand, Dark as the purposed deed, I chose, And mark'd, where, mingling in his band, Troop'd Scottish pikes and English bows.

"Dark Morton, girt with many a spear, Murder's foul minion, led the van; And clash'd their broadswords in the rear The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan. "Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh,

Obsequious at their Regent's rein, And haggard Lindesay's iron eye,

That saw fair Mary weep in vain. "Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove, Proud Murray's plumage floated high; Scarce could his trampling charger move,

So close the minions crowded nigh. "From the raised vizor's shade, his eye,

Dark-rolling, glanced the ranks along, And his steel truncheon, waved on high,

Seem'd marshalling the iron throng. "But yet his sadden'd brow confess'd

A passing shade of doubt and awe; Some fiend was whispering in his breast;

'Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh!' "The death-shot parts-the charger springs

Wild rises tumult's startling roar ! And Murray's plumy helmet rings-Rings on the ground, to rise no more. "What joy the raptured youth can feel, To hear her love the loved one tellOr he, who broaches on his steel

The wolf, by whom his infant fell! "But dearer to my injured eye

To see in dust proud Murray roll; And mine was ten times trebled joy, To hear him groan his felon soul. "My Margaret's spectre glided near; With pride her bleeding victim saw; And shriek'd in his death-deafen'd ear, 'Remember injured Bothwellhaugh! ́

"Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault !
Spread to the wind thy banner'd tree!*
Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow!-
Murray is fall'n, and Scotland free!"
Vaults every warrior to his steed;

Loud bugles join their wild acclaim"Murray is fall'n, and Scotland freed! Couch, Arran! couch thy spear of flame !"

But, see! the minstrel vision fails-
The glimmering spears are seen no

more;

* An oak, half-sawn, with the motto through, is an ancient cognizance of the family of Hamilton.

The shouts of war die on the gales,
Or sink in Evan's lonely roar.
For the loud bugle, pealing high,
The blackbird whistles down the vale,
And sunk in ivied ruins lie

The banner'd towers of Evandale.
For Chiefs, intent on bloody deed,
And Vengeance shouting o'er the slain,
Lo! high-born Beauty rules the steed,
Or graceful guides the silken rein.
And long may Peace and Pleasure own
The maids who list the minstrel's tale;
Nor e'er a ruder guest be known
On the fair banks of Evandale !

THE GRAY BROTHER.

A FRAGMENT.

The imperfect state of this ballad, which was written several years ago, is not a circumstance affected for the purpose of giving it that peculiar interest, which is often found to arise from ungratified curiosity. On the contrary, it was the Editor's intention to have completed the tale, if he had found himself able to succeed to his own satisfaction. Yielding to the opinion of persons, whose judgment, if not biassed by the partiality of friendship, is entitled to deference, he has preferred inserting these verses as a fragment, to his intention of entirely suppressing them. The tradition, upon which the tale is founded, regards a house upon the barony of Gilmerton, near Lasswade, in Mid-Lothian. This building, now called Gilmerton Grange, was originally named Burndale, from the following tragic adventure. The barony of Gilmerton belonged, of yore, to a gentleman named Heron, who had one beautiful daughter. This young lady was seduced by the Abbot of Newbattle, a richly endowed abbey, upon the banks of the South Esk, now a seat of the Marquis of Lothian. Heron came to the knowledge of this circumstance, and learned also, that the lovers carried on their guilty intercourse by the connivance of the lady's nurse, who lived at this house of Gilmerton Grange, or Burndale. formed a resolution of bloody vengeance, undeterred by the supposed sanctity of the clerical character, or by the stronger claims of natural affection. Choosing, therefore, a dark and windy night, when the objects of his vengeance were engaged in a stolen interview, he set fire to a stack of dried thorns, and other combustibles, which he had caused to be piled against the house, and reduced to a pile of glowing ashes the dwelling, with all its inmates.

He

The scene with which the ballad opens, was suggested by the following curious passage, extracted from the Life of Alexander Peden, one of the wandering and persecuted teachers of the sect of Cameronians, during the reign of Charles II and his successor, James. This person was supposed by his followers, and, perhaps, really believed himself, to be possessed of supernatural gifts; for the wild scenes which they frequented, and the constant dangers which were incurred through their proscription, deepened upon their minds the gloom of superstition, so general in that age.

"About the same time he [Peden] came to Andrew Normand's house, in the parish of Alloway, in the shire of Ayr, being to preach at night in his barn. After he came in, he halted a little, leaning upon a chair-back, with his face covered; when he lifted up his head, he said,They are in this house that I have not one word of salvation unto;' he halted a little again, saying, 'This is strange, that the devil will not go out, that we may begin our work!' Then there was a woman went out, ill-looked upon almost all her life, and to her dying hour, for a witch, with many presumptions of the same. It escaped me, in the former passages, what John Muirhead (whom I have often mentioned) told me, that when he came from Ireland to Galloway, he was at family-worship, and giving some notes upon the Scripture read, when a very ill-looking man came, and sat down within the door, at the back of the hallan, [partition of the cottage:] immediately he halted and said, 'There is some unhappy body just now come into this house. I charge him to go out, and not stop my mouth! This person went out, and he insisted [went on, yet he saw him neither come in nor go out."-The Life and Prophecies of Mr. Alexander Peden, late Minister of the Gospel at New Glenluce, in Galloway, part ii. § 26.

A friendly correspondent remarks, "that the incapacity of proceeding in the performance of a religious duty, when a contaminated person is present, is of much higher antiquity than the era of the Reverend Mr. Alexander Peden.” Vide Hygini Fabulas, cap. 26. "Medea Corintho exul, Athenas, ad Ægeum Pandionis filium devenit in hospitium, eique nupsit.

"Postea sacerdos Diana Medeam exagitare cœpit, regique negabat sacra caste facere posse, eo quod in ea civitate esset mulier venefica et scelerata; tunc exulatur."

THE Pope he was saying the high, high

mass,

All on Saint Peter's day, With the power to him given, by the saints in heaven,

To wash men's sins away.

The Pope he was saying the blessed mass,
And the people kneel'd around,
And from each man's soul his sins did
pass,

As he kiss'd the holy ground.
And all, among the crowded throng,
Was still, both limb and tongue,
While, through vaulted roof, and aisles
aloof,

The holy accents rung.

At the holiest word he quiver'd for fear,
And falter'd in the sound-

And, when he would the chalice rear,

He dropp'd it to the ground.

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

"A being, whom no blessed word
To ghostly peace can bring;
A wretch, at whose approach abhorr'd,
Recoils each holy thing.

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

I charge thee not to stop my voice,
Nor longer tarry here!"
Amid them all a pilgrim kneel'd,

In gown of sackcloth gray;
Far journeying from his native field,
He first saw Rome that day.

For forty days and nights so drear,

I ween he had not spoke,
And, save with bread and water clear,
His fast he ne'er had broke.
Amid the penitential flock,

Seem'd none more bent to pray;
But, when the Holy Father spoke,
He rose and went his way.
Again unto his native land

His weary course he drew,
To Lothian's fair and fertile strand,
And Pentland's mountains blue.

His unblest feet his native seat, 'Mid Eske's fair woods, regain; Thro' woods more fair no stream more sweet

Rolls to the eastern main.

And lords to meet the pilgrim came,

And vassals bent the knee; For all 'mid Scotland's chiefs of fame, Was none more famed than he.

And boldly for his country, still,

In battle he had stood,

Ay, even when on the banks of Till
Her noblest pour'd their blood.
Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet!
By Eske's fair streams that run,
O'er airy steep, through copsewood
deep,

Impervious to the sun.

There the rapt poet's step may rove,
And yield the muse the day;
There Beauty, led by timid Love,
May shun the tell-tale ray;

From that fair dome, where suit is paid,
By blast of bugle free,

To Auchendinny's hazel glade,

And haunted Woodhouselee.

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

Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,

And classic Hawthornden?

Yet never a path, from day to day,

The pilgrim's footsteps range, Save but the solitary way

To Burndale's ruin'd grange.

A woful place was that, I ween,
As sorrow could desire;

For nodding to the fall was each crumbling wall,

And the roof was scathed with fire.

It fell upon a summer's eve,

While, on Carnethy's head, The last faint gleams of the sun's low beams

Had streak'd the grey with red; And the convent bell did vespers tell,

Newbattle's oaks among,

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

The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell, Came slowly down the wind,

And on the pilgrim's ear they fell,

As his wonted path he did find.
Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was,
Nor ever raised his eye,

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

He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fire,

With many a bitter groanAnd there was aware of a Gray Friar, Resting him on a stone.

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

"Some pilgrim thou seemest to be." But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze, Nor answer again made he.

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

Or bring reliques from over the sea; Or come ye from the shrine of St. James the divine,

Or St. John of Beverley?"

"I come not from the shrine of St. James the divine,

Nor bring reliques from over the sea; I bring but a curse from our father, the Pope,

Which for ever will cling to me.

Now, woful pilgrim, say not so!
But kneel thee down to me,

And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly

sin,

That absolved thou mayst be.""And who art thou, thou Gray Brother, That I should shrive to thee,

When He, to whom are given the keys of earth and heaven,

Has no power to pardon me?”— "O I am sent from a distant clime,

Five thousand miles away, And all to absolve a foul, foul crime, Done here 'twixt night and day." The pilgrim kneel'd him on the sand, And thus began his saye— When on his neck an ice-cold hand Did that Gray Brother laye.

*

GG

« FöregåendeFortsätt »