A sacred awe the soul inspires; The past renewin', And lightens wi' her mystic fires But moralizin's out o' time, Hence ye perceive my subject's prime, Brave and heroic like the rhyme, Which weel it suits Pathetic, scenic, chaste, sublime, Ayont a' doubts. Hence your decision I'll await it Be't guid or bad, I trust ye'll state it; But to contempt, sir, should ye fate it, Deride or spurn it, I'll curse that day a blockhead wrate it, An' hidlins burn it. Meanwhile, immortal Bard, adieu: The wish is fervent Frae your devoted, ever true, Obedient servant. WRITTEN ON A VISIT TO ROSLIN-1844. Oh Roslin! time, war, flood, and fire, Have made your glories star by star expire; Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light- Thy trebly hundred triumphs, and the day Lord Byron. ET other bards on wings of fancy rove― Through foreign regions track their devious ways, And sing each flow'ry dell and myrtled groveLike florid Thomson pour seraphic praise: With Milton talk of aromatic bowers Nursed by eternal summer's genial glow, Where waves the pine, the mellow orange towers, And mantling vines in rich profusion grow: Or, in the ardour of poetic fire, On every fairy landscape may they dwell 'Tis nought to me! I'll sing of Scotia dear, Her heath-clad mountains and her lovely plains Each valley, grove, and pebbled stream revere, All teems with story of a bygone age— When foul invasion, as the simoom blast Or fierce volcanoe, menaced everywhere Ah! where like Roslin shall the wandering Muse What art can touch their Eden-borrowed glow ? Oh hallowed scenes! embalmed in every heart, And championed death and danger blade to blade; Where brave heroic Wallace waved on high His sword, avenging in his country's cause For her resolved to conquer or to die, Nor shall the dauntless Fraser be forgot, Brave Somerville and Lockhart's deathless fame; The laurels here the fearless Cummin sought, The glory that enshrined a Sinclair's name. In Scotia's tale these guardian angels shine, Methinks I see, in chivalric array, All panoplied, these champions of our land, Each on his trusty steed, at dawn of day, 'Gainst leagued oppression lead his kilted band. Ah well their foes the onset might deplore; Revenge seemed glutted-Death could do no more On, on, they rushed, with fierce and furious yell, Chased by the sweeping whirlwind of the brave Where horse and rider met a common grave, Earth groaned beneath the burden of the slain. While those escaping in disorder flew, Fierce goaded by the demon of despair, But ah! that flight, how terrible indeed! Some dashed in pieces, others mangled lay, O dread catastrophe, dilemma dire, Which taught the bold De Segrave last to yield, And beg from Wallace refuge from the ire, Whose deadly thunders loud and louder pealed. The mangled residue in horror saw Resistance and escape alike in vain, Threw down their arms to Scotia's king and law, And thus surrendered, mercy to obtain. But short the truce, deceitful as the smile |