Jarring upon his silver speech,
So sweet to comfort and to teach.
In yonder dark and lofty stone
There dwells a voice, that came of old,
And roused my fathers with its moan,
And made them mad and fierce and bold.
When sleep was on the eyes of men,
It shrilly on the silence broke,
And called for blood, till, through the glen,
Each Druid shivered and awoke.
A sacred fury filled the band,
They scattered o'er their ancient land, Chanting those hymns they used to raise, When they were priests in other days; Till sires were murdered as they slept, And mothers shrieked, and widows wept.
'Tis Beal's voice, my father said,
But, stranger, list, my soul is sick
With dismal thoughts-that God I dread
Of whom the spirit loved to speak;
He told, how blood awaked his wrath;
How murderers mourned in penal fire;
How Beal, in the land of death,
Could never shield me from his ire.
I know not what, I fain would pray,
And ask his pardon while I may !"
He paused, and fell, and was about
To call upon th' Eternal name;
When, from the stone he pointed out,
A deep unhallowed murmur came,
And then a voice-" To Beal give
This stranger's blood, and thou shalt live."
Upsprung the Druid! fierce his look
With murder and with ghastly joy,
And griped his victim. Age forsook
His limbs, in that extremity.
They fell, and struggled each for life,
Where former victim's bones were spread;
And, still, amid the strife,
The priest invoked his fathers dead, To help him, and the powers of hell: And sought his girdle for a knife, With broken groans and curses fell; And strained, convulsed, and, dæmon-like, Trembled for eagerness to strike.-
But Barnard shakes him off and flies, While cursed by Beal's voice the Druid dies.
TO SIR THOMAS GRAHAM, On His Return TO SPAIN AFTER A SHORT VISIT TO THIS COUNTRY.
WARRIOR-thou seek'st again the battle-field,
Where Freedom hails afar thy soul of flame;
And fall'n Iberia kindles at thy name :-
Beneath the shade of England's guardian shield
She girds her armour on, and strives to wield
Her long-forgotten lance:-Yes, there, thy fame
Shall in the hymn of kindred hosts be sung
Round Spain's romantic shores, when she hath thrust
The spoiler from her homes, and proudly hung
Her faulchion on the wall-but not to rust!
-Bright gleams that vengeful blade, as when of yore
She smote the crescent on the Moslem's brow—
Warrior! she hails in thee her CID once more,
To conquer in a fiercer conflict now!
WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF ROXBURGH CASTLE
LONG have I wish'd, sweet Teviot stream!
To visit thy romantic shore,
And often burn'd in fancy's dream
To wander here by dying beam-
Again each sacred haunt explore,
And image every fabled tale of yore.
Now to this solitude I've stray'd,
And view the clustering copsewood grow
On Roxburgh's ancient walls decayed,-
Where foemen erst in steel array'd,
With deadly thrust and clanging blow
Have often stain'd thy river's crystal flow.
Long now have slept the fierce and brave,
Who here war's crimson flag unfurled ;
Now peaceful rolls thy classic wave
By lover's haunt and patriot's grave:
Near other streams the bolt is hurled,
And mortal strife deforms a distant world.
O stream of Scotish Arcady!
"Tis sweet at twilight's lovely hour, While mystic visions hover nigh,
To list thy plaintive lullaby
"Tis sweet to view yon Abbey tower,* Silvered with dew from Hesper's airy bower.
A wilderness of bliss around
Spreads far to fancy's musing eye,
Where KELSO smiles on fairy ground,
By wooded isle and cliffy mound;
And many a form now rises high,
The vulgar gaze of day might not espy!
And from that vale where rivers meet,†
And hawthorn shades embower the green,
I hear the west wind's rustle sweet,
Soft as the sound of fairy feet;
And shadowy forms are faintly seen,
While curfew chimes float through the air serene.
Now I must leave this lovely spot,
The arching grove-the ruined tower
Tho' peaceful as a hermit's grot,
And holy as a vestal's lot;
But soon may come a soul-felt hour
When midst these shades I'll hail th' inspiring power.
Yes, oft at sacred eventide,
When dying winds just move the pine,
As down the odorous vale they glide
When Evening's Gem is new descried,-
My roving limbs shall here recline,
And *
* wake his minstrel harp with mine.
*The Gothic ruin of Kelso Abbey.
The Tweed and Teviot unite immediately opposite Kelso.
WRITTEN IN THE CAVE OF FINGAL.
Dark Staffa, in thy grotto wild,
How my rapt soul is taught to feel;
O well becomes it Nature's child
Low in her stateliest shrine to kneel!
Thou art no fiend's nor giant's home-
Thy piles of dark and solemn grain
Bespeak thy dread and sacred dome,
Great temple of the western main !
For the harp of the air is heard in thee,
Sounding its holiest lullaby.
Far in thy vaults the mermaid sings,
And the sea-bird's note responsive rings;
Yes, the hymn of the winds, and the ocean's roar,
Are heard in thee for evermore !
Tho' other wonders meet mine eye,
From my chilled heart shall never fly
Thy arches cavern'd, green
and torn,
On Nature's rifted columns borne ;
Thy furnaced pillars, tall and sure,
Propping the wild entablature.
That round each cope and architrave
In awful murmurs weep and rave;
The whirl of Nature's grand turmoil,
Where billows burst and torrents boil
Thro' portals stern and pavements riven,
Upreared by Architect of Heaven-
Thro' darkened domes, and dens of wonder,
And caverns of eternal thunder.
SPOKEN BY MR ELLISTON AT THE OPENING OF THE NEW THEATRE ROYAL DRURY LANE.
In one dread night your city saw, and sighed,
Bowed to the dust, the drama's tower of pride;
In one short hour, beheld the blazing fane,
Apollo sink, and Shakespeare cease to reign.
Ye who beheld, oh sight, admired and mourned,
Whose radiance mocked the ruin it adorned;
Through clouds of fire, the massy fragments riven,
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven,
Saw the long column of revolving flames
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames,
While thousands, thronged around the burning dome,
Shrank back appalled, and trembled for their home;
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own;
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall
Usurped the muse's realm, and marked her fall;
Say-shall this new nor less aspiring pile,
Reared where once rose the mightiest in our isle,
Know the same favour which the former knew,
A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and you!
Yes it shall be The magic of that name
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame,
On the same spot still consecrates the scene,
And bids the drama be where she hath been:
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell,
Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well?
As soars this fane to emulate the last,
Oh! might we draw our omens from the past,
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art
O'erwhelmed the gentlest, stormed the sternest heart;
On Drury Garrick's latest laurels grew ;
Here your last tears retiring Koscius drew,
Sighed his last thanks, and wept his last adieu :
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom,
That only waste their odours o'er the tomb.
Such Drury claimed and claims, nor you refuse
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse.
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