E'en as the wild waves flow back from the
When it spurns back their might and derides their shock.
"Pass on, brave heart, as thou wert wont,
Th' embattled hosts before: Douglas will die, or follow thee
To conquest, as of yore !"
They met, they closed, dread was the strife,
More dear the gage than fame or life:
There foot to foot and hand to hand,
They stood opposed, and brand cross'd brand.
And mace and bickering falchion there
Mingled with scimitar and spear.
Steel rang on steel-the war-steeds' tread
Trampled the dying and the dead,
The lurid clouds of dust on high
Rose eddying to the darken'd sky,
The vulture snuff'd the scent of blood,
And screaming roused her loathsome brood.
But the pale crescent waned-the host
Of Osmyn saw the battle lost;
And loth to fly, but forced to yield,
Abandon'd sullenly the field.
Where was the Douglas ? on the plain
They found him midst the heap of slain :
Faithful in death, his good right hand
Held with firm grasp his broken brand,
While, o'er the sacred casket laid,
A bulwark of his corse he made.
And deem ye not, while ever there
To highest heaven rose ceaseless prayer,
For Scotland's worth, and Scotland's weal,
For truth to guide, for peace to heal,
For light to choose the better part,
grace to sain her every smart,
For freedom and for equal laws,
For men to strive for freedom's cause
And guard the land he loved the best,
The spirit of the prince was blest?
Oh! doubt it not-if it be given
By mercy of indulgent heaven
To parted spirits, from above
To hover round the land they love,
That bending from a higher sphere
The prince's spirit linger'd near,
Still in the holy anthem blending,
Scotland to heaven's great Lord commending.
The fane is fallen-the rite is o'er
The choral anthem peals no more,
The moonbeam strays thro' nave and aisle,
And the verdant ivy clings round the pile.
It recks not-like dew 'neath the sunny ray,
The hallow'd fabric may pass away:
It recks not for deep in the patriot's breast
The names of his country's heroes rest,
And a thrill of pride it will aye impart,
That Scottish earth wraps the prince's heart.
LADY FLORA HASTINGS.
"Tis strange what different thoughts inspire In men, Possession and Desire!
Think what they wish so great a blessing,
So disappointed when possessing!
A moralist, profoundly sage,
I know not in what book or page,
Or whether o'er a pot of ale,
Related thus the following tale.
Possession, and Desire his brother,
But still at variance with each other,
Were seen contending in a race,
And kept at first an equal pace;
'Tis said their course continued long,
For this was active, that was strong;
Till Envy, Slander, Sloth and Doubt,
Misled them many a league about.
Seduced by some deceiving light,
They take the wrong way for the right,
Through slippery by-roads, dark and deep,
They often climb, and often creep.
Desire, the swifter of the two,
Along the plain like lightning flew,
Till entering on a broad highway,
Where power and titles scatter'd lay,
He strove to pick up all he found,
And by excursions lost his ground:
No sooner got, than with disdain
He threw them on the ground again,
And hasted forward to pursue
Fresh objects fairer to his view,
In hope to spring some nobler game,
But all he took was just the same.
Too scornful now to stop his pace,
He spurn'd them in his rival's face.
Possession kept the beaten road,
And gather'd all his brother strew'd;
But overcharged and out of wind,
Though strong in limbs, he lagg'd behind.
Desire had now the goal in sight,
It was a tower of monstrous height,
Where on the summit Fortune stands,
A crown and sceptre in her hands;
Beneath, a chasm as deep as hell,
Where many a bold adventurer fell:
Desire in rapture gazed awhile,
And saw the treacherous goddess smile,
But as he climb'd to grasp the crown,
She knock'd him with the sceptre down;
He tumbled in the gulf profound,
There doom'd to whirl an endless round.
Possession's load was grown so great,
He sunk beneath the cumbrous weight,
And as he now expiring lay,
Flocks every ominous bird of prey;
The raven, vulture, owl and kite
At once upon his carcase light,
And strip his hide, and pick his bones,
Regardless of his dying groans.
The Newcastle Apothecary.
A MAN in many a country town we know,
Professing openly with death to wrestle,
Ent'ring the field against the grimly foe
Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle.
Yet some affirm, no enemies they are,
But meet just like prize-fighters in a fair,
Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother;
So (many a suff'ring patient saith),
Tho' the apothecary fights with death,
Still they're sworn friends to one another.
A member of this Esculapian line
Lived at Newcastle upon Tyne,
His fame full six miles round the country ran,
In short, in reputation he was solus:
All the old women call'd him " a fine man,"
His name was Bolus.
Benjamin Bolus, tho' in trade
(Which oftentimes will genius fetter),
Read works of fancy, it is said,
And cultivated the belles-lettres.
And why should this be thought so odd,
Can't men have taste who cure a phthisic?
Of poetry, tho' patron-god,
Apollo patronizes physic.
|