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Where'er thou wind'st, by dale or hill,
As if thy waves, since Time was born,
Nor started at the bugle-horn. Unlike the tide of human time,
Which, though it change in ceaseless flow, Retains each grief, retains each crime,
Its earliest course was doom'd to know;
Low as that tide has ebb'd with me,
Fell by the side of great Dundee.
Call it not vain : they do not err
Who say, that when the poet dies, Mute Nature mourns her worshipper,
And celebrates his obsequies : Who say tall cliff and cavern lone For the departed bard make moan; That mountains weep in crystal rill; That flowers in tears of balm distil ; Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, And oaks, in deeper groan, reply ; And rivers teach their rushing wave To murmur dirges round his grave. Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn Those things inanimate can mourn ; But that the stream, the wood, the gale, Is vocal with the plaintive wail
Of those who, else forgotten long,
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.
Oh Caledonia! stern and wild,
Oh listen, listen, ladies gay!
No haughty feat of arms I tell ; Soft is the note, and sad the lay,
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. “Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
And, gentle ladye, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. “The blackening wave is edged with white;
To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the water-sprite,
Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh. “ Last night the gifted seer did view
A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; Then stay thee, fair, in Ravensheuch :
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ?"
“ 'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my ladye-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle hall. “ 'Tis not because the ring they ride,
And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide,
If 'tis not fill’d by Rosabelle." O’er Roslin all that dreary night
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watchfire's light,
And redder than the bright moonbeam. It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
It ruddied all the copsewood glen; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,
And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud,
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, Each baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply. Seem'd all on fire within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar's pale ; Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair,
The lordly line of high St. Clair.
Lie buried within that proud chapelle ,
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!
With candle, with book, and with knell :
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
Hush'd is the harp-the minstrel gone. And did he wander forth alone? Alone, in indigence and age, To linger out his pilgrimage? No: close beneath proud Newark's tower, A rose the minstrel's lowly bowerA simple hut; but there was seen The little garden hedged with green, The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean. There shelter'd wanderers, by the blaze, Oft heard the tale of other days; For much he loved to ope his door, And give the aid he begg'd before. So pass the winter's day; but still, When summer smiled on sweet Bowhill, And July's eve, with balmy breath, Waved the bluebells on Newark heath; When throstles sung in Harehead-shaw, And corn was green on Carterhaugh, And flourish'd broad Blackandro's oak, The aged harper's soul awoke! Then would he sing achievements high, And circumstance of chivalry, Till the rapt traveller would stay, Forgetful of the closing day; And noble youths, the strain to hear, Forsook the hunting of the deer; And Yarrow, as he roll’d along, Bore burden to the minstrel's song.
FROM 46 MÁRMION.”
Encamp'd on Flodden edge :
Along the dusky ridge.