To Miss Baillie's "Family Legend," a Tragedy.
'Tis sweet to hear expiring summer's sigh
Through forests tinged with russet, wail and die;
'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to hear
Of distant music dying on the ear;
But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand,
We list the legends of our native land,
Linked as they come with every tender tie,
Memorials dear of youth and infancy.
Some allusions in the Epilogue render it necessary to give an idea of the story on which the Tragedy is founded. In the fifteenth century the Macleans having been subdued by the Campbells, the chieftain of the former sued for peace, which was granted, and the daughter of Argyle was given to him, as a bond of union between the two clans. The mortal hatred of the Macleans to the Campbells, still, however, existed, and they, at length, by threats of abandoning him, compelled their chieftain to give up his wife to them. All he could obtain from the ruffians was a promise that they would not shed her blood. One dark winter night she was forced into a boat, and carried to a rock, which at high water was covered by the sea. There she was left to perish, but, fortunately, when the water had reached her breast, she was saved by some boatmen, and conveyed home to her father. Argyle kept her escape a profound secret, and shortly after Maclean arrived in deep mourning to announce her sudden death. At dinner Lady Maclean entered, and took a vacant place which had been left for her on her father's right hand. Maclean, when he recovered from his astonishment, endeavoured to fly, but was followed, and slain, by her brother, the Lord of Lorne.-EDITOR.
Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon,
Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son;
Whether in India's burning coasts he toil,
Or till Acadia's winter-fetter'd soil,
*
He hears with throbbing heart, and moisten'd eyes,
And as he hears, what dear illusions rise!
It opens on his soul his native dell,
The woods wild-waving, and the water's swell;
Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain,
The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain;
The cot, beneath whose simple porch was told
By grey-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old,
The infant group that hush'd their sports the while,
And the dear maid who listen'd with a smile.
The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain,
Is denizen of Scotland once again.
Are such keen feelings to the crowd confin'd,
And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind?
Oh no! for She, within whose mighty page
Each tyrant passion shows his woe and rage,
Has felt the wizard influence they inspire,
And to your own traditions tuned her lyre.
Yourselves shall judge-whoe'er has rais'd the sail
By Mull's dark coast, has heard this evening's tale;
The plaided boatman, resting on his oar
Points to the fatal rock amid the roar
Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to night,
Our humble stage shall offer to your sight;
Proudly preferr'd, that first our efforts give
Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live;
More proudly yet, should Caledon approve
The filial token of a daughter's love.
BY HENRY MACKENZIE, ESQ.
Spoken by Mrs. H. Siddons, in her ordinary Dress.
WELL! here I am, these scenes of suffering o'er,
Safe among you," a widow'd thing no more;
And though some squeamish critics still contend
That not so soon the tragic tone should end,
Nor flippant Epilogue, with smiling face,
Elbow her serious sister from the place;
I stand prepar'd with precedent and custom,
To plead the adverse doctrine-Wont you trust ’em ?
I think you will, and now the curtain's down,
Unbend your brows, nor on my prattle frown.
You've seen how, in our country's ruder age,
Our moody lords would let their vassals rage,
And while they drove men's herds, and burnt their houses,
To some lone isle condemn'd their own poor spouses;
Their portion-drowning when the tide should serve;
Their separate aliment—a leave to starve;
And for the Scottish rights of Power and Tierce,
A deep sea burial, and an empty hearse.
Such was of old, the fuss about this matter; In our good times, 'tis manag'd greatly better; When modern ladies part with modern lords, Their business no such tragic tale affords; Their "Family Legends," in the Charter chest, In deeds of ink, not deeds of blood, consist ;
In place of ruffians ambush'd in the dark,
Comes, with his pen, a harmless lawyer's clerk,
Draws a long-bond, my lady packs her things,
And leaves her mate to smooth his ruffled wings.
In the free code of first enlighten'd France,
Marriage was broke for want of convenance;
No fault to find, no grievances to tell,
But, like tight shoes, they did not fit quite well.
The lady curt'sied, with " Adieu Monsieur,"
The husband bow'd, or shrugg'd, "de tout mon cœur !"
L'affaire est faite ;" each partner free to range,
Made life a dance, and every dance a change.
In England's colder soil they scarce contrive
To keep these foreign freedom-plants alive ;
Yet in some gay parterres we've seen, even there,
Its blushing fruit this frail exotic bear ;-
Couples make shift to slip the marriage chain,
Cross hands-cast off-and are themselves again,
(Bell rings.)
But, soft, I hear the Prompter's summons rung,
That calls me off, and stops my idle tongue;
A Sage, our fair and virtuous Author's friend,
Shakes his stern head, and bids my nonsense end ;-
Bids me declare, she hopes her parent land
May long this current of the times withstand,
That here, in purity and honour bred,
Shall love and duty wreathe the nuptial bed;
The brave good husband, and his faithful wife,
Revere the sacred charities of life;
And bid their children, like their sires of old,
Firm, honest, upright, for their country bold;
Here, where "Rome's eagles found unvanquish'd foes,"
The Gallic vulture fearlessly oppose,
Chase from this favour'd isle, with baffled wing,
Bless'd in its good old laws, old manners, and old king.
THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL
TO HIS MUSE.
As, by some tyrant's stern command,
A wretch forsakes his native land,
In foreign climes condemn'd to roam,
An endless exile from his home;
Pensive he treads the destin'd way,
And dreads to go, nor dares to stay;
Till on some neighb'ring mountain's brow
He stops, and turns his eye below;
There, melting at the well-known view,
Drops a last tear, and bids adieu :
So I, thus doom'd from thee to part,
Gay Queen of Fancy, and of Art,
Reluctant move, with doubtful mind,
Oft stop, and often look behind.
Companion of my tender age,
Serenely gay, and sweetly sage,
How blithsome were we wont to rove
By verdant hill, or shady grove,
Where fervent bees, with humming voice,
Around the honey'd oak rejoice,
And aged elms, with awful bend,
In long cathedral walks extend !
Lull'd by the lapse of gliding floods,
Cheer'd by the warbling of the woods,
How blest my days, my thoughts how free,
In sweet society with thee!
|