The Poetical Works of William Collins; With a Memoir Part 12

V.

To monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray, 70 Oft have they seen Fate give the fatal blow!

The seer, in Sky, shriek'd as the blood did flow, When headless Charles warm on the scaffold lay!

As Boreas threw his young Aurora[43] forth, In the first year of the first George's reign, 75 And battles raged in welkin of the North, They mourn'd in air, fell, fell Rebellion slain!

And as, of late, they joy'd in Preston's fight, Saw, at sad Falkirk, all their hopes near crown'd!

They raved! divining, through their second sight,[44] 80 Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drown'd!

Ill.u.s.trious William![45] Britain's guardian name!

One William saved us from a tyrant's stroke; He, for a sceptre, gain'd heroic fame, But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast broke, 85 To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke!

VI.

These, too, thou'lt sing! for well thy magic muse Can to the topmost heaven of grandeur soar; Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more!

Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne'er lose; 90 Let not dank Will[46] mislead you to the heath; Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake, He glows, to draw you downward to your death, In his bewitch'd, low, marshy, willow brake!

What though far off, from some dark dell espied, 95 His glimmering mazes cheer the excursive sight, Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside, Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; For watchful, lurking, 'mid the unrustling reed, At those mirk hours the wily monster lies, 100 And listens oft to hear the pa.s.sing steed, And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes, If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise.

VII.

Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest, indeed!

Whom late bewilder'd in the dank, dark fen, 105 Far from his flocks, and smoking hamlet, then!

To that sad spot where hums the sedgy weed: On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood, Shall never look with pity's kind concern, But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood 110 O'er its drown'd banks, forbidding all return!

Or, if he meditate his wish'd escape, To some dim hill, that seems uprising near, To his faint eye the grim and grisly shape, In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear. 115 Meantime the watery surge shall round him rise, Pour'd sudden forth from every swelling source!

What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs?

His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthly force, And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse! 120

VIII.

For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait, Or wander forth to meet him on his way; For him in vain at to-fall of the day, His babes shall linger at the unclosing gate!

Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if night 125 Her travel'd limbs in broken slumbers steep, With drooping willows drest, his mournful sprite Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep: Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand, Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek, 130 And with his blue swoln face before her stand, And, s.h.i.+vering cold, these piteous accents speak: "Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue, At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; Nor e'er of me one helpless thought renew, 135 While I lie weltering on the osier'd sh.o.r.e, Drown'd by the Kelpie's[47] wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee more!"

IX.

Unbounded is thy range; with varied skill Thy muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing 140 Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle, To that h.o.a.r pile[48] which still its ruins shows: In whose small vaults a pigmy folk is found, Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows, And culls them, wondering, from the hallow'd ground! 145 Or thither,[49] where, beneath the showery west, The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid; Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest, No slaves revere them, and no wars invade: Yet frequent now, at midnight's solemn hour, 150 The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power, In pageant robes, and wreath'd with sheeny gold, And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold.

X.

But, oh, o'er all, forget not Kilda's race, 155 On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides, Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides.

Go! just, as they, their blameless manners trace!

Then to my ear transmit some gentle song, Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, 160 Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along, And all their prospect but the wintry main.

With sparing temperance, at the needful time, They drain the scented spring; or, hunger-prest, Along the Atlantic rock, undreading climb, 165 And of its eggs despoil the solan's[50] nest.

Thus, blest in primal innocence, they live Sufficed, and happy with that frugal fare Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give.

Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare; 170 Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

XI.

Nor need'st thou blush that such false themes engage Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest; For not alone they touch the village breast, But fill'd, in elder time, the historic page. 175 There, Shakespeare's self, with every garland crown'd, Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen, In musing hour; his wayward sisters found, And with their terrors drest the magic scene.

From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design, 180 Before the Scot, afflicted, and aghast!

The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant pa.s.s'd.

Proceed! nor quit the tales which, simply told, Could once so well my answering bosom pierce; 185 Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colours bold, The native legends of thy land rehea.r.s.e; To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy powerful verse.

XII.

In scenes like these, which, daring to depart From sober truth, are still to nature true, 190 And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view, The heroic muse employ'd her Ta.s.so's art!

How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke, Its gus.h.i.+ng blood the gaping cypress pour'd!

When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, 195 And the wild blast upheaved the vanish'd sword!

How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind, To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung!

Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind Believed the magic wonders which he sung! 200 Hence, at each sound, imagination glows!

Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here!

Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows!

Melting it flows, pure, murmuring, strong, and clear, And fills the impa.s.sion'd heart, and wins the harmonious ear! 205

XIII.

All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail!

Ye splendid friths and lakes, which, far away, Are by smooth Annan[51] fill'd or pastoral Tay,[51]

Or Don's[51] romantic springs at distance hail!

The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread 210 Your lowly glens, o'erhung with spreading broom; Or, o'er your stretching heaths, by Fancy led; Or, o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom!

Then will I dress once more the faded bower, Where Jonson[52] sat in Drummond's cla.s.sic shade; 215 Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flower, And mourn, on Yarrow's banks, where w.i.l.l.y's laid!

Meantime, ye powers that on the plains which bore The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains,[53] attend!-- Where'er Home dwells, on hill, or lowly moor, 220 To him I lose, your kind protection lend, And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my absent friend!

VARIATIONS.

Ver.

44. Whether thou bidst the well taught hind relate

51. The st.u.r.dy clans pour'd forth their bony swarms,

56. Or in the gloom of Uist's dark forest dwells:

58. With their own visions oft afflicted droop,

66. Their bidding mark, and at their beck repair:

100. At those sad hours the wily monster lies;

111. O'er its drowned bank, forbidding all return!

124. His babes shall linger at the cottage gate!

127. With dropping willows drest, his mournful sprite