And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie
A momentary dream, that thou art she.
My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial-day,
I saw the hearse, that bore thee, slow, away,
And turning from my nursery-window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !
But was it such ?-It was.- -Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believed,
And disappointed still, was still deceived,
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot,
But though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children, not thine, have trod my nursery-floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call'd the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe, and warmly laid;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd ;
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes;
And this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Nor scorn'd in Heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, the jessamine,
I prick'd them into paper with a pin,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile,)
Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.-
But, no-what here we call our life is such
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Thou as a gallant bark from Albion's coast,
(The storms all weather'd, and the ocean cross'd),
Shoots into port, at some well-haven'd isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her fanning light, her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore,
"Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar,"
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distrest,
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tost,
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet, oh! the thought that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now, farewell-Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done,
By contemplation's help not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ;
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;
And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
RED Culloden, sang the Harper,
On MacDhui's awful brow,
Never, never has the Northland,
Seen a bloodier field than thou.
Never yet the rose of battle,
Ranker grew with gory bloom,
When the tartan'd sons of heroes
Cleft their pathway to the tomb.
God, I see the bolt of thunder
Burst the future's misty veil,
Scatter'd o'er thy moor, Culloden,
All the glory of the Gael!
There they lie, our sons, our heroes, Like sea-wreck by the reeling flood! There they lie, O dark Culloden,
On thy shore, O sea of blood! And the life-tide curdles darkly In the crystal of our rills; Yelling see the Highland eagle
Swooping downward from the hills; He comes to tear thy heart, MacKenzie, Cloven with the Saxon steel, He screams o'er his wild carnival, The clansmen of Lochiel!
Drumossie moor, Drumossie moor,
Thy dreary waste for aye,
Shall remain a mournful record still
Of our country's darkest day.
And mournfully-oh! mournfully,
Down through the mist of years,
Of the last and awful grapple
Of the Scottish Cavaliers.
When the standard of Glenfinlas
Riven fell to rise no more,
And the White Rose of the Stewart,
Dripping dark with battle-gore,
Droop'd beneath the Lion Banner,
Nevermore to flush and bloom,
Scaith'd upon the rocks of Albyn,
By the levin-bolt of doom;
Buried 'mong the wrecks of battle,
With the bloody Highland blade Fierce death-lock'd in the hero's hand, Who wore the White Cockade.
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