They sang their glorious Maker's praise by stealth, "O fear not, mother! I will go,
Th' inclement sky beneath..
And some were forced to flee their native land,
Or in the grated prison's gloom,
Dealt to them by corruption's hateful hand,
Abide their fatal doom.
And there our former thrall, the good, The firm, the gentle Jerviswood Again was pent with sickness worn, Watching each pulse's feebler beat Which promised, ere the fated morn, The scaffold of its prey to cheat.
And now that patriot's ancient, faithful friend,
Our maiden's sire, must to the tempest bend.
He too must quit his social hearth,
The place where cheerful friends resort,
And travellers rest and children sport,
To lay him on the mouldering earth;
Through days of lonely gloom to rest his head
With them, who, in those times unblest,
Alone had sure and fearless rest,
The still, the envied dead.
Sad was his hiding place, I ween,
A fearful place, where sights had been,
Full oft, by the benighted rustic seen;
Ay, elrich forms in sheeted white,
Which, in the waning moonlight blast,
Pass by, nor shadow onward cast,
Like any earthly wight;
A place, where midnight lights had shone
Through charnel windows, and the glancing
Of wandering flame, on church-path lone,
Betray'd the hour when fiends and hags were dancing,
Or to their vigil foul with trooping haste advancing.
A place, whose gate with weeds o'ergrown,
Hemlock and dock of deep dull green,
That climbing rank the lintels screen,
What time the moon is riding high
The very hounds went cowering by,
Or watch'd afar with howling moan;
For brutes, 'tis said, will see what meets no human
You well may guess his faithful wife
A heart of heavy cheer had then,
Listening her household's hum of life,
And thinking of his silent den.
"O! who will to that vault of death,
At night's still watch repair,
The dark and chilly sky beneath,
And needful succour bear?
Many his wants, who bideth lonely there!""
Nor quick nor dead shall daunt me; no;
Nor witch-fires, dancing in the dark,
Nor owlet's shriek, not watch-dog's bark,
For I will think, the while, I do God's blessed will.
I'll be his active Brownie sprite,
To bring him needful food, and share his lonely
And she, ere stroke of midnight bell,
Did bound her for that dismal cell;
And took that haunted, fearful way
Which, till that hour, in twilight gray
She never by herself had past,
Or e'en athwart its copse-wood cast
A hasty glance, for dread of seeing
The form of some unearthly being.
But now, far other forms of fear
To her sacred sight appear,
And, like a sudden fit of ague, move her;
The stump of some old, blasted tree,
Or upright stone, or colt broke free
To range at will the dewy lea,
Seem lurking spy or rustic lover,
Who may, e'en through the dark, her secret drift
She pauses oft.-" What whispers near?
The babbling burn sounds in my ear.
Some hasty form the pathway crosses:-
'Tis but a branch the light wind tosses.
What thing is that by churchyard gate,
That seems like spearman tall to wait?
'Tis but the martyr's slender stone
Which stands so stately and alone:
Why should I shrink? why should I fear?
The vault's black door is near."
And she with icy fingers knock'd,
And heard with joy the door unlock'd,
And felt the yawning fence give way,
As deep and harsh the sounding hinges bray.
But to describe their tender meeting,
Tears shed unseen, affection utter'd
In broken words, and blessings mutter'd,
With many a kiss and kindly greeting,
I know not; would my feeble skill
Were meeter yokemate to my will!
Then from the struck flint flew the spark, And lighted taper, faint and small,
Gave out its dun rays through the dark, On vaulted roof and crusted wall:
On stones reversed in crumbling mould,
And blacken'd poles of bier decay'd
That lumbering on the ground were laid;
On sculptured wrecks, defaced and old,
And shreds of painted 'scutcheons torn
Which once, in pointed lozenge spread,
The pillar'd church aloft had worn;
While new-swept nook and lowly bed,
Strange sight in such a place!
Betray'd a piteous case,
And could there be in lovers meeting
More powerful chords to move the mind,
Fond heart to heart responsive beating,
Than in that tender hour, pure, pious love entwined.
Thus, night succeeding night, her love
Did its unwearied nature prove,
Tender and fearless; till, obscured by crimes,
Again so darkly lower'd the changeful times,
Man from man's converse torn, the living with the That her good sire, though shut from light of day,
He bore himself with dauntless air; Albeit, with mortal sickness spent, Upon a woman's arm he leant.
E'er wept and smiled by turns with smiles so fondly From earth to heaven at yestere'en he went."
But soon youth's buoyant, gladsome nature,
Spreads joy unmix'd o'er every feature,
As she her tale is archly telling
Of feuds within their busy dwelling,
While, round the savoury table sitting,
She gleans his meal, the rest unwitting,
How she, their open eyes deceiving,
So dexterous has become in thieving.
She tells, how of some trifle prating,
She stirs them all to keen debating,
While into napkin'd lap she's sliding
Her portion, oft renew'd, and hiding,
Beneath the board, her store; amazing
Her jealous Frere, oft on her gazing.
Then with his voice and eager eye,
She speaks in harmless mimickry.
"Mother! was e'er the like beheld?
Some wolf possesses our Griseld;
She clears her dish, as I'm a sinner!
Like ploughman at his new-year's dinner."
And waat each urchin, one by one,
Had best in sport or lesson done,
She fail'd not to repeat;
Though sorry tales they might appear
To a fastidious critic's ear,
They were to him most sweet.
But they must part till o'er the sky
Night cast again her sable dye;
For ah! her term is almost over!
How fleetly hath it flown!
As fleetly as with tristed lover
The stealthy hour is gone.
In silence deep the listeners stood,
An instant horror chill'd their blood.
The lady groan'd, and turn'd aside
Her fears and troubled thoughts to hide.
The children wept, then went to play;
The servants cried "Awaladay!"
But O! what inward sights, which borrow
The forms that are not, changing still,
Like shadows on a broken rill,
Were blended with our damsel's sorrow!
Those lips, those eyes so sweetly mild,
That bless'd her as a humble child;
The block in sable, deadly trim,
The kneeling form, the headsman grim,
The sever'd head with life-blood streaming,-
Were ever 'thwart her fancy gleaming.
Her father, too, in perilous state,
He may be seized, and like his friend
Upon the fatal scaffold bend.
May Heaven preserve him still from such a dread
And then she thought, if this must be,
Who, honour'd sire, will wait on thee,
And serve thy wants with decent pride,
Like Baillie's kinswoman, subduing fear
With fearless love, thy last sad scene to cheer,
E'en on the scaffold standing by thy side?
A friend like his, dear father, thou shalt have,
To serve thee to the last, and linger round thy grave
Her father then, who narrowly
With life escaped, was forced to fly
His dangerous home, a home no more,
And cross the sea. A friendly shore
Received the fugitive, and there,
Like prey broke from the spoiler's snare,
To join her hapless lord, the dame With all her numerous family came; And found asylum, where th' opprest Of Scotland's patriot sons had rest, Like sea fowl clustering in the rock To shun some rising tempest's shock.
But said I all the family? no:
Word incorrect! it was not so:
For one, the youngest child, confined
With fell disease, was left behind;
While certain things, as thus by stealth
They fled, regarding worldly wealth
Of much import, were left undone;
And who will now that peril run,
Again to visit Scotland's shore,
From whence they did in fear depart,
And to each parent's yearning heart
The darling child restore ?
And who did for affection's sake
This task of peril undertake?
O! who but she, whose bosom swell'd With feelings high, whose self-devotion Follow'd each generous, strong emotion,
And well, with ready hand and heart,
Each task of toilsome duty taking,
Did one dear inmate play her part,
The last asleep, the earliest waking.
Her hands each nightly couch prepared,
And frugal meal on which they fared:
Unfolding spread the servet white,
And deck'd the board with tankard bright.
Through fretted hose and garment rent,
Her tiny needle deftly went,
Till hateful penury, so graced,
Was scarcely in their dwelling traced.
With reverence to the old she clung,
With sweet affection to the young.
To her was crabbed lesson said,
To her the sly petition made,
To her was told each petty care;
By her was lisp'd the tardy prayer,
What time the urchin, half undrest
And half asleep, was put to rest.
There is a sight all hearts beguiling.A youthful mother to her infant smiling, Who, with spread arms and dancing feet,
The young, the sweet, the good, the brave Griseld. And cooing voice, returns its answer sweet.
Yes; she again cross'd o'er the main,
And things of moment left undone,
Though o'er her head had scarcely run
Her nineteenth year, no whit deluded
By wily fraud, she there concluded,
And bore the youngling to its home again.
But when she reach'd the Belgian strand,
Hard was her lot. Fast fell the rain,
And there lay many miles of land,
A stranger's land, ere she might gain
The nearest town. With hardship crost,
The wayward child its shoes had lost;
Their coin was spent, their garments light,
And dark and dreary was the night.
Then like some gipsy girl on desert moor,
Her helpless charge upon her back she bore.
Who then had guess'd that figure slight,
So bending in such humble plight,
Was one of proud and gentle race,
Possessing all that well became
Th' accomplish'd maid or high-born dame,
Who does not love to see the grandame mild,
Lesson with yearning looks the listening child?
But 'tis a thing of saintlier nature,
Amidst her friends of pigmy stature,
To see the maid in youth's fair bloom,
A guardian sister's charge assume,
And, like a touch of angel's bliss,
Receive from each its grateful kiss.
To see them, when their hour of love is past,
Aside their grave demeanour cast.
With her in mimic war they wrestle;
Beneath her twisted robe they nestle;
Upon her glowing cheek they revel,
Low bended to their tiny level;
While oft, her lovely neck bestriding
Crows some arch imp, like huntsman riding.
This is a sight the coldest heart may feel;-
To make down rugged cheeks the kindly tear to steal.
But when the toilsome sun was set,
And evening groups together met,
(For other strangers shelter'd there
Would seek with them to lighten care,)
Her feet still in the dance moved lightest,
Befitting princely hall or monarch's court to grace? Her eye with merry glance beam'd brightest,
Their minds from many racking cares relieved, The gladsome parents to their arms received Her and the infant dear, caressing
The twain by turns; while many a blessing, Which sweetly all her toil repaid,
Was shed upon their generous maid:
And though the inmates of a humble home,
To which they had as wretched outlaws come,
Though hard their alter'd lot might be,
In crowded city pent,
They lived with mind and body free
In grateful, quiet content.
Her braided locks were coil'd the neatest,
Her carol song was thrill'd the sweetest;
And round the fire, in winter cold,
No archer tale than hers was told.
O! spirits gay, and kindly heart!
Precious the blessings ye impart!
Though all unwittingly the while,
Ye make the pining exile smile,
And transient gladness charm his pain,
Who ne'er shall see his home again.
Ye make the stern misanthrope's brow
With tint of passing kindness glow,
And age spring from his elbow-chair
The sport of lightsome glee to share.
Thus did our joyous maid bestow
Her beamy soul on want and wo;
While proud, poor men, in threadbare suit,
Frisk'd on the floor with lightsome foot,
And from her magic circle chase
The fiends that vex the human race.
And do not, gentle reader, chide,
If I record her harmless pride,
Who sacrificed the hours of sleep,
Some show of better times to keep;
That, though as humble soldier dight,
A stripling brother might more trimly stand
With pointed cuff and collar white,
Like one of gentler race mix'd with a homelier band.
And in that band of low degree
Another youth of gentle blood
Was found, who late had cross'd the sea,
The son of virtuous Jerviswood,
Who did as common sentry wait
Before a foreign prince's gate.
And if his eye, oft on the watch,
One look of sweet Griseld might catch,
It was to him no dull nor irksome state.
And thus some happy years stole by;
Adversity with virtue mated,
Her state of low obscurity,
Set forth but as deep shadows, fated
By Heaven's high will to make the light
Of future skies appear more bright.
And with those worthies, 'twas a happy doom
Right fairly earn'd, embark'd, Sir Patrick Hume.
Their fleet, though long at sea, and tempest-tost,
In happy hour at last arrived on England's coast.
XXXIX.
Meantime his dame and our fair maid
Still on the coast of Holland stay'd,
With anxious and misgiving minds,
Listening the sound of warring winds:
The ocean rose with deafening roar,
And beat upon the trembling shore,
Whilst breakers dash'd their whitening spray
O'er mound and dyke with angry bray,
As if it would ingulf again
The land once rescued from its wild domain.
Oft on the beach our damsel stood
Midst groups of many a fearful wight,
Who view'd, like her, the billowy flood,
Silent and sad, with visage shrunk and white,
While bloated corse and splinter'd mast,
And bale and cask on shore were cast,-
A sad and rueful sight!
But when, at the Almighty will,
The tempest ceased, and sea was still,
From Britain's isle glad tidings came,
Received with loud and long acclaim.
But joy appears with shrouded head
To those who sorrow o'er the dead;
For, struck with sore disease, while there
They tarried pent in noisome air,
And thus, at lowest ebb, man's thoughts are oft The sister of her heart, whom she
He deems not that the very struggle
Of active virtue, and the war
She bravely holds with present ill,
Sustain'd by hope, does by the skill
Of some conceal'd and happy juggle,
Had watch'd and tended lovingly,
Like blighted branch whose blossoms fade, That day was in her coffin laid.
She heard the chimed bells loudly ringing, She heard the caroll'd triumph singing, And clamorous throng, and shouting boys,
Become itself the good which yet seems distant far. And thought how vain are human joys!
On these, their happiest years, in humble dwelling When her kind parent and herself depart,
At length the sky, so long with clouds o'ercast,
Unveil'd its cope of azure hue,
And gave its fair expanse to view ;
The pelting storm of tyranny was past.
For he, the prince of glorious memory,
The prince, who shall, as passing ages fly,
Be blest; whose wise, enlighten'd, manly mind,
E'en when but with a stripling's years combined,
Had with unyielding courage oft contended
For Europe's freedom, -for religion, blended
With just, forbearing charity, and all
To man most dear;-now, at the honour'd call
Of Britain's patriot sons, the ocean plough'd
With gallant fleet, encompass'd by a crowd
Of soldiers, statesmen, souls of proof, who vow'd
Firm by his side to stand, let good or ill befall.
To join, ere long, the dearest to her heart,
In their own native land again.
They soon their own fair island hail'd,
As on the rippling sea they sail'd.
Ye well may guess their joyful cry,
With upraised hands and glistening eye,
When, rising from the ocean blue,
Her chalky cliff's first met their view,
Whose white verge on th' horizon rear'd,
Like wall of noonday clouds appear'd.
These ye may guess, for well the show
And outward signs of joy we know.
But cease we on this theme to dwell,
For pen or pencil cannot tell
The thrill of keen delight from which they flow.
Such moments of ecstatic pleasure
Are fancy's fairest, brightest treasure,
Gilding the scope of duller days
With oft-recurring retrospect,
With which right happily she plays.
E'en as a moving mirror will reflect
Its glancing rays on shady side
Of home or glen, when school-boys guide
With skilful hands their mimic sun
To heaven's bright sun opposed; we see
Its borrow'd sheen on fallow dun,
On meadow green, on rock and tree,
On broomy steep, on rippling spring,
On cottage thatch, and every thing.
And Britain's virtuous queen admired
Our gentle maid, and in her train
Of ladies will'd her to remain :
What more could young ambition have desired?
But, like the blossom to the bough,
Or wall-flower to the ruin's brow,
Or tendril to the fostering stock,
Or seaweed on the briny rock,
Or mistletoe to sacred tree,
Or daisy to the swarded lea,
So truly to her own she clung;
Nor cared for honours vain, from courtly favour sprung.
Nor would she in her native north,
When woo'd by one of wealth and worth,
The neighbour of her happy home,
Though by her gentle parents press'd
And flattered, courted and caress'd,
A splendid bride become.
"I may not," said her gentle heart,
"The very thought endure,
That those so kind should feel the smart
A daughter's wants might oft impart,
For Jerviswood is poor.
But yet, though poor, why should I smother
This dear regard? he'll be my brother,
And thus through life we'll love each other.
What though, as changing years flit by,
Gray grow my head, and dim his eye!
We'll meekly bear our wayward fate,
And scorn their petty spite who rate,
With senseless gibes, the single state,
Till we are join'd, at last, in heavenly bliss on
high."
But Heaven for them decreed a happier lot:
The father of the virtuous youth,
Who died devoted for the truth,
Was not, when better times return'd, forgot:
To the right heir was given his father's land,
And with his lady's love, he won her hand.
Their long tried faith in honour plighted,
They were a pair by Heaven united,
Whose wedded love, through lengthen'd years,
The trace of early fondness wears.
Her heart first guess'd his doubtful choice,
Her ear first caught his distant voice,
And from afar, her wistful eye
Would first his graceful form descry.
E'en when he hied him forth to meet
The open air in lawn or street,
She to her casement went,
And after him, with smile so sweet,
Her look of blessing sent.
The heart's affection, -secret thing!
Is like the cleft rock's ceaseless spring,
Which free and independent flows
Of summer rains or winter snows.
The foxglove from its side may fall
The heathbloom fade or moss-flower white,
But still its runlet, bright though small,
Will issue sweetly to the light.
How long an honour'd and a happy pair,
They held their seemly state in mansion fair,
I will not here in chiming verses say,
To tire my reader with a lengthen'd lay;
For tranquil bliss is as a summer day
O'er broad Savana shining; fair it lies,
And rich the trackless scene, but soon our eyes,
In search of meaner things, turn heavily away.
But no new ties of wedded life,
That bind the mother and the wife,
Her tender, filial heart could change,
Or from its earliest friends estrange.
The child, by strong affection led,
Who braved her terror of the dead
To save an outlaw'd parent, still
In age was subject to his will.
She then was seen with matron air,
A dame of years, with countenance fair,
Though faded, sitting by his easy chair.
A sight that might the heart's best feelings move!
Behold her seated at her task of love!
Books, papers, pencil, pen, and slate,
And column'd scrolls of ancient date,
Before her lie, on which she looks
With searching glance, and gladly brooks
An irksome task, that else might vex
His temper, or his brain perplex;
While, haply, on the matted floor,
Close nestling at her kirtled feet,
Its lap enrich'd with childish store,
Si's, hush'd and still, a grandchild sweet,
Who looks at times with eye intent,
Full on its grandame's parent bent,
Viewing his deeply-furrow'd brow,
And sunken lip and locks of snow,
In serious wonderment.
Well said that graceful sire, I ween!
Still through life's many a varied scene,
Griseld our dear and helpful child hath been.
Though ever cheerfully possessing
In its full zest the present blessing,
Her grateful heart remembrance cherish'd
Of all to former happiness allied,
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