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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,
Befitting princely hall or monarch's court to grace?


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.

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,
Her eye with merry glance beam'd brightest,
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.

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!

So, when their lamp of fortune burn'd

With brightest ray, our worthies turn'd,

A recollection, fondly bent,


Howbeit, her grief at length gives way To happier thoughts, as dawns the day

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,
Even 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.

In royal Mary's gentle train,

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 cliffs 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,

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So truly to her own she clung;

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,

Nor cared for honours vain, from courtly favour In search of meaner things, turn heavily away.



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,


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,
Sits, 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,

Nor in her fostering fancy perish'd

E'en things inanimate that had supplied
Means of enjoyment once. Maternal love,
Active and warm, which nothing might restrain,
Led her once more, in years advanced, to rove
To distant southern climes, and once again
Her footsteps press'd the Belgian shore,

She would not e'en their folly chide,
But like the sun and showers of heaven,
Which to the false and true are given,
Want and distress relieved on either side.


But soon, from fear of future change,

The town, the very street that was her home of yore. The evil took a wider range.

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But whatsoe'er the weal or wo

That Heaven across her lot might throw,
Full well her Christian spirit knew
Its path of virtue, straight and true.
When came the shock of evil times, menacing
The peaceful land-when blood and lineage tracing
As the sole claim to Britain's throne, in spite
Of Britain's weal or will, chiefs of the north,
In warlike muster, led their clansmen forth,
Brave, faithful, strong and toughly nerved,
Would they a better cause had served!
For Stuart's dynasty to fight,
Distress to many a family came,

Who dreaded more the approaching shame
Of penury's ill-favour'd mien,
Than e'en the pang of hunger keen.
How softly then her pity flow'd!
How freely then her hand bestow'd!
She did not question their opinion
Of party, kingship, or dominion:

The northern farmers, spoil'd and bare,
No more could rent or produce spare
To the soil's lords. All were distress'd,
And on our noble dame this evil sorely press'd.
Her household numerous, her means withheld;
Shall she her helpless servants now dismiss
To rob or starve, in such a time as this,
Or wrong to others do? but nothing quell'd
Her calm and upright mind." Go, summon here
Those who have served me many a year."
The summons went; each lowly name
Full swiftly to her presence came,

And thus she spoke: "Ye've served me long,
Pure, as I think, from fraud or wrong,
And now, my friendly neighbours, true
And simply I will deal with you.

The times are shrewd, my treasures spent,
My farms have ceased to yield me rent;
And it may chance that rent or grain

I never shall receive again.

The dainties which my table fed,
Will now be changed for daily bread,
Dealt sparely, and for this I must
Be debtor to your patient trust,

If ye consent."-Swift through the hall,
With eager haste, spoke one and all.
"No, noble dame! this must not be !
With heart as warm and hand as free,
Still thee and thine we'll serve with pride,
As when fair fortune graced your side.
The best of all our stores afford
Shall daily smoke upon thy board;
And, shouldst thou never clear the score,
Heaven for thy sake will bless our store."
She bent her head with courtesy,
The big tear swelling in her eye,

And thank'd them all. Yet plain and spare,
She order'd still her household fare,
Till fortune's better die was cast,
And adverse times were past.


Good, tender, generous, firm and sage,
Through grief and gladness, shade and sheen,
As fortune changed life's motley scene,
Thus pass'd she on to reverend age.
And when the heavenly summons came,
Her spirit from its mortal frame
And weight of mortal cares to free,

It was a blessed sight to see,

The parting saint her state of honour keeping
In gifted, dauntless faith, whilst round her, weeping,
Her children's children mourn'd on bended knee.


In London's fair imperial town
She laid her earthly burden down.
In Mellerstain, her northern home,

Was raised for her a graven tomb
Which gives to other days her modest, just renown.

And now, ye polish'd fair of modern times,
If such indeed will listen to my rhymes,
What think ye of her simple, modest worth,
Whom I have faintly tried to shadow forth?
How vain the thought! as if ye stood in need
For pattern ladies in dull books to read.
Will she such antiquated virtues prize,
Who with superb signoras proudly vies,
Trilling before the dear admiring crowd

With outstretch'd, straining throat, bravuras loud,
Her high-heaved breast press'd hard, as if to boast
The inward pain such mighty efforts cost:
Or on the white-chalk'd floor, at midnight hour,
Her head with many a flaunting, full-blown flower,
And bartisan of braided locks enlarged,
Her flimsy gown with twenty flounces charged,
Wheels gayly round the room on pointed toe,
Softly supported by some dandy beau:-
Will she, forsooth! or any belle of spirit,
Regard such old, forgotten, homely merit?

Or she, whose cultured, high-strain'd talents soar
Through all th' ambitious range of letter'd lore
With soul enthusiastic, fondly smitten
With all that e'er in classic page was written,
And whilst her wit in critic task engages,
The technic praise of all praised things outrages;
Whose finger, white and small, with ink-stain tipt,
Still scorns with vulgar thimble to be clipt;
Who doth with proud pretence her claims advance
To philosophic, honour'd ignorance
Of all, that, in divided occupation,

Gives the base stamp of female degradation;
Protests she knows not colour, stripe nor shade,
Nor of what stuff her flowing robe is made,
But wears, from petty, frivolous fancies free,
Whatever careful Betty may decree;
As certes, well she may, for Betty's skill
Leaves her in purfle, furbelow, or frill,
No whit behind the very costliest fair
That wooes with daily pains the public stare:
Who seems almost ashamed to be a woman,
And yet the palm of parts will yield to no man
But holds on battle-ground eternal wrangling,
The plainest case in mazy words entangling:-
Will she, I trow, or any kirtled sage,
Admire the subject of
artless page?
And yet there be of British fair, I know,
Who to this legend will some favour show
From kindred sympathy; whose life proceeds
In one unwearied course of gentle deeds,
And pass untainted through the earthly throng,
Like souls that to some better world belong.
Nor will I think, as sullen cynics do,
Still libelling present times, their number few.
Yea, leagued for good they act, a virtuous band,
The young, the rich, the loveliest of the land,
Who clothe the naked, and, each passing week,
The wretched poor in their sad dwelling seek,
Who, cheer'd and grateful, feebly press and bless
The hands which princes might be proud to kiss :-
Such will regard my tale, and give to fame
A generous, helpful maid,-a good and noble dame.


THE fire blazed bright till deep midnight,

And the guests sat in the hall,

And the lord of the feast, Lord John of the East,
Was the merriest of them all.

His dark gray eye, that wont so sly
Beneath his helm to scowl,

Flash'd keenly bright, like a new-waked sprite
As pass'd the circling bowl.

In laughter light, or jocund lay,

That voice was heard, whose sound,
Stern, loud, and deep, in battle-fray
Did foemen fierce astound;

And stretch'd so balm, like lady's palm,
To every jester near,

That hand which through a prostrate foe
Oft thrust the ruthless spear.

The gallants sang, and the goblets rang,
And they revell'd in careless state,
Till a thundering sound, that shook the ground,
Was heard at the castle gate.

"Who knocks without, so loud and stout?
Some wandering knight, I ween,
Who from afar, like a guiding star,

Our blazing hall hath seen.

« If a stranger it be of high degree,

(No churl durst make such din,) Step forth amain, my pages twain,

And soothly ask him in.

"Tell him our cheer is the forest deer,

Our bowl is mantling high,

And the lord of the feast is John of the East,
Who welcomes him courteously."

The pages twain return'd again,

And a wild, scared look had they ; "Why look ye so ?-is it friend or foe?" Did the angry baron say.

"A stately knight without doth wait,

But further he will not hie,

Till the baron himself shall come to the gate,
And ask him courteously."--

"By my mother's shroud, he is full proud!
What earthly man is he?"

"I know not, in truth," quoth the trembling youth, "If earthly man it be.

"In Raveller's plight, he is bedight,

With a vest of the crim'sy meet; But his mantle behind, that streams on the wind, Is a corse's bloody sheet."

"Out, paltry child! thy wits are wild,

Thy comrade will tell me true:
Say plainly, then, what hast thou seen?
Or dearly shalt thou rue."

Faint spoke the second page with fear,

And bent him on his knee, "Were I on your father's sword to swear, The same it appear'd to me."

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