Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XXIV Part 2

I.

Now, list thee, love, again, and I will tell Of other scenes, and changes which befell The hero of our tale. A wanderer still, Like a lost sheep upon a wintry hill-- Wild through his heart rush want and memory now, Like whirlwinds meeting on a mountain's brow; Slow in his veins the thin blood coldly creeps; He starts, he dreams, and as he walks, he sleeps!

He is a stranger--houseless, fainting, poor, Without the shelter of one friendly door; The cold wind whistles through his garments bare, And shakes the night dew from his freezing hair.

You weep to hear his woes, and ask me why, When sorrows gathered and no aid was nigh, He sought not then the cottage of his birth, The peace and comforts of his father's hearth?

That also thou shalt hear. Scarce had he left His parents' home, ere ruthless fortune reft His friend and father of his little all.

Crops failed, and friends proved false; but, worse than all, The wife of his young love, bowed down with grief For her sole child, like an autumnal leaf Nipped by the frosts of night, drooped day by day, As a fair morning cloud dissolves away.

Her eyes were dimmed with tears, and o'er her cheek, Like a faint rainbow, broke a fitful streak, Coming and vanishing. She weaker grew, And scarce the half of their misfortunes knew, Until the law's stern minions, as their prey, Relentless seized the bed on which she lay.

"My husband! Oh my son!" she faintly cried; Sank on her pillow, and before them died.

Even they shed tears. The widowed husband, there, Stood like the stricken ghost of dumb despair; Then sobbed aloud, and, sinking on the bed, Kissed the cold forehead of his sainted dead.

Then went he forth a lone and ruined man; But, ere three moons their circling journeys ran, Pride, like a burning poison in his breast, Scorched up his life, and gave the ruined rest; Yet not till he, with tottering steps and slow, Regained the vale where Tweed's fair waters flow, And there, where pines around the churchyard wave, He breathed his last upon his partner's grave!

II.

I may not tell what ills o'er Edmund pa.s.sed; Enough to say that fortune smiled at last.

In the far land where the broad Ganges rolls; Where nature's bathed in glory, and the souls Of me alone dwell in a starless night, While all around them glows and lives in light: There now we find him, honoured, trusted, loved, For from the humblest stations he had proved Faithful in all, and trust on trust obtained, Till, if not wealth, he _independence_ gained-- Earth's n.o.blest blessing, and the dearest given To man beneath the sacred hope of heaven.

And still, as time on silent pinions flew, His fortunes flourished and his honours grew; But as they grew, an anxious hope, that long Had in his bosom been but as the song Of viewless echo, indistinct, and still Receding from us, grew as doth a rill Embraced by others and increasing ever, Till distant plains confess the sweeping river.

And, need I say, that hope referred alone To her who in his heart had fixed her throne, And reigned within it still, the sovereign queen.

Yet darkest visions oft would flit between His fondest fancies, as the thought returned That she for whom his soul still restless burned, Would be another's now, while haply he, Lost to her heart, would to her memory be As the remembrance of a pleasing dream, Vague and forgotten half, but which we deem Worthy no waking thought. Thus years rolled by; Hope wilder glowed and brightened in his eye.

Nor knew he why he hoped; but though despair The Enthusiast's heart may madly grasp, and glare Even on his soul, it may not long remain A dweller on his breast, for hope doth reign There as o'er its inheritance; and he Lives in fond visions of futurity.

III.

Twelve slow and chequered years had pa.s.sed.--Again A stately vessel ploughed the pathless main, And waves and days together glided by, Till, as a cloud on the Enthusiast's eye, His island home rose from the ocean's breast-- A thing of strength, of glory, and of rest-- The giant of the deep!--while on his sight Burst the blue hills, and cliffs of dazzling white-- Stronger than death! and beautiful as strong!

Kissed by the sea, and worshipped with its song!

"Home of my fathers!" the Enthusiast cried; "Their home--ay, and their grave!" he said and sighed.

But gazing still upon its glorious strand, Again he cried, "My own, my honoured land!

Fair freedom's home and mine! Britannia! hail!

Queen of the mighty seas; to whom each gale From every point of heaven a tribute brings, And on thy sh.o.r.es earth's farthest treasure flings!

Land of my heart and birth! at sight of thee My spirit boundeth, like a bird set free From long captivity! Thy very air Is fragrant with remembrance! Thou dost bear, On thy Herculean cliffs, the rugged seal Of G.o.dlike Liberty! The slave might kneel Upon thy sh.o.r.e, bending the willing knee, To kiss the sacred earth that sets him free!

Even I feel freer as I reach thy sh.o.r.e, And my soul mingles with the ocean's roar That hymns around thee! Birthplace of the brave!

My own--my glorious home!--the very wave, Rolling in strength and beauty, leaps on high, As if rejoicing on thy beach to die!

My loved--my father-land! thy faults to me Are as the specks which men at noontide see Upon the blinding sun, and dwindle pale Beneath thy virtue's and thy glory's veil.

Land of my birth! where'er thy sons may roam, Their pride--their boast--their pa.s.sport is their home!"

IV.

'Twas early spring; and winter lingered still On the cold summit of the snow-capt hill; The day was closing, and slow darkness stole Over the earth as sleep steals on the soul, Sealing the eyelids up--unconscious, slow, Till sleep and darkness reign, and we but know, On waking, that we slept--but may not tell; Nor marked we when sleep's darkness on us fell.

A lonely stranger then bent anxious o'er A rustic gate before the cottage door-- The snow-white cottage where the chestnuts grew, And o'er its roof their arching branches threw.

It was young Edmund, gazing, through his tears, On the now cheerless home of early years-- While as the grave of buried joys it stood, Its white walls shadowed through the leafless wood; The once arched woodbine waving wild and bare; The parterre, erst the object of his care, With early weeds o'ergrown; and slow decay Had changed or swept all else he loved away.

Upon the sacred threshold, once his own, He silent stood, unwelcomed and unknown; Gazed, sighed, and turned away; then sadly strayed To the cold, dreamless churchyard, where were laid His parents, side by side. A change had come O'er all that he had loved: his home was dumb, And through the vale no accent met his ear That he was wont in early days to hear; While childhood's scenes fell dimly on his view, As a dull picture of a spot we knew, Where we but cold and lifeless forms can trace.

But no bold truth, nor one familiar face.

V.

Night sat upon the graves, like gloom to gloom, As silent treading o'er each lowly tomb, Thoughtful and sad, he lonely strove to trace, Amidst the graves, his father's resting-place.

And well the spot he knew; yea, it alone Was all now left that he might call his own Of all that was his kindred's; and although He looked for no proud monument to show The tomb he sought, yet mem'ry marked the spot Where slept his ancestors; and had it not, He deemed--he felt--that if his feet but trode Upon his parents' dust, the voice of G.o.d, As it of old flashed through a prophet's breast, Would in his bosom whisper, "Here they rest!"

'Twas an Enthusiast's thought;--but, oh! to tread, With darkness round us, 'midst the voiceless dead, With not an eye but Heaven's upon our face-- At such a moment, and in such a place, Seeking the dead we love--who would not feel.

Yea, and believe as he did then, and kneel On friend or father's grave, and kiss the sod As in the presence of our father's G.o.d!

VI.

He reached the spot; he startled--trembled--wept; And through his bosom wildest feelings swept.

He sought a nameless grave, but o'er the place Where slept the generations of his race, A marble pillar rose. "Oh Heaven!" he cried, "Has avaricious Ruin's hand denied The parents of my heart a grave with those Of their own kindred?--have their ruthless foes Grasped this last, sacred spot we called our own?

If but a weed upon that grave had grown, I would have honoured it!--have called it brother!

Even for my father's sake, and thine, my mother!

But that cold marble freezes up my heart, And seems to tell me that I have no part With its proud dead; while through the veil of night The name it bears yet mocks my anxious sight."

Thus cried he bitterly; then, trembling, placed His finger on the marble, while he traced Its letters one by one, and o'er and o'er;-- Grew blind with eagerness, and shook the more, As with each touch, the feeling o'er him came-- The unseen letters formed his father's name!

VII.

While thus, with beating heart, pursuing still His anxious task, slow o'er a neighbouring hill The broad moon rose, by not a cloud concealed, Lit up the valley, and the tomb revealed!-- His parents' tomb!--and now, with wild surprise, He saw the column burst upon his eyes-- Fair, chaste, and beautiful; and on it read These lines in mem'ry of his honoured dead: "Beneath repose the virtuous and the just, Mingled in death, affection's hallowed dust.

In token of their worth, this simple stone Is, as a daughter's tribute, reared by one Who loved them as such, and their name would save As virtue's record o'er their lowly grave."

"Helen!" he fondly cried, "thy hand is here!"

And the cold grave received his burning tear; Then knelt he o'er it--clasped his hands in prayer; But, while yet lone and fervid kneeling there, Before his eyes, upon the grave appear Primroses twain--the firstlings of the year,-- And bursting forth between the blossomed two, Twin opening buds in simple beauty grew.

He gazed--he loved them as a living thing; And wondrous thoughts and strange imagining Those simple flowers spoke to his listening soul In superst.i.tion's whispers; whose control The wisest in their secret moments feel, And blush at weakness they may not reveal.

VIII.

He left the place of death; and, rapt in thought, The trysting-tree of love's young years he sought; And, as its branches opened on his sight, Bathing their young buds in the pale moonlight, A whispered voice, melodious, soft, and low, As if an angel mourned for mortal woe, Borne on the ev'ning breeze, came o'er his ear: He knew the voice--his heart stood still to hear!

And each sense seem'd a listener; but his eye Sought the sad author of the wand'ring sigh; And 'neath the tree he loved, a form as fair As summer in its noontide, knelt in prayer.

He clasped his hands--his brow, his bosom burned; He felt the past--the buried past returned!

Still, still he listened, till, like words of flame, Through her low prayer he heard his whispered name!

"Helen!" he wildly cried--"my own--my blest!"

Then bounded forth.--I cannot tell the rest.

There was a shriek of joy: heart throbbed on heart, And hands were locked as though they ne'er might part; Wild words were spoken--bliss tumultuous rolled, And all the anguish of the past was told.

IX.

Upon her love long had her father frowned, Till tales of Edmund's rising fortunes found Their way across the wilderness of sea, And reached the valley of his birth. But she, With truth unaltered, and with heart sincere, Through the long midnight of each hopeless year That marked his absence, shunned the proffered hand Of wealth and rank; and met her sire's command With tears and bended knees, until his breast Again a father's tenderness confessed.

X.

'Twas May--bright May: bird, flower, and shrub, and tree, Rejoiced in light; while, as a waveless sea Of living music, glowed the clear blue sky, And every fleecy cloud that floated by Appeared an isle of song!--as all around And all above them echoed with the sound Of joyous birds, in concert loud and sweet, Chanting their summer hymns. Beneath their feet The daisy put its crimson liv'ry on; While from beneath each crag and mossy stone Some gentle flower looked forth; and love and life Through the Creator's glorious works were rife, As though his Spirit in the sunbeams said, "Let there be life and love!" and was obeyed.

Then, in the valley danced a joyous throng, And happy voices sang a bridal song; Yea, tripping jocund on the sunny green, The old and young in one glad dance were seen; Loud o'er the plain their merry music rang, While cripple granddames, smiling, sat and sang The ballads of their youth; and need I say 'Twas Edmund's and fair Helen's wedding-day?

Then, as he led her forth in joy and pride, A hundred voices blessed him and his bride.

Yet scarce he heard them; for his every sense, Lost in delight and ecstasy intense, Dwelt upon her; and made their blessings seem As words breathed o'er us in a wand'ring dream.