Since first a stranger sought our strand,
And called the people of the land,
And taught them of another God.
At his command, the people bore
A captive, from the altar stone,
Whose blood was vowed. The Druids swore
To pay their Beal* with his own.
Their wrath was high; command they gave,
To bind this prophet of the wave,
And drag him to the altar side;
But when the people, scornful smiling,
Gave back an answer of reviling,
And cast their bonds aside,
They started fierce and rage and pride,
And inexpressible surprise,
Chained up their tongues-They left the place
That held the sacrilegious race,
And cursed them with their eyes.
This lonely glen was their retreat;
With huge rocks tumbled down the dell They barred it from intruding feet,
And vowed for ever here to dwell;
And train an unrelenting race,
To expiate their sires' disgrace;
To bring each year, at midnight hour,
A victim of the stranger's creed
To hear their curse, and gasp and bleed
Upon the stone of
power.
Long, long that fatal stone has stood,
And oft has seen the night of blood;
Till now, stern Beal's rites decline
On me the last of all the line!
No victim for his wrath have I,
He smites my heart; and I must die.
When last the stated night came round,
I walked the circle in despair;
And when I prayed, an angry sound
Made bristle up my hair.
Two weary nights I walked alone;
But on the third a spirit came;
With lovely light afar he shone,
And called me mildly by my name;
And sat beside me on the sod,
And taught me of the stranger's God;
But still a dismal voice was near,
That came and murmured in my ear ;—
* A Deity of the Druids.
Jarring upon his silver speech,
So sweet to comfort and to teach.
In yonder dark and lofty stone
There dwells à voice, that came of old,
And roused my fathers with its moan,
And made them mad and fierce and bold.
When sleep was on the eyes of men,
It shrilly on the silence broke,
And called for blood, till, through the glen,
Each Druid shivered and awoke.
A sacred fury filled the band,
They scattered o'er their ancient land,
Chanting those hymns they used to raise,
When they were priests in other days;
Till sires were murdered as they slept,
And mothers shrieked, and widows wept.-
'Tis Beal's voice, my father said,
But, stranger, list, my soul is sick
With dismal thoughts-that God I dread
Of whom the spirit loved to speak;
He told, how blood awaked his wrath;
How murderers mourned in penal fire;
How Beal, in the land of death,
Could never shield me from his ire.
I know not what, I fain would pray,
And ask his pardon while I may !"
He paused, and fell, and was about
To call upon th' Eternal name;
When, from the stone he pointed out
A deep unhallowed murmur came,
And then a voice-" To Beal give
This stranger's blood, and thou shalt live."
Upsprung the Druid! fierce his look
With murder and with ghastly joy,
And griped his victim. Age forsook
His limbs, in that extremity.
They fell, and struggled each for life,
Where former victim's bones were spread;
And, still, amid the strife,
The priest invoked his fathers dead, To help him, and the powers of hell: And sought his girdle for a knife, With broken groans and curses fell;
And strained, convulsed, and, dæmon-like, Trembled for eagerness to strike.-
But Barnard shakes him off and flies,
While cursed by Beal's voice the Druid dies.
TO SIR THOMAS GRAHAM, ON HIS RETURN TO SPAIN AFTER A SHORT VISIT TO THIS COUNTRY.
WARRIOR-thou seek'st again the battle-field,
Where Freedom hails afar thy soul of flame;
And fall'n Iberia kindles at thy name:-
Beneath the shade of England's guardian shield
She girds her armour on, and strives to wield
Her long-forgotten lance :-Yes, there, thy fame
Shall in the hymn of kindred hosts be sung
Round Spain's romantic shores, when she hath thrust
The spoiler from her homes, and proudly hung
Her faulchion on the wall-but not to rust!
-Bright gleams that vengeful blade, as when of yore
She smote the crescent on the Moslem's brow
Warrior! she hails in thee her CID once more,
Το conquer in a fiercer conflict now!
WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF ROXBURGH CASTLE
LONG have I wish'd, sweet Teviot stream!
To visit thy romantic shore,
And often burn'd in fancy's dream
To wander here by dying beam-
Again each sacred haunt explore,
And image every fabled tale of yore.
Now to this solitude I've stray'd,
And view the clustering copsewood grow
On Roxburgh's ancient walls decayed,-
Where foemen erst in steel array'd,
With deadly thrust and clanging blow
Have often stain'd thy river's crystal flow.
Long now have slept the fierce and brave,
Who here war's crimson flag unfurled ;
Now peaceful rolls thy classic wave
By lover's haunt and patriot's grave :-
Near other streams the bolt is hurled,
And mortal strife deforms a distant world.
O stream of Scotish Arcady!
'Tis sweet at twilight's lovely hour,
While mystic visions hover nigh,
To list thy plaintive lullaby—
'Tis sweet to view yon Abbey tower,*
Silvered with dew from Hesper's airy bower.
A wilderness of bliss around
Spreads far to fancy's musing eye,
Where KELSO smiles on fairy ground,
By wooded isle and cliffy mound
And many a form now rises high,
The vulgar gaze of day might not espy!
And from that vale where rivers meet,†
And hawthorn shades embower the green,
I hear the west wind's rustle sweet,
Soft as the sound of fairy feet;
And shadowy forms are faintly seen,
While curfew chimes float through the air serene.
Now I must leave this lovely spot,
The arching grove-the ruined tower
Tho' peaceful as a hermit's
And holy as a vestal's lot;
But soon may come a soul-felt hour
When midst these shades I'll hail th' inspiring power.
*The Gothic ruin of Kelso Abbey.
†The Tweed and Teviot unite immediately opposite Kelso.
WRITTEN IN THE CAVE OF FINGAL.
Dark Staffa, in thy grotto wild,
How my rapt soul is taught to feel;
O well becomes it Nature's child
Low in her stateliest shrine to kneel!
Thou art no fiend's nor giant's home-
Thy piles of dark and solemn grain
Bespeak thy dread and sacred dome,
Great temple of the western main!
For the harp of the air is heard in thee,
Sounding its holiest lullaby.
Far in thy vaults the mermaid sings,
And the sea-bird's note responsive rings;
Yes, the hymn of the winds, and the ocean's roar
Are heard in thee for evermore !
Tho' other wonders meet mine eye,
From my chilled heart shall never fly
Thy arches cavern'd, green and torn,
On Nature's rifted columns borne ;
Thy furnaced pillars, tall and sure,
Propping the wild entablature
That round each cope and architrave
In awful murmurs weep and rave;
The whirl of Nature's grand turmoil,
Where billows burst and torrents boil
Thro' portals stern and pavements riven,
Upreared by Architect of Heaven-
Thro' darkened domes, and dens of wonder,
And caverns of eternal thunder.
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