And strong, fierce, and furious, and thirsting and fain Of our blood-as the dust of the summer for rain- Came our foes-but the firm ground beneath their feet turned Into moss and quagmire-above their heads burned Heaven's hot and swift fires-the sweet wind to-day Had the power for to blast, and to smite, and to slay.
Then laud not yourselves, nor put faith and firm trust In sharp steel and strong sinews, but stoop in the dust And humble your hearts-all your witnessing hands Hold in bloody sign up, you fulfilled His commands Now arise! see the valley is cumbered with spoil, Lo! gather-divide the reward of your toil; But leave these dumb Dagons to rot on the sward They defiled-then come, sing a new song of the Word-
Pronounced by ALEXANDER PEDEN, Preacher of the Word.
I STOOD and gazed-from Dalswinton wood To Criffel's green mountain and Solway flood Was quiet and joyous. The merry loud horn Called the mirthsome reapers in bands to the corn; The plaided swain, with his dogs, was seen Looking down on the vale from the mountain green; The lark with her note, now lowne, now loud, The blue heaven breasted through the white cloud, Round a smiling maid, white as winter snowing,
The Nith clasped its arms, and went singing and flowing- Yet all the green valley, so lovely and broad, Lay in black-nature, nor breathed of a God.
And yet it was sweet, as the rising sun shone, To stand and look this fair land upon,
The stream kissed my feet, and away to the sea Flew, where the wild sea-fowl went swimming free.
In the town the lordly trumpet was blowing,
From the hill the meek pipe sent its sweet notes flowing, And a fair damsel sat her brown tresses a-wreathing,
And looking of heaven, and perfume breathing,
And, stretched at her feet, despairing and sighing,
Lay a youth on the grass, like a creature dying.
But mocked was the Preacher, and scorned was the Word, Green Nithsdale, I yield thee to gunshot and sword.
And yet, green valley, though thou art sunk dark, And deep as the waters that flowed round the ark; Though none of thy flocks, from the Nith to the Scaur, Wear Calvin's choice keel or the Covenant's tar- Come, shear thy bright love-locks, and bow thy head low, And fold thy white arms o'er thy bosom of snow, And kneel, till the summer pass with its sweet flowers,- And kneel, till the autumn go with her gold bowers,-
And kneel, till rough winter grows weary with flinging Her snows upon thee, and the lily is springing, And fill the green land with thy woe and complaining; And let thine eyes drop like two summer clouds raining— And ye may have hope, in the dread dooms-day morning, To be snatched as a brand from the sacrifice burning.
But if ye kneel not, nor in blood-tears make moan, And harden your heart like the steel and the stone, Oh! then, lovely Nithsdale-even as I now cast My shrunk hand to heaven, thy doom shall be passed; Through thy best blood the war horse shall snort and career- Thy breast shall be gored with the brand and the Thy bonnie love-locks shall be ragged and reft- The babe at thy bosom be cloven and cleft; From Queensberrie's mountain to Criffel below,
Nought shall live but the blood-footed hawk and the crow! Farewell thou doomed Nithsdale-in sin and asleep- Lie still-and awaken to wail and to weep.
I tried much to bless thee, fair Nithsdale, there came Nought but curses to lay on thy fate and thy fame! Yet still do I mind-for the follies of youth
Mix their meteor gleams with the sunshine of truth- A fair one, and some blessed moments; aboon,
Gleaming down the green mountain gazed on us the moon, The kisses and vows were unnumbered and sweet, And the flower at our side, and the stream at our feet Seemed to swell and to flow so divinely.-Oh! never, Thou lovely green land, and thou fair flowing river, Can man gaze upon you and curse you. In vain Doth he make his heart hard.-So I bless you again.
Alexander Peden's Harmonious Call to the Cameronians.
YE green glens of Nithsdale, ye brown dales of Dryfe, Ye green banks of Annandale, busk for the strife, Come fix firm the helmet, and sharpen the brand, The Kirk cannot take sloven work from your hand.
Ye Kyle men, ye Carrick men, men of Glenluce,
Who conquered with Wallace, and triumphed with Bruce, A brighter cause now calls your hands to the hilt,
A Covenant broken, and pious blood spilt.
Tis not for your flocks-for the wealth of your home, Or your chaste lovely daughters, the spoiler is come, Then empty the quiver, and strive till the sword Works the good work full surely, the work of the Word.
May him, whose cold blood sleeps like water, to hear
The loud cry of righteousness sound in his ear;
May no maid call him love, no good man call him brother, And the son of his heart prove the son of another.
Come pluck up your banner, the green pleasant land Of the west calls the chosen with Bible and brand, The spoiler a feast 'mongst the mountains has made, I have blessed it, come carve it with bayonet and blade.
O BANNER! fair Banner! a century of woe Has flowed on thy people since thou wert laid low; Hewn down by the godless, and sullied and shorn, Defiled with base blood, and all trodden and torn! Thou wert lost, and John Balfour's bright steel-blade in vain Shed their best blood as fast as moist April sheds rain- Young, fierce, gallant Hackstoun, the river in flood Sent rejoicing to sea with a tribute of blood; And Gideon Macrabin, with bible and brand, Quoted Scripture, as Amelk fell 'neath his right hand- All in vain, thou fair Banner, for thou wert laid low, And a sport and a prey to the Covenant's foe.
Fair Banner! 'gainst thee bloody Claver'se came hewing His road through our helms, and our glory subduing; And Nithsdale Dalzell-his fierce deeds to requite, On his house darkest ruin descended like night- Came spurring and full on the lap of our war, Disastrous shot down like an ominous star. And Allan Dalzell-may his name to all time
Stand accurs'd, and be named with nought nobler than rhyme- Smote thee down, thou fair Banner, all rudely, and left
Thee defiled, and the skull of the bannerman cleft.
Fair Banner, fair Banner, a century of woe
Has flowed on thy people since thou wert laid low.
And now, lovely Banner! led captive and placed,
'Mid the spoils of the scoffer, and scorned and disgraced, And hung with the helm and the glaive on the wall, 'Mongst idolatrous figures to wave in the hall,
Where the lips, wet with wine, jested with thee profane, And the minstrel, more graceless, mixed thee with his strain, Till the might and the pride of thy conqueror fell,
And the owl sat and whoop'd in the halls of Dalzell. O thou holy Banner! in weeping and wail
Let me mourn thy soiled glory, and finish my tale.
And yet, lovely Banner! thus torn from the brave, And disgraced by the graceless, and sold by the slave, And hung o'er a hostel, where rich ruddy wine, And the soul-cheering beverage of barley divine, Floated glorious, and sent such a smoke-in his flight The lark stayed in air, and sung, drunk with delight. Does this lessen thy lustre? or tarnish thy glory? Diminish thy fame, and traduce thee in story? Oh, no, beauteous Banner! loosed free on the beam, By the hand of the chosen, long, long shalt thou stream! And the damsel dark-eyed, and the Covenant swain, Shall bless thee, and talk of dread Bothwell again.
I HAVE three more " Moods of the Mind" to send you, and then intend to contribute to the pages of your gracious Miscellany some Miscellaneous Poems, a few Verses now and then of a humorous character, and an occasional Prose Essay. Your's sincerely, Δ.
To Christopher North, Esq.
BLUE is the vault of heaven-the gems, The thousand flaming diadems,
That deck the midnight throne of June, Are glittering silently-the moon, To silver o'er the eastern wave, Leaves not her interlunar cave→→→ All, all is still-no wandering breeze Disturbs the air, or stirs the trees; The wings of silence overspread Alike the living and the dead, And darkness o'er the land and sea Hangs down her shadows gloomily.
Yes, there are times when thoughts of rest Are banished, and the vacant breast, To meditation prone, instils
A heavier sense of mortal ills; When couches cannot yield repose; When slumber cannot mantle woes; When o'er the agonized brain Comes Memory, with her busy train Of hopes and visions, cherish'd long- A look-a thought—a word-a song- That conjures up the past, can make A fire, that water cannot slake; A tempest fierce to roar and roll; A wild volcano of the soul: Yea, in a dream, this very night, Hath Recollection held her light, Her flaming torch, above the past, Years fled-joys vanished-hopes o'ercast- Affections blighted-seasons lost- And earth itself a desart coast!
Nor easier do I breathe, though now The chill of night salutes my brow. 'Tis sweet, beneath the cataract To sit, and watch the drizzly rack That reascends, and then renews Its mazy fall in trickling dews; To see the waters flash and foam In darkness, to their central dome, Amid the sable rocks, which frown Like genii o'er the waters brown; To hear them roar, with mighty crash, And onwards rush, and downwards dash, Beneath the hazel trees, that throw Their shadows o'er the chasms below-
"Tis sweet to gaze upon the sky, And turn a fond and wistful eye Upon the stars of twinkling ray, Upon the lucid milky way,
Upon the long, long vistas, through The trackless paths of placid blue- And why? 'Tis Fancy rules the brain,
And draws the thoughts from present pain, And leads us to a lonely spot
Where Passion's voice awakens not.
Dim hang the shadowy forests round, Their canopies without a sound, Gigantic-towering-shadowy-drear- Along whose paths quick stalking Fear, With indrawn breath all trembling steals, And dreams Destruction at his heels. The lofty elm its giant boughs Of leafy darkness o'er me throws, And at its base I lay me down, Upon the furze of golden brown, Until returning light shall bring My quiet, and the morning spring.
THE clouds frown dark upon the sky, And the night wind moans as it rustles by; The stream runs down with a heavy sound, And all is dreary and dull around.
Fitful, between the parted shroud Of the rifted, melancholy cloud, A bright star twinkles, and then is hid Beneath the moving pyramid.
'Tis a gloomy landscape, and all is still, Save bleat of lamb from the distant hill, Save the watch-dog's hollow bay on the breeze, And the night-wind tossing the sullen trees, The long weeds hang o'er the massy gate Of the watch-tower, ruined and desolate, Its idle door no menial bars,
And with every blast it creaks and jars.
Desponding, and dreary, and full of strife, Are the thoughts that brood o'er our human life; The blood runs cold as the hemlocks wave With ominous sound o'er the lowly grave!
OH! may these trees be ever green, Perpetual spring enwreathe them, May bloom on every bough be seen, And lovely flowers beneath them! Be fresh each leaf, be strong each form; No biting winds impair them; And may the red wing of the storm Pass ever by, and spare them!
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