To him, to him its rustling spoke;
The silence of his soul it broke!
It whisper'd of his own bright isle,
That lit the ocean with a smile;
Ay, to his ear that native tone
Had something of the sea-wave's moan!
His mother's cabin-home, that lay
Where feathery cocoas fringe the bay;
The dashing of his brethren's oar,
The conch-note heard along the shore;
All through his wakening bosom swept:
He clasp'd his country's tree, and wept!
Oh! scorn him not! the strength, whereby
The patriot girds himself to die,-
The unconquerable power, which fills
The freeman battling on his hills,
These have one fountain deep and clear
The same whence gush'd that child-like tear.
ON THE DEATH OF HIS BROTHER.
THOU art gone to the grave; but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb:
Thy Saviour has pass'd through its portal before
And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom!
Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold
We tried the rough path of the world by thy side;
But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold
And sinners may die, for the Sinless has died!
Thou art gone to the grave! and, its mansion forsaking,
Perchance thy weak spirit in fear linger'd long; But the mild rays of paradise beam'd on thy waking,
And the sound which thou heard'st was the Seraphim's song!
Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee,
Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian and guide;
He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore
And death has no sting, for the Saviour has
THE Stag at eve had drunk his fill,
Where danc'd the moon on Monan's rill,
And deep his midnight lair had made
In lone Glenartney's hazel shade;
The places mentioned in this piece are in the vicinity of Loch Katrine, in the Western Highlands. The Teith flows from Loch Katrine through the Trosachs pass, by the foot of Ben Venue, and passes through the small lakes of Achray and Vennachar to Callender.
But when the sun his beacon red
Had kindled o'er Benvoirlich's head,
The deep-mouth'd bloodhound's heavy bay
Resounded up the rocky way,
And faint, from farther distance borne,
Were heard the clanging hoof and horn.
As chief who hears his warder's call,
"To arms! the foemen storm the wall,"
The antler'd monarch of the waste
Sprung from his heathery couch in haste.
But ere his fleet career he took,
The dew-drops from his flanks he shook ;
Like crested leader proud and high,
Toss'd his beam'd frontlet to the sky;
A moment gaz'd adown the dale,
A moment snuff'd the tainted gale,
A moment listen'd to the cry,
That thicken'd as the chase drew nigh;
Then, as the headmost foes appear'd,
With one brave bound the copse he clear'd,
And, stretching forward free and far,
Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.
Yell'd on the view the opening pack,
Rock, glen, and cavern, paid them back;
To many a mingled sound at once
The awaken'd mountain gave response.
An hundred dogs bay'd deep and strong,
Clatter'd an hundred steeds along,
Their peals the merry horns rung out,
An hundred voices join'd the shout;
With hark and whoop and wild halloo,
No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew.
Far from the tumult fled the roe,
Close in her covert cower'd the doe,
The falcon, from her cairn on high,
Cast on the rout a wondering eye,
Till far beyond her piercing ken
The hurricane had swept the glen.
Faint, and more faint, its failing din
Return'd from cavern, cliff, and linn 1,
And silence settled, wide and still,
On the lone wood and mighty hill.
Less loud the sounds of sylvan war
Disturb'd the heights of Uam-Var,
And rous'd the cavern, where 'tis told
A giant made his den of old;
For ere that steep ascent was won,
High in his pathway hung the sun,
And many a gallant, stay'd per-force,
Was fain to breathe his faltering horse,
And of the trackers of the deer
Scarce half the lessening pack was near;
So shrewdly on the mountain side,
Had the bold burst their mettle tried.
The noble Stag was pausing now
Upon the mountain's southern brow,
Where broad extended far beneath
The varied realms of fair Menteith.
With anxious eye he wander'd o'er
Mountain and meadow, moss and moor,
And ponder'd refuge from his toil,
By far Lochard or Aberfoyle.
But nearer was the copse-wood gray,
That wav'd and wept on Loch-Achray,
And mingled with the pine-trees blue
On the bold cliffs of Ben-venue.
Fresh vigour with the hope return'd,
With flying foot the heath he spurn'd,
Held westward the unwearied race,
And left behind the panting chase.
1 Pool beneath a cataract.
Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er,
As swept the hunt through Cambus-more;
What reins were tighten'd in despair,
When rose Benledi's ridge in air;
Who flagg'd upon Bochastle's heath,
Who shunn'd to stem the flooded Teith,-
For twice, that day, from shore to shore,
The gallant Stag swam stoutly o'er.
Few were the stragglers, following far,
That reach'd the lake of Vennachar;
And when the Brigg of Turk was won,
The headmost horseman rode alone.
Alone, but with unbated zeal,
That horseman plied the scourge and steel;
For, jaded now, and spent with toil,
Emboss'd with foam, and dark with soil,
While every gasp with sobs he drew,
The labouring Stag strain'd full in view.
Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's1 breed,
Unmatch'd for courage, breath, and speed,
Fast on his flying traces came,
And all but won that desperate game;
For, scarce a spear's length from his haunch,
Vindictive toil'd the blood-hounds staunch;
Nor nearer might the dogs attain,
Nor farther might the quarry strain.
Thus up the margin of the lake,
Between the precipice and brake,
O'er stock and rock their race they take.
The Hunter mark'd that mountain high,
The lone lake's western boundary,
And deem'd the Stag must turn to bay,
Where that huge rampart barr'd the way;
The patron saint of hunting, became bishop of Maestricht in 708, the see of which he transferred to Liege, where he died, in 721.
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