Classic Poem

LXXXI.

And thou, O Scotia! dweller with the storm,
Whom God hath yet vouchsafed peculiar grace,
Why gadd'st thou too abroad, proud to deform
With all thy gairish sister's blots thy face?
The phantoms of delirious joy to chase,
Why art thou rushing from thy pastoral hills?
Why toil to reap a harvest of disgrace,
Or wild afar contend with cureless ills,
While solitary flow thy health-inspiring rills?

LXXXII.

'Mong all thy sons of daring, is there none
Will fearless rise the wasting plague to stay?
Of all that wish thee well, is there not one
Will labour to prolong thy evening ray?
But late indeed thy bonnet's proud display,
Thy temper'd steel, thy tartans waving blue,
And thy bold Pibroch scatter'd wild dismay,
O'er that red field where vengeance had her due,
And pride was cloth'd with shame — immortal Waterloo.

LXXXIII.

But when the war-worn veteran comes to tell,
His hair-breadth 'scapes with all the toils he bore,
Alas! how must his manly bosom swell,
To find his native hamlet is no more.
Silence is in the glen where heretofore
The pipe was wont the gloaming hour to cheer,
Far, far away the wand'ring inmates poor,
Of heartless life the hopeless remnant's wear,
By Susquehannah wild, or Ohio rolling drear.

LXXXIV.

Wild to the wind thy glories there they sing,
Enhancing what again they ne'er can see,
And often, borne on fancy's glowing wing,
By thy clear springs renew their youthful glee.
Unceasing too they toil, but unto thee
Nor honour, no, nor profit shall redound;
Their virtues and their talents soon may be,
While thou sitt'st lonely humbled to the ground,
Rich on thy rival's brow in well-earn'd laurels found.

LXXXV.

Thy barren hills, like Judah's favour'd land,
Have largely drunk of Heaven's refreshing dew,
And in her paths persisting still to stand,
Shalt thou not drink her cup of judgment too?
And deeper far. Her splendours to renew,
Jehovah by himself hath solemn sworn,
Sharon shall bud, and, green upon the view,
No more to bear the heathen's spiteful scorn,
Bashan and Carmel blush beneath the beaming morn.

LXXXVI.

But thou, though glorious like the Prince of Tyre,
In wisdom great, with perfect beauty crown'd,
Allow'd to walk among the stones of fire,
And traverse blissful Eden's hallow'd ground.
If, as thy wealth, thy wantonness abound,
And rising still thy violence and pride,
Upon thy head draw down the mortal wound,
Who then, alas! thy failing steps shall guide,
For thee, nor second spring, nor summer months abide.

LXXXVII.

And is not God to judgment on his way?
And wilt thou still the charge of guilt refuse?
Hast thou still sacred held his word and day,
And kept inviolate thy solemn vows?
May he not now thy strong delusions choose,
And give thee up to trust upon a lie;
Leave thee still more thy mercies to abuse,
Till, void of shame, devotion's urn run dry,
For God all reverence fail, and forms with feelings die?

LXXXVIII.

But, void of heart, an outcast from thy place,
Or an encumbrance vile though thou art found,
Still on its course shall flow the stream of grace,
Though Forth nor hear, nor Tay return the sound
Far other lands with darkness deep imbound,
As yet the abodes of cruelty and dread,
Their solitudes with desolation crown'd,
Shall hear the rushing waters and be glad,
And herbs shall budding spring, and flowery verdure spread.

LXXXIX.

And strife shall cease, and poverty shall smile,
And industry to idleness succeed;
And rest shall reap respect and joy from toil,
While healthful temperance deals her daily bread
And charity her healing hand shall spread,
With liberal heart, on every form of woe;
And competence, by warm devotion led,
Cheer'd and supported by the peaceful Plough,
Through every feeling heart shall pour her rapturous glow.

XC.

Be still, my harp — The bolt of Heaven has sped,
And, in amazement, shakes the smitten throne,
The loveliest form, the tenderest heart has bled,
And the fair flower of England's hope is gone.
And with th' illustrious stranger, widow'd, lone,
The voice of wailing spreads from hill to hill,
The lengthen'd vales send back the deepening tone,
On the pain'd ear with melancholy thrill —
Be hush'd, my feeble Harp — thy jarring tones be still.