Wilsons Tales of the Borders and of Scotland | Page 7

ever A portion of my spirit! Leave me never; Firm, fixed in purpose, watchful, unsubdued, Until my hand hath grasped the prize pursued."

CANTO SECOND.
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 passed; 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 noblest 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 passed.--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