Wilsons Tales of the Borders and of Scotland | Page 6

the wind, Rearing and rising o'er the billowed tide, As
a proud steed doth toss its head in pride. Upon its deck young Edmund
silent stood-- A son of sadness; and his mournful mood Grew day by
day, while wave on wave rolled by, And he their homeward current
with a sigh Followed with fondness. Still the vessel bore The wanderer
onward from his native shore, Till in a distant land he lonely stood
'Midst city crowds in more than solitude.
XVII.
There long he wandered, without aim or plan, Till disappointment
whispered, Act as man! But though it cool the fever of the brain, And
shake, untaught, presumption's idle reign, Bring folly to its level, and
bid hope Before the threshold of attainment stop, Still--when its
blastings thwart our every scheme, When humblest wishes seem an idle
dream, And the bare bread of life is half denied-- Such disappointments
humble not our pride; But do they change the temper of the soul,
Change every word and action, and enrol The nobler mind with things
of basest name-- With idleness, dishonesty, and shame! It hath its
bounds, and thus far it is well To check presumption--visions wild to
quell; Then 'tis the chastening of a father's hand-- All wholesome, all
expedient. But to stand Writhing beneath the unsparing lash, and be
Trampled on veriest earth, while misery Stems the young blood, or
makes it freeze with care, And on the tearless eyeballs writes, Despair!
Oh! this is terrible!--and it doth throw Upon the brow such early marks
of woe, That men seem old ere they have well been young; Their fond
hopes perish, and their hearts are wrung With such dark
feelings--misanthropic gloom, Spite of their natures, haunts them to the
tomb.
XVIII.
Now, Edmund 'midst the bustling throng appears One old in
wretchedness, though young in years; For he had struggled with an
angry world, Had felt misfortune's billows o'er him hurled, And strove
against its tide--where wave meets wave Like huge leviathans sporting
wild, and lave Their mountain breakers round with circling sweep, Till,
drawn within the vortex of their deep, The man of ruin struggleth--but

in vain; Like dying swimmers who, in breathless pain Despairing,
strike at random!--It would be A subject worth the schoolmen's scrutiny,
To trace each simple source from whence arose The strong and mingled
stream of human woes. But here we may not. It is ours alone To make
the lonely wanderer's fortunes known; And now, in plain but faithful
colours dressed, To paint the feelings of his hopeless breast.
XIX.
His withered prospects blacken--wounds await-- The grave grows
sunlight to his darker fate. All now is gall and bitterness within, And
thoughts, once sternly pure, half yield to sin. His sickened soul, in all
its native pride, Swells 'neath the breast that tattered vestments hide
Disdained, disdaining; while men flourish, he Still stands a stately
though a withered tree. But, Heavens! the agony of the moment when
Suspicion stamped the smiles of other men; When friends glanced
doubts, and proudly prudent grew, His counsellors, and his accusers
too!
XX.
Picture his pain, his misery, when first His growing wants their proud
concealment burst; When the first tears start from his stubborn soul.
Big, burning, solitary drops, that roll Down his pale cheek--the
momentary gush Of human weakness--till the whirlwind rush Of pride,
of shame, had dashed them from his eye, And his swollen heart heaved
mad with agony! Then, then the pain--the infinity of feeling-- Words
fail to paint its anguish. Reason, reeling, Staggered with torture through
his burning brain, While his teeth gnashed with bitterness and pain;
Reflection grew a scorpion, speech had fled, And all but madness and
despair were dead.
XXI.
He slept to dream of death, or worse than death; For death were bliss,
and the convulsive wrath Of living torture peace, to the dread weight
That pressed upon sensation, while the light Of reason gleamed but
horror, and strange hosts Of hideous phantasies, like threatening ghosts.

Grotesquely mingled, preyed upon his brain: Then would he dream of
yesterdays again, Or view to-morrow's terrors thick surround His fancy
with forebodings. While the sound Of his own breath broke frightful on
his ear, He, bathed in icy sweat, would start in fear, Trembling and pale;
then did his glances seem Sad as the sun's last, conscious, farewell
gleam Upon the eve of judgment. Such appear His days and nights
whom hope has ceased to cheer But grov'llers know it not. The supple
slave Whose worthiest record is a nameless grave, Whose truckling
spirit bends and bids him kneel, And fawn and vilely kiss a patron's
heel-- Even he can cast the cursed suspicious eye, Inquire the cause of
this--the reason why? And stab the sufferer. Then, the tenfold pain To
feel