Wilsons Tales of the Borders and of Scotland | Page 7

a gilded butterfly's disdain!-- A kicking ass, without an ass's sense,
Whose only virtue is, pounds, shillings, pence; And now, while ills on
ills beset him round, The scorn of such the hopeless Edmund found.
XXII.
But hope returned, and on the wanderer's ear Breathed its life-giving
watchword, Persevere! And torn by want, and struggling with despair,
These were his words, his fixed resolve and prayer, "Hail perseverance,
rectitude of heart, Through life thy aid, thy conquering power impart;
Repulsed and broken, blasted, be thou 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