Wilsons Tales of the Borders and of Scotland | Page 8

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 mine! Britannia! hail! Queen
of the mighty seas; to whom each gale From every point of heaven a
tribute brings, And on thy shores earth's farthest treasure flings! Land
of my heart and birth! at sight of thee My spirit boundeth, like a bird set
free From long captivity! Thy very air Is fragrant with remembrance!
Thou dost bear, On thy Herculean cliffs, the rugged seal Of godlike
Liberty! The slave might kneel Upon thy shore, bending the willing
knee, To kiss the sacred earth that sets him free! Even I feel freer as I
reach thy shore, And my soul mingles with the ocean's roar That hymns
around thee! Birthplace of the brave! My own--my glorious home!--the
very wave, Rolling in strength and beauty, leaps on high, As if
rejoicing on thy beach to die! My loved--my father-land! thy faults to
me Are as the specks which men at noontide see Upon the blinding sun,

and dwindle pale Beneath thy virtue's and thy glory's veil. Land of my
birth! where'er thy sons may roam, Their pride--their boast--their
passport is their home!"
IV.
'Twas early spring; and winter lingered still On the cold summit of the
snow-capt hill; The day was closing, and slow darkness stole Over the
earth as sleep steals on the soul, Sealing the eyelids up--unconscious,
slow, Till sleep and darkness reign, and we but know, On waking, that
we slept--but may not tell; Nor marked we when sleep's darkness on us
fell. A lonely stranger then bent anxious o'er A rustic gate before the
cottage door-- The snow-white cottage where the chestnuts grew, And
o'er its roof their arching branches threw. It was young Edmund, gazing,
through his tears, On the now cheerless home of early years-- While as
the grave of buried joys it stood, Its white walls shadowed through the
leafless wood; The once arched woodbine waving wild and bare; The
parterre, erst the object of his care, With early weeds o'ergrown; and
slow decay Had changed or swept all else he loved away. Upon the
sacred threshold, once his own, He silent stood, unwelcomed and
unknown; Gazed, sighed, and turned away; then sadly strayed To the
cold, dreamless churchyard, where were laid His parents, side by side.
A change had come O'er all that he had loved: his home was dumb,
And through the vale no accent met his ear That he was wont in early
days to hear; While childhood's scenes fell dimly on his view, As a dull
picture of a spot we knew, Where we but cold and lifeless forms can
trace. But no bold truth, nor one familiar face.
V.
Night sat upon the graves, like gloom to gloom, As silent treading o'er
each lowly tomb, Thoughtful and sad, he lonely strove to trace, Amidst
the graves, his father's resting-place. And well the spot he knew; yea, it
alone Was all now left that he might call his own Of all that was his
kindred's; and although He looked for no proud monument to show The
tomb he sought, yet mem'ry marked the spot Where slept his ancestors;
and had it not, He deemed--he felt--that if his feet but trode Upon his
parents' dust, the voice of God, As it of old flashed through a prophet's

breast, Would in his bosom whisper, "Here they rest!" 'Twas an
Enthusiast's thought;--but, oh! to tread, With darkness round us, 'midst
the voiceless dead, With not an eye but Heaven's upon our face-- At
such a moment, and in such a place, Seeking the dead we love--who
would not feel. Yea, and believe as he did then, and kneel On friend or
father's grave, and kiss the sod As in the presence of our father's God!
VI.
He reached the spot; he startled--trembled--wept; And through his
bosom wildest feelings swept. He sought a nameless grave, but o'er the
place Where slept the generations of his race, A marble pillar rose. "Oh
Heaven!" he cried, "Has avaricious Ruin's hand denied The parents of
my heart a grave with those Of their own kindred?--have their ruthless
foes Grasped this last, sacred spot we called our own? If but a weed
upon that grave had grown, I would have honoured it!--have called it
brother! Even for my