Wilsons Tales of the Borders and of Scotland | Page 6

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 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