Wilsons Tales of the Borders and of Scotland | Page 8

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 father's sake, and thine, my mother! But that cold marble freezes up my heart, And seems to tell me that I have no part With its proud dead; while through the veil of night The name it bears yet mocks my anxious sight." Thus cried he bitterly; then, trembling, placed His finger on the marble, while he traced Its letters one by one, and o'er and o'er;-- Grew blind with eagerness, and shook the more, As with each touch, the feeling o'er him came-- The unseen letters formed his father's name!
VII.
While thus, with beating heart,