The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Vi Part 32

Frail, frail his step, and bent his frame, and ye may plainly trace The shadow of death's wing upon his pale and sunken face.

These twenty long and dreary months in the dungeon he hath lain, Long days of sickness, weary nights of languis.h.i.+ng and pain; For whom no gale hath breathed its balm, no sun hath bless'd the year, No friendly hand to smooth his couch, nor friendly voice to cheer; His lady in their lonely hall doth mournful vigils keep, And where he sat and where he walk'd his children watch and weep.

Yet o'er his weakness and decay an ancient grandeur falls, Like the majesty that lingers round some mould'ring palace walls; The light of calm and n.o.ble thoughts is bright within his eye, And, purged of earthly taint, his soul prepares to mount on high.

Nor is he left alone--a sister faithful to him clung With woman's heart, with home-born love, with angel look and tongue; There in that Golgotha she sits, so tender, so benign-- Fair as the moon's sweet glimpses through the cloudy tempest s.h.i.+ne.

The court is met, the a.s.size are set: the robes of state look brave, Yet the proudest and the lordliest there is but a tyrant's slave-- Blood-hirelings they who earn their pay by foul and treach'rous deeds-- For swift and fell the hound must be whom the hunter richly feeds.

What though no act of wrong e'er stain'd the fame of Jervieswoode, Shall it protect him in those times that he is wise and good?

So wise--so good--so loved of all, though weak and worn with care, Though death comes fast he is the last whom Antichrist would spare!

For his the bold and freeborn mind, the wisdom of a sage, The glow of youth still cherish'd in the sober breast of age; The soul of chivalry is his, and honour pure from stain-- A heart that beats for liberty, and spurns each galling chain, Whether entwined by hands that bear the crozier or the sword; For he would see all nations free in Christ who is their Lord.

And once, with England's patriot band, by tyrant power oppress'd, He had dream'd of free and happy homes in the forests of the west-- To breathe the uncorrupted air, to tread the fresh green sod, And where the broad Savannah rolls in peace to wors.h.i.+p G.o.d!

These are his crimes! the treason this for which he now is tried; But though the forms of law are kept all justice is denied.

Woe! that a land so favour'd once should witness such disgrace!

Shame! that a land so powerful yet should brook a scene so base!

Unroll your parchments black with lies--shut fast your coward doors-- And brand the aged chief with crimes his generous heart abhors: When truth avails not, well you know how to supply the lack With secret tales and with wild words extorted by the rack!

There is an hour for every power--an hour of darkness this!

Spur on, ye slaves of Antichrist! or ye the goal may miss!

His strength, increasing with his need, he raises bold and high, And fixes on Mackenzie[15] a clear and searching eye: "How canst thou thus, my lord, 'gainst me such accusations bring, That I have been a man of strife in plots against the king?

I hate the way of violence--the anarchist I spurn; Who scatters firebrands little knows where they may fall and burn.

In my degree I have been bold to guard the nation's right, And keep alive within these realms the lamp of Gospel light: But in my gloomy dungeon laid, didst thou not visit me, And solemnly avow that I from wicked plots was free?

How canst thou, then, unto my charge such grievous actions lay, And all thou hast so solemn said as solemnly unsay?"

The whole a.s.sembled mult.i.tude full on Mackenzie turn'd, That even his harden'd countenance with shame and anger burn'd: "True, Jervieswoode, I told thee so, as my own private view-- Here I discharge the functions which to the crown are due."

"If thou hast a conscience for thyself, and another for this place, I leave thee to the G.o.d of heaven and His all pardoning grace!

My lords, I add no more--proceed--right well I know my doom: Death hath no terrors for my soul--the grave it hath no gloom!"

'Tis one from old Saint Giles! The blasts of midnight shake the hall, Hoa.r.s.e sounding like a demon's voice, which the stoutest hearts appal!

His doom is utter'd!--"Twelve hours hence thy traitorous head shall fall, And for a terror be exposed upon the city wall; Thy limbs shall quarter'd be, and hung, all mutilate and bare, At Jedburgh, and Lanark town, at Glasgow, and at Ayr; That all good subjects thence may learn obedience to the State, Their duty to our gracious king, and b.l.o.o.d.y treason's fate."

A horror seizes every breast--a stifled cry of dread: "Who sheds the blood of innocence, the blood on his own head!"

That pack'd and perjured jury shrink in conscience-struck dismay, And wish their hands as clear of guilt as they were yesterday.

Mackenzie's cold and flinty face is quivering like a leaf, Whilst with quick and throbbing finger he turns o'er and o'er his brief; And the misnamed judges vainly try their rankling thoughts to hide Beneath an outward painted mask of loftiness and pride.

Even she, the sweet heroic one! aye watchful at his side, Whose courage ne'er hath blanch'd as yet, though sorely, sharply tried-- Even she is crush'd beneath the weight of this last and deadly blow, And sinks upon her brother's neck, o'erwhelm'd in speechless woe.

He, he alone, is calm of soul! Powers of no mortal birth Are gently loosening every tie that links him to the earth; And inward faith gives outward force--strong is his deep dark eye-- And his brow and lip are beautiful as in the days gone by.

Meekly he rises to depart, but pauses for a s.p.a.ce, And looks upon his cowering foes with calm and saintly grace: "The time is short, the sentence sharp--your malice I forgive; For G.o.d hath made me fit to die, as ye, my lords, to live!"

And meekly he departs! his toils, his work, and warfare done-- And his martyr chariot waits him, and his triumphs are begun!

And twelve hours thence, upon the block, his reverend head did fall, And for a terror was exposed upon the city wall; His limbs were quarter'd, and were hung, all mutilate and bare, At Jedburgh, and Lanark town, at Glasgow, and at Ayr: And thus through all broad Scotland these martyr'd relics go, Like a fiery cross to rouse the land to the tyrant's overthrow!

The ancient halls of Jervieswoode are desolate and gray, And its ancient oaks and lime trees are sinking in decay; These are of things that perish, and their place soon knows them not, But a glory from the past illumes this consecrated spot.

To him who braves the martyr's death is deathless honour given, For the faith that breeds heroic deeds is dear to earth and heaven; And through all succeeding ages, amongst the wise and good, Enshrined shall be the memory of the n.o.ble Jervieswoode.

FOOTNOTES:

[15] Sir George Mackenzie of Rosehaugh, the King's Advocate.

METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.

DUNCAN MACFARLAN.

Duncan Macfarlan was a native of Rannoch, in Perths.h.i.+re. He was born in 1750, and became, early in life, chaplain to one of the Highland regiments. He was subsequently admitted to the pastoral charge of the Gaelic Church, Perth. He executed some of the translations of Ossianic remains published by H. & J. M'Callum in 1816, under the auspices of the Highland Society of London. He died about the year 1834. Our translator remembers him as a venerable old gentleman, of polished manners and intelligent conversation. The following specimen of his poetical compositions is, in the original, extremely popular among the Gael.

THE BEAUTY OF THE s.h.i.+ELING.

My beauty of the s.h.i.+eling, Thy graceful air, like arrow-shaft, A fiery flame concealing, Has left me to the marrow chaf'd.

So winsome is thy smiling, Thy love-craft so beguiling, It binds me like the wilding, And I yield, in dule and sorrow left.

Thy brown locks rank'd in order, So spiral, rich, and cl.u.s.tering!

Thy face, of flowers a border, 'Neath feather'd eyebrows mustering!

Two drops of dewy splendour Those lids of beauty under!

And that kiss--a fragrant wonder, As fruits of India Western!

JOHN MUNRO.

John Munro was born in 1791, in the parish of Criech, Sutherlands.h.i.+re.

His father was superintendent of a manufacturing establishment. On the premature death of her husband, his mother proceeded to Glasgow, where the family were enabled to obtain a suitable education. In 1827, the poet commenced business as an accountant. The hours of relaxation from business he sedulously devoted to the concerns of literature, especially poetry. He produced some religious tracts, and composed verses, chiefly of a devotional character. He died in 1837, and his remains were consigned to the Necropolis of the city. Admiring friends reared an appropriate monument over his grave.

THE HIGHLAND WELCOME.

"My dearest, wilt thou follow, And mount with me the billow?

Wilt thou with me pa.s.s o'er the sea To the land of hill and hollow?"

"No, Highlandman! I leave not My kindred for another, Nor go with thee across the sea From the children of my mother.