| |
| REVIVING with the genial airs, | |
| Beneath the azure heaven of spring, | |
| Thy stem of ancient vigor bears | |
| Its branches green and blossoming; | |
| The birds around thee hop and sing, | 5 |
| Or flit, on glossy pinions borne, | |
| Above thy time-resisting head, | |
| Whose umbrage overhangs the dead, | |
| Thou venerable Thorn! | |
| |
| Three ages of mankind have passed | 10 |
| To silence and to sleep, since thou, | |
| Rearing thy branches to the blast, | |
| As glorious, and more green than now, | |
| Sheltered beneath thy shadowy brow | |
| The warrior from the dews of night: | 15 |
| To doubtful sleep himself he laid, | |
| Enveloped in his tartan plaid, | |
| And dreaming of the fight. | |
| |
| Day opened in the orient sky | |
| With wintry aspect, dull and drear; | 20 |
| On every leaf while glitteringly | |
| The rimy hoar-frost did appear. | |
| Blue ocean was unseen, though near; | |
| And hazy shadows seemed to draw, | |
| In silver with their mimic floods, | 25 |
| A line above the Seton woods, | |
| And round North Berwick Law. | |
| |
| Hark! ’t was the bagpipe that awoke | |
| Its tones of battle and alarms! | |
| The royal drum, with doubling stroke, | 30 |
| In answer, beat, “To arms—to arms!” | |
| If tumult and if war have charms, | |
| Here might that bliss be sought and found: | |
| The Saxon line unsheathes the sword; | |
| Rushes the Gael, with battle-word, | 35 |
| Across the stubble ground. | |
| |
| Alas! that British might should wield | |
| Destruction o’er a British plain; | |
| That hands, ordained to bear the shield, | |
| Should bring the poisoned lance to drain | 40 |
| The life-blood from a brother’s vein, | |
| And steep ancestral fields in gore! | |
| Yet, Preston, such thy fray began; | |
| Thy marsh-collected waters ran | |
| Empurpled to the shore. | 45 |
| |
| The noble Gardiner, bold of soul, | |
| Saw, spirit-sunk, his dastards flee, | |
| Disdained to let a fear control, | |
| And, striving by the side of thee, | |
| Fell, like a champion of the free! | 50 |
| And Brymer, too, who scorned to yield, | |
| Here took his death-blow undismayed, | |
| And, sinking slowly downward, laid | |
| His back upon the field. | |
| |
| Descendant of a royal line,— | 55 |
| A line unfortunate and brave! | |
| Success a moment seemed to shine | |
| On thee,—’t was sunbeams on a grave! | |
| Thy home a hiding-place,—a cave, | |
| With foxes destined soon to be! | 60 |
| To sorrow and to suffering wed, | |
| A price on thy devoted head, | |
| And bloodhounds tracking thee! | |
| |
| ’T was morn; but ere the solar ray | |
| Shot, burning, from the west abroad, | 65 |
| The field was still; the soldier lay | |
| Beneath the turf on which he trod, | |
| Within a cold and lone abode, | |
| Beside the spot whereon he fell; | |
| Forever severed from his kind, | 70 |
| And from the home he left behind,— | |
| His own paternal dell! | |
| |
| Sheathed in their glittering panoply, | |
| Or wrapt in war-cloak, blood-besprent, | |
| Within one common cemetery | 75 |
| The lofty and the low were pent: | |
| No longer did the evening tent | |
| Their mirth and wassail-clamor hear: | |
| Ah! many a maid of ardent breast | |
| Shed for his sake, whom she loved best, | 80 |
| The heart-consuming tear! | |
| |
| Thou, lonely tree, survivest still,— | |
| Thy bloom is white, thy leaf is green, | |
| I hear the tinkling of a rill; | |
| All else is silent: and the scene, | 85 |
| Where battle raged, is now serene | |
| Beneath the purple fall of night. | |
| Yet oft, beside the plough, appear | |
| Casque, human bone, and broken spear, | |
| Sad relics of the fight! | 90 |
| |
