The knight awoke; the timely cock
Told how the morning wore;
No baron turn'd the massy lock,
Which secur'd his prison-door.
He listen'd till the waning light
Scarce shew'd the dungeon wall;
He listen'd through an age of night-
No foot was heard to fall.
Unworthy chief, Sir Porteous cried,
Are these thy fierce alarms?
And are the brave by hunger tried,
Whom thou hast prov'd in arms?
Or has some dire mischance assail'd
The knight who holds me here?
"Tis so-he would not else have fail'd
To bring my prison-cheer.
Loudly he call'd-the warder ran
Lamenting to the door;
"Alas! alas! thou wretched man,
"Thou art dead in Massy-Moor.
"Sir Jardine to the south is gone,
"He thinks no whit of thee;
"Nor recks, alas! that he alone.
"Still kept thy prison key.
"And here be thy brothers come over the sea, "With jewels and gold in store;
"How fondly they trusted to ransom thee!
"But they never shall see thee more."
He said 'Twas all the knight could hear;
He sank upon the ground; His eye, unmoisten'd by a tear, Glar'd sightlessly around.
His arms are fallen upon his knees,
His head upon his breast;
His sense benumbing horrors freeze
To slumber-not to rest
As when, to tend her only child,
Some mother, scarce awake,
Turns to the babe with action mild,
But sees a deadly snake;
So started Jardine, when the key
Appear'd below his cloak;
Upon his horse again sprang he,
And not a word he spoke.
And he has gallop'd night and day
As Pity were his steed,
Till he has measur'd back his way;-
The knight was past that need.
From the dark dungeon he is borne,
His mouth is stain'd with blood;
And from his arms the flesh is torn-
An ineffectual food.
Since when, each night, on yonder hill,
Resounds that hollow roar;
And never shall those shrieks be still,
Within the Massy-Moor..
IN Sleep's serene oblivion laid,
I safely pass'd the silent night;
At once I see the breaking shade,
And drink again the morning light.
New born-I bless the waking hour,
Once more, with awe, rejoice to be ;
My conscious soul resumes her power,
And springs, my gracious God, to thee.
O, guide me through the various maze,
My doubtful feet are doom'd to tread ;
And spread thy shield's protecting blaze,
When dangers press around my head.
A deeper shade will soon impend,
A deeper sleep my eyes oppress;
Yet still thy strength shall me defend,
Thy goodness still shall deign to bless.
That deeper shade shall fade away,
That deeper sleep shall leave my eyes;
Thy light shall give eternal day!
Thy love the rapture of the skies!
Composed about a month before his death, and dictated to Mrs. H- before he rose in the morning.
TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY,
Who died February 14, 1774.
WRITTEN IN FEBRUARY, 1794.
BELOV'D Eliza ! in the peaceful grave,
Where, undisturb'd, thy beauteous reliques rest,
Thy faithful lover's deep regret receive,
The sad o'erflowings of his aching breast,
That still, with fondest love and grief opprest,
Unceasing thinks on thee.
Fir'd with the love of thee in earliest youth,
While the high pulse of life with vigour beat,
He still preserves, with undiminish'd truth,
A heart which, stranger to the world's deceit,
With purest passion's unabated heat,
Unceasing thinks on thee.
Snatch'd, in thy opening bloom, from life, from love,
Ere yet thy bosom knew life's anxious care;
With charms that even the coldest heart might move-
Charms!—that surpass'd the fairest of the fair—
Thy lover, left a prey to deep despair,
Unceasing thinks on thee.
Though twice ten suns their annual course have run, Since thou to happier realms hast wing'd thy flight; Clos'd thy career, in virtue's path begun,
And chang'd this nether world for realms of light; Yet still my soul, amidst this vale of night,
Unceasing thinks on thee.
How oft, as musing on thy moss-grown grave,
Does busy thought, with sad remembrance, trace
The time, the place, the happy chance, that gave
First to my view the beauties of thy face;
Whilst, with regret, which time can ne'er efface,
I ceaseless think on thee.
Oh! might my verse, in tuneful numbers, flow
Free as my tears, unbounded too as they,
To sing thy praises; and my poignant woe,
In mournful cadence, still should pour the lay
From the warm heart, that to its latest day,
Shall ceaseless think on thee.
Long have I hop'd and wish'd the happy hour
That shall from life and anguish set me free;
From bitter sorrows, and misfortune's power;
In blissful shades thy angel-form to see,
And free from sad regrets and misery,
For ever dwell with thee.
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