REVIVING with the genial airs, Beneath the azure heaven of spring, Thy stem of ancient vigour bears Its branches green and blossoming; The birds around thee hop and sing, Or flit, on glossy pinions borne, Above thy time-resisting head, Whose umbrage overhangs the dead, Thou venerable Thorn! Three ages of mankind have pass'd 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: To doubtful sleep himself he laid, Enveloped in his tartan plaid, And dreaming of the fight. Day open'd in the orient sky With wintry aspect, dull and drear; On every leaf, while glitteringly The rimy hoar-frost did appear. Blue Ocean was unseen, though near; And hazy shadows seem'd to draw, In silver with their mimic floods, A line above the Seton woods, And round North Berwick Law. Hark! 'twas the bagpipe that awoke Its tones of battle and alarms! The royal drum, with doubling stroke, 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 unsheaths the sword; Rushes the Gael, with battle-word, Across the stubble ground. Alas! that British might should wield Destruction o'er a British plain; That hands, ordain'd to bear the shield, Should bring the poison'd lance to drain 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. The noble Gardiner, bold of soul, Saw, spirit-sunk, his dastards flee, Disdain'd to let a fear control, And, striving by the side of thee, Fell, like a champion of the free! And Brymer, too, who scorn'd to yield, Here took his death-blow undismay'd, And, sinking slowly downward, laid His back upon the field. Descendant of a royal line— A line unfortunate and brave! Success a moment seemed to shine On thee—'twas sunbeams on a grave! Thy home a hiding-place—a cave, With foxes destined soon to be! To sorrow and to suffering wed, A price on thy devoted head, And blood-hounds tracking thee! 'Twas morn; but ere the solar ray Shot, burning, from the west abroad, 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; For ever sever'd from his kind, 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, The lofty and the low were pent: No longer did the evening tent Their mirth and wassail-clamour hear: Ah! many a maid of ardent breast Shed for his sake, whom she loved best, 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, 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! |