THE youth I sing, who, to himself unknown,
Lost to the world and CALEDONIA's throne,
Sprung o'er his mountains to the arms of Fame,
And, winged by Fate, his sire's avenger, came;
That knowledge learn'd so long deny'd by Fate,
And found that blood, as merit, made him great.
The aged chieftain on the bier is laid,
And grac'd with all the honours of the dead :
The youthful warriors, as the corpse they bear,
Droop the sad head, and shed the gen'rous tear.
For Abria's shore Tay's winding banks they leave,
And bring the hero to his father's grave.
His filial tears the godlike Alpin sheds,
And towards the foe his gallant warriors leads.
The chief along his silent journey wound,
And fixed his rainy eyes upon the ground';
1 And fixed his rainy eyes upon the ground.] They were like stars, on a rainy hill, by night, each looking faintly through the mist." I. 558.
Behind advanced his followers sad and slow,
In all the dark solemnity of woe.
Meantime fierce Scandinavia's hostile pow'r
Its squadrons spread along the murmuring shore;
Prepar'd, at once, the city to invade,
And conquer Caledonia in her head.
His camp, for night, the royal Sweno forms,
Resolv'd with morn to use his Danish arms.
Now in the ocean sunk the flaming day,
And streaked the ruddy west with setting ray;
Around great Indulph, in the senate, sat
The noble chiefs of Caledonia's state.
In mental scales they either forces weigh,
And act, before, the labours of the day;
The marble lives; they breathe within the stone,
And still, as once, the royal warriors frown.
The Fergusses are seen above the gate; This first created, that restor'd, the state. the awful forms appear,
And, bending, threaten from the stone the spear;
While to their side young Albion seems to rise,
And on her fathers turns her smiling eyes.
And next appears Gregorius' awful name,
Hibernia's conquʼror for a gen'rous fame.
Incased in arms, the royal hero stands,
And gives his captive all his conquered lands.
The filial heart of hapless Alpin's son
In marble melts, and beats within the stone.
Revenge still sparkles in the hero's eye:
Around the Picts a nameless slaughter lye.
The youthful warrior thus reviews, with joy,
The godlike series of his ancestry.
The godlike forms the drooping hero cheer,
And keen ambition half believes the seer:
Eager he shoots into the spacious gate;
His eye commands ;-without his followers wait.
No frowning spearman guards the awful door;
No borrowed terror arms the hand of power;
No cringing bands of sycophants appear,
To send false echoes to the monarch's ear;
Merit's soft voice, oppression's mournful groan,
Advanced, unstifled, to th' attentive throne.
The hero, ent'ring, took his solemn stand
Among the gallant warriors of the land.
His manly port the staring chiefs admire,
And half-heard whispers blow the soldier's fire.
A while his form engaged the monarch's eyes;
At length he raised the music of his voice:
"Whence is the youth? I see fierce Denmark warms
Each generous breast, and fires 'em into arms.
A face once known is in that youth exprest,
And mends a dying image in my breast."
He said :-and thus the youth: "'Midst rocks afar,
I heard of Denmark, and of Sueno's war.
My country's safety in my bosom rose:
For Caledonia's sons should meet her foes.
We ought not meanly wait the storm at home,
But rush afar, and break it ere it come.
Few are my followers, but these few are true;
We come to serve our country, fame, and you!"
He said :---the king retorts:
Declare the scion of a generous kind.
With Scotia's foes maintain the stern debate,
And spring from valour to the arms of state.
Whoe'er would raise his house in Albion, should
Lay the foundation in her en'mies' blood."
Then to the chiefs: "Supporters of my throne,
Your sires brought oft the Roman Eagles down.
Yourselves, my lords, have caused the haughty Dane
To curse the land he tried so oft in vain.
Norvegian firs oft brought them o'er the waves,
For Albion's crown; but Albion gave 'em graves.
Be still the same; exert yourselves like men,
And of th' invaders wash our rocks again.
Though few our numbers, these, in arms grown old,
In Albion's and in Indulph's cause are bold.
The brave man looks not, when the clarion sounds,
To hostile numbers, but his country's wounds;
Bold to the last, and dauntless he'll go on,
At once his country's soldier, and her son."
The monarch thus his royal mind exprest,
The patriot kindling in each generous breast.
Each chieftain's mind with pleasure goes before,
Already mingling with the battle's roar.
In thought each hero sweeps the bloody plain,
And deals, in fancy, death upon the Dane.
Dunbar arose, the brave remains of wars,
Silver'd with years, o'er-run with honest scars;
Great in the senate, in the field renown'd:
The senior stood; attention hung around.
He thus: "Fierce Denmark all the north commands,
And belches numbers on our neighb'ring lands;
England's subdued, the Saxons are o'ercome,
And meanly own a Danish lord at home.
Scarce now a blast from Scandinavia roars,
But wafts a hostile squadron to our shores.
One fleet destroy'd, another crowns the waves:
The sons seem anxious for their fathers' graves:
Thus war returns in an eternal round;
Battles on battles press; and wound on wound.
Our numbers thinned, our godlike warriors dead,
Pale Caledonia hangs her sickly head.
We must be wise, be frugal of our store,
Add art to arms, and caution to our pow'r.
Beneath the sable mantle of the night,
Rush on the foe, and, latent, urge the fight.
Conduct, with few, may foil this mighty power,
And Denmark shun th' inhospitable shore.”
The senior spoke: a general voice approves ;
To arm his kindred-bands each chief removes.
Night from the east the drowsy world invades,
And clothes the warriors in her dusky shades.
The vassal-throng advance, a manly cloud,
And with their sable ranks the chieftains shroud.
Each chief, now here, now there, in armour shines,
Waves through the ranks, and draws the lengthened lines.
Thus, on a night when rattling tempests war,
Through broken clouds appears a blazing star;
Now veils its head, now rushes on the sight,
And shoots a livid horror through the night.
The full-form'd columns, in the midnight-hour,
Begin their silent journey tow'rds the shore:
Through every rank the chiefs inciting roam,
And rouzing whispers hiss along the gloom.
A rising hill, whose night-invelop'd brow
Hung o'er th' encamped squadrons of the foe,
Shoots to the deep its ooze-immantled arm,
And stedfast struggles with the raging storm.
Here ends the moving host its winding road,
And here condenses, like a sable cloud,
Which long was gathering on the mountain's brow,
Then broke in thunder on the vales below.
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