BALLAD THE THIRD.
Nature, what heart may here by thee,
Most truly brave be styled?
The tender mother's it must be,
When struggling for her child!
A Scottish tale, of serious truth,
Will make the maxim clear,
I heard it from a shepherd youth,
As nature's self sincere.
On Scotland's wildest, loneliest ground,
The subject of my tale
Liv'd, where incumbent mountains frown'd
High o'er her peaceful vale.
The heroine of nature, she
No vain ambition knew,
Her bairns and goats she nurs'd with glee,
To love and labour true.
Her hut within the valley stood,
Where thin grass grew alone,
No shade had she from lofty wood.
But much from towering stone.
For o'er her vale a mountain's crown,
In loftiest horror, hung,
A ravenous Eagle half way down,
Nurs'd her imperial young.
Jessy herself, so was she call'd,
Possess'd an eagle's eye,
And her quick vision unappall'd
Had mark'd the nest on high.
But of a fearless heart, she deem'd
The royal bird her friend,
Nor thought its rage, tho' fierce it scream'd,
Would to her vale descend.
With plunder borne thro' distant air,
She saw it stain the rock,
Yet trusted it would nobly spare
Her little neighbouring flock.
Ah Jessy, oft the fancied friend,
Commits a cruel wrong;
Weak neighbours seldom should depend
On kindness from the strong.
No manly guard hast thou with thee
A savage foe to scare,
For thy good man far off to sea
The distant billows bear.
That best of guards thou oft has known,
But of his aid bereft,
Two little boys with thee alone
Are all thy treasures left.
The eldest grew with manly grace,
His years yet barely seven,
A stripling of a sweeter face,
Has never gaz'd on Heaven.
He was indeed a friend most rare,
To chear his lonely mother,
And aid her in her constant care
His little baby-brother.
With these to Jessy much endear'd,
Whom from the world she hid,
Three nurslings more she fondly rear'd,
Two lambkins and a kid.
Most tender playmates all the five,
None stray'd the vale beyond,
They were the happiest imps alive,
All of each other fond.
And Jessy all with joy survey'd,
With joy her heart ran o'er,
When they their little gambols play'd,
She spinning at her door.
But how mischance will intervene:
This spot of sweet delight,
One eventide, became a scene
Of anguish and affright.
The elder boy, gay Donald, chanc'd,
Far from the door to play,
Lest, now within the vale advanc'd,
His kid might roam away.
The mother sat to watch the vale,
Nor yet his sport forbid;
But starts to see the Eagle sail
Above the trembling kid.
The kid began to quake and cry;
Not so the braver boy,
The full-winged savage to defy
Was his heroic joy.
Still nearer sail'd the undaunted bird,
Its destin'd deed undone,
And when its ravenous scream she heard
The mother join'd her son.
Their shouts united, and each arm
In bold protection spread,
Secur'd the kid from real harm,
Tho' now with fear half dead,
Some furlongs from their cottage sill,
Now pass'd this anxious scene;
There they had left, as safe from ill,
The sleeping babe serene.
The savage bird the kid renounc'd,
But round the cottage oft
Rapid he wheel'd, and there he pounc'd,
And bore the babe aloft.
Ah!—who can now that impulse paint,
Which fires the mother's breast?
Nor toil, nor danger, makes her faint;
She seeks this Eagle's nest.
But first with courage clear, tho' warm,
As guides the martial shock,
When British tars prepare to storm
A fortress on a rock.
She bids, to mark the Eagle's flight,
Young Donald watch below,
While she will mount the craggy height,
And to his aerie go.
With filial hope her son, who knew
Her courage and her skill,
Watch'd to parental orders true,
Magnanimously still.
And now, his mother out of sight,
He fixt his piercing eye
On crags, that blaz'd in solar light,
Whence eagles us'd to fly.
He saw, as far as eye may ken,
A crag with blood defil'd,
And entering this aerial den
The Eagle and the child.
The boy, tho' trusting much in God,
With generous fear was fill'd;
Aware, that, if those crags she trod,
His mother might be kill'd.
His youthful mind was not aware
How nature may sustain
Life, guarded by maternal care
From peril, and from pain.
And now he sees, or thinks he sees
(His heart begins to pant)
A woman crawling on her knees,
Close to the Eagle's haunt.
It is thy mother, gallant boy,
Lo! up her figure springs:
She darts, unheard, with speechless joy
Between the Eagle's wings.
Behold! her arms its neck enchain,
And clasp her babe below:
Th' entangled bird attempts in vain
Its burthen to o'erthrow.
Now Heaven defend thee, mother bold,
Thy peril is extreme:
Thou'rt dead, if thou let go thy hold,
Scar'd by that savage scream;
And bravely if thou keep it fast,
What yet may be thy doom!
This very hour may be thy last,
That aerie prove thy tomb.
No! No! thank Heaven! O nobly done!
O marvellous attack!
I see thee riding in the sun,
Upon the Eagle's back.
In vain it buffets with its wings,
In vain it wheels around;
Still screaming, in its airy rings,
It sinks towards the ground.
Run, Donald, run! she has not stirr'd,
And she is deadly pale:
She's dead; and with the dying bird
Descending to the vale.
Lo! Donald flies.—She touches earth:
O form'd on earth to shine!
O mother of unrivall'd worth,
And sav'd by aid divine!
She lives unhurt—unhurt too lies
The baby in her clasp;
And her aerial tyrant dies
Just strangled in her grasp.
What triumph swelled in Donald's breast,
And o'er his features spread.
When he his living mother prest,
And held the Eagle dead!
Angels, who left your realms of bliss.
And on this parent smil'd,
Guard every mother brave as this,
In rescuing her child!
THE STAG.
BALLAD THE FOURTH.
Blest be the boy, by virtue nurst,
Who knows not aught of fear's controul,
And keeps, in peril's sudden burst,
The freedom of an active soul.
Such was a lively Tuscan boy,
Who lived the youthful Tasso's friend,
Friendship and verse his early joy,
And music, form'd with love to blend.
Love had inspir'd his tender frame,
His years but two above eleven,
The sister of his friend his flame!
A lovely little light of Heaven!
Born in the same propitious year,
Together nurst, together taught;
Each learn'd to hold the other dear,
In perfect unison of thought.
Their forms, their talents, and their talk,
Seem'd match'd by some angelic powers,
Ne'er grew upon a rose's stalk
A sweeter pair of social flowers.
Fortunio was the stripling's name,
Cornelia his affection's queen,
Both to all eyes, where'er they came,
Endear'd by their attractive mien.
For like a pair of fairy sprites,
Endued with soft ætherial grace,
Enrapt in musical delights
They hardly seem'd of mortal race!
Often the youth, in early morn,
Awak'd a social sylvan flute.
To notes as gay, as Dian's horn,
Or tender, as Apollo's lute.
Then, at his side, his sovereign fair
Appear'd the rising day to greet,
Uniting to his dulcet air
Devotion's song divinely sweet.
A fund of joys, that never waste,
Nature to this sweet pair had given;
Invention, harmony, and taste,
And fancy, brightest gift of Heaven!
In quest of many a new device,
Thro' pathless scenes they joy'd to roam,
Composing songs most wildly sweet,
Heard, with parental pride, at home.
Delighted in a wood to rove,
That near their native city spread;
There of its gayest flowers they wove,
A garland for each other's head.
One morn when this dear task was done,
And just as each the other crown'd,
Seeking deep, shade to 'scape the sun,
A piteous spectacle they found.
It was a dead disfigur'd fawn,
Its milk white haunch some monster tore;
It perish'd in that morning's dawn,
Nor had the sun yet dried its gore!
Cornelia, nature's genuine child,
Caress'd the dead, with pity pale;
It's mangled limb, with gesture mild,
She shrouded in her sea-green veil.
The sympathetic pair agreed,
To form a grave without a spade;
Bury their fawn beneath a tree,
And chaunt a requiem to his shade.
Fortunio had a rustic knife,
With this their feeling task they plann'd,
And often in a friendly strife,
They claim'd it from each other's hand.
But ere their tedious toil advanc'd,
Towards its kind and tender end,
Cornelia, as her quick eye glanc'd,
Saw, what escap'd her toiling friend.
It was a sight that well might shake,
A little heart of stouter mould;
A sight, that made Cornelia quake,
And all her quivering fibres cold!
A furious Stag advancing sprung,
Eager along the echoing wood,
As if vindictive for his young,
To reach the spot, where now they stood.
Cornelia scarce could stand, for she
Began her guardian to entreat;
Seizing his busy arm, to flee
Far from the fawn before her feet.
The youth her painful terror saw,
And with a manly sterness said,
In a firm voice, inspiring awe,
"Cornelia I must be obeyed."
"True love is brave, whate'er may chance—
Behind this tree's protecting bole
Stand thou—nor fear the Stag's advance,
But trust to thy Fortunio's soul!"
The faithful maid, in double dread,
Fear'd to offend him more than death;
And now, as near the fierce foe sped,
Behind the tree, she pants for breath.
Yet peeping thence in fond alarm,
Most trembling for her guardian's life,
She looks, expecting that his arm
Would brandish his defensive knife.
Amazement kept the trembler mute,
To see him hurl it far away,
And from his bosom pluck his flute,
And fearlessly begin to play.
The furious parent of the dead,
Marking him near his blood-stain'd young,
Aim'd at his breast with hostile head,
As near the dauntless boy he sprung.
But ere the branching horns could reach,
That object of ill-founded ire,
Sounds of resistless magic teach
Submission to the savage sire.
The young musician richly pour'd
Notes from his pipe, so wond'rous sweet,
A rav'nous pard must have ador'd,
And melted at the minstrel's feet.
So softly plaintive was the strain,
No living thing unmov'd could hear,
What took from terror all its pain,
And mixt delight with sorrow's tear.
The Stag with a pathetic grace
Look'd up, most eloquently mute;
And sighing in Fortunio's face,
Now lick'd the hand, that held his flute.
Cornelia saw, with blest relief,
The scene that every fear dismist;
And sharing all his love and grief,
Her foe, so humaniz'd, she kist.
Then by her brave musician's side,
She fondly claspt his honour'd hand.
"And give me credit now," she cried,
"For staying at thy stern command."
"Henceforth, tho' plung'd in perils new,
I shrink from none, if thou art near,
But feel our sacred maxim true,
That perfect love will cast out fear!"
"This Stag to thee will ever shew
The gratitude, thy strains inspire!
And those, who soothe a parent's woe,
Are dear to Heaven's all-soothing sire."
"Our duty to this hapless fawn
We will perform, and often fly
To hail his grave at early dawn;
Youth and misfortune claim a sigh!"
The lovely nymph prophetic spoke;
The Stag, as taught by powers above,
Oft met them at their fav'rite oak,
And seem'd to bless their tender love.
Here oft the little fair retir'd;
Here lov'd from gayer scenes withdrawn,
To breathe, what harmony inspir'd—
A dirge to memorize the fawn!