BY J. LEYDEN.
TO IANTHE.
Again, sweet syren, breathe again
That deep, pathetic, powerful strain;
Whose melting tones, of tender
woe,
Fall soft as evening’s summer dew,
That bathes the pinks and harebells blue,
Which in the vales of Tiviot
blow.
Such was the song that soothed to rest.
Far in the green isle of the west,
The Celtic warrior’s
parted shade;
Such are the lonely sounds that sweep
O’er the blue bosom of the deep,
Where ship-wrecked mariners
are laid.
Ah! sure, as Hindú legends tell,
When music’s tones the bosom swell,
The scenes of former life
return;
Ere, sunk beneath the morning star,
We left our parent climes afar,
Immured in mortal forms to
mourn.
Or if, as ancient sages ween,
Departed spirits, half-unseen,
Can mingle with the mortal
throng;
’Tis when from heart to heart we
roll
The deep-toned music of the soul,
That warbles in our Scottish
song.
I hear, I hear, with awful dread,
The plaintive music of the dead;
They leave the amber fields
of day:
Soft as the cadence of the wave,
That murmurs round the mermaid’s
grave,
They mingle in the magic lay.
Sweet syren, breathe the powerful strain!
Lochroyan’s Damsel[A] sails
the main;
The chrystal tower enchanted
see!
“Now break,” she cries, “ye
fairy charms!”
As round she sails with fond alarms,
“Now break, and set
my true love free!”
Lord Barnard is to greenwood gone,
Where fair Gil Morrice sits alone,
And careless combs his yellow
hair;
Ah! mourn the youth, untimely slain!
The meanest of Lord Barnard’s train
The hunter’s mangled
head must bear.
Or, change these notes of deep despair,
For love’s more soothing tender
air:
Sing, how, beneath the greenwood
tree,
Brown Adam’s[B] love maintained
her truth,
Nor would resign the exiled youth
For any knight the fair could
see.
And sing the Hawk of pinion gray,[C]
To southern climes who winged his way,
For he could speak as well
as fly;
Her brethren how the fair beguiled,
And on her Scottish lover smiled,
As slow she raised her languid
eye.
Fair was her cheek’s carnation glow,
Like red blood on a wreath of snow;
Like evening’s dewy
star her eye:
White as the sea-mew’s downy breast,
Borne on the surge’s foamy crest,
Her graceful bosom heaved
the sigh.
In youth’s first morn, alert and
gay,
Ere rolling years had passed away,
Remembered like a morning
dream,
I heard these dulcet measures float,
In many a liquid winding note,
Along the banks of Teviot’s
stream.
Sweet sounds! that oft have soothed to
rest
The sorrows of my guileless breast,
And charmed away mine infant
tears:
Fond memory shall your strains repeat,
Like distant echoes, doubly sweet,
That in the wild the traveller
hears.
And thus, the exiled Scotian maid,
By fond alluring love betrayed
To visit Syria’s date-crowned
shore;
In plaintive strains, that soothed despair,
Did “Bothwell’s banks that
bloom so fair,”
And scenes of early youth,
deplore.
Soft syren! whose enchanting strain
Floats wildly round my raptured brain,
I bid your pleasing haunts
adieu!
Yet, fabling fancy oft shall lead
My footsteps to the silver Tweed,
Through scenes that I no more
must view.
[Footnote A: The Lass of Lochroyan—In
this volume.]
[Footnote B: See the ballad, entitled, Brown
Adam.]
[Footnote C: See the Gay Goss Hawk.]
