Chapter XIV: Act V: Scene I (4)

’Twas whisper’d, and perchance ’twas true,
The lady oft was seen
A dallying with her lemane vile
Among the breckans green.

’Tis merry in the greenwood now,
The beagles blithe are running,
And children ramble in the woods
Their golden tresses sunning.

In search of nature’s feathery quire
Two youths had heedless run,
When they o’erheard a villain say
“The hard-won turn is done!”

“He’d borne the brunt of flood and field;
“Had stood knee-deep in gore!
“But never saw a soul so stout
“As that the young Knight bore.

“While in the agonies of death
“The old man’s heart did bleed,
“With taunts, reproach, and fiend-like scorn
“He urged the hellish deed.”

O why comes the king’s messenger
With warrant in his hand?
And why do these grim officers
Bid Philip Stanfield stand?

By yonder stream they’ve ta’en a turn
Beneath the willow’s shade,
Where, shelter’d by the rush-grown bank,
The suicide was laid.

O why do the physicians come,
Muffled in cloak and cowl?
Their business is to save the living,
Sure death they cannot fool.

Why comes the sexton with his spade?
Another foolish man!
Who daily haps mortality,
Yet’s mortal o’er his cann.

The spade upturn’d the wormy earth,
And grazed the coffin’s coom,
When forth they dragg’d the lifeless knight,
Like prisoner to his doom.

Then to Newmills they solemn wend,
Each mourner grim and tall;
And dread amazement paints each face
That crowds into the hall.

Now, “Stanfield, lift thy father’s head,”
The doctors straight did say,
“That we may view his mangled form,
“For here has been foul play!”

Young Stanfield touch’d his father’s corpse,
When ’rose a fearful wail;
For blood gush’d from the winding-sheet,
And every face grew pale.

And aye the dead clothes redder grew—
The youth fell on the floor;
Thus suddenly remorse will smite,
And guilty heart o’erpower.

“Thou art the murderer! alas!”
The pale chirurgeon said;
“Beadles, your stoutest bonds prepare,
“And bind the parricide.”

Then swore the youth by God and heaven,
O’ercome with seeming wo,
“My heart and hand are pure from blood,
“As Lapland’s spotless snow.”

“’Tis false!”—they bound him where he stood,
Nor listed to his tale;
They march’d him hand and limb in chains
To fair Edina’s jail.

Soon sentenced by his country’s laws,
He met a shameful death;
But harden’d guilt the crime denied
With his expiring breath.

Yet retribution came, though late,
Even to the gallows tree;
The cord unclasping, down he slipt
Upon his bended knee.

The hangman finish’d, with a grin,
What seem’d so ill begun,
And strangled, in the pangs of death,
As sire, so died the son.

The headsman plied his horrid art,
When with unerring stroke
The youth’s devoted head, laid low,
Roll’d bloody from the block.

Then high in air his clotted locks
To rabble’s gaze was spread,
As loud the executor cried,
“Behold the parricide!”

On Haddington’s eastern portal high
His hand and head were placed;
For near that fatal field did lie,
This horrid crime disgraced.

NOTES TO SIR JAMES STANFIELD.

Page 331, line 15.

_Denouncing wrath, he strikes the priest
Even in the house of God._

Of Philip Stanfield, Wodrow observes,—“This profligate youth being at the university of St Andrews, a good many years before he committed this barbarous murder, came to a sermon in Kinkel-close, about a mile from St Andrews, where Mr John Welch was preaching, and in his spite and mockery in time of sermon, threw somewhat or other at the minister, which hit him. The minister stopped, and said, ‘He did not know who had put that public affront on a servant of Christ; but be who he would, he was persuaded there would be more present at his death than were hearing him preach that day, and the multitude was not small.’ This was accomplished, and Mr Stanfield acknowledged this in prison after he was condemned, and that God was about to accomplish what he had been warned of.”

Page 333, line 1.

_A springs a tiger from the brake,
Two ruffians fiercely sprung,
And with a ’kerchief close comprest,
Soon gagg’d the old man’s tongue._

The account of this dreadful case is thus given by Lord Fountainhall, a contemporary judge.—“1687, 14th Dec.—Sir James Stanfield being found dead some few days before, beside his own house of Newmills, some thinking he had drowned himself in some melancholy fit, to which he was incident; the fame of the country did run that he was strangled by his sons or servants; for he had disinherited his eldest son for his debauchery, and disponed his fortune to his second son, and failzieing of him to Commissar Dalrymple. On this suspicion there was an order directed from the Privy Council to Muirhead and Crawford, chirurgeons in Edinburgh, to visit his body and report; for they had very hastily buried him, pretending that they would not have his body to be gazed upon and viewed by all comers: And they having reported that they saw signs of strangulation, and that his head bled when Philip his eldest son touched it, he was apprehended and imprisoned, as likewise two of Sir James’s servants, and a woman, which three last were brought in, 8th December, before the Privy Council, and tortured with the thumbikins, but confessed nothing.—Yet the presumptions were very pregnant against Philip.—He had attempted on his father formerly, which his father had declared to several; and he declined to concur with the King’s Advocate in a pursuit against the murderers; and was found to have much money, (though he gave in a bill seeking an aliment,) and did hastily bury him; and bruised blood was found about his throat; and the mother had the dead clothes all ready; and the minister, (Mr John Bell,) heard great noise that night. And now to get favour, he had declared himself Papist; upon which grounds a criminal indictment being raised against him, as also for drinking the King’s confusion, and for cursing his father, &c.”

In his defence, it was urged that he was intoxicated when he drank the king’s confusion, with whom he linked the pope’s, the chancellor’s, and the devil’s; yet the justices found it treason! _2do_, That with respect to cursing his father, that they were afterwards reconciled—the justices also repelled this defence. _3tio_, That the presumptions libelled against the parricide were not relevant. His lordship goes on to state “the chirurgeon’s attest, that he was not drowned but strangled; the miraculous providence of the two children discovering the truth against their parents, the one a boy of 13, and the other a girl of 11 years, who were not sworn, not knowing the importance of an oath; but only declared that they heard their parents telling one to the other that the turn was done; and that Philip carried very stoutly, and that they should have put a stone about his neck to make him sink.”

It was also proved, in extenuation, that Sir James was once mad, and thereafter hypocondriac. “That he used to tell, himself, that in one of these fits he rode towards England with a design never to have returned, but that his horse stopped at ——, and would not go forward, which he looked upon as the finger of God; and that once he was throwing himself out at a window at the Netherbow, if Thomas Lendall had not pulled him in by the feet; and that the very week before his death, he desired George Stirling to let blood of him, because his head was light,” &c.

The following circumstance, mentioned in the indictment, seems to have had great weight with the jury:—“That (the deceased’s) nearest relations being required to lift the corpse into the coffin, after it had been inspected, upon the said Philip Stanfield touching of it, (according to God’s usual mode of discovering murder,) it bled afresh upon the said Philip; and that thereupon he let the body fall, and fled from it in the greatest consternation, crying, Lord have mercy upon me!” The assize finding him guilty, “the Lords of Justiciary decerned him to be hanged on the 15th February, at the cross of Edinburgh, and his tongue to be cut out for cursing his father, and his right hand to be cut off for the parricide; and his head to be put upon the East Port of Haddington, as nearest to the place of murder; and his body to be hung up in chains betwixt Leith and Edinburgh, and his lands and goods to be confiscated for the treason.”

All this was rigorously put in execution. “Some thought,” continues his lordship, “if not a miraculous, yet an extraordinary return of his imprecations, the accident of the slipping of the knots on the rope, whereby his feet and knees were on the scaffold, which necessitated them to strangle him, bearing therein a near resemblance to his father’s death: and a new application having been made, that they might be allowed to bury him, Duke Hamilton was for it, but the Chancellor would not consent, because he had mocked his religion; so his body was hung up, and after some days being stolen down, it was found lying in a ditch among some water, as his father’s was; and by order was hung up again, and then a second time was taken down. This is a dark case of divination, to be remitted to the great day, whether he was guilty or innocent. Only it is certain he was a bad youth, and may serve as a beacon to all profligate persons.”—_Fountainhall’s Dec. Lords Ses._ vol. i. p. 484.

SONNET
ON VISITING BARRA CHURCH-YARD.

Deem not the spot unblest, though the church pile
Be moulder’d to decay; three mossy stones
Mark cells as hallow’d as the sculptured aisle,
Where villagers repose their weary bones;
The winds of heaven sigh moaning o’er their graves,
Where the long grass in mournful billows waves;
And when the moonlight sleeps upon yon knoll
The swain will pause, and think upon his soul!—
But most I love the blue-flower gleaming there,
Sprung from the ashes of some village maid,
Who blossom’d in life’s spring, chaste, young, and fair,
Till in Death’s arms she shrunk into a shade.
I’ll take a seedling from this lonely flower,
To be the moralist of my summer-bower.

VERSES
IN MEMORY
OF
DUNBAR COLLEGIATE CHURCH.

There is a Temple in ruin stands,
Fashion’d by long-forgotten hands.
Out upon Time! it will leave no more
Of the things to come than the things before!
——What we have seen our sons shall see,
Remnants of things that have pass’d away,
Fragments of stone, rear’d by creatures of clay!—
BYRON.

The first notice we have of the church of Dunbar is in the Taxatio of Lothian, in 1176, where Ecclesia de Dunbar cum capella de Whytingeham is assessed at 180 merks.—_Chalmers’ Cal._ From the earliest times, the Earls of Dunbar appear to have been proprietors of the whole parish, and patrons of the church and its subordinate chapels. In 1342, during the reign of David II., Patrick, fifth of that name, and tenth Earl of Dunbar and March, converted the parochial church into a collegiate form.—It was confirmed by William, bishop of St Andrew’s, and besides being the first establishment of that kind known in Scotland, was anciently the richest in the deanry of Lothian. With its subordinate chapels, it was valued at 180 merks, a greater valuation than any other could bear at the same period. At the Reformation, when the church ceased to be collegiate, the archpriestry of Dunbar was stated at £80.

On the forfeiture of the earldom of March, in 1434–5, the patronage of the church fell to the crown. During the reign of James III., it was enjoyed, with the earldom of Dunbar, by the Duke of Albany. It again fell to the king, on the forfeiture of his traitorous brother in 1483; and now belongs to the Duke of Roxburgh, as principal heritor of the parish.

The interior of churches, as well as of domestic buildings, having been much improved within the present century, the collegiate church had long been found inconvenient for a modern audience, accordingly this venerable fabric was condemned, and a handsome new church, from a plan of Gillespie, erected on its site, in 1819.

DUNBAR COLLEGIATE CHURCH.
]

VERSES.

Thou tempest-stricken veteran! must thou fall
Beneath the weight of years?—Time long has smooth’d
His scythe on thy grey front; and thou hast braved
The gusty whirlwind, and the thunder-crash,
Through many a stormy hour; and thou hast seen
The sons of men come forth like flowers, and fade,
Four sluggish centuries; yet thou must fall,
And, like the Architect who plann’d thy fane,
Be gulf’d and lost in the Lethean stream.
O thou! who in thy ample arms enfold’st
The unnumber’d charters of the human race,
Come from thy mountain-heap of chronicles,
Thou meditative goddess! and declare
To thy devoted son, whate’er thou knowest
Of this fallen fabric, that, by thee inspired,
My song may be most mournful, yet most true:
Then will I weave a wreath of evergreens,
And place it on the lofty brow of Fame,
To mock the spoiler Time, and tell the world
The faded glories of this ancient church.
First the proud Catholic, with his pompous forms,
Worshipp’d within these walls. For ages rung
The lofty aisles to the deep organ-peal,
While from the silver censers incense blazed
Before the altar, and the mass was sung:

Peace to the souls of that noble race,
Who form’d this fair and goodly place;
The Holy Spirit will gild their path,
While wandering through the caves of Death;—
And the Mother of God, like Etham’s fire,
Will lead them to the heavenly choir.

This life is but a passing dream,
Where all is false, but the things unseen—
Those glorious visions of the sky
That wake Devotion’s midnight sigh,
When the heart communing with its God,
Longs for its last—its blest abode!

This life is like a story told,
That in the telling waxes old;—
A breath—a bubble on the stream,—
Verily life is but a dream!—
Peace to the souls of that noble race,
Who form’d this fair and goodly place.

Illustrious March! who rear’d this ancient fane
A gift to heaven—it has outlived thee long!—
Where are thy honours now? They only swell
The herald’s chronicle!—Thy wide domains
Are in the hands of strangers; and thy church
Moulders beneath the giant-crush of Time!
But long ere Time had wrought this church’s fall,
Its worshippers had changed the despot-creed
That bound their fathers; for a learned race,
Nursed in the polemics of Germany,
Had caught a ray from Heaven, and boldly launch’d
Their legal thunders ’gainst the papal throne;
And then, Dunbar, within thine ancient walls,
The Presbyter, in sober vestments stood,
Best fitted for his office, and declared
The simple doctrines of the Man of Grief!—
Ere England’s naval arm had smote the Dutch,
Swarm’d with a pirate horde these fertile shores:
Then sigh’d the matron o’er her infant charge,
Lest the war-whoop at midnight roused his sire,
While on the turrets of thine ancient pile,
The drowsy sentinel held his weary watch,
And as the morning broke, with searching eye
Scann’d the horizon, fearful lest the shades
Of night had veil’d a foe.——
Nor be thy pulpit-dignities forgot,
Though differing in their creeds, one common lot
Awaits them now before their awful Judge.
I see them rise, in sacerdotal robes,
With meditative eye “that loves the ground.”
First sage Dunbar, of Moray’s noble house,
Deck’d in his gaudy Romish garb appears,
Avowedly zealous;—next walks Manderston,
The advocate of Mary’s hapless cause;
And next, in humbler weeds and solemn state,
The presbyterian Simpson, whose keen eye
Glanced deep into the murderer’s wounded soul,
And dragg’d the horrid secret from its den.
His mighty mind read deep that mystic page
Graved with the characters of future fate;
Foretold the sabbath-breaker’s fearful end,
Saw the mad mother raving o’er her child,
And the lost drave strew’d on the stormy shore.
Then follow Stevenson, the wise and good,
Edina’s ornament, and learning’s pride;—
And Wood, his prince’s favourite, he who won
The mitre of the Isles, and preach’d the cross
To the lone dwellers of the western main;—
And last, Carfrae, whose native eloquence
Has never been surpass’d within these walls.
But, lo! a Spirit rises from yon towers,
(Whose ruins tremble on the wave-worn cliff;)
Veil’d in the mist of years, it stretches forth
Its viewless arm, and strikes the solemn pile.
The temple trembles to its deepest base,
And its rent fragments strew the hallow’d ground.
And, see! the work of ruin has begun
Within the sanctuary,—a motley crew
Have ta’en possession of the sacred place.
The house of prayer is now an antic stage,
Where boys delight to sport the idle hour;—
And, lo! exalted ‘midst his mad compeers,
An urchin mounts the rostrum, while the crowd
Pick up the fragments of the broken pews,
And pelt their comrade in his pulpit chair.
How changed, since, in the sunny morn of life,
I sat amidst these dear-remember’d pews,
Nor thought the service long! The Roman youth
Hung not with more delight when Cicero spoke,
Than I have listen’d to the holy man.
Returning to these scenes, but late I saw
A crowd of stranger-faces worship there,
And I was left alone.—Where have ye fled,
Ye dear companions of those pleasant days,
When hope was young like you, fair as the blooms
Before the wintery wind has sear’d their bud?—
Ye rosy-cheeked host, where have ye fled?—
There, in that corner pew, demurely sat,
With scented ’kerchief and a sprig of thyme,
A _Frigid Maid_, in antiquated state.
Wo to the luckless youth, whom woman’s smile
Had lured astray;—we to the hapless maid
Whom man’s seductive voice had won to vice,
And blighted the red roses on her face;—
It was this Gorgon’s food to feed upon
The strife of others; in her gossip chair
She sat a demon in a woman’s form;
And though ’twas said, that fifty circling years
Had shed a natural whiteness on her head,
With artificial curls and deep-laid rouge,
Still with the changing dresses of the times
Most awkwardly she mimicked the young.
Beneath the middle arches of the church
I’ve seen the _Superannuated Fop_,
With plaited ruffle and huge periwig,
Smart spectacles and golden-headed cane,
The pleasant dandy of an earlier school,
Sit pompously. ’Twas said, and it was true,
Cards, chess, and draughts, at intervals amused
The heavy burden of his _useful_ life.
He roll’d in plenty,—but his wines were sour,
His viands tasteless. When he would enjoy,
Avarice was scowling by, foreboding want.
Thus Providence, all-righteous, balances
The fate of mortals,—and the man who seeks
To hoard up human comforts, hath a blight
Within that blasts enjoyment, and amidst
The bowers of paradise he pines a slave.
There sat, with lengthening phiz, _The Hypocrite_;
“All things to all men,” was his favourite text.
He scoff’d at the profane,—yet never shunn’d
Their company when a foaming bowl went round:
He vilified the lecherous,—yet would “lip
A wanton” in the dark. He was your friend—
Sat at your board; but if on slight occasion
His interest clash’d with thine, then ‘mediately
He stood estranged.—He was a backbiter,
The old man’s contumely—the maiden’s curse!
Religion, politics, were still his theme;
While pliant as the ash that shades the stream,
Grew his opinion, wavering with the times—
The basest were _anointed_ while they ruled,
But _out of place_, detested by this wretch!
Yet deem not that within these sacred walls
None bore the image of their Maker’s face.
Because amidst a bed of flowers upsprings
A host of weeds—O, yes! a multitude
Of innocent, honest, upright characters,
Worshipp’d within these walls, that practised all
The shining virtues of a Christian life.
There might be seen the _Honest-hearted Man_,
Whose tongue was still the echo of his mind,
In sober vestments, listening earnestly
To hear the word of life. He was not free
From early prejudices, cherish’d long,
That look’d like bigotry. New psalmody
Was his abhorrence, tinkling itching ears
With its vain sounds; and innovations all
He could not brook; yet still he was a man
That loved his God, and sought to serve mankind.
Near to the pulpit sat the _Simpering Maid_,
Wafting her soul in pleasant sounds to heaven,
The toast of half the parish. She, alas!
Long since eclipsed, has hung her beauteous head,
Like flowers that wither in the noontide ray;
For Beauty, like the hues that colour life,
Has but its passing tribute. Novelty
Delights the soul, and yonder blue expanse
Seems not so fair as evening’s changing clouds,
That shape their varied colours in the sky.
Now, arm’d, destruction’s satellites advance,
And like a stream long pent, at once bursts forth,
O’erwhelming all. The lofty rafters fall,
And roofs, in crashing masses, tumble down,
While the foundation shakes as if the ground
Was struggling with an earthquake’s hot embrace.
Spare, vandal! spare, that splendid monument,
Where lie the ashes of illustrious Home!
Else shall each mailed warrior start to life,
And with his stony gauntlet strike thee down.—
Yes! thou shalt spare that honour’d sepulchre,
And it will stand a princely ornament
To grace the new-born church, that, Phœnix-like,
Shall spring forth from the ashes of its sire.
And spare! O spare! that tablet in the wall,
That marks where Stevenson all lowly lies.
It is too late!—the massy pickaxe falls,
And the stone, graved with letters of renown,
In splinters mixes with ignoble heaps.—
And, see! the busy workmen have begun
To clear the old foundations of the church.
Now in its dark and secret sepulchres
The spade makes devastation, and turns up
The bones of those who long have slept in state.
Go tell Nobility, that he’s a fool,
And wastes his wealth in vain! I’d rather sleep
In yonder green-arch’d cell, with nature’s shroud
Above my breast, where morning’s smiles might fall,
Or evening’s tears bedew my lonely bed,
Than be twice-buried in these graves of stone,
To prop the basis of some future church.
See, where the labourer turns a precious load
Uncourteously. That little heap of earth,
Once thought—and breathed—and lived—and felt like me!—
’Tis the last relic of an only child,
A doting mother fondled at her breast.
The miniature, image of herself.—
His morn was cloudless—Spring’s delicious breath
Was deem’d too keen to kiss his baby face,—
His walks were in the garden’s shades at noon;
His food was fruits and cream, and choicest sweets;
His bed was roses, like the Stagyrite’s,
Music and Painting cheer’d his leisure hours,
While Poetry’s soft voice beguiled his youth,
And his fond parents only lived for him.—
Alas! how would the foolish woman weep
To see her darling’s ashes toss’d aside
Beside some beggar’s brat,—some untamed boy
Who fed on charity,—to whom, at eve,
A barn or byre was choicest luxury.
Now myriads crowd, like pilgrims on a march,
To take a last look of their early Friend!—
Yes! midst the many chequer’d scenes of life
The church was still their Friend. When blithe and young,
The lessons taught within her hallow’d walls
Reform’d their manners and improved their heart.
In active manhood, when love’s gentle thrill
Beat in the bosom, and the stripling paid
His marriage-tithes, and to the altar led
The lovely object of his youthful choice,
(Blushing like virtue at her own applause,)
This church then hail’d him as a worthy Friend.—
And when the circling months had blest the bed
With fruit in season, sponsor-like it gave
The child a name.—Nor less in grief, than joy,
Has this fallen fabric acted friendly part;
Administering consolation in distress,
And wafting prayers for thee when hope was gone.
No more the sailor, homeward bound, will hail
Thy well-known turrets, shining on the steep,
A blessed sea-mark. Oft at sight of thee,
How nimbly slipt the cordage through his hands,
For he was near his home;—and wife, and friends,
And social canns of grog were flowing fast,
In fond anticipation ere they came.
Upon thy towers, it was a pleasant sight
To view the varied landscape, hill and dale
Promiscuous mingling, stretching far away.
Eastward St Abbs his promontory dips
In the blue wave. Behind the dusky lines
Of Lammermoor extend in mountain-pride,
While Doon Hill, sloping, bares its reddening sides
To meet the ploughshare, glittering on the steep.
Beneath it lies the haunted glens of Spot,
Where Hecate’s children held unhallow’d feats
Around the rowan-tree,—the cauldron smoked,
While the Rigwoody Witch, with horrid oaths,
Startled the bird of night.—But sweeter spread
The glen of Ossydean, at morn or eve,
Where patient angler, by the winding stream
Secures his prey; and Broxmouth’s tufted woods,
Fann’d by the sea-breeze, stretching to the sea,
Where the Protector, with his fierce brigade,
Subdued the Covenanters. Peaceful now
Sails on her gentle lake, among the trees,
The downy cygnet, gazing at herself
In the clear waters. Nearer, through the shades,
Rural Lochend, in pensive beauty stands;
There spreads the Latch, a pleasant rendezvous,
Where it was sweet, at Sabbath’s morn, to hear
The church bell’s melody, as through the copse
We saunter’d to the Common’s daisied walk;
Southward Dunpender rears his verdant head;
Far west the Pentlands hide their pointed tops
In the ethereal sky; and Fife’s dark shores
Bound the wide-swelling Forth; the hermit May
Stands with his torch; and Berwick’s lofty Law
Shines isolated; and the craggy Bass
Shows its white cliffs; while, underneath, is seen
Dunbar’s grey towers, that tremble on the steep;
Her harbour snug—her battery, picturesque;
Her rocky caverns, and her pebbly shores!
Yon setting sun, that gilds the watery west,
Sheds on the glories of that fallen church
His farewell rays. Another morn, and then
There’s not a sculptured fragment left to tell
Where stood a temple. I will stand and gaze
A last adieu!—and then return, and gaze,—
’Tis parting with a loved familiar friend,
Endear’d by early, long, and sweet acquaintance;
For every stone of hers is chronicled
Deep in my memory, there to bloom for ever;
More lovely in the shade of future years,
When mellow’d by the softening hues of time.
Poor pilgrim of a day! thou too must fall,
Like art’s strong works, amidst the waste of years;
But the Great Architect who plann’d thee first,
Will model thee again more beauteously,
When his own Zion he builds and repairs.

The Church-yard Soliloquy

Ye sepulchres, and sculptured monuments!
Whose uncouth rhythmes often wake a smile
Where Pity’s tear should fall,—I come to muse
Upon the silent tenants you enshrine;
And, lo! like peopled mists in highland glens,
They live before me in their earthly shapes.—
Whose is that cherub-form? Pale roseate hues
Bloom on her faded cheek. Her little hands
Are stretch’d toward me.—Ha! she flies—she flies!—
I start entranced, as from a waking dream,
And kneel upon my sister’s viewless grave.
She died in infancy,—and I have wish’d
That we had closed our pilgrimage together;
Then had I ’scaped a world of guile and wo,
And fallen, like her, upon the lap of heaven,
Pure as a snowdrop on a virgin’s breast.
Ah! little did I think, when late I dew’d
Thy mossy dwelling with a brother’s tears,
That my poor heart should feel a deeper sting;
That with a father’s feelings I should weep
A darling child, nipt in the bud of life,
Gone, ah! too soon, to mix his dust with thine!
Unnumber’d figures float, in dim review,
That wear the form of images forgot,
Wash’d from the mind’s eye by the flood of time
Like lines upon the sand; yet I have seen
These forms and faces breathe and act like me,
Smile at a jest, or melt at tales of wo;
Warm with the glow of hope, exult in joy;
Grow pale with rank disease, and waste with sorrow;
Now they have paid life’s ruthless creditor,
Nor left a trace to mark their path behind.
There walks the bridegroom with his pensive bride,
Whom I saw church’d in yon dismantled pew,
In all the dazzling glow of health and beauty,
Blushing with roses.—Ah! how faded now
Her nameless beauties and bewitching smiles;—
No ringlets wanton on that horrid face,
Those cheeks are sunk, that swell’d with sweet expression;
Those eyes are dim, that beam’d like shining stars
Before heaven’s gates, and tenantless their sockets;
While on that breast, where Love delighted dwelt,
The loathsome worm has made a gorgeous feast!
Death strikes the coward swain; the warrior bold
He smites amidst his bright career of honour!
So Ramsay fell, the noble and the brave,
When life was big with promise; here, behold!
Maternal love has rear’d a monument,
And the green turf becomes a hallow’d spot,
When water’d by a mother’s holiest tears.
And, haply, in these burial solitudes,
Some wo-struck youth, at eve, may meditate,
What time the moon, in pensive loveliness,
Leads forth her blue-eyed sisters, and from heaven
Chases the dusky Queen: Then as he mourns
A brother’s loss, or weeps the death of friends,
He sees that last and lonely green-arch’d cell,
Where he will also find a quiet home.
And does there slumber in forgotten dust,
Some earlier bard, who hail’d this ancient church
With heavenly melody?—Alas! such fate
Awaits the framer of this lowly lay!
A few short years, and nameless is the spot
Where the lone thistle blossoms on his grave.

NOTES
TO
VERSES ON DUNBAR COLLEGIATE CHURCH.

Page 335, line 21.

_Ere England’s naval arm had smote the Dutch,
Swarm’d with a pirate horde these fertile shores._

These lines allude to a visit paid to the Forth by that noted marine-adventurer, Paul Jones, in September, 1779. His squadron lay at anchor for some days off Dunbar, during which period the town was inundated with soldiers, and the people were busily employed throwing up batteries on the kirk hill, &c. In consequence of a vessel called the Rodney, (afterwards one of the Greenland ships belonging to the port) running into Dunbar harbour for shelter, a brig of the enemy’s weighed anchor, and nearly run on shore in pursuit of her. The squadron, having stood up the Forth, were seen nearly opposite Leith on the 17th, when a violent south-west wind arising (aided, as was said, by the prayers of a goodly minister of Kirkcaldy,) fortunately drove them rapidly back again, and laid them alongside his Majesty’s ships the Serapis and Countess of Scarborough, near Flamborough-head, which Jones captured after a desperate engagement. They had the Baltic fleet in convoy, which luckily escaped during the conflict. The enemy carried their prizes to the Texel, having on board 300 prisoners, whom they had taken during their cruise in the North seas. For these exploits the king of France rewarded Paul Jones with the military order of merit, and a gold-hilted sword.

In May, 1781, Captain Fall, another, but less noted adventurer, appeared off Dunbar, under peculiar circumstances. A small privateer had been fitted out from that port, which, after a long absence, appeared one morning, to the indescribable astonishment of the inhabitants, not with a prize, but followed by a huge privateer in chase! Having run snugly on shore, under shelter of the haven, she opened her broadside on the enemy, whom she provoked to send a few shots into the town, one of which struck a log of wood near the castle. It is even said that the volunteers of those days pelted her with musquetry from the pier! This insufficient mode of warfare against so formidable an enemy might have been attended with serious consequences to the town, had not a veteran seaman sent a well-directed shot from a heavy carronnade which lay on the island, and nearly carried away the pirate’s mast. This had the desired effect of making him sheer off.

Page 356, line 10.

_First, sage Dunbar, of Moray’s noble house,
Deck’d in his gaudy Romish garb appears._

Columba Dunbar, descended from the Earls of Moray, was dean of the church of Dunbar in 1411, whence he was promoted to the see of Moray.

Page 356, line 12.

——_Next, walks Manderston,
The advocate of Mary’s hapless cause._

John Manderston was canon of the college church of Dunbar in 1567, and was one of those appointed by the Archbishop of St Andrews to attend the court on a divorce sued for by Lady Jean Gordon against the Earl of Bothwell, while Queen Mary was detained at Dunbar.

Page 356, line 15.

_The presbyterian Simpson, whose keen eye
Glanced deep into the murderer’s wounded soul,
And dragg’d the horrid secret from its den._

Andrew Simpson was master of the school of Perth, and taught Latin with much success. He had sometimes under his charge 300 boys, many of them sons of the principal nobility. He left Perth at the Reformation, 1560, and became minister of Dunning and Cargill, from which he was translated, in 1564, to Dunbar, where he sustained the double office of master of the grammar school and minister of the parish.

In 1570, Mr Simpson was called to attend the Rev. John Kello, minister of Spot, in his sickness, who was shortly after convicted, and executed for the unnatural murder of his wife. This unhappy man having related a remarkable dream he had had to Mr Simpson, the latter had no hesitation in retorting upon him, as Nathan said unto David,—_Thou art the man!_—This struck so deep into the culprit’s heart, that he made instant confession, and, when afterwards on the scaffold, he ascribed the disclosure of this horrible deed to the soul-piercing discernment of this pious priest, in these memorable words:—

“Ther was not small support in the mouth of some faythfull brethren, to bring me to this confessione of my awin offence. Bot, above all, Mr Andro Symsone, minister of Dumbar, did so lyvlie rype foorth the inward cogitationes of my hert, and discover my mynd so planelie, that I persuaded myself God spak in him; and besydis vtheris notable coniecturies which he trulie dedvced befoir my eyes, he remembrit me of ane dreame, which in my grit seikness did appearandlie present the self ... at this tyme did God move my hart to acknowledge the horror of my awin offence, and how far Sathan had obteinit victorie ower me.”—_Bannatyne’s Trans. Scot._ p. 47.

Page 356, line 25.

_And Wood, his prince’s favourite. He who won
The Mitre of the Isles, and preach’d the cross
To the lone dwellers of the western main._

Andrew Wood, Bishop of the Isles, was son to David Wood, a minister, by Miss Guthrie, sister to John Guthrie of Guthrie. He was first minister of Spot, and then of Dunbar, and was created Bishop of the Isles in 1678. He received a dispensation from the king to hold the benefice of Dunbar together with the said bishoprick. He was translated to the see of Caithness in 1680, where he continued till the revolution in 1688. He died at Dunbar in 1695, aged 76 years.—_Keith’s Cat._ p. 129.

Page 361, line 6.

_Spare, vandal! spare, that splendid monument,
Where lie the ashes of illustrious Home._

Sir George Home was created Earl of Dunbar[22] by James VI., and died at Whitehall, Jan. 29, 1611. “His body,” says Crawfurd, “being embalmed, and put into a coffin of lead, was sent down to Scotland, and with great solemnity interred in the collegiate church of Dunbar, where his executors erected a very noble and magnificent monument of various-coloured marble, with a statue as large as life.”—_Crawfurds Officers of State_, vol. i. p. 399. This superb monument was situated in the east aisle of the collegiate church, and as that part of the old wall against which it stood was incorporated with the modern building, it still retains its original situation in the new edifice.

Page 361, line 41.

_And spare, O spare! that tablet in the wall,
That marks where Stevenson all lowly lies._

This tablet was situated on the right of the door, leading into the south-east aisle. Of the elaborate inscription, the name of Stevenson alone was legible; but it may be seen in full in “Monteith’s Theatre of Mortality.” He was 30 years professor of philology and philosophy in Edinburgh, and 25 years minister of Dunbar.

Page 364, line 16.

_Where the Protector with his fierce brigade
Subdued the Covenanters._

Cromwell entered Dunbar on Sunday, 1st September, 1650, the day preceding the battle of Dunbar, and encamped in the neighbourhood of the church, taking up his quarters in Broxmouth-house. Tradition says, that he fortified the church-yard.

ORMISTON YEW TREE;
WITH A
LAMENT FOR THE EARL OF HOPETOUN.

Hail! monarch of the garden’s bed,
That gleams like Druids’ grove afar;
May lightnings never blast thy head,
Nor blighting dews thy glories mar;
And, should Destruction’s arm abhorr’d,
E’er smite thee in thy noon of fame,
Thy trunk shall deck the festive board,
Like Shakspeare’s tree, and save thy name.

Beneath thy dark umbrageous shade
The village swain delights to rove,
To tell his kind-consenting maid
The soft voluptuous tale of love;
While blushes tinge her rosy cheeks,
As crimson rays o’er snow-wreaths steal,
The silent sigh too well bespeaks
What maiden lips may not reveal.

How oft thy branches, spreading wide,
Have canopied the children’s ring,
From merry morn till eventide,
Disporting like the birds in spring;
While chasing from their dewy nest
The covey o’er the lilied lea;
Or, climbing high, with fearless breast,
To rob the rook on yonder tree.

Years speed away—the rustic core
Again beneath thy foliage meet,
But not so blest as when of yore
They tripp’d on music-loving feet.
Now manhood’s sterner cares engage,
As Mammon’s paths they keen explore;
Or, haply, read the patriarch’s page,
Or turn unmeaning thesis o’er.

When sultry Sol is flaming high,
At summer’s noon the swains repair
’Neath thy impervious canopy
The frugal fare of health to share.
The cup goes round at pleasure’s call,
The kiss is stolen from buxom maid;
While, catching fragments as they fall,
The fawning dog is couchant laid.

But when the clouds in darkness roam,
Thick scatter’d by the murmuring wind,
The moralist loves thy solemn gloom,
That suits his meditative mind:
Dull tree! thou lov’st the burial-ground,
With evergreens thou mock’st decay;
For where the woodmen moulder round,
Thou gather’st moisture from their clay.

Canst thou, like old Dodona’s oak,
Thy silent leaves to language wake,
Where sacred doves responsive spoke?—
The tree this answer deign’d to make:
“Here Wishart shew’d prophetic powers,
“Before that vial of wrath was given,
“When in St Andrew’s dungeon towers
“His vengeance-blood uprose to heaven!—

“Here Cockburn, in my solitude,
“Forgot the bench and wrangling bar,
“With Science in her gentler mood
“To wage the literary war:—
“Alike the senate or the plough,
“The olive branch or patriot’s steel,
“To him who with undaunted brow
“Still advocated Scotia’s weel.

“Haply, beneath my verdant spray,
“You tread the muse’s path divine,
“Where lovely Fairnalie would stray,
“The gentle votress of the nine.
“She struck the lyre amongst these bowers,
“And breathed that sweetly plaintive lay,
“That weeps the forest’s wither’d flowers,
“To fatal Flodden wede away.”

The tree was silent as before,
It’s voice like summer breezes died,
When the lone stranger rests his oar
Upon Loch Lomond’s shelter’d side.
Perhaps thy earlier shoots might form
The trusty bow on Flodden’s plain,
Where fell, amidst the arrowy storm,
Thy warrior lord ’midst heaps of slain!

But now thy vernal boughs must mourn,
The archer weep beneath thy shade;
For Hopetoun never shall return,
In Gallia’s fields all lowly laid.
He loved to prune thy dark-green plumes,
Which rising beauties still display;
Nor deem’d thy never-fading blooms
The emblem of his laurel bay.

When on Corunna’s fatal shore
Afar the Gallic ensigns waved,
When fell in Victory’s arms, brave Moore,
Hopetoun retiring legions saved;
Then, ’midst the din of doubtful war,
Ere British ships came o’er the sea,
His pensive thoughts might wander far,
And sigh for home, and think on thee!

Thy chieftain fought on Egypt’s sands,
And turn’d the battle’s reddening tide;
Broke vaunting Gallia’s veteran bands,
Unconquer’d by the world beside:
His monument, his country’s page,
In burning characters shall live;
’Twill gather lustre age by age,—
The lustre worth alone can give.

This though his public acts may earn,
Yet private tears will also flow,
The splendid tower, the mountain cairn,
A country’s weeping love will shew.
These domes shall warm the patriot’s breast
To deeds of glory undesign’d,
While at the base the swain shall rest,
And mourn a benefactor kind.

NOTES TO ORMISTON YEW TREE.

Page 373, line 1.

_Hail! monarch of the garden’s bed,
That gleams like Druids’ grove afar._

This luxuriant tree ornaments the Earl of Hopetoun’s garden at Ormiston-hall. Dr Walker, in his Essays on Natural History, says, that on the 10th May, 1762, the yew measured ten feet three inches in circumference; in 1799, the trunk measured eleven feet, and twenty-five in height; and now (1824) it measures thirteen feet in circumference, and twenty-eight in height: the diameter of the ground covered by its branches being about 64 feet, or 190 in circumference. The tree flourishes in full vigour without any symptoms of decay; and in the autumnal months, when covered with its red berries, has a magnificent appearance. The author of the Statistical Account of the Parish ascertained that the yew had existed for at least two centuries.

Page 375, line 13.

_Here Wishart shew’d prophetic powers,
Before that vial of wrath was given._

In the north-west side of the garden wall, part of the gable remains of one of the wings of the old family mansion of the Cockburns, which contains the grated window of a chamber from whence, it is said, the unfortunate George Wishart was taken in 1546, previous to his suffering martyrdom at St Andrews.

Tradition says that Wishart frequently preached beneath the yew tree, when on a visit to the hospitable Laird of Ormiston.

Page 375, line 17.

_Here Cockburn, in my solitude,
Forgot the bench and wrangling bar._

John Cockburn, of Ormiston, was celebrated both as a statesman and a patriotic representative of his country in the Unionparliament. He contributed to erect the first bleachfield in Scotland, and it was by his example and influence that improvements were made on the high-roads in the neigbourhood. For some time he was one of the Lords of the Admiralty.

The family burial vault of the Cockburns is situated a few yards from the present garden, and marks the site of the old church, which was dedicated to St Giles, and was granted, with its pertinents, to the hospital of Soltre, in the 13th century.

Page 376, line 3.

_Where lovely Fairnalie would stray,
The gentle votress of the nine._

The late Mrs Cockburn of Ormiston, relict of John Cockburn, whose father was Lord Justice Clerk, was daughter to Mr Rutherford of Fairnalie, in Selkirkshire, and wrote the second part of the beautiful song entitled the Flowers of the Forest.

Page 376, line 17.

_But now thy vernal boughs must mourn,
The archer weep beneath thy shade;
For Hopetoun never shall return,
In Gallia’s fields all lowly laid._

John, fourth earl of Hopetoun, who, after a life devoted to the service of his country, died at Paris in August, 1823, whither he had gone for the benefit of his health. Our limits will not permit us to detail the many public acts of his lordship; suffice to say, that he accompanied Sir Ralph Abercrombie as brigadier-general in the Egyptian expedition, in 1800; and was wounded in the hand at the battle of Alexandria, which deprived the army a while of his services. In consequence of the death of Sir John Moore, and the wounds of Sir David Baird, at the fatal battle of Corunna, the command devolved on Lord Hopetoun, then Lieutenant-general Hope, “to whose zeal and valour was attributed the success of the day, when the enemy were repulsed at every point of attack.” A handsome monument to his memory is presently erecting at Byershill, East Lothian, by his tenantry.

SONNET
TO DIRLETON CASTLE.

Time’s giant-arm has laid thy turrets low,
No more the archers crowd thy broken wall,
Thou ancient castle of the great De Vaux;
But thou art fair and mighty in thy fall,
Shrouded with ivy, like the chequer’d plaid
Of some grim warrior, resting on his shield,
Stricken, but not subdued, in battle-field,
Above the trees thou rear’st thy lofty head.
Where gilded banners stream’d, and bugles sung,
Nature, her yellow drapery has flung,
And, with the wall-flower, sheds an eastern grace
O’er the dark features of thy rugged face.
Stern Time! whose touch is sharper than the spear,
O spare these turrets ‘midst thy endless waste!
That long this tower, like monument, may grace
The lands that shine with Nisbet’s chasten’d taste,
And charm th’ admiring wanderer lingering near.

THE WRECK
OF
THE JOHN AND AGNES SLOOP
OF NEWCASTLE,
AT TYNE SANDS, NEAR DUNBAR, ON THE NIGHT OF SATURDAY THE 9TH NOVEMBER,
1816.

The moon has reach’d her midnight watch in heaven,
And veils her pensive face, afraid to view
The gathering tempest, while upon my couch,
Listening the hollow cadence of the storm,
I count the lazy hours; and meditate
Upon the sailor’s dark and wayward lot.
O ’tis a fearful night for those whose friends
Rock on the stormy wave. Winds howl—seas roar!
And the lone maid, in weeping solitude,
Pines for her lost Palemon on the deep;
Who, ‘numb’d with cold, hangs on the pulpy shrouds,
And thinks how grateful were his Anna’s arms
In such an hour. Then musing Fancy strays
To some drear mansion, tott’ring near the beach,
Where the wind, howling through the gaping chinks,
Startles the babe upon its mother’s breast!—
The mother wakes—and closer clasps her husband!
Then lisps a prayer of silent thankfulness
That he is not a sailor. ’Tis a night
Might freeze the stoutest heart. Such was the gale
When gallant Beaver, on these iron shores,
Beheld his warriors perish, as the day
Closed fearful o’er them, and the rough rocks sawed
The Fox’s[23] keel asunder; she who braved
The fire and triple vengeance of La Hogue,
Less dreadful than the storm. Alas! for him
Whose bark careers amidst the pathless seas,
The sport of winds and waves!—The helmsman bends
To shun the spray, sent by the shooting wave,
That skims athwart the deck. But hark! loud shouts
Come echoing through the streets; and now I hear
The car, deep laden, rattling on the causeway;
List! was the sound deceitful, fancy-form’d,
To agonize the ear?—O, gracious God!
Again the shout is heard,—again—again!
“A ship’s ashore!” each hoarse loud voice proclaims.
And, lo! majestically, along the streets,
The life-boat thunders on the trembling wain:
Heaven’s delegate! to snatch the mariner
From death’s wide-yawning gulf.—A hardy tar,
(Who Pythias-like, had nearly barter’d life
To save his friend,) had brought the dreadful news
Of their disaster. The small vessel lay
Grounded upon the spacious sands of Tyne,
Near where the river meets the Forth’s embrace
Westward of old Dunbar. With bilged stern
She, broadside, met the seas, that sounding swept
The groaning deck. Her lost sails flutter’d wide
In idle rage: so have we often spied
The sea-bird dallying on the ocean’s foam.
The boatmen gain’d the strand. A shout of joy
Came from the fainting crew. The treach’rous sands
Awhile had staid their progress,—but not long;
For all impediments were swept away
Before advent’rous Laing,—the seaman’s friend!
The hero of these shores! How oft, Dunbar!
Thy sons have seen him, in the darkest hour
Of danger, snatch the victim from the wave.[24]
And now the life-boat beat the chafing surf
Like some tall swan, in sweeping majesty,
Then rested by the ship, when, one by one,
The solitary remnants of the crew
Came leaping in. One hapless sailor hung
Suspended from the shrouds, where he was lash’d,
In frozen speechlessness that must not break!
For all the surgeon’s skill was tried in vain.
Another tar, the second in command,
Had sought to gain the beach, and luckless sank
Into a briny grave.—But where are they
For whom our Pythias braved the stormy surge?
A brother and a sister he had left
Wild clinging to the mast; and barter’d life
To save them from destruction. Now, alas!
Those lips are mute for ever that had blest him!
Those hands are cold that waved a last adieu!
For ’midst despairing moments, one dread wave,
That swelling rose, burst thundering on the deck,
And sent them shrieking to the depths below
Ere they could say farewell!—O God! that sight
Had mov’d cold apathy. But do not weep,
Ye fond relations of this fated crew;
For life’s dim page is darkly character’d,
And could we with prescient eye divine
The wars we have to wage—the storms to buffet!—
We’d heave an envious sigh o’er those who rest,
Whom death has ransom’d from the ills to come!

THE
SHEPHERD OF LAMMERMOOR.

Ha! Winter comes! on rein-deer car,
Like hunter to the chase;
And Summer’s smiles he drives afar,
To give his horrors place.
Earth withers ’neath his blasting tread,
The tuneful tenants leave the mead;
Dunpender’s sides are shining hoar;
Pressminnen’s lake is frozen o’er,
And Heartrim wood is bare.
The squirrel leaves his nutty bower;
The hawthorn bush has lost its flower,
So solitary fair!
Yon ancient Tower is capt with snow,
And trembles to the ground,
Threatening the passenger below,
Who lists the gathering sound
Of streamlet, in its windings lost,
Where, bursting through its chains of frost,
It crisps and foams around.
Far on the distant mountain’s head
The tyrant rears his pyramid;
While from his nostrils, wildly driven,
Clouds darken all the face of heaven!
It makes my warmest vein run chill!
To view the distant wold,
Where, hastening from the mossy hill,
The shepherd seeks his fold,
And sinks upon the drifted heath
Into the freezing arms of death,
To be in snowy coffin hid
Till thaws dissolve the frozen lid.
Thus, o’er the heights of Lammermoor,
The wanderer held his way,
When night, in clouds, began to lower,
Deceitful as the day;
Then, through the foliage glimmering bright,
Like sunshine on the face of night,
His cottage-light by fits he spied
Upon his native mountain’s side;
And heard the sheep-bell’s tinkling sound,
Now in the tempest lost and drown’d.
Within that cottage Ellen wept,
And watch’d her baby as it slept;
But while she mourn’d the luckless hour
Her husband with his flocks departed,
A glow of gladness mantled o’er
Her cheeks when nearly broken-hearted;
For Edmund oft had traced the road
When fiercer storms had been abroad;
Led by the smile of wedded bliss,
He tarried not for hour like this;
For, oh! he knew his Ellen’s breast
Would prove a charming place of rest,
And he would sleep more soft and sound
Where joy and welcome still were found.

But who, in this mysterious state,
Can read thy page, futurity?
Or knows—until he knows too late—
Whether ’tis best to smile or sigh?—
For Ellen deem’d not, when array’d
She saw her husband in his plaid,
Wending along the mountains blue,
He bade them all a last adieu!—
She deem’d not, that the morn’s embrace,
Affection beaming in each face,
As her and the sweet babe he prest
Transported to his manly breast;—
She deem’d not that embrace the last,
Else still she’d fondly held him fast,
And warn’d him never to depart,
In pity to her breaking heart.—
But, hark! she hears the dog’s long howl;
(’Twas but the tempest’s passing scowl,)
She raised the latch, unbarr’d the door,
Yet all was silent as before.

As when the sailor, tempest-toss’d,
At midnight, on a shoally coast,
Drops his toil’d arm upon the billow,
And thinks each wave will be his pillow,
Sees, bursting ’midst the storm’s dismay,
The light-house tower’s revolving ray,
Then wakes to sorrow and despair,
Deluded by the meteor’s glare:
So gleam’d the shepherd’s lattice-light,
Deceitful on that stormy night;
And now his sunk heart warmer glow’d,
For he had reach’d the wish’d-for road;
His Ellen’s fond embrace, and smile,
Repaid his long and weary toil;
Sprung to his knee his favourite boy,
Playful, demands the promised toy;
While the small infant, at the breast,
Smiles too to see the welcome guest.
O deepest wo to mortal given,
To perish at the gates of heaven!
Benumb’d the shepherd sunk to rest,
With nature’s shroud upon his breast!

DUNPENDER LAW.