II

In Donald's eye now fades the blissful scenes:
The rough brow'd rocks, the sloping hills and plains,
Delight no more; no chace, no winged fowl,
No goat, no cattle, cheer the troubled soul;
The hut is hateful, and the fields of corn
Contract their bounds, and promise no return.
All is one blank — O envy'd, envy'd state,
The hunter cries, of all the happy great!
While press'd in poverty's hard iron hand,
I force poor sustenance from barren land,
Remote from life, and curs'd by fate unkind,
To struggle on the hill with northern wind,
Secure, in stately halls, the feast they ply,
And swim through life in deluges of joy.
The hut, the heathy wild, the barren fold,
The rattling hail, the north-descended cold,
Is all my portion — all a swain can boast,
Still 'twixt vicissitude's rough billows toss'd.
O partial Heavens! O Providence unkind!
Mine is the well-strung arm, the feeling mind;
Yet scarce can wade through miseries of life,
Combat with care, with care in endless strife.
O why, ye Powers, not bless me with a mind
To all the blasts of poverty resigned,
Or bless me greatly with the affluent store,
Nor doom the hapless hunter to be poor?
*
A hill there is, which forms a sable wall
Through all the north, and men it Grampus call.
Here lean-cheek'd Barrenness terrific strides;
A tattered robe waves round her iron sides;
Two baleful eyes roll in her iron face;
Her meagre hand supports a pile of grass;
Her bare white skull no decent covering shews;
Eternal tempests rattle on her brows;
Lank-sided Want, and pale-eyed Poverty,
And sharp-tooth'd Famine, still around her fly;
Health-gotten Hunger, want-descended Pain,
Vein-numbing Cold — are all her gloomy train.
The hunter view'd; a shiv'ring tremour ran
Through every vein, and vanquished all the man: . . .

III

The king arose, his grateful visage shook,
Then stretched his sceptre, and commanding spoke.
Ye chiefs, ye heroes, ye professed foes
Of hateful slavery and th'aspiring Rose,
If on the iron field, incased in arms,
Ye taught your foes that liberty had charms;
If, dauntless chiefs! ye bore of generous toil,
And met with death to save a barren soil;
Now, now, O! generous lend the timely aid,
And break the storm that threatens Scotia's head.
This to our mother we, her children, owe;
Our country's enemy is still our foe
Bleak Desolation, on her lonely wings,
The foe through all the south terrific brings:
And now, nocturnal, on the yellow sand,
In sable walls the embattled English stand
In close array. To-morrow they prepare
To hurl against our walls the stormy war
Rise, Caledonian chiefs! ye heroes, rise!
Your bleeding country for your succour cries.
Thus in the iron field a father falls,
And grasping his dear son, incessant calls,
Revenge, my son, revenge my death! he cries.
The son obeys — revenges, or he dies.

IV

In dazzling arms the chiefs terrific shine,
Glide through the ranks, and form the lengthening line.
While from the embattled foe a hero strode;
A coat of mail hangs from his shoulders broad;
On his high towering head terrific waved
A crested helmet that the sabre braved.
On his left hand he bears a spacious shield,
Glittering with iron terrour o'er the field;
And in his right he waves the shining blade.
He greatly stood — and thus provoking said:
Ye Scots, ye nation full of fraud and guile!
Ye mean descendants of a barren soil!
Let one advance (the bravest, I demand),
And fall a victim to my conquering hand;
Forget your fears, your wonted fears controul,
Let fate enlarge the ever little soul.
He said; and rage, in tickling poison, ran
Through every soul, and stung each generous man.
The Hunter heard; rage sparkled from his eyes,
And from his inmost soul the hero sighs;
And thus indignant spoke: — Ah! glory gone!
Ah! ancient virtue now for ever flown!
What blessed corner does the godhead rest?
No more you swell the generous Scottish breast,
When thus, O Scotland! Saxons dare deride
Thy steel-clad warriors, ranged side by side —
I can no more — my panting vitals swell;
I'll give thee glory, or thy soul to hell.
Then towards the foe the youth indignant moved:
Fear trembles, en'mies praise, and envy loved.
He strides along the men-environed ground;
His rattling arms emit an iron sound:
The Saxon saw, advanced, nor looked behind,
Fate hurried on, and courage steel'd his mind.
Bright in effulgent arms the youths appeared;
Each o'er the plain a steely column reared:
They rush together; clashing arms afar
Reflect the horrours of the dismal war.
Awful the blades wave gleaming in the sky,
And from the crashing steel the sparkles fly.
They fight, and, wearied, cease, and fight again;
Their feet bake dust with blood upon the plain.
Death undetermined points to each his stings,
And conquest flutters round on dubious wings
The hill-born youth reminds, with anxious care,
What vaunts the foul-mouth'd Saxon breath'd on air;
His country's love the youthful hero warms,
And vengeance strung his almost wearied arms.
Upraised aloft, the light reflexive blade
Sings through the air, and cleaves the Saxon's head.
The broken skull, and shiver'd helmet, strew'd
The sandy plain, that reeks with human blood.
He gasping falls, and shakes the thundering ground,
And, dying, toss'd his quivering limbs around.

*
O! would to Heaven that thus each Saxon lay;
Then late posterity would bless this day,
The Hunter cries: Nor should it be forgot,
That Steuart's sceptered, and that Donald fought.
But ah! how fading is a mighty name,
And but a moment sounds the trump of fame!
Forgot the conqueror and the vanquished die;
No little deeds claim immortality.