THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE. Forth-looking from the castle tower, And there, when bitter word or fare The steed stamped at the castle gate, The boar-hunt sounded on the hill; Why stayed the Baron from the chase, With looks so stern, and words so ill? "Go, bind yon slave! and let him learn, By scath of fire and strain of cord, How ill they speed who give dead saints The homage due their living lord!" They bound him on the fearful rack, When, through the dungeon's vaulted dark, He saw the light of shining robes, And knew the face of good St. Mark. Then sank the iron rack apart, The cords released their cruel clasp, The pincers, with their teeth of fire, Fell broken from the torturer's grasp. And lo! before the Youth and Saint, O dreaming monk! thy tale is true; Unheard no burdened heart's appeal Moans up to God's inclining ear; Unheeded by his tender eye, Falls to the earth no sufferer's tear. For still the Lord alone is God! The pomp and power of tyrant man Are scattered at his lightest breath, Like chaff before the winnower's fan. Not always shall the slave uplift His heavy hands to Heaven in vain. God's angel, like the good St. Mark, Comes shining down to break his chain! 143 O weary ones! ye may not see Slow beating through the hush of night! But not the less gray Dothan shone, With sunbright watchers bending low, That Fear's dim eye beheld alone The spear-heads of the Syrian foe. There are, who, like the Seer of old, They hear the heralds whom our Lord Sends down his pathway to prepare ; And light, from others hidden, shines On their high place of faith and prayer. Let such, for earth's despairing ones, Hopeless, yet longing to be free, Breathe once again the Prophet's prayer: "Lord, ope their eyes, that they may see! THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE.49 CALM on the breast of Loch Maree A little isle reposes; And willow o'er it closes. Within, a Druid's mound is seen, Set round with stony warders; A fountain, gushing through the turf, Flows o'er its grassy borders. And whoso bathes therein his brow, With care or madness burning, O restless heart and fevered brain, Life's changes vex, its discords stun, Its glaring sunshine blindeth, And blest is he who on his way That fount of healing findeth! The shadows of a humbled will And contrite heart are o'er it; Go read its legend-"TRUST IN GOD"On Faith's white stones before it. DEAR SISTER! - while the wise and sage Away with weary cares and themes ! With wonders and romances ! Where thou, with clear discerning eyes, Shalt rightly read the truth which lies Beneath the quaintly masking guise Of wild and wizard fancies. Lo! once again our feet we set The roots of spectral beeches; And young eyes widening to the lore Dear heart! the legend is not vain And death's funereal sadness, A glimpse of childish gladness. And, knowing how my life hath been A weary work of tongue and pen, A long, harsh strife with strong-willed Spake the simple tradesman then, "God be judge 'twixt thou and I ; All thou knowest of truth hath been Unto men like thee a lie. "Falsehoods which we spurn to-day "God is good and God is light, In this faith I rest secure ; Evil can but serve the right, Over all shall love endure. "Of your spectral puppet play I have traced the cunning wires ; That kings and priests to Liberty And God are false in turn. Earth wearies of them; and the long Meek sufferance of the Heavens doth fail; Woe for weak tyrants, when the strong Wake, struggle, and prevail ! Not vainly Roman hearts have bled To feed the Crozier and the Crown, If, roused thereby, the world shall tread The twin-born vampires down! ELLIOTT.51 HANDS off! thou tithe-fat plunderer! play No trick of priestcraft here! Alive, your rank and pomp, as dust, He knew the locust swarm that cursed On these pale lips, the smothered thought Which England's millions feel, a shower of fire His smitten anvil flung; God's curse, Earth's wrong, dumb Hunger's ire, He gave them all a tongue! Then let the poor man's horny hands And labor's swart and stalwart bands Leave rank its minster floor; Give England's green and daisied grounds The poet of the poor! Lay down upon his Sheaf's green verge But unto prisons, where men lay in chains, To haunts where Hunger pined, To kings and courts forgetful of the pains And wants of human-kind, No aimless wanderers, by the fiend Scattering sweet words, and quiet deeds Unrest Where still, through vales of Grecian fable, stray The classic forms of yore, of good, Not less to them the breath of vineyards blown From off the Cyprian shore, Not less for them the Alps in sunset shone, That man they valued more. A life of beauty lends to all it sees The beauty of its thought; And beauty smiles, new risen from the And fairest forms and sweetest harmo nies Make glad its way, unsought. In sweet accordancy of praise and love, The singing waters run; And sunset mountains wear in light above The smile of duty done; From Malta's temples to the gates of Sure stands the promise, Rome, Following the track of Paul, meek A heritage is given; -ever to the And where the Alps gird round the Nor lose they Earth who, single-hearted, Switzer's home Their vast, eternal wall; seek The righteousness of Heaven! |