Night the Third

The storm had ceased to shroud the hill ;
The morning's breath was pure and chill ;
And when the sun rose from the main,
No eye the glory could sustain.
The icicles so dazzling bright ;
The spreading wold so smooth and white;
The cloudless sky, the air so sheen,
That roes on Pentland's top were seen ;
And Grampian mountains, frowning high,
Seemed frozen 'mid the northern sky.
The frame was braced, the mind set free
To feat, or brisk hilarity
The sun, far on his southern throne,
Glowed in stern majesty alone :
'Twas like the loved, the toilsome day,
That dawns on mountains west away,
When the furred Indian hunter hastes
Far up his Appalachian wastes,
To range the savage haunts, and dare
In his dark home the sullen bear.
And ere that noon-day sun had shone
Right on the banks of Duddingston,
Heavens ! what a scene of noise and glee,
And busy brisk anxiety !
There age and youth their pastime take
On the smooth ice that chains the lake.
The Highland chief, the Border knight,
In waving plumes, and baldricks bright,
Join in the bloodless friendly war,
The sounding stone to hurl afar.
The hair-breadth aim, the plaudits due,
The rap, the shout, the ardour grew,
Till drowsy day her curtain drew.

The youth, on cramps of polished steel,
Joined in the race, the curve, the wheel ;
With arms outstretched, and foot aside,
Like lightning o'er the lake they glide ;
And eastward far their impulse keep,
Like angels, journeying o'er the deep.

When night her spangled flag unfurled
Wide o'er a wan and sheeted world,
In keen debate homeward they hie,
For well they knew the Wake was nigh.

By mountain sheer, and column tall,
How solemn was that evening fall!
The air was calm, the stars were bright,
The hoar-frost flightered down the night ;
But oft the listening groups stood still,
For spirits talked along the hill.
The fairy tribes had gone to won
In southland climes beneath the sun ;
By shady woods, and waters sheen,
And vales of everlasting green,
To sing of Scotia's woodlands wild,
Where human face had never smiled.
The ghost had left the haunted yew,
The wayward bogle fled the clough,
The darksome pool of crisp and foam
Was now no more the kelpie's home :
But polar spirits sure had spread
O'er hills which native fays had fled ;
For all along, from cliff and tree,
On Arthur's hill, and Salisbury,
Came voices floating down the air
From viewless shades that lingered there :
The words were fraught with mystery ;
Voices of men they could not be.
Youths turned their faces to the sky,
With beating heart, and bended eye ;
Old chieftains walked with hastened tread,
Loath that their hearts should bow to dread
They feared the spirits of the hill
To sinful Scotland boded ill.

Orion up his baldrick drew,
The evening star was still in view,
Scarce had the Pleiads cleared the main,
Or Charles reyoked his golden wain,
When from the palace-turrets rang
The bugle's note with warning clang ;
Each tower, each spire, in music spake,
"Haste, nobles, to Queen Mary's Wake."
The blooming maid ran to bedight,
In spangled lace, and robe of white,
That graceful emblem of her youth,
Of guileless heart, and maiden truth.
The matron decked her candid frame
In moony brooch, and silk of flame ;
And every Earl and Baron bold
Sparkled in clasp and loop of gold.
'Twas the last night of hope and fear,
That bards could sing, or Sovereign hear ;
And just ere rose the Christmas sun,
The envied prize was lost or won.

The bard that night who foremost came
Was not enrolled, nor known his name :
A youth he was of manly mould,
Gentle as lamb, as lion bold ;
But his fair face, and forehead high,
Glowed with intrusive modesty.

'Twas said, by bank of southland stream
Glided his youth in soothing dream ;
The harp he loved, and wont to stray
Far to the wilds and woods away,
And sing to brooks that gurgled bye
Of maiden's form and maiden's eye;
That, when this dream of youth was past.
Deep in the shade his harp he cast;
In busy life his cares beguiled,
His heart was true, and fortune smiled.

But when the Royal Wake began,
Joyful he came the foremost man,
To see the matchless bard approved,
And list the strains he once had loved.

Two nights had passed, the bards had sung —
Queen Mary's Harp from ceiling hung,
On which was graved her lovely mold,
Beset with crowns and flowers of gold
And many a gem of dazzling dye
Glowed on that prize to minstrel's eye.

The youth had heard each minstrel's strain,
And, fearing northern bard would gain,
To try his youthful skill was moved,
Not for himself, but friends he loved.