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.