Young Argyle; or Stanzas to Lethington Castle

Old Lethington! wert thou by Gifford rear’d With magic art, like Yester’s goblin cave, What time the Night her course to morning steer’d And the owl whoop’d upon the virgin’s grave; Say, did thy master-builder Heaven brave, And with unearthly craftsmen overnight From Garvald’s quarry drag, by hook and knave, Those massy battlements ere morning’s light To strike the early swain with wonder and affright?

It matters not to tell—but o’er the pines I love to view thy turrets towering grey, Which braved the fiery blast of feudal times, And still unbroke their lofty front display. Though thou hast seen thy lordlings pass away, And castled towers and abbeys fall around, Yet here thy veteran face appears as gay As when the warrior’s horn at morn did sound, And gallant Lindsay paced thy spacious pleasure-ground.

And, hark! resounds the clashing din of war, On adamantine walls the arrows play; Against thy gates, strong laced with iron bar, The battering-ram rolls on in fierce array; Now high thy famish’d garrison display The skin of beasts, to mock what most they need, While shakes thy tower from vault to turret gray, As on the invader’s head the pointed reed From cunning crevice pours the boiling molten lead.

How oft by innate strength and stratagem Did Scotia’s ancient fortlets brave the foe, Whether when feudal chiefs chivalrous came, Or civil discord wrapt the land in woe; Or when the robber’s torch at night did glow, And shrieks of murder’d men came on the gale, The chiefs of Lethington were never slow, To draw the sword, or brace the glitt’ring mail, And chase the bold outlaw o’er farthest Lauderdale.

Then Lauder’s forest to the bugle rung, Startling marauders from their mountain prey, As morning rose, deplored by old and young, Where ravaged round the burning farm-yards lay; These were fierce men, the scourges of their day, Who on the sea of venture did embark, And, as we’re told in Maitland’s doleful lay, Spared neither house nor stable, church nor ark, And loved the midnight ride, because their deeds were dark.

Lo! crown’d with laurel, in his oaken chair, I see the ancient knight of Thirlestane, Attended by Maria, chaste and fair, Amanuensis to his tuneful strain, Like Milton’s daughter, copying the rich vein Of inspiration, as her father woke The harp: Then humorous Lindsay breathed again, While moral saws, and satire’s flashes broke, As erst by Greece’s bard in optic darkness spoke.

O Lethington! thy woodlands are sublime, Where everlasting trees their green arms wave, Like giant-shadows beautified by time, Shaking their shaggy locks when tempests rave; Here walk’d the politician plotting grave; Here sighs from icy bosoms beauty wrung; Here, young Argyle—the generous and the brave— First woke to eloquence his artless tongue, Where beauteous Lennox smiled, and old Sir Richard sung.

’Tis sweet, at summer’s noon, on thy high tower, When half obscured the sun looks softly bright, To view the amber heights of Lammermoor, Bathed in a misty veil of living light, While hill and dale alternate charm the sight, And hum of birds, and distant murmuring stream, Sound in the ear like music in the night, While, through the copsewood, Coalston’s turrets gleam, And still remind us of her Margaret’s ominous dream.

The Lady lay upon her marriage-bed, And saw the Enchanted Pear of Coalston; fair As Eden’s tree, it rear’d its lovely head That look’d more sweet, as whispers said, Beware! For while the magic cornac flourish’d there, So spread and flourish’d Coalston’s rich estate; But the young bride long’d for a fruit so rare,— Now touch’d it—tasted—the enchantment ate— Awoke—it was a dream! but big with future fate.

If Coalston had its pear, fair Lethington! Thou hadst thy apples, with which none may vie; As Jove’s own fruit, thy boughs beneath them groan, Like aromatic sweets dropt from the sky— Beneath their shades the archers oft would try Their strength of arm; and, at the day’s decline, They tasted Maitland’s hospitality In draughts of Angiers that gleam’d divine, And fed their hearts with joy, as erst it fed the vine.

Thy walks were spacious once, fair Lethington! When Charles the Witty made his progress here, What time the Duke, who reign’d above the throne, Thy many parks stored full of stately deer, That venison-loving kings might not want cheer, Nor the fat cook be taken by surprise; Happy to leave the state—the spit to steer, And look an epicure in royal eyes, Who ne’er spoke nonsense, yet, ne’er acted wise!

With Charles fair Lennox might have shared the throne; For o’er his heart she held despotic sway: Amidst the loveliest of the court she shone, As Venus shines amidst the starry way, Dimming each lesser planet with her ray, She walk’d in beauty like the sylphs above, The diamond stone of nature’s galaxy— Girdled with cestus by the graces wove, Like her who from the waves uprose the Queen of Love!

Francis Teresa! on thy fine-arch’d brow, Minerva’s conquering aspect we descry, While in that face where smiles through roses glow, And in the lustre of that dark-blue eye, Shaded by auburn ringlets, we espy The Cyprian queen, while on thy breast of snow Perfection leans,—and claims the heart’s soft sigh; Before such form a monarch well might bow, Admiring nature’s works, as we the canvass now.

Farewell, fair Lennox! for severer themes Than Beauty now demand the muse’s care; The patriot’s brow the deathless laurel claims, While rosy chaplets best become the fair; Though gems grow dim in thy luxuriant hair, I seek the couch where lone Eliza lies— Alas! that hope should waken to despair, That tears should cloud affection’s doting eyes:— “Come, lady, fair, awake! the sun is in the skies.

“Lady of Lorn! the morning bids thee wake, Her purple beams gild Lammerlaw’s high steep; The lark is springing from the dewy brake, Rousing the minstrels of the air to keep Their woodland concert. ’Tis not meet to sleep While on the battlements thy baby fair Forth from his vagrant nurse has dared to creep To sip alone the balmy-breathing air; Lady of Lorn, awake! or waken in despair!”

Thus spake the warning spirit of a dream, When lovely from her couch, dishevell’d, wild, Uprose the Flower of Dysart with a scream, As she beheld a writhing serpent coil’d Around her child, while each swollen artery boil’d; And as with shrieks far Coalston’s echoes rung, The emerald turf with infant’s blood was soil’d; She heard the death-notes freeze upon his tongue— When, reckless where she went, away the lady sprung.

She sought her boy in castle-tower and wood; But he was not in nursery nor in hall— When ’neath the casement’s lofty sash she stood, And heard his gentle voice upon her call. Sprung from his nurse’s arms in gamesome brawl, Next moment on the ground he bit the soil, Roll’d up, then to his little limbs ’gan crawl, Look’d in his mother’s face with playful smile, And rose—a miracle! unhurt the Young Argyle!

It was a dreadful omen, at that hour, Which nearly a long line of glory broke, When Young Argyle fell from the lofty tower On the green-turf unscath’d—upon the block His grandsire laid his head; alas! the shock Was felt by Freedom; it severely shew’d The gratitude of kings, and did provoke That slumbering justice which so fiercely glow’d, When man at last “appeal’d from tyranny to God.”

Soon Campbell rose, renown’d for arts and arms, Free in the senate—bold in battle-field; Now awed with Roman fire and personal charms; Now freedom’s champion—now his sovereign’s shield; His country’s thunders early taught to wield, Witness Ramillies, Oudenarde, Ghent, and Lisle. Tournay, Minorca, to his prowess yield; While spake the master-spirits of the Isle, And Pope and Thomson strove to laud the Young Argyle!

NOTES TO YOUNG ARGYLE; or, STANZAS TO LETHINGTON

Stanza ii. page 314.

I love to view thy turrets towering grey, Which braved the fiery blast of feudal times, And still unbroke their lofty front display.