The Poetical Works of Charles Mackay

Such as in youthful prime it grew, And his pulse beat high with courage

new.

For him some loving saint had striven, No more the light above him shone, His curse removed, his sin forgivenNow he would live to Love alone.

XLII.

And still with shout and cry he went Among the woodlands wild,

To seek the woman of the cave, Whose pity snatch'd him from the grave,

Whose converse had beguiled The weary days, the nights of woe, When he was cursed by all below.

XLIII

There were sweet voices in the sky,
Now near and now remote,
High in the undulating air
A song appear'd to float-
The mournful soul of Music dwelt

In each entrancing note.
He listen❜d to the heavenly sounds,
And thought that he could hear
His long-lost Amethysta's name--

That name for ever dear

Mingling with his, weird harps on high Teeming the while with harmony.

XLIV.

The clear full moon shone brightly down
O'er wide extending snows,
And ever as he wander'd on,
The melting music rose.

"Twas midnight ere he reach'd the cave,
And feebly he could mark,
With hope and joy, a light within,
Pale peering through the dark.

XLV.

He gather'd leaves and branches dry,
And piled them on the floor,
And gently fed the waning fire,

Till flames began to roar;
And then he carried logs of oak
And sturdy boughs of pine,
Until the darkness of the cave
Grew bright as summer shine.

XLVI.

And as he piled, there was a sound Of heavenly music all around;

And light pervaded all the placeIt shone upon the woman's face, And as she lifted up her eyes All air was rife with harmonies; And fill'd with solemn awe was heBut was he dreaming ?-could it be?

XLVII.

Yes! it was Amethysta's self! There was no other face so fair: He knew her by her eyes of light, He knew her by her long fair hair, He knew her by her heavenly smile, And trembled with excess of joy ; For there she stood, with arms outstretch'd

Towards him, lovingly, yet coy. Smiles chased the tears upon her face,He fell into her warm embrace; While she, supported on his breast, With sighs her love, with sobs her joy express'd.

He took her hand:-'Now let us forth,' he said;
"The world is ours to choose our own abode,
And bounteous Nature hath a banquet spread
For loving hearts that put their trust in God:
Forth let us go!'-He clasp'd her to his breast;-
Then hand in hand they left the darksome cell,
To find some spot where Peace might be a guest,
And build a bower where Happiness might dwell.

LVII.

And were they happy? Old traditions say
The maiden perish'd on her bridal day;

Slain by excess of rapturous joy, she fell Lifeless upon the breast she loved so well. And what his fate? The legend tells it not. Love is a light that cheers the darkest lot; His love was true, and lived beyond the tomb, A flower of beauty in perpetual bloom; With steadfast faith that sin may be forgiven, And love like this to be renew'd in heaven: Poor is the heart adversity can break, And loss is gain for Love and Pity's sake.

HIGHLAND GATHERINGS

AND

LEGENDS OF THE ISLES. 1845.

PROLOGUE.

THE HIGHLAND RAMBLE.

'WE three are young: we have a month to spare;
Money enough; and, whistling off our care,
We can forsake the turmoil of the town,
And tread the wilds-making our faces brown
With sunshine, on the peaks of some high Ben.
Let us away, three glad, unburden'd men-
And trace some mountain-torrent to its source,
'Mid fern and heather, juniper and gorse,
Braving all weathers. I, with gun, one day
Will cater for you, and go forth to slay
The grouse in corries, where they love to dwell;
Or sit with you upon some granite fell,
And talk for hours of high philosophy,
Or sun ourselves in warmth of poesy:

And should these tire, with rod in hand, we'll go
To streams that leap-too frolicsome to flow-
Angling for trout, and catch them by themselves,
In fancied citadel, beneath the shelves

Of slippery stone, o'er which the waters rush.
Let us away. My cheeks and forehead flush
At the mere thought; so glad would be my soul
To be alone with Nature for one whole

Untrammell'd month-having no thought of dross,
Or dull entanglements of gain and loss;

Of Blackstone drear, or Barnewall's Reports,

Or aught that smells of lawyers and the courts.

Let us away, this pleasant summer time,

Thou, Karl, canst muse, and shape the tuneful rhyme

Amidst thy well-beloved hills and straths:

Thou, Patrick, canst ascend the mountain-paths,
Thy well-fill'd flask in pocket, and rehearse
Plain prose with me, as genial as his verse;

The three companions of this Ramble were the Author, Patrick Park, sculptor, and Alexander Mackay, Barrister-at-Law and author of "The Western World."

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