And the mool that haps them roun' and laps them Is e'en their country's clay; But the land we tread that are not dead Is strange as night by day. Strange as night in a strange man's sight, For what is here that a stranger's cheer The hills stand steep, the dells lie deep, The hill-streams sing, and the hill-sides ring, But hills and flowers are nane of ours, And ours are oversea: And the kind strange land whereon we stand, Or ever we came, wi' scathe and shame, Scathe, and shame, and a waefu' name, Have they that seeing a weird for dreeing Shame and scorn may we thole that mourn, But ill may we bide the thoughts we hide, Ill may we thole the night's watches, And ill the weary day: And the dreams that keep the gates of sleep, A waefu' gift gie they; For the sangs they sing us, the sights they bring us, The morn blaws all away. On Aikenshaw the sun blinks braw, On Keilder-side the wind blaws wide: That rings sae sweet as the winds that beat The Wansbeck sings with all her springs, But the wood that rings wi' the sang she sings I may not see nor hear; For far and far thae blithe burns are, And strange is a' thing near. The light there lightens, the day there brightens, The loud wind there lives free: Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by me That I wad hear or see. But O gin I were there again, Afar ayont the faem, Cauld and dead in the sweet, saft bed That haps my sires at hame! We'll see nae mair the sea banks fair, And the lordly strand of Northumberland, And none shall know but the winds that blow The graves wherein we lie. Swinburne. Three Portraits of Prince Charles B (1731) EAUTIFUL face of a child, Lighted with laughter and glee, Mirthful, and tender, and wild, My heart is heavy for thee! (1744) Beautiful face of a youth, As an eagle poised to fly forth, To the old land loyal of truth, To the hills and the sounds of the North: Fair face, daring and proud, Lo! the shadow of doom even now, The fate of thy line, like a cloud, Rests on the grace of thy brow! (1773) Cruel and angry face, Hateful and heavy with wine, The beauty, the mirth that were thine? Ah, my Prince, it were well, Hadst thou to the gods been dear,- To have died with never a stain On the fair White Rose of Renown, To have fallen, fighting in vain, For thy father, thy faith, and thy crown! With its women weeping for thee, 8 But the Fates deemed otherwise, In the secular dust of Rome. A city of death and the dead, The crowns of years and fame: Or Tivoli said to him, Scarce did the memories wake And the latest Minstrel bent Andrew Lang. Prince Charlie's Weather-Vane A T Florence, in a listless street, Where many gardens lone and sweet Stone shepherdesses quaint and grey Upon the roof, against the sky, There stands a weather-vane,— A metal flag that with each sigh Of breeze that passes fitfully, Shifts like a thing in pain. And if you be not over far, You see two letters stamped-C.R., Few are the passers-by who know Saw here his ungrasped kingdom grow Who thinks, out here, of that stiff race A weather-cock behind? Thou rusty Jacobitish vane, Does thy faint creak still tell The sparrows, that, spite sun and rain, The King shall have his own again, And all shall yet be well? Or dost thou tell the breeze that fans |