Emigrant (Erskine, 1)/The Emigrant
ADVERTISEMENT.
The following very beautiful and pathetic Poem, the pro-
duction of the Honourable Henry Erskine was written
upon occafion of the frequent emigrations from Scotland, more
especially from the Highlands.
That the publication of it may tend to heighten and to dif-
fuse that spirit of benevolence and humanity, towards our
distressed countrymen, which seems at present to be awakened,
is the design o its present publication.—And it is earnestly to
be wished, that it may promote the good end for which it is
now presented to the public.
Copies of it appeared some time ago in a mutilated form;
the present is printed from that done with permission of the
amiable and distinguished author, and it will afford the read-,
er more pleasure, when he is assured that it is entire.
THE EMIGRANT.
"Nos-patriae fines, et dulcia linquimus arva,
So parriam fugimus—” VIRGIL.
"We leave our country and our native plains."
Fast by the margin of a mossy rill,
That' wander’d, gurgling, down a heath-clad hill,
An ancient shepherd stood, oppress’d with woe,
And ey’d the ocean’s flood that foam’d below
Where gently rocking on the rifing tide,
A ship’s unwonted form was seen to ride.
Unwonted, well I ween ; for ne’er before,
Had touch’d one keel, the solitary shore ;
Nor had the swain’s rude footsteps ever stray’d,
Beyond the shelter of his native shade.
His few remaining hairs were sliver grey,
And his rough face had seen a better day.
Around him, bleating, stray’d a scanty flock.
And a few goats o’erhung the neighb’ring rock.
One faithful dog his sorrows seem’d to share.
And drove, with many a trick to ease his care.
While o’ei his furrow’d cheeks, the salt drops ran,
He tun’d his rultic reed, and thus began:
“ Farewel! farewel! dear Caledonia’s strand,
“ Rough though thou be, yet still my native land,
"Exil’d from thee I seek a foreign Shore,
“ Friends, kindred, country, to behold no more:
“ By hard oppression driv’n. my helpless age,
“ That should ere now have left life’s burstling stage,
"Is forc’d the ocean’s boist’rous breast to brave,
“ In a far foreign land to seek a grave.
“ And must I leave thee then my little lot!
“ Mine and my father’s poor, but happy, lot,
“ Where I have pass'd in innocence away,
“ Year after year, till Age has turn’d me grey?
“ Thou, dear companion of my happier life,
“ Now to the grave gone down, my virtuous wife,
“ 'T'was here you rear’d with fond maternal pride,
“ Five comely Tons: three for their country died!
“ Two still remain, sad remnant of the wars,
“ Without one mark of honour but their fears;
“ T'hey live to see their fire deny’d a grave,
“ In lands his much lov’d children died to save:
“ Yet still in peace and safety did we live,
“ In peace and safety more than wealth can give.
“ My two remaining boys, with sturdy hands,
“ Rear’d the scant produce of our niggard lands:
“ Scant as it was, no more our hearts desir'd,
"No more from us our gen’rous lord requir’d,
“ But ah, sad change! those blessed days are o'er,
"And Peace, Content, and Safety charm no more.
"Another lord now rules those wide domains,
"The avaricious tyrant of the plains,
"Far, far from hence he revels life away,
"In guilty pleasures, our poor means must pay.
"The mossy plains, the mountain’s barren brow
"Must now be tortur’d by the rearing plough,
""And spite of nature, crops be taught to rife,
Which to these northern climes wife Heav’n denies.
"In vain, with sweating brow and weary bands
"We drive to earn the gold our lord demands,
"While cold and hunger, and the dungeon’s gloom,
"Await our failure as its certain doom.
“ To shun these ills that threat my hoary head,
"I seek. in foreign la1 ds precarious bread;
"Forc’d, tho’ my helpless age from guilt be pure,
"The pangs of banish’d felons to endure;
"And all because these hands have vainly try’d
"To force from art what nature has deny’d;
"Because my little all will not suffice
"To pay th’ infatiate claims of Avarice.
“ In vain, of richer climates I am told,
" Whose hills are rich in gems, whole dreams are
“gold, “ I am contented here, I ne’er have seen
" A vale more fertile, nor a hill more green,
"Nor would I leave this sweet, though humble cot,
"To share the richest monarch’s envied lot.
“ O! would to Heaven the alternative were mine,
"Abroad to thrive, or here in want to pine,
"Soon would 1 chufe : but ere to-morrow’s fun
"Has o’er my head his radiant journey run,
"I shall be robb’d, by what they JUSTICE call,
"By legal ruffians, of my little all:
"Driv’n out to Hunger, Nakedness and Grief,
"Without one pitying hand to bring relief.
"Then come, oh! sad alternative to chufe,
"Come, Banishment, I wilt no more refuse.
"Go where I may, nor billows, rocks, nor wind,
"Can add of horror to my tortur’d mind;
"On whatsoever coast I may be thrown,
"No lord can use me harder than my own;
"Even they who tear the limbs and drink the gore,
Of helpless strangers, what can they do more?
"For thee, insatiate chief; whose ruthless hand
"For ever drives me from my native land :
"For thee I leave no greater curie behind,
"Than the fell bodings of a guilty mind ;
"Or what were harder to a soul like thine,
"To find from avarice thy wealth decline.
“ For you,my friends, and neighbours,of the vale,
"Who now with kindly tears my fate bewail,
"Soon may your king, whose bread paternal glows,
“ With tendered feelings for his peoples woes,
"Soon may the ru’ers of tins mighty land,
"To ease your sorro'ws stretch the helping hand,
“ Else soon, too soon, your hapless fate shall be,
“ Like me to suffer, to depart like me.
“ On your dear native land, from whence I part,
"Rest the best blessing of a broken heart.
"If in some future hour, the foe should land
"His hostile legions on Britannia’s strand,
"May she not then th’ alarum sound in vain,
"Nor miss her banished thousands on the plain.
“ Feed on, my sheep, for though depriv’d of me,
“ My cruel foes shall your protectors be,
"For their own sakes, shall your straggling flocks,
“ And save your lambkins from the rav’ning fox.
“ Feed on, my goats, another now shall drain
“ Your dreams that heal disease and soften pain;
“ No dreams alas! can ever, ever flow,
“ To heal your master’s heart, or soothe his woe.
“ Feed on, my flocks, ye harmless people, feed,
“ The worst that ye can suffer is to bleed.
“ O! that the murderer’s heel were all my fear!
“ How fondly would I slay to perish here “
"But, hark! My fons loud call me from the vale,
“ And, lo! the vessel spreads the swelling fail.
“ Farewel! farewel!” A while his hands he wrung,
And o’er his crook in speechless sorrow hung,
Then calling many a ling’ring look behind,
Down the steep mountain’s brow began to wind.