Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Imitation of Byron's Modern Greece, as applied to Scotland

Imitation of Byron's "Modern Greece," As Applied to Scotland.

Know'st thou the land where the hardy green thistle,The red-blooming heath, and the harebell abound?Where oft o'er the mountains the shepherd's shrill whistleIs heard in the gloaming so sweetly to sound?Know'st thou the land of the mountain and flood,Where the pine of the forest for ages has stood,Where the eagle comes forth on the wings of the storm,And her young ones are rocked on high Cairngorm?Know'st thou the land where the old Celtic waveEncircles the hills which its blue waters lave?Where the virgins are pure as the gems of the sea,And their spirits are light as their actions are free?'Tis the land of thy sire!—'tis the land of thy youth,Where first thy young heart glowed with honour and truth;Where the wild fire of genius first caught thy young soul,And thy feet and thy fancy roamed free from control!Then why does that fancy still dwell on a climeWhere Love leads to Madness, and Madness to Crime:Where courage itself is more savage than brave;—Where man is a despot, and woman a slave?Though soft are the breezes, and sweet the perfume,And fair are the "gardens of Gul" in their bloom;Can the odours they scatter—the roses they bear,Speak peace to the heart of suspicion and fear?Ah, no! 'tis the magic that glows in thy strain,Gives life to the action and soul to the scene!And the deeds which they do, and the tales which they tell,Enchant us alone by the power of thy spell!And is there no charm in thine own native earth?Does no talisman rest in the place of thy birth?Are the daughters of Albion less worthy thy care,Less soft than Zuleika, less bright than Gulnare?Are her sons less renowned, or her warriors less brave,Than the slaves of a prince who himself is a slave?Then strike thy wild lyre, let it swell with the strain,Let the mighty in arms live and conquer again;Their past deeds of valour thy lays shall rehearse,And the fame of thy country revive in thy verse.The proud wreath of victory round heroes may twine,'Tis the poet who crowns them with honour divine;And thy laurels, Pelides, had sunk in the tomb,Had the bard not preserved them immortal in bloom!