THE END OF THE PLAY
(From Dr. Birch and His Young Friends,
1848-1849)

The play is done; the curtain drops,
Slow falling to the prompter's bell:
A moment yet the actor stops,

And looks around, to say farewell.

It is an irksome word and task

And, when he's laughed and said his say,
He shows, as he removes the mask,
A face that's anything but gay.

One word, ere yet the evening ends,
Let's close it with a parting rhyme,
And pledge a hand to all young friends,
As fits the merry Christmas time.
On life's wide scene you, too, have parts,
That Fate ere long shall bid you play;
Good night! with honest gentle hearts
A kindly greeting go alway!

Good night!-I'd say, the griefs, the joys,
Just hinted in this mimic page,

The triumphs and defeats of boys,
Are but repeated in our age.

Your hopes more vain, than those of men;

At forty-five played o'er again.

5

10

15

So each shall mourn, in life's advance,
Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed;
Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance,
And longing passion unfulfilled.
Amen! whatever fate be sent,

Pray God the heart may kindly glow,
Although the head with cares be bent,
And whitened with the winter's snow.

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the Awful Will,

And bear it with an honest heart,
Who misses or who wins the prize.

Go, lose or conquer as you can;
But if you fail, or if you rise,
Be each, pray God, a gentleman.

A gentleman, or old, or young!

(Bear kindly with my humble lays); The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christmas days: The shepherds heard it overheadThe joyful angels raised it then: Glory to God, on high, it said,

I lay the weary pen aside,

60

65

70

75

20

And peace on earth to gentle men.

80

I'd say, your woes were not less keen,

My song, save this, is little worth;

Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen

And wish you health, and joy, and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide.

The prize be sometimes with the fool, The race not always to the swift.

35

The strong may yield, the good may fall, The great man be a vulgar clown,

The knave be lifted over all,

William E. Aytoun

1813-1865

THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE1

I

Do not lift him from the bracken,
Leave him lying where he fell—
Better bier ye cannot fashion:

None beseems him half so well
As the bare and broken heather,
And the hard and trampled sod,
Whence his angry soul ascended
To the judgment-seat of God!
Winding sheet we cannot give him-
Seek no mantle for the dead,
Save the cold and spotless covering
Showered from heaven upon his head.
Leave his broadsword as we found it,
Bent and broken with the blow,
Which before he died, avenged him
On the foremost of the foe.
Leave the blood upon his bosom—
Wash not off that sacred stain;

5

10

15

1 The Clan of Macdonald, in the Highland valley of Glencoe, were late in taking the required oath of loyalty to King William III. Under royal warrant a regiment was sent to Glencoe and many of the Macdonalds were treacherously killed.

When she searches for her offspring

Round the relics of her nest.

Let it stiffen on the tartan,

Let his wounds unclosed remain, Till the day when he shall show them

20

At the throne of God on high,

When the murderer and the murdered Meet before the judge's eye.

II

Nay-ye should not weep, my children!

Leave it to the faint and weak; Sobs are but a woman's weaponTears befit a maiden's cheek. Weep not, children of Macdonald!

Weep not, thou his orphan heirNot in shame, but stainless honour,

Lies thy slaughtered father there. Weep not-but when years are over, And thine arm is strong and sure, And thy foot is swift and steady

On the mountain and the muirLet thy heart be hard as iron,

And thy wrath as fierce as fire,

Till the hour when vengeance cometh
For the race that slew thy sire!

25

30

35

40

Till in deep and dark Glenlyon

Rise a louder shriek of woe,

Than at midnight, from their eyrie, Scared the eagles of Glencoe:

Louder than the screams that mingled With the howling of the blast,

45

When the murderer's steel was clashing, And the fires were rising fast;

When thy noble father bounded

To the rescue of his men,

50

50

60

For in many a spot the tartan
Peered above the wintry heap,
Marking where a dead Macdonald
Lay within his frozen sleep.
Tremblingly we scooped the covering
From each kindred victim's head,
And the living lips were burning

On the cold ones of the dead.
And I left them with their dearest-
Dearest charge had every one-
Left the maiden with her lover,
Left the mother with her son.
I alone of all was mateless-

Far more wretched I than they,
For the snow would not discover
Where my lord and husband lay.
But I wandered up the valley,
Till I found him lying low,
With the gash upon his bosom

And the frown upon his browTill I found him lying murdered, Where he wooed me long ago!

III

Woman's weakness shall not shame meWhy should I have tears to shed? Could I rain them down like water,

O my hero! on thy head

Could the cry of lamentation

Wake thee from thy silent sleep,
Could it set thy heart a-throbbing,
It were mine to wail and weep!
But I will not waste my sorrow,
Lest the Campbell women say
That the daughters of Clanranald
Are as weak and frail as they.
I had wept thee hadst thou fallen,
Like our fathers, on thy shield,
When a host of English foemen
Camped upon a Scottish field-

I had mourned thee, hadst thou perished
With the foremost of thy name,

And their dearest dead below!

Oh, the horror of the tempest,
Ás the flashing drift was blown,

Crimsoned with the conflagration,

And the roofs went thundering down! Oh, the prayers-the prayers and curses That together winged their flight From the maddened hearts of many Through that long and woful night! Till the fires began to dwindle,

And the shots grew faint and few,
And we heard the foeman's challenge
Only as a far halloo.

Till the silence once more settled
O'er the gorges of the glen

Broken only by the Cona

Plunging through its naked den. Slowly from the mountain summit Was the drifting veil withdrawn, And the ghastly valley glimmered In the grey December dawn.

Better had the morning never

Dawned upon our dark despair!

So to live is heaven: 10
To make undying music in the world,
Breathing as beauteous order that controls
With growing sway the growing life of man.
So we inherit that sweet purity

For which we struggl'd, fail'd, and agoniz'd 15
With widening retrospect that bred despair.
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued,
A vicious parent shaming still its child,
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolv'd;
Its discords, quench'd by meeting harmonies, 20
Die in the large and charitable air.
And all our rarer, better, truer self,
That sobb'd religiously in yearning song,
That watch'd to ease the burthen of the
world,

Laboriously tracing what must be;
And what may yet be better,-saw within
A worthier image for the sanctuary,
And shap'd it forth before the multitude,
Divinely human, raising worship so

25

To higher reverence more mix'd with love,- 30 That better self shall live till human Time Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb, Unread forever.

Arthur Hugh Elough1

1819-1861

5

QUA CURSUM VENTUS (From Ambarvalia, 1843) As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail at dawn of day Are scarce long leagues apart descried; When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, And all the darkling hours they plied, Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas By each was cleaving, side by side: E'en so-but why the tale reveal Of those, whom year by year unchanged, 10 Brief absence joined anew to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged?

15

20

At dead of night their sails were filled,
And onward each rejoicing steered-
Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,
Ór wist, what first with dawn appeared!
To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,
Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,
Through winds and tides one compass guides-
To that, and your own selves, be true.
But O blithe breeze! and O great seas,
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,
On your wide plain they join again,
Together lead them home at last.
One port, methought, alike they sought,
One purpose hold where'er they fare,-
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas!
At last, at last, unite them there.

25

Say not, the struggle nought availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain,

45

That long time, when I shall not be, moves me more than this brief, mortal life.

1 St. James, i. 17.