Sick, and heart-broken, and alone-to die!
For God hath cursed the leper!
And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow,
Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched
The loathsome water to his fevered lips,
Praying that he might be so blessed to die!
Footsteps approached, and with no strength to flee,
He drew the covering closer on his lip,
Crying "Unclean! Unclean!" and in the folds
Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face,
He fell upon the earth till they should pass.
Nearer the stranger came, and bending o'er
The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name.
"Helon !"-the voice was like the master-tone
Of a rich instrument-most strangely sweet;
And the dull pulses of disease awoke,
And for a moment beat beneath the hot
And leprous scales with a restoring thrill.
"Helon! arise!" and he forgot his curse,
And rose and stood before him.
Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye
As he beheld the stranger. He was not
In costly raiment clad; nor on his brow
The symbol of a princely lineage wore;
No followers at his back, nor in his hand
Buckler, or sword, or spear;-yet in his mien
Command sat throned serene, and, if he smiled,
A kingly condescension graced his lips,
The lion would have crouched to in his lair.
His garb was simple, and his sandals worn;
His stature modelled with a perfect grace;
His countenance, the impress of a God,
Touched with the open innocence of a child;
His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky
In the serenest noon; his hair unshorn,
Fell to his shoulders; and his curling beard
The fullness of perfected manhood bore.
He looked on Helon earnestly awhile,
As if his heart was moved, and stooping down,
He took a little water in his hand,
And laid it on his brow, and said, “Be clean!"
And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood
Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins,
And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow
The dewy softness of an infant's stole.
His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down
Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshipped him.
The Children of the Mist, who were a portion of the Clan of Mac Gregor, and remarkable for their ferocity, caught Drummond-Enoch, the king's forester, hunting on lands they claimed, and cut off his head. The Clan then met in an ancient church, on whose altar the bleeding head was placed, covered by the banner of the tribe. The chief of the tribe then advanced to the altar as described in the following spirited poem by SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.
"This was the boon of Scotland's king!"
And, with a quick and angry fling,
Tossing the pageant screen away,
The dead man's head before him lay.
Unmoved he scanned the visage o'er,
The clotted locks were dark with gore,
The features with convulsion grim,
The eyes contorted, sunk, and dim.
But unappalled, in angry mood,
With lowering brow, unmoved he stood.
Upon the head his bared right hand
He laid, the other grasped his brand:
Then kneeling, cried, "To heaven I swear
This deed of death I own, and share;
As truly, fully mine, as though
This my right hand had dealt the blow:
Come then, our foemen, one, come all
If to revenge this caitiff's fall
One blade is bared, one bow is drawn,
Mine everlasting peace I pawn,
To claim from them, or claim from him,
In retribution, limb for limb :-
In sudden fray or open strife,
This steel shall render life for life."
He ceased, and at his beckoning nod The clansmen to the altar trod ; And not a whisper breathed around, And nought was heard of mortal sound, Save from the clanking arms they bore, That rattled on the marble floor; And each, as he approached in haste, Upon the scalp his right hand placed; With livid lip, and gathered brow, Each uttered in his turn, the vow. Fierce Malcolm watched the passing scene, And searched them through with glances keen; Then dashed a tear-drop from his eye; Unbid it came-he knew not why. Exulting high, he towering stood:
'Kinsmen," he cried, " of Alpine's blood,
And worthy of Clan Alpine's name,
Unstained by cowardice and shame,
E'en do, spare nocht, in time of ill
Shall be Clan Alpine's legend still!"
The following anecdote is related of George III. of England, on the authority of Crabbe, the poet. The author of the ballad, however, is unknown to the Editor. It may be necessary to inform the pupil that the word Shrift means confession, such as is made to the priest; Glade is an open spot in a forest; I rede means I advise, but seems to be used by the poet for I guess; A Stole is a robe worn by certain priests.
Outstretched beneath the leafy shade
Of Windsor forest's deepest glade,
A dying woman lay:
Three little children round her stood,
And there went up from the greenwood
A woeful wail that day.
"O mother!" was the mingled cry,
"O mother, mother! do not die,
And leave us all alone."
My blessed babes!" she tried to say, But the faint accents died away
In a low sobbing moan.
And then life struggled hard with death, And fast and strong she drew her breath, And up she raised her head;
And peering through the deep-wood maze
With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze,
"Will he not come ?" she said.
Just then, the parting boughs between,
A little maid's light form was seen,
All breathless with her speed;
And following close, a man came on
(A portly man to look upon)
Who led a panting steed.
"Mother!" the little maiden cried,
'Fore e'er she reached the woman's side,
And kissed her clay-cold cheek—
"I have not idled in the town,
But long went wandering up and down,
The minister to seek."
"They told me here-they told me there-
I think they mocked me every where;
And when I found his home,
And begged him on my bended knee
To bring his book, and come with me,—
Mother! he would not come.
"I told him how you dying lay,
And could not go in peace away
Without the minister;
I begged him for dear Christ, his sake,
But oh! my heart was fit to break-
Mother he would not stir.
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