Originally published in The Literary Chronicle and Weekly Review (J. Sidebetmem) vol.1 #9 (17 Jul 1819).
To the Editor of the Literary Chronicle.
Sir,—The paraphrase of the Orphan Maid, in the Legend of Montrose, though elegant in itself, is so evidently deficient of many of the poetical beauties contained in the translation from the original Gaelic, that I have been induced to attempt a more literal versification, and, if you do not deem it too presumptuous, should be obliged by its insertion. I am, Sir, your obedient servant,
C.H.
THE ORPHAN MAID.
The hail blast of autumn had drifted away,
The sun thro' a cloud-rift beam'd pallidly gay,
As the wounded in vict'ry lifts his pale head,
And languidly smiles when his foe-men are fled,
The castle's fair lady came forth on the green,
Where, beneath an old oak, a poor orphan was seen;
The leaves they were wither'd, and strewn in her way,
But her heart was more blighted, more wither'd than they
And the parent of ice had been chillingly there,
Congealing the hail drops that fell in her hair,
Like the specks of white ashes that cling to the bough
Of the half-consum'd oak, with its time-smitten brow.
And the maiden she cried, all distracted and wild,
'Oh! comfort, sweet lady, a poor orphan child.'
'Ah, me!' said the lady, 'my lord he is slain,
How can I give that which I sigh for in vain?
My child she was lost, still to deepen my woe,
As fearful I fled from my husband's fell foe:
The morn of St. Bridget's, o'erwhelm'd in the tide,
Near the strong Lyns of Campsie, my sweet infant died.
May ill luck, for ever, alight on the day,
That snatch'd all my hope, all my comfort away.'
'On the morn of St. Bridget's,' the maiden replied,
Twelve harvests are past, since of Campsie bank side,
Some fishermen cast forth their nets, and they bore,
Nor salmon, nor grilse,—but an infant to shore!
That infant was I—that in woe, and in strife,
Have dragg'd on a wretched, a comfortless life;
Unless you relieve me, here here must I lie,
My griefs be all ended,—for soon shall I die.'
And the lady exclaim'd, 'let thy griefs be at rest,—
Blest, blest be St. Bridget,—her morn be it blest,—
The falcon looks forth from those dark eyes of thine,
'Those looks were my lord's, and declare thou art mine!
Oh! let me, in fondness, enfold to my heart,
The heir of my house—my lost daughter thou art!'
And the lady's attendants stood weepingly by,—
As she kiss'd the big drop from her orphan's bright eye.
And she bade her in silks and in samite be drest,
With pleasure, and splendour, be evermore blest;
And the pearls which they wove in her dark raven hair,
Were whiter than hail-drops, more bright, and more clear[1]
1. It is but an act of justice to our correspondent, and will shew the closeness of his paraphrase, to insert the literal translation, from the original Gaelic, as given in the Legend of Montrose.—Ed.
LITERAL TRANSLATION.
'The hail-blast had drifted away upon the wings of the gale of autumn. The sun looked from between the clouds, pale as the wounded hero who rears his head feebly on the heath when the roar of battle hath passed over him.
Finele, the lady of the castle came forth to see her maidens pass to the herds with their leglins.
There sat an orphan maiden beneath the old oak-tree of appointment. The withered leaves fell around her, and her heart was more withered than they.
The parent of the ice, (poetically taken for the frost,) still congealed the hail-drops in her hair; they were like the specks of white ashes on the twisted boughs of the blackened and half consumed oak.
And the maiden said, 'give me comfort, lady, I am an orphan child.' And the lady replied, 'how can I give that which I have not? I am the widow of a slain lord,—the mother of a perished child. When I fled in my fear from the vengeance of my husband's foe, our bark was overwhelmed in the tide, and my infant perished. This was on Saint Bridget's morn, near the strong Lyns of Campsie. May ill luck light upon the day.' And the maiden answered, 'it was on Saint Bridget's morn, and twelve harvests before this time, that the fishermen of Campsie drew in their nets neither grilse nor salmon, but an infant half dead, who hath since lived in misery, and must die, unless she is now aided.' And the lady answered, 'blessed be Saint Bridget and her morn, for these are the dark eyes and the falcon look of my slain lord; and thine shall be the inheritance of his widow.' And she called for her waiting attendants, and she bade them clothe that maiden in silk and in samite; and the pearls which they have wove among her black tresses, were whiter than the frozen hail-drops.'