Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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The Life of the Loreless Bard.
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
The Life of the Loreless Bard.
“Full many a gem, of purest hue serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
—Gray.
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
—Gray.
If thou hast seen the seaman brave
O'ercome the harshly swelling wave,
And gain the highly wished for shore,
Safe from the boiling tempest's roar;
If thou hast seen the hero wield
His arm upon the battle's field,
And, by fell death subdued, his foe,
Besmear'd with gore, laid prostrate low;
If thou hast been in Egypt's clime,
And seen the piles which baffle time,—
Then thou hast seen what trials hard
Oppose the humble loreless bard,
Exposed to want, that rigid spright,
Whose look the bravest soul would blight;
Sequester'd in the cell of toil,
Where intermission ne'er doth smile;
Debarr'd from sage instruction's school,
His thoughts adjusted by no rule:
If sing he must, he's taught by nature,
Devoid of learning's vivid feature.
O'ercome the harshly swelling wave,
And gain the highly wished for shore,
Safe from the boiling tempest's roar;
If thou hast seen the hero wield
His arm upon the battle's field,
And, by fell death subdued, his foe,
Besmear'd with gore, laid prostrate low;
If thou hast been in Egypt's clime,
And seen the piles which baffle time,—
259
Oppose the humble loreless bard,
Exposed to want, that rigid spright,
Whose look the bravest soul would blight;
Sequester'd in the cell of toil,
Where intermission ne'er doth smile;
Debarr'd from sage instruction's school,
His thoughts adjusted by no rule:
If sing he must, he's taught by nature,
Devoid of learning's vivid feature.
Born in old Scotland's rugged isle
Was he, whose life we sing the while;
From early youth was taught to sigh
'Neath the harsh hand of poverty;
Felt cold neglect's heart-breaking stroke,
Yet, heaven-inspired, still braved the shock.
When winter, with relentless power,
Rain, hail, or snow, did blust'ring shower,
No warm inviting home had he
Ofttimes—to fire his soul with glee:
Much did the hapless youth endure,
Whilst thus he lived ignobly poor.
Was he, whose life we sing the while;
From early youth was taught to sigh
'Neath the harsh hand of poverty;
Felt cold neglect's heart-breaking stroke,
Yet, heaven-inspired, still braved the shock.
When winter, with relentless power,
Rain, hail, or snow, did blust'ring shower,
No warm inviting home had he
Ofttimes—to fire his soul with glee:
Much did the hapless youth endure,
Whilst thus he lived ignobly poor.
Half-learn'd to read the Code divine,
He off was sent to tend the kine;
This—more propitious situation
From dread of want—gave relaxation;
Hope's magic fancy brought to view
Thoughts that days brighter would ensue;
Such mental visions drove away
Full many a long and lonely day.
Although unknown to classic ground,
He ne'er could brook the vulgar sound,
But rather, sole, beside the wood,
Would on sweet nature's features brood;
And, fancy aided, pass the time,
To chaunt her praise in rugged rhyme:
The light'ning's flash, the thunder's roll,
To pitch sublime did raise his soul;
The tempest's sweep he'd fondly eye
In all the flight of ecstacy;
And sweetly on his tuneful ear
Did fall the lark's song, warbled clear:
He loved to haunt the lonely dell
Where fairies wont in yore to dwell;
To muse beside the streamlet dern,
'Mong loosely waving broom and fern;
To list the sound of the cascade,
By zephyr wafted down the glade;
Or lie, charm'd by the wood-band's sound,
Upon the genii-haunted mound.
In hist'ry's page, he would explore
Old Scotland's fields, deep bathed in gore,
When Wallace swang the dire morglay,
And through deep columns cut his way;
When Bruce did England's bondage spurn
On the red field of Bannockburn:
Themes such as these to him were dear,
And wrang the patriotic tear—
Nor could his breast the sigh withhold,
Reviewing val'rous deeds of old;
He judged the cause of injured worth
The most defensible on earth;
Misfortune's hapless lot he mourn'd,
Power's high contemptuous sneer he scorn'd—
And still he shudder'd, still he sigh'd,
To see the haughty gait of pride—
And still he eyed, with deep vexation,
The unfeeling tyrants of creation.
He off was sent to tend the kine;
This—more propitious situation
From dread of want—gave relaxation;
Hope's magic fancy brought to view
Thoughts that days brighter would ensue;
Such mental visions drove away
Full many a long and lonely day.
Although unknown to classic ground,
He ne'er could brook the vulgar sound,
But rather, sole, beside the wood,
Would on sweet nature's features brood;
And, fancy aided, pass the time,
To chaunt her praise in rugged rhyme:
The light'ning's flash, the thunder's roll,
To pitch sublime did raise his soul;
The tempest's sweep he'd fondly eye
In all the flight of ecstacy;
And sweetly on his tuneful ear
Did fall the lark's song, warbled clear:
260
Where fairies wont in yore to dwell;
To muse beside the streamlet dern,
'Mong loosely waving broom and fern;
To list the sound of the cascade,
By zephyr wafted down the glade;
Or lie, charm'd by the wood-band's sound,
Upon the genii-haunted mound.
In hist'ry's page, he would explore
Old Scotland's fields, deep bathed in gore,
When Wallace swang the dire morglay,
And through deep columns cut his way;
When Bruce did England's bondage spurn
On the red field of Bannockburn:
Themes such as these to him were dear,
And wrang the patriotic tear—
Nor could his breast the sigh withhold,
Reviewing val'rous deeds of old;
He judged the cause of injured worth
The most defensible on earth;
Misfortune's hapless lot he mourn'd,
Power's high contemptuous sneer he scorn'd—
And still he shudder'd, still he sigh'd,
To see the haughty gait of pride—
And still he eyed, with deep vexation,
The unfeeling tyrants of creation.
Thus many an hour and many a day,
In solitude, were pass'd away,
Upon the purple-blossom'd heath,
Or the green shady wood beneath,
Close tracing, through the sacred page,
The bard who felt despotic rage;
But who, ere long, on Judah's throne,
Establish'd sure, effulgent shone;
Who spread the praise of God afar,
In song immortal as in war:
His chief delight to con and scan
The most pathetic lays of man.
Thus, rurally, he spent the while,
Till years brought round mechanic toil,
When he did change the scene in life—
The verdant fields, of beauties rife,
For the dull shop's unwholesome air,
Whence rings the sound of endless care.
In solitude, were pass'd away,
Upon the purple-blossom'd heath,
Or the green shady wood beneath,
Close tracing, through the sacred page,
The bard who felt despotic rage;
But who, ere long, on Judah's throne,
Establish'd sure, effulgent shone;
Who spread the praise of God afar,
In song immortal as in war:
His chief delight to con and scan
The most pathetic lays of man.
Thus, rurally, he spent the while,
Till years brought round mechanic toil,
When he did change the scene in life—
The verdant fields, of beauties rife,
261
Whence rings the sound of endless care.
O well-a-day! his freedom's fled,
A drear routine his life is led,
Ungracious to the poet's mind—
From nature's visage sweet confined,
Doom'd there to dwell from her apart,
And ply the tiresome tool of art;
Yet, even here, the whole day long,
His fancy treads the fields of song;
And much he ponders on, and reads
Of art, or nature's grandest deeds;
Nor slips occasion, place, or time,
To spin the golden thread of rhyme:
As war or love suggests the theme,
He treats the muse aye with esteem.
He thinks, perchance, the day may come
His lays may strike the ear of some
Who yet may lend the patron's hand,
And make him known throughout the land;
This thought flows from no venal views,
But for the honour of the muse,
For still he vows he'll ne'er forego
To follow her or high or low.
A drear routine his life is led,
Ungracious to the poet's mind—
From nature's visage sweet confined,
Doom'd there to dwell from her apart,
And ply the tiresome tool of art;
Yet, even here, the whole day long,
His fancy treads the fields of song;
And much he ponders on, and reads
Of art, or nature's grandest deeds;
Nor slips occasion, place, or time,
To spin the golden thread of rhyme:
As war or love suggests the theme,
He treats the muse aye with esteem.
He thinks, perchance, the day may come
His lays may strike the ear of some
Who yet may lend the patron's hand,
And make him known throughout the land;
This thought flows from no venal views,
But for the honour of the muse,
For still he vows he'll ne'er forego
To follow her or high or low.
Thus have we sketch'd his early days,
To him a wild ungracious maze;
Yet, hopeful of what may ensue,
He casts an antecedent view,
Haply, his coming lot to eye
In thy blank map—futurity:
Yet doth his search unfruitful find,
He only knows what lies behind,
Where time, the tyrant, sweeps the ground,
And swift apace all's ruin found.
So well doth time and fate agree,
They've brought his age to twenty-three;
What adverse or propitious follows,
Est nullus sed scit Deus solus.
To him a wild ungracious maze;
Yet, hopeful of what may ensue,
He casts an antecedent view,
Haply, his coming lot to eye
In thy blank map—futurity:
Yet doth his search unfruitful find,
He only knows what lies behind,
Where time, the tyrant, sweeps the ground,
And swift apace all's ruin found.
So well doth time and fate agree,
They've brought his age to twenty-three;
What adverse or propitious follows,
Est nullus sed scit Deus solus.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |