Poems By John Moultrie. New ed |
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SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. |
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123
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS.
CANTO I.
I
'Tis Sunday morn!—a summer Sunday morn!—And should be full of sunshine, for July,
Queen of the circling months, to-day is born;
Yet o'er yon mountain peaks, which pierce the sky,
Dark louring clouds in densest masses lie,
Which though, all night, the rain in torrents pour'd,
Seem yet unspent, and to the inquiring eye
A dark presage of coming storms afford—
Signs to wayfaring wight most hateful and abhorr'd!
II
But not, though skies should lour or tempests rage,To-day must Brodick's sturdy mountaineer
Grudge through the grimmest moors stout pilgrimage;
For 'tis that single Sunday in the year,
When crowds together flock, from far and near,
Around the holy board to take their seat;
And 'twere a shameless thing to loiter here,
While friends and brethren, flocks and pastors meet
In Kirk of far Lamlash, to bless that bread and eat.
III
Unhappy he whom sickness now detainsClose pent in bed, or crouching o'er his fire,
124
And he whose aged limbs no more aspire
To thrid the mountain moors and never tire;
And she, whom nursery or domestic cares
Forbid to satisfy her heart's desire,
By mingling, with the Kirk's, her vows and prayers.—
Ah!—well-a-day for them!—a dismal lot is theirs!
IV
No more for them, till full twelve months are o'er,With heavenly food that table shall be spread;
For them the cup divine be fill'd no more,
Nor blest, nor broken the mysterious bread,
E'en though they lay upon their dying bed.
So Calvinistic rigour hath decreed;
Withholding that by which the soul is fed
From saintly sufferers in their utmost need;—
Ah! better far her sons doth our dear Mother feed!
V
Solemn and sweet thy monthly feasts, I ween,Church of our fathers; yet even they too few;
Better, by far, and wiser had it been,
Thy children's faith each Sunday to renew,
And with fresh strength their fainting souls endue;
So best the ancient Apostolic rites
Maintaining still in form and order due;
Yet dear thy call which to that board invites,
Which all pure hearts with all, and all in One, unites!
VI
Yea, sweet thy monthly feasts!—yet scarce than theseLess sweet the board in sick man's chamber spread,
Where weeping friends and children on their knees
Are meekly gather'd round the dying bed;
And tears, almost into the chalice shed,
125
While each and all the mystic wine and bread
From pastoral hands, in pious faith, receive,
Nor now, like hopeless men, for death's new victim grieve.
VII
No comforts, such as these, O Scotland, cheerThy saints in life's last moments;—yet not this
Speak we in scorn;—the dying mountaineer
By custom school'd, and strong in hope of bliss,
May ne'er, perchance, the last dear ritual miss,
Whereby the expiring Southron well sustains
His parting soul;—nor thou account amiss
The rites which soften death in English plains,
As though they proved us bound even now in Popish chains.
VIII
Such thoughts yon stout pedestrian's breast have cross'd,Who climbs, with steady pace and steadfast will,
That mountain path, and tow'rd the peaks, half lost
In eddying clouds, looks back, admiring still;
For vaster far seems each majestic hill
Through the dense veil of mist which sweeps away
Distinctness from its outline, and each rill,
Swoln to a foaming cataract to-day,
Makes music, loud and wild, to cheer him on his way.
IX
A wanderer he from England's midland vales,Wooing sweet health in this fair wilderness,
Where, shunning the soft breath of southern gales,
Which him with suffocation sore oppress,
He finds secure relief from long distress;
And now a glad and mirthful man is he,
And doth the waves and breezy mountains bless
That they from that dire plague have set him free,
'Neath which, since early youth, he groan'd perpetually.
126
X
O thou unhappy wight, whoe'er thou art,Whom the bright skies and balmy gales torment
With toil of lungs and weariness of heart,
Till thou, almost with lack of breath o'erspent
To barter life for ease wouldst be content—
Throw physic to the dogs;—not opium's power,
Nor the inhaled stramonium's reeky scent,
Nor subtlest ether will, for one brief hour,
Soothe the convulsive gasps which strength and life devour.
XI
Nor to the lancet bare thy passive arm,Nor to the blister ope thy labouring breast;
Vain all their spells the dire disease to charm,
Or scare the incumbent vampyre from thy chest;
Nor yet will pill, persuasive to digest,
Nor snuff prepared by skill of Lundy Foot,
Nor ipecacuanha give thee rest,
(Expectorative drug)—nor rhubarb's root
Provoking nausea dire, and cholic pangs to boot.
XII
Long were the labour, in melodious verse,The nostrums strange prescribed by quack and crone,
(Nauseous alike, and poisonous) to rehearse!
Abominable things—untried—unknown!
One remedy there is, and one alone;—
Come, breathe the mountain breezes pure and free,
Climb once a week old Goatfell's craggy cone,
Bathe once a day in Brodick's crystal sea,—
Full soon, from spells like these, the baffled fiend will flee.
XIII
Haply some grim Hippocrates hath starvedThy craving stomach with prescription drear,
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For thee, nor e'en permitting thee to cheer
Thy drooping spirits with the smallest beer—
(Thee, little to abstemious rules inclined;)
Come then—spare diet may be spared thee here,
Nor need'st thou dread on dainties to have dined,
If dainties thou shalt chance in this lean isle to find.
XIV
But where is he, our lone wayfaring wight,Whom late we left upon the mountain side?
Through the wild moors he plods from height to height,
Surveying still the landscape far and wide;
Though little there, to-day, can be descried,
So thick and dark the clouds around him lour;
Yet will he dare, all cloakless, to abide
The utmost rage of driving wind and shower,
So strong and proud he feels in health's recover'd power.
XV
And sorely would his soul be grieved, I ween,To miss that solemn spectacle to-day;
To him a new, though not unheard of scene;
Used as he is in English forms to pray,
And England's rule episcopal obey;—
A presbyter himself, as from the dress
Clerkly and grave, which doth his limbs array,
And eke from his demeanour you may guess,
Albeit, in this strict land, convict of carelessness.
XVI
For he, untaught in puritanic school,And little heedful of the forms that bind
The subjects grave of presbyterian rule,
Walks, as his fancy leads him, unconfined
By pedant laws in body as in mind;
Nor deems it unbecoming pastoral state
128
Or e'en with timely mirth to recreate
His spirits, sunk sometimes by care's oppressive weight.
XVII
Ah! reckless man, and all unfit to bearThe scrutiny of keen domestic eyes!
Now whistling, as he walks, with absent air,
Now singing (if perchance an infant cries)
Wild nursery rhymes and heathenish lullabies;
Unconscious all the while what scandal thence
Among the simple mountaineers shall rise;—
Scandal most foul, and unforeseen offence,
Branding his Church and him with righteous vehemence!
XVIII
But worst of all—provoking direst wrath—His Southron scorn of Scottish Sabbath-day!
For, kirk-ward as he climbs the mountain path;
He, with his cane, full oft doth prostrate lay
The thistle-heads that grow beside the way;
And eke, descending once the gallery stair,
Was heard (as all the congregation say)
To hum aloud a Psalm's remeber'd air;—
Such crime, in Scottish kirk, could shameless Southron dare!
XIX
But now, midway on yonder steep ascentHalting awhile, he views with curious eyes
Groups from each quarter of the firmament
Converging, numberless as summer flies—
In cart, in car, of every shape and size,
Afoot—on horseback;—grandames old and grey,
In sober mutch and cloak of tartan dyes,
By sons or grandsons in their best array,
In vehicles close-pack'd, help'd forward on their way.
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XX
And there are sturdy swains on bony jades,In low grave converse journeying side by side;
And there are comely youths and comelier maids,
The future bridegroom with his plighted bride;
Bare-headed she and bare-foot—the close plaid
Shielding her gentle bosom from the rain;
Her braided locks confined, in decent pride,
With virgin snood, which must unloosed remain
Till she, in wedlock's bonds, a holier name shall gain.
XXI
Graceful her garb, and passing well doth suitHer native mountains; yet, to Southron eye,
Unpleasing is the soil'd and shoeless foot,
Which through the mire its daily toil doth ply,
Heedless alike if it be wet or dry—
And haply swathed in rag's unseemly fold,
Telling dark tales that underneath doth lie
Afflictive corn, or blain produced by cold—
Most hateful to conceive—most hideous to behold!
XXII
Dear to the youthful poet's phantasyIs female foot, in dream or vision seen;
The well-turn'd ankle's shapely symmetry—
The skin's soft texture and its snowy sheen;
But adverse all to phantasy, I ween,
The sun-burnt limb by highland lassie shown—
Not plump, soft, white, but muscular and lean,
A ponderous mass of sinew, skin, and bone—
Broad—bulky—to rude shape, thro' long exposure, grown.
XXIII
O maidens, richly with all else endow'd,Healthy in mind and body, pure and free
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Which swathes the mountains where ye love to be,—
Hide but in shoes, what few unshod would see,
And ye by many a poet shall be sung
In worthier lays than e'er were penn'd by me,
A wedded bard, and now no longer young,
Who roam, with heart unscathed, your pastoral glens among.
XXIV
Strange, of a truth, that o'er these rocky waysWomen alone with naked feet should fare!
While the rough Gael his nether man arrays
In fleecy garb, nor ventures now to bare
His hardier skin to cutting mountain air;
Ah! why should he alone such luxury know,
When gentle maids, the fearless and the fair,
Barelegg'd o'er rugged peaks securely go,
Nor heed what hurts assail the unprotected toe?
XXV
But they perchance, in bareness of attire,With their own treeless mountains aptly vie,
And 'twere, in us, as idle to desire
In northern clime the cloudless southern sky,
As to expect, in Gaelic damselry,
The trimness of an English maiden's dress;
The hose of cotton woof and snowy dye—
The polish'd shoe, which closely doth compress
The small and delicate foot's minuter shapeliness.
XXVI
And who the pure simplicity shall blameOf Highland maiden, when in mountain stream
Knee-deep immersed, she bareth without shame
Her dainty limbs to the meridian beam,
Faultless in shape, and white as whitest cream,—
—First glancing round lest stranger eyes be near,
131
Gazing on her)—then swift as mountain deer
Plungeth into the burn, and crosseth without fear?
XXVII
Or who, with frown censorious, would impeachThe mysteries grave and deep of laundress skill,
When the white linen with bare feet they bleach,
In tub which they with purest water fill
From the clear depths of neighbouring tarn or rill,
Trampling the soaking mass with maiden mirth,
And thus their daily task performing still;
Fashion most strange to maids of English birth—
The daintiest race and eke the proudest upon Earth!
XXVIII
Blessings on both, the Saxon and the Gael!The maid of highland hut and English cot!
The glory of the glen and of the vale!
To each her separate charms let Truth allot;
For praise is blame when it exalteth not,
Save by disparagement of others good;
And let the poet's lay be soon forgot,
Who, in sarcastic or contemptuous mood,
Shall mar the equal fame of British womanhood.
XXIX
But we, methinks, have wander'd all too longFrom the grave tenour of our purposed theme;
Back from thy flights discursive, O my song,
To where our wanderer, lost in thoughtful dream,
Through the bleak moor, across the mountain stream,
Up to the topmost point hath wound his way,
Which to retreat before him long did seem;
And now discerns, far off, Lamlash's bay,
And hears its breakers roar, and sees their glittering spray.
132
XXX
Not loth is he to mark his journey's end,Bedew'd with Scottish mist for many a mile;
And soon, with quicken'd footstep, doth descend
The downward slope, contemplating meanwhile
The pyramid abrupt of Holy Isle
Cresting the narrow strait which girds the shore,
And now, thro' flooded creek, and cove, and kyle,
Doth, in full tide, its swelling surges pour,
And sweep the ribb'd sea sand with thundering rush and roar.
XXXI
Not tame the view to eyes long used to gazeOn England's level meads and hedgerows green,
And streams meandering through their sluggish maze,
And waving woods, whose foliage dark between
Tall spires up-pointing to the skies are seen,
And stately mansions their proud summits rear
O'er sunny slopes;—yet doth this sea-girt scene
Meagre and mean and spiritless appear
To favour'd swains who dwell in Brodick's mountain sphere.
XXXII
For there, begirt by Nature's noblest forms,Doth Caledonia's genius proudly dwell
In the mid region of the winds and storms,
Enthroned on cloudy peak and pinnacle;
While, far below, the ocean-surges swell,
Laving a shore with spreading woods o'ergrown;
For Art hath there bestow'd her labour well,
And o'er the glens a leafy verdure thrown,
While here, in barren state, doth Nature reign alone.—
XXXIII
—In barren state, nor that with grandeur gracedOf form or outline;—upward from the sea
Slopes the bare coast, bleak, featureless, and waste,
A mountain tract—yet void of majesty;
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In Scottish region, with unpleasant change
Succeeding to the beauty, bold and free,
Of lake, and rocky glen, and mountain range,
Of aspect ever new, and form abrupt and strange.
XXXIV
Nor yet more cheerful, to an English eye,The long, straight village, which no rustic taste
Hath toil'd, with patient skill, to beautify;
Where never yet the cot's outside was graced
By woodbine, with dark ivy interlaced,
Nor rose nor lily did the air perfume;
Nor e'er was porch by clematis embraced,
Nor e'er did jasmine round the windows bloom,
And from its silver cups shed fragrance thro' the room.
XXXV
Strange seems it that, in region far renown'dFor horticultural skill, such lack should be
Of decoration, rife on English ground,
E'en in the mean abodes of penury;
Where little else, save cleanliness, we see
That tells of comfort;—and not small amends
Yields it for lack of mountain majesty,
That neatness there on poverty attends,
And industry and taste together dwell like friends.
XXXVI
But lovelier yet than ivy-mantled cot,Or garden musical with hum of bees,
The grey Church tower on green sequester'd spot,
Half hidden by its dark embowering trees,
With merry bells that fill the evening breeze
With music best befitting English vales;—
O! might such temples grace such glens as these!
O! might such music on these mountain gales
Repeat to Highland hearts their sweet and solemn tales!
134
XXXVII
But vain the wish! for here, on hill, in glen,Religion wears her simplest, rudest dress,
Spurning each fond device of carnal men
To clothe her in external gracefulness:
And well doth Scottish architect impress
On stone and morter the severest guise
Of the old Orthodox unloveliness,
Offending vain Episcoplian eyes
With kirks of hideous shape, proportion, hue, and size.
XXXVIII
Scarce more perversely doth Wesleyan pile,Such as in English village we behold,
With ostentatious ugliness defile
The beauty of the land, in contrast bold
Rearing its front near church of Gothic mould,
As though in scorn of what fond hearts revere—
The grace and grandeur of the days of old—
The shrines by ancient piety held dear,
Where saintliest knees have knelt in faith and love sincere.
XXXIX
And, for the music of the belfry chime,One sullen bell in Scottish kirk doth hang,
The call to prayer, at stated service time,
Reverberating hoarse with iron clang:
But never here the mountain echoes rang
With wedding peal, whose merry silver sound,
In sweeter notes than ever Syren sang,
Told its fond tale of bliss and love profound,
Which cavern, rock and hill repeated round and round.
XL
Nor ever here on ear expectant brokeThe knell which told a neighbour's soul had fled,
135
Brief message to the living from the dead;
Bidding them think how swift life's current sped,
How near the summons to the judgment throne,
How short the passage to the wormy bed,
How none could know when that might be their own—
How death's sharp sting is heal'd by Christian faith alone.
XLI
Such customs, long with Popish rites combined,Doth Scotland's rigorous kirk hold Popish still,—
Abominations once, even here, enshrined,
As, of old time, in heathen grove and hill,
The principalities and powers of Ill;
And, tho' they speak to nature's heart of heart,
And oft, with holiest glow, men's spirits fill,
She from her children keeps them far apart,
As hellish snares devised by Rome's malignant art.
XLII
Even be it so !—from Scotland's simple shrinesStill let her simpler psalms to Heaven ascend,
While the wind, whistling thro' the mountain pines,
Doth to the strain accordant music lend,
With which their thundering voices cataracts blend;
But where, on English plains, cathedral spire
Lifts its tall height, let organ-peal attend
With notes symphonious the full chaunting choir,
Whose anthems breathe to heaven the heavenly soul's desire.
XLIII
And be the graceful garniture retain'dOf cunning workmanship in stone and wood,
And fair large window, gothic-shaped and stain'd
With richest dyes, thro' which, in glareless flood,
Streams the dim light;—and still let scarf and hood,
And surplice white, and academic gown
136
Well-train'd and arm'd to beat proud error down,
And spread religion's reign and learning's fair renown.
XLIV
Time was when Church with Kirk,—Geneva cloakWith robe and mitre, in fierce wrath have striven,
And love's pure law, with mutual rancour, broke,
Till, in the name and for the sake of Heaven,
The holiest bonds of Earth were rent and riven;
But time and wiser thoughts have quell'd that fray;
Let each by turns forgiving and forgiven,
And each forbearing each, await the day,
When truth, more clearly seen, shall drive debate away.
XLV
Each needs her strength, in this distemper'd age,For other conflicts:—around either wait
The sceptic's scoff, the atheist's impious rage,
The hot sectarian's indissembled hate,
The cold half-friendship of the wavering State,
The brawling demagogue's coarse, ribald yell,
The lust of plunder with fierce hope elate;
Sad is their doom, in Kedar's tents to dwell,
'Midst enemies to peace who 'gainst all good rebel!
XLVI
Here pause we,—for the swiftly gathering crowdThro' the church doors are thronging, and the rain,
From the dark bosom of yon thunder-cloud,
In big round drops falls audibly amain;
Safe shelter found, our wayfarer is fain,
As best he may, his garments drench'd to dry;
There let him rest, observing, till again
Our song begin, with grave, attentive eye,
Whate'er, to him, new sights to-day he may espy.
137
CANTO II.
I
Sweet! to the wanderer's heart, in foreign land,Whate'er reminds him of that spot of earth
Where the tall trees which shade his dwelling stand—
The evening light which glimmers round his hearth—
The chamber which beheld his children's birth—
The Church, within whose walls he first became
Acknowledged heir of Heaven's uncourted worth—
The altar where his bride, with maiden shame,
Pledged herself his till death, in body, soul, and name.
II
Sweet, and yet sorrowful, each sight and soundTelling his heart of home's far distant bliss,
E'en as the ranz des vaches, on foreign ground,
O'erwhelms the martial spirit of the Swiss,
In thought restoring his wife's farewell kiss,
His children's voices, and his mountain cot;
Till waking from his dream, he starts to miss
Those cherish'd joys, and loathes his soldier lot,
Fame—honour—fortune—hope—in that fond grief forgot!
III
Not alien thou, O Scotland, to the heartOf England, but long since, by many a tie
Of law, religion, language, custom, art
And mutual service done in days gone by,
—Yea, by remembrance of past enmity,
Each link'd to each;—for still the noblest foe
Becomes the truest friend and best ally
When discord's bitter blasts have ceased to blow,
And each the other's worth doth, thro' long conflict, know.
138
IV
A noble pair are ye, allied no lessBy contrast than resemblance;—each doth wear
A diverse garb of outward loveliness;—
Thou, with thy giant lakes and mountains bare,
Where the storms bellow and the lightnings glare,
Art robed in grandeur,—while her softer grace
Of vale, and verdant wood, and pasture fair,
Smiles on thy rude sublimity of face,
E'en like a gentle bride in a brave man's embrace.
V
And yet, though dear to wandering Southron's breast,And, e'en when most unlike, resembling still
The pleasant land which he must needs love best,
That land thou art not, nor its place canst fill
So, in his heart, that it shall cease to thrill
With fond home-thoughts;—but oft as he hath found
In the wild region of the lake and hill,
Aught which appears the growth of English ground,
How doth its every pulse with new-born pleasure bound!
VI
Sweet 'twas to him, amidst Edina's fanes,That Gothic pile episcopal to find,
Where the pure form of English worship reigns,
In graceful pomp and circumstance enshrined;
And there, once more, the willing heart unbind,
To alien rites, for many a recent week,
Amidst the mountains and wild glens confined,—
And hear the English pastor's accent meek,
The music, long unheard, of forms liturgic speak!
VII
Sweet 'twas to note the reverential airOf each new worshipper who bent the knee,
139
While the deep organ, in accordant key,
Sent forth a low, melodious symphony,
Prelusive to the swell of choral hymn,—
And o'er the soul a hush'd solemnity,
Stealing from pillar'd arch and window dim,
Raised it to Heaven, as seem'd, on wings of seraphim.
VIII
O say not this is superstition all—This solemn awe from solemn places caught—
This reverence grave which doth man's heart enthrall—
This tuning of the soul to pious thought;—
Albeit, perchance, by shrewd contrivance wrought
Through architectural grace and music's power.
Deem not that lesson all unwisely taught,
Which lifts the enfranchised spirit, for an hour,
Above those cares of earth, which its best life devour.
IX
Is it a guilty weakness to have feltA present spirit in the house of God?
To love the shrine where saintly knees have knelt—
The marble floor which saintly feet have trod?—
To press, with softer tread, the churchyard sod,
Beneath whose grassy verdure saints repose
Till the last trump shall wake the kneaded clod,
And once again the shrouded eyes unclose,
To crown with heavenly bliss life's long-forgotten woes?
X
Would not the soul which felt no reverent aweIn Earth's most holy places, still be cold,
E'en if reveal'd, Heaven's blissful depths it saw,
Throng'd with the spirits of just men of old;
And still unmoved, and confidently bold,
Gaze with composure on the dreadful throne
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And the dread secrets of all hearts make known,
And all his foes condemn, and his redeem'd ones own?
XI
And yet not so,—for many a pious heartHath come to worship in yon kirk to-day,
And of that holy feast receive its part,
And bear rich blessing to its home away,
Which yet no decent reverence deigns to pay
To aught which here the mental eye may trace
Sacred or solemn;—as they will or may,
The groups drop in—no outward sign of grace—
But each, with hat undoff'd, squats down upon his place.
XII
Ah! well-a-day!—but this seems wondrous strange!Is this a mart where gossips sell and buy?—
A room for lectures, or a stock exchange?—
Is that, which seems a pulpit to the eye,
A desk where auctioneers their labour ply?
Nay—ill the day such rash conjectures suit;—
Ask not, O Southron gazer, whence or why
The Northern vine bears such unshapely fruit;—
'Tis wholesome food, though coarse;—the tree is sound at root.
XIII
Now cast thine eyes attentively around;—The Temple and its worshippers survey;—
Rude is the first as may on Earth be found;
No vain adornments its white walls array,
—Carving of oak, or stonework old and gray,—
Nor monumental slab, nor sculptured tomb,
Where their huge length recumbent warriors lay,—
Nor painted glass sheds round cathedral gloom,
Nor aught of outward pomp may find permitted room.
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XIV
Oblong the shape;—an area cramm'd with pews,Close, narrow, low, which, at a glance, you see
Are such as sturdy Presbyterians use,
Who never, e'en in worship, bend the knee.
Back'd by the western wall, which fronts the sea,
Frowns the grim pulpit, cushionless and bare
Of all vain gauds of Popish frippery,—
Unlined the sides, uncarpeted the stair,—
Wore never hermit's cell a less luxurious air.
XV
So 'tis most fitting:—so shall issue thence,In strains accordant both to place and theme,
The deep-toned flood of Gaelic eloquence,
Clear, strong, and rapid, like a mountain stream;
Dispersing, in its rush, sin's sensual dream.
Ah how unlike the soft luxurious shrine,
Which fashion's sickly brood sublimest deem!
Where, throned in velvet state, the smug divine
Doth his thin, filmy woof of polish'd periods twine.
XVI
Fronting the pulpit, with capacious span,Yawns a broad arch, through which the wandering eye
A separate portion of the kirk may scan;
The floor close-pew'd, o'er which extends on high,
From side to side, a spacious gallery
Assign'd to worshippers of higher class,
Where fluttering scarf and gorgeous shawl you spy,
Mix'd with such male attire as doth surpass
Aught that below appears in all that motley mass.
XVII
Vacant as yet the seats, for scarce the chimeOf neighbouring clock the hour of twelve hath told;
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Of worship; but below you may behold,
Assembling slowly, forms of coarser mould;
The lowly dwellers in the moor and glen;—
Shepherds and hinds, and cottars young and old,
And sailors rough, and simple fishermen,
Whom fitly to describe o'ertasks poetic pen.
XVIII
Silent they sit, expectant all and each,When he who leads their worship shall appear;
No time for idle thought or idler speech,
Or nod of mutual recognition here:
No sound, save that of slamming doors, you hear,
As the new comers, one by one, stalk in,
And take their seats with grave and sturdy cheer—
None breathing, till the service shall begin,
A whisper which could drown the dropping of a pin.
XIX
And some, the lingering moments to beguile,On Scripture page with gaze abstracted pore,
Or Psalter turn'd to rhyme in homeliest style,
Conning each well-known metre o'er and o'er.
Ah! well I wot would David's heart be sore,
Could he, return'd to Earth, the wrong behold
Done to the strains divine he sung of yore,
By British bards, in version new and old,
So marr'd with phrase uncouth, and rhyme of rugged mould.
XX
But neither those twin jinglers of harsh wire,Sternhold and Hopkins, nor that daintier pair,
Brady and Tate, have stripp'd the Hebrew lyre
Of poesy and music quite so bare
(If doggrel we with doggrel may compare)
As Scottish bards, whom yet the kirks decree,
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Hath throned in David's seat, that they may be
Sole lords throughout the land of song and psalmody.
XXI
Ah! why forbid the tuneful soul to soarHeavenward, unless on inspiration's wings?
Why cramp its flight with chains of Jewish lore?
Why blame the music of those later strings,
To which the Church her song majestic sings,
Attuned to themes of yet diviner strain
Than bless'd the ear of prophets or of kings,
Before the Son of Man, with toil and pain,
Had freed our ransom'd race from Hell's oppressive chain?
XXII
By seer and psalmist, darkly at the best,Messiah's face, as in a glass, was seen;
Dimly, by them, in shadowy lines exprest—
The incarnate glory of its god-like mien
Veil'd from our gaze by clouds that float between;
Yet not unrecognized by saintly eye,
Whether of hind unletter'd, poor and mean,
Or studious scholar, skilful to descry
Whate'er of old was taught in type and prophecy.
XXIII
But who shall thus discern, of modern men,The form reveal'd to Hebrew seer sublime,
When marr'd and mangled by the reckless pen
Of versifier rude, with measured chime
Twisting the strain prophetic into rhyme,
In parish churches to be shriek'd, not sung,
By untaught throats that murder tune and time,
In nasal drone and broad provincial tongue,
With twang of viols harsh to perfect discord strung?
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XXIV
But Scotland's kirk this last foul murder yetHath ne'er committed her strict walls within;
But loathes the sound of flute and clarionet,
Hautboy, and hoarse bassoon and violin,
And gruff bass viol with commingled din
Deafening the ear;—their own harmonious notes
Her children raise to heaven, and deem it sin
To mar the natural music of their throats
With instrumental clang, on which Hell's monarch dotes.
XXV
And deep and sweet and solemn is the swellOf congregated voices, when they raise
The simple strains which Scotland loves so well,
Attuned to words, tho' rude, of prayer and praise;
Upborne by which the soaring spirit strays
Through worlds beyond the bounds of space and time;—
Oh! could some bard but lend accordant lays
To notes so sweet and utterance so sublime,
Methinks e'en Knox's shade might pardon such a crime.
XXVI
Bolder herein have Wesley's flocks been found,Though far unlike, in all things else, they be
The Calvinistic growth of Scottish ground,—
Weak, stunted off-shoots of a goodly tree:
Yet they, with venturous daring, have set free
Both verse and music from those irksome chains
Which cramp the wing of statelier psalmody;
Recalling banish'd song from sin's domains
To praise redeeming love in blithe trochaic strains.
XXVII
But worthier far to greet angelic earsThe hymns in Rome's apostate temples sung
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Hymns of past ages, when the church was young!
Ah! why still shrouded in a foreign tongue?
Or why, since purer faith's reviving day,
Hath none been found, Britannia's sons among,
To cheer her churches with an equal lay?—
Arise some bard, and wipe the foul reproach away!
XXVIII
And yet, (so quickly is the gentle heartBy simplest things to keen emotion stirr'd)
E'en this rude mockery of poetic art
May be to loftiest minstrelsy preferred
By those who first, from lips maternal, heard
Its rugged rhymes, in tenderest accents, sung;—
Lo! where intently scanning line and word,
Yon matron sits, a radiant group among
Of children, all her own—yet she both fair and young.
XXIX
Silent she sits, and yet her lips are moving,In measured cadence, to the psalm she sings
To her own heart, whose thoughts meanwhile are roving
Through worlds unseen on faith's ethereal wings;
Nought marks she now of sublunary things,—
The congregating crowd—the rustic fane—
The infant group around her knees that clings;
No sense hath she of mortal joy or pain;—
O! might she thus dream on, nor ever wake again!
XXX
Yet is she rich in this world's purest joy;Heaven hath, with liberal bounty, blest her lot;
Witness each bright-eyed girl and blooming boy—
Witness their sire, whose neat sequester'd cot
Her smile makes glad;—in truth she needeth not
Aught more of earthly bliss than God hath given;
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To lay up treasure, costlier far, in Heaven,
And prize o'er Earth's best joys the peace of sin forgiven.
XXXI
But see! the pastor of the flock appears,—A man of rosy cheek and cheerful eye,
His age now verging close on fifty years,
Which, you may deem, have smoothly glided by;
For not a vestige on his brow you spy
Of over-anxious care, or thought too deep:
Sound doctrine doth he preach, but passing dry,—
Which as he drones, o'er hearers' sense doth creep
Such calm that some 'gin nod, and some have fallen asleep.
XXXII
His hour, and with the hour his sermon done,From dreamy doze at once the slumberers start,
And loudly all the final psalm intone,
Which and the service closed, the larger part
Forsake the church, while those of contrite heart
Or strict profession, still their seats retain.
—Our wanderer with the former shall depart,
Deeming it now intrusion rash and vain,
Amidst the bidden guests, unbidden, to remain.
XXXIII
Meanwhile, without the walls, a countless crowdYon shelter'd pulpit, misnamed tent, surround,
Where with alternate rhetoric, long and loud,
Saxon and Gael successive texts expound;
And ever and anon the solemn sound
Of psalms, in Gaelic and in Saxon tongue,
Doth from the mountains and huge rocks rebound,
As, by a sea of voices old and young,
A chorus like the roar of ocean-waves is sung.
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XXXIV
A solemn sound!—a sweet and solemn sight!—The psalm—the choir—the temple vast and fair
In which all voices with all hearts unite,—
Its floor the turf—its roof the boundless air—
Its altar Man's deep heart—its offering prayer,
Attuned to melody of sacred song;—
In truth, devotion lacks not utterance there,
But breathes to Heaven, in accents clear and strong.
Strains scarce unfit to sound angelic choirs among.
XXXV
Thus, between mingled acts of prayer and praise,The day wears on, till lengthen'd shadows fall,
And still fresh crowds their solemn chorus raise,
And still fresh preachers, with repeated call,
Reprove, rebuke, exhort them, one and all;
And still new hearers, as the old retire,
Fill up of space each vacant interval;
Sooner, it seems, the daylight shall expire
Than psalm and sermon cease—than flesh or spirit tire.
XXXVI
'Tis good for Southron wight to have been here,—Good to have felt the spirit of the place,
And witness'd the devotion, deep, sincere,
Which fires this sturdy Presbyterian race;
Nor deems he that henceforth shall aught efface
Remembrance of their worship from his mind:
Yet, as he turns, his footsteps to retrace,
Is this, thinks he, the holy rite design'd,
True Christian hearts in one with heavenly love to bind?
XXXVII
This countless crowd—this myriad-throated roarOf voices, echoed back from rock and hill,—
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A heart self judged—a meek and chasten'd will?
A conscience troubled by its load of ill?
This festival of feeling, wild and high,
Ah!—how unlike that upper chamber still!—
That hush of hearts, which felt the hour draw nigh,
When on the atoning cross the Son of Man must die!
XXXVIII
Far better with that hallow'd feast agreeThe church embosom'd deep in peaceful vale,—
The silent groups which humbly bow the knee,
In suppliant guise, before the altar rail,—
The lowly voice of pastor meek and pale,
Who to his hungering flock doth there impart
The living bread from heaven which cannot fail—
The deep-drawn sighs, which ease the contrite heart,
The penitential tears, which there unbidden start.
XXXIX
So deems our wanderer, and with thoughtful browWends homeward through the wind and pelting rain,
Which, (through brief rest its strength recover'd now)
From masses of black cloud descends again;
Gladly shall he his mountain cot regain,
Where wife and children his return desire;
Nor let him deem this Sunday spent in vain,
When, cheer'd by food and clothed in dry attire,
He tells what he has seen by summer evening fire.
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