 | The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir |  |
STANZAS. WHEN THOU AT EVENTIDE ART ROAMING.
This little poem is curious from a circumstance connected with it. Towards the end of 1817, the Rev. Dr M— gave a copy of the MS. to Mr Constable, and it was inserted in his magazine for November, without mark or signature. In 1819, Emmeline, the posthumous work of Mrs Brunton, appeared, with a biographical memoir by the Professor, and an appendix of four small poems, the last of which was this identical one, accompanied with a very flattering notice. On explanation, it appeared that a written copy was found in the work-box, which the authoress of Self-Control had been using on the day previous to her fatal illness; and no doubt of its being hers was entertained, on account of her not being in the habit of making copies. “It was so unusual with her to transcribe,” says the Doctor in a letter now before me, “that this is nearly the only instance. I never hesitated, therefore, to consider it as hers, and to view it as a legacy intended for myself. In the latter light, I flatter myself I may regard it still; though I, of course, restore to its proper owner the merit of the composition.”
I am only sorry that circumstances occurred to break this illusion; but it was broken.
I
When thou at eventide art roamingAlong the elm-o'ershadow'd walk,
Where fast the eddying stream is foaming,
And falling down—a cataract,
'Twas there with thee I wont to talk;
Think thou upon the days gone by,
And heave a sigh.
II
When sails the moon above the mountains,And cloudless skies are purely blue,
And sparkle in her light the fountains,
And darker frowns the lonely yew,
Then be thou melancholy too,
While pausing on the hours I proved
With thee, beloved.
III
When wakes the dawn upon thy dwelling,And lingering shadows disappear,
As soft the woodland songs are swelling
A choral anthem on thine ear,
Muse—for that hour to thought is dear,
And then its flight remembrance wings
To by-past things.
IV
To me, through every season, dearest;In every scene, by day, by night,
Thou, present to my mind, appearest
A quenchless star, for ever bright;
My solitary, sole delight;
Where'er I am, by shore—at sea—
I think of thee!
| The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir | |