Later Poems of Alexander Anderson "Surfaceman": Edited with a Biographical Sketch, by Alexander Brown: A New Edition |
IN SELKIRK. |
Later Poems of Alexander Anderson | ||
IN SELKIRK.
I walked for an hour in Selkirk,
In the folds of a noonday dream;
And through it there ran for music
The murmur of Yarrow stream.
In the folds of a noonday dream;
And through it there ran for music
The murmur of Yarrow stream.
Murmur of Yarrow and Ettrick,
With their song and their old-world deed;
And then like a far-off organ
The monotone of the Tweed.
With their song and their old-world deed;
And then like a far-off organ
The monotone of the Tweed.
Then up through my dreaming rose visions,
And about me their spell was cast;
Till the present vanished around me,
And I was deep in the past.
And about me their spell was cast;
Till the present vanished around me,
And I was deep in the past.
I saw one stalwart figure,
With the stoop of one at the plough;
The tan of the winds of Ayrshire
Deep upon cheek and brow.
With the stoop of one at the plough;
The tan of the winds of Ayrshire
Deep upon cheek and brow.
There was light on his swarthy forehead,
As he strode in thought along;
For his sensitive lips were moving
With the tremulous throbbing of song.
As he strode in thought along;
For his sensitive lips were moving
With the tremulous throbbing of song.
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And just an arm's length from me,
Hot with the winds and dark,
I saw, but just for a moment,
The figure of Mungo Park.
Hot with the winds and dark,
I saw, but just for a moment,
The figure of Mungo Park.
One walked for a little beside me,
With a shepherd's crook in his hand;
On his lips were snatches of music
He had heard in fairyland.
With a shepherd's crook in his hand;
On his lips were snatches of music
He had heard in fairyland.
Then right in front came onward,
Halting a little and lame;
The Merlin of the Border
With the magic none may claim.
Halting a little and lame;
The Merlin of the Border
With the magic none may claim.
The last of the mighty minstrels
That will ever be born to sing;
His cheek wore a touch of the colour
Which the winds of Ettrick bring.
That will ever be born to sing;
His cheek wore a touch of the colour
Which the winds of Ettrick bring.
I brushed his elbow in passing,
And my heart beat high at the thought
That I, in the streets of Selkirk,
Had touched Sir Walter Scott.
And my heart beat high at the thought
That I, in the streets of Selkirk,
Had touched Sir Walter Scott.
A change came over my vision;
And from out the past and its might,
Like the wind that sweeps the moorland,
When not a star is in sight,
And from out the past and its might,
Like the wind that sweeps the moorland,
When not a star is in sight,
Came upward an infinite sorrow
That human things will yield;
And through it there ran the wailing
For the dead on Flodden Field.
That human things will yield;
And through it there ran the wailing
For the dead on Flodden Field.
Mothers hushing their children
And ever weeping between;
And the long, deep sigh of maidens
Whose lovers would never be seen.
And ever weeping between;
And the long, deep sigh of maidens
Whose lovers would never be seen.
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I saw old men at the harvest,
Bending over the sheaf;
Their long, thin fingers shaking,
And gray hairs hiding their grief.
Bending over the sheaf;
Their long, thin fingers shaking,
And gray hairs hiding their grief.
But ever behind this picture,
One firm-set, terrible ring
Of faces and red-tipped lances
Around a fallen king.
One firm-set, terrible ring
Of faces and red-tipped lances
Around a fallen king.
All this was born of the murmur
Of Yarrow and Ettrick stream,
As I walked for an hour in Selkirk
In the folds of a noonday dream.
Of Yarrow and Ettrick stream,
As I walked for an hour in Selkirk
In the folds of a noonday dream.
Later Poems of Alexander Anderson | ||