 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
TO BURNS'S ‘HIGHLAND MARY.’
O loved by him whom Scotland loves,
Long loved, and honoured duly
By all who love the bard who sang
So sweetly and so truly!
In cultured dales his song prevails;
Thrills o'er the eagle's aëry—
Has any caught that strain, nor sighed
For Burns's ‘Highland Mary’?
Long loved, and honoured duly
By all who love the bard who sang
So sweetly and so truly!
In cultured dales his song prevails;
Thrills o'er the eagle's aëry—
Has any caught that strain, nor sighed
For Burns's ‘Highland Mary’?
I wandered on from hill to hill,
I feared nor wind nor weather,
For Burns beside me trode the moor,
Beside me pressed the heather.
I read his verse: his life—alas!
O'er that dark shades extended:—
With thee at last, and him in thee,
My thoughts their wanderings ended.
I feared nor wind nor weather,
For Burns beside me trode the moor,
Beside me pressed the heather.
I read his verse: his life—alas!
O'er that dark shades extended:—
With thee at last, and him in thee,
My thoughts their wanderings ended.
His golden hours of youth were thine;
Those hours whose flight is fleetest
Of all his songs to thee he gave
The freshest and the sweetest.
Ere ripe the fruit one branch he brake,
All rich with bloom and blossom;
And shook its dews, its incense shook,
Above thy brow and bosom.
Those hours whose flight is fleetest
Of all his songs to thee he gave
The freshest and the sweetest.
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All rich with bloom and blossom;
And shook its dews, its incense shook,
Above thy brow and bosom.
And when his Spring, alas, how soon!
Had vanished, self-subverted,
His Summer, like a god repulsed,
Had from his gates departed;
Beneath that evening star, once more,
Star of his morn and even!
To thee his suppliant hands he spread,
And hailed his love ‘in heaven.’
Had vanished, self-subverted,
His Summer, like a god repulsed,
Had from his gates departed;
Beneath that evening star, once more,
Star of his morn and even!
To thee his suppliant hands he spread,
And hailed his love ‘in heaven.’
And if his spirit in ‘a waste
Of shame’ too oft was squandered,
And if too oft his feet ill-starred
In ways erroneous wandered;
Yet still his spirit's spirit bathed
In purity eternal;
And all fair things through thee retained
For him their aspect vernal.
Of shame’ too oft was squandered,
And if too oft his feet ill-starred
In ways erroneous wandered;
Yet still his spirit's spirit bathed
In purity eternal;
And all fair things through thee retained
For him their aspect vernal.
Nor less that tenderness remained
Thy favouring love implanted;
Compunctious pity, yearnings vague
For love to earth not granted;
Reserve with freedom, female grace
Well matched with manly vigour,
In songs where fancy twined her wreaths
Round judgment's stalwart rigour.
Thy favouring love implanted;
Compunctious pity, yearnings vague
For love to earth not granted;
Reserve with freedom, female grace
Well matched with manly vigour,
In songs where fancy twined her wreaths
Round judgment's stalwart rigour.
A mute but strong appeal was made
To him by feeblest creatures:
In his large heart had each a part
That part had found in Nature's.
The wildered sheep, sagacious dog,
Old horse reduced and crazy;
The field-mouse by the plough upturned,
And violated daisy.
To him by feeblest creatures:
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That part had found in Nature's.
The wildered sheep, sagacious dog,
Old horse reduced and crazy;
The field-mouse by the plough upturned,
And violated daisy.
In him there burned that passionate glow
All Nature's soul and savour,
Which gives its hue to every flower,
To every fruit its flavour:
Nor less the kindred power he felt;
That love of all things human
Whereof the fiery centre is
The love man bears to woman.
All Nature's soul and savour,
Which gives its hue to every flower,
To every fruit its flavour:
Nor less the kindred power he felt;
That love of all things human
Whereof the fiery centre is
The love man bears to woman.
He sang the dignity of man,
Sang woman's grace and goodness;
Passed by the world's half-truths; her lies
Pierced through with lance-like shrewdness:
Upon life's broad highways he stood,
And aped nor Greek nor Roman;
But snatched from heaven Promethean fire
To glorify things common.
Sang woman's grace and goodness;
Passed by the world's half-truths; her lies
Pierced through with lance-like shrewdness:
Upon life's broad highways he stood,
And aped nor Greek nor Roman;
But snatched from heaven Promethean fire
To glorify things common.
He sang of youth, he sang of age,
Their joys, their griefs, their labours
Felt with, not for, the people; hailed
All Scotland's sons his neighbours:
And therefore all repeat his verse,
Hot youth, or greybeard steady,
The boatman on Loch Etive's wave,
The shepherd on Ben Ledi.
Their joys, their griefs, their labours
Felt with, not for, the people; hailed
All Scotland's sons his neighbours:
And therefore all repeat his verse,
Hot youth, or greybeard steady,
The boatman on Loch Etive's wave,
The shepherd on Ben Ledi.
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He sang from love of song; his name
Dunedin's cliff resounded:
He left her, faithful to a fame
On truth and nature founded:
He sought true fame, not loud acclaim;
Himself and Time he trusted:
For laurels crackling in the flame
His fine ear never lusted.
Dunedin's cliff resounded:
He left her, faithful to a fame
On truth and nature founded:
He sought true fame, not loud acclaim;
Himself and Time he trusted:
For laurels crackling in the flame
His fine ear never lusted.
He loved, and reason had to love,
The illustrious land that bore him:
Where'er he went, like heaven's broad tent
A star-bright Past hung o'er him:
Each isle had fenced a saint recluse,
Each tower a hero dying;
Down every mountain-gorge had rolled
The flood of foemen flying.
The illustrious land that bore him:
Where'er he went, like heaven's broad tent
A star-bright Past hung o'er him:
Each isle had fenced a saint recluse,
Each tower a hero dying;
Down every mountain-gorge had rolled
The flood of foemen flying.
From age to age that land had paid
No alien throne submission;
For feudal faith had been her Law,
And freedom her Tradition.
Where frowned the rocks had Freedom smiled,
Sung 'mid the shrill wind's whistle—
So England prized her garden Rose,
But Scotland loved her Thistle.
No alien throne submission;
For feudal faith had been her Law,
And freedom her Tradition.
Where frowned the rocks had Freedom smiled,
Sung 'mid the shrill wind's whistle—
So England prized her garden Rose,
But Scotland loved her Thistle.
Fair field alone the brave demand,
And Scotland ne'er had lost it;
And honest prove the hate and love
To objects meet adjusted:
Her will and way had ne'er been crossed
In fatal contradiction;
Nor loyalty to treason soured,
Nor faith abused with fiction.
And Scotland ne'er had lost it;
And honest prove the hate and love
To objects meet adjusted:
Her will and way had ne'er been crossed
In fatal contradiction;
Nor loyalty to treason soured,
Nor faith abused with fiction.
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Can song be false where hearts are sound?
Weak doubts, away we fling them!
The land that breeds great men, great deeds,
Shall ne'er lack bards to sing them:
That vigour, sense, and mutual truth
Which baffled each invader,
Shall fill her marts, and feed her arts,
While peaceful olives shade her.
Weak doubts, away we fling them!
The land that breeds great men, great deeds,
Shall ne'er lack bards to sing them:
That vigour, sense, and mutual truth
Which baffled each invader,
Shall fill her marts, and feed her arts,
While peaceful olives shade her.
Honour to Scotland and to Burns!
In him she stands collected:
A thousand streams one river make—
Thus Genius, heaven-directed,
Conjoins all separate veins of power
In one great soul-creation;
Thus blends a million men to make
The Poet of the nation.
In him she stands collected:
A thousand streams one river make—
Thus Genius, heaven-directed,
Conjoins all separate veins of power
In one great soul-creation;
Thus blends a million men to make
The Poet of the nation.
Be green for aye, green bank and brae
Around Montgomery's Castle!
Blow there, ye earliest flowers! and there,
Ye sweetest song-birds, nestle!
For there was ta'en that last farewell
In hope, indulged how blindly;
And there was given that long last gaze
‘That dwelt’ on him ‘sae kindly.’
Around Montgomery's Castle!
Blow there, ye earliest flowers! and there,
Ye sweetest song-birds, nestle!
For there was ta'en that last farewell
In hope, indulged how blindly;
And there was given that long last gaze
‘That dwelt’ on him ‘sae kindly.’
No word of thine recorded stands;
Few words that hour were spoken:
Two Bibles there were interchanged,
And some slight love-gift broken:
And there thy cold faint hands he pressed,
Thy head by dew-drops misted;
And kisses, ill-resisted first,
At last were unresisted.
Few words that hour were spoken:
Two Bibles there were interchanged,
And some slight love-gift broken:
And there thy cold faint hands he pressed,
Thy head by dew-drops misted;
And kisses, ill-resisted first,
At last were unresisted.
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Ah cease!—she died. He too is dead.
Of all her girlish graces
Perhaps one nameless lock remains:
The rest stern Time effaces—
Dust lost in dust. Not so: a bloom
Is hers that ne'er can wither;
And in that lay which lives for aye
The twain live on together.
Of all her girlish graces
Perhaps one nameless lock remains:
The rest stern Time effaces—
Dust lost in dust. Not so: a bloom
Is hers that ne'er can wither;
And in that lay which lives for aye
The twain live on together.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |