 | Annie Weir and Other Poems |  |
126
ASPIRATION.
“Oh! father, we read in the schoolroom to-day
Some lines that from memory will not pass away;
And they've caused in my heart such a pleasing sing-song,
I've done nothing but think of them all the day long:
No sum would come right, and how stupid I felt
When the master had marked all the words I misspelt.
I was forced with my long-cherished medal to part;
But less than the ode my disgrace fills my heart.
And yet there seems nought to make any one sing,
For the verses were all about cuckoos and spring.
What's poetry, father? (for, doubtless, you know),
And whence the strange power of its jingle and flow?”
“Ah! boy, you your father's poor wisdom o'ertask—
No mortal can answer the questions you ask;
Some say, ‘'Tis the sweetest words happily waled;’
And some, ‘'Tis where rhyme has o'er reason prevailed.’
In grammar you find it reduced to a rule,
But it is not a thing to be learned at the school:
The source of its power long a mystery has been,
And, here, it will aye be a mystery, I ween.
Great minds full of learning to solve it have striven,
But it baffles them still, like the star blaze of heaven.”
Some lines that from memory will not pass away;
And they've caused in my heart such a pleasing sing-song,
I've done nothing but think of them all the day long:
No sum would come right, and how stupid I felt
When the master had marked all the words I misspelt.
I was forced with my long-cherished medal to part;
But less than the ode my disgrace fills my heart.
And yet there seems nought to make any one sing,
For the verses were all about cuckoos and spring.
What's poetry, father? (for, doubtless, you know),
And whence the strange power of its jingle and flow?”
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No mortal can answer the questions you ask;
Some say, ‘'Tis the sweetest words happily waled;’
And some, ‘'Tis where rhyme has o'er reason prevailed.’
In grammar you find it reduced to a rule,
But it is not a thing to be learned at the school:
The source of its power long a mystery has been,
And, here, it will aye be a mystery, I ween.
Great minds full of learning to solve it have striven,
But it baffles them still, like the star blaze of heaven.”
“And where did it come from?”
“Some say from above,
The first gift to man from the Father of Love.
The one deathless pleasure that flits o'er the earth—
In human emotions it daily has birth:
'Tis it that gives sadness to sorrow's wild wail;
'Tis it that gives gladness to mirth's happy hail.
To thrill a pleased world it from peace emanates;
It shouts on the war-fields of mad human hates.
On the flower-hills of heaven to revel it soars,
And regions where stars have not ventured explores.
Now a bird calls it forth, now a bud, now a flower;
Now gloaming awakes it—now dawns holy hour;
Now it hangs o'er a dewdrop, now floats on a river,
And all that it touches is sacred for ever.”
“Some say from above,
The first gift to man from the Father of Love.
The one deathless pleasure that flits o'er the earth—
In human emotions it daily has birth:
'Tis it that gives sadness to sorrow's wild wail;
'Tis it that gives gladness to mirth's happy hail.
To thrill a pleased world it from peace emanates;
It shouts on the war-fields of mad human hates.
On the flower-hills of heaven to revel it soars,
And regions where stars have not ventured explores.
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Now gloaming awakes it—now dawns holy hour;
Now it hangs o'er a dewdrop, now floats on a river,
And all that it touches is sacred for ever.”
“What wonder this wakens! but surely I've heard
That poetry's only the voice of a bard,
Or the tones of a harp.—Is it so, father? Well,
In what happy land do the harper-bards dwell?”
That poetry's only the voice of a bard,
Or the tones of a harp.—Is it so, father? Well,
In what happy land do the harper-bards dwell?”
“In all lands, my son. In the city they're found,
And out in the country; on hills; under ground.
They croon in the hut by the wild souching sea,
And in the old cot 'neath the lone moorland tree.
Some live by their song, while the world wonders how;
Some pine at the shuttle, some follow the plough;
Some sweat at the forge, and some bend o'er the awl—
They dream in the palace, the manse, and the hall:
For the spirit that whispers, ‘Thy lot is to sing,’
Now speaks to a peasant, and now to a king.”
“Oh! father, how much I am longing to sing
But one ode like that of the cuckoo and spring;
I long 'mong the singers of earth to be heard,
And when I am old to be hailed as a bard;
For, doubtless, on everything pleasant they fare,
And are of their countries the pride and the care.”
And out in the country; on hills; under ground.
They croon in the hut by the wild souching sea,
And in the old cot 'neath the lone moorland tree.
Some live by their song, while the world wonders how;
Some pine at the shuttle, some follow the plough;
Some sweat at the forge, and some bend o'er the awl—
They dream in the palace, the manse, and the hall:
For the spirit that whispers, ‘Thy lot is to sing,’
Now speaks to a peasant, and now to a king.”
129
But one ode like that of the cuckoo and spring;
I long 'mong the singers of earth to be heard,
And when I am old to be hailed as a bard;
For, doubtless, on everything pleasant they fare,
And are of their countries the pride and the care.”
“Ah, no! silly boy, they are nobody's care,
And they must, as they can, on life's pleasant things fare.
A few have with Fortune tript on as they sung,
But many have wandered life's sorrows among;
Yet singing so well that the world oft declared
Their song grew the grander the harder they fared.
They spring, like the coltsfoot, where men least expect,
And seldom droop chilled by the blight of neglect.
In the hardest of lots they find something that's sweet;
They stoop and lift beauties at common men's feet.
With hope in the future, and joy in the past,
They sing, as the lark warbles, facing the blast.”
And they must, as they can, on life's pleasant things fare.
A few have with Fortune tript on as they sung,
But many have wandered life's sorrows among;
Yet singing so well that the world oft declared
Their song grew the grander the harder they fared.
They spring, like the coltsfoot, where men least expect,
And seldom droop chilled by the blight of neglect.
In the hardest of lots they find something that's sweet;
They stoop and lift beauties at common men's feet.
With hope in the future, and joy in the past,
They sing, as the lark warbles, facing the blast.”
130
“And what good do they do?”
“You may ask me as well
What good does the blackbird that sings in the dell,
Or the violet that blooms on the brow of the hill,
Or the music that lives in the linn-leaping rill:
They brighten our lives, and they lighten our cares,
But the bard has a mission far nobler than theirs.
To him human language its beauty all owes—
The graces of virtue 'tis his to disclose;
And Liberty's stay on the earth he prolongs,
For tyranny fears less the sword than his songs.
Let bards and their poetry bid us farewell,
And men would be demons, and earth would be hell.”
“You may ask me as well
What good does the blackbird that sings in the dell,
Or the violet that blooms on the brow of the hill,
Or the music that lives in the linn-leaping rill:
They brighten our lives, and they lighten our cares,
But the bard has a mission far nobler than theirs.
To him human language its beauty all owes—
The graces of virtue 'tis his to disclose;
And Liberty's stay on the earth he prolongs,
For tyranny fears less the sword than his songs.
Let bards and their poetry bid us farewell,
And men would be demons, and earth would be hell.”
“Are they happy and wise, father?”
“Tuts! how you ask!
Why should you the wit of your father o'ertask?
There are people who say—but perhaps say amiss—
‘The bard's but a finger-post pointing to bliss.’
‘Poor fellow,’ say others, ‘his wit's taken wing;
But his business is not to be wise, but to sing.
His sayings with sound are so sweetly relieved,
Their lack of sound wisdom is little perceived.
He's not very stable, but prone to do wrong,
But we pardon him much for the sake of his song—
And singing, you know, is a simple affair,
He has only to think of some old happy air,
And look at the sky with his chin lifted—so,
And his words of themselves in sweet measure will flow.
If e'er he goes fishing for thoughts, he's at fault,
For the thought that is angled for's never worth salt.’
So lightly, my son, of his wisdom talk men,
And he justifies all that they say now and then.
“Tuts! how you ask!
Why should you the wit of your father o'ertask?
There are people who say—but perhaps say amiss—
‘The bard's but a finger-post pointing to bliss.’
‘Poor fellow,’ say others, ‘his wit's taken wing;
But his business is not to be wise, but to sing.
His sayings with sound are so sweetly relieved,
131
He's not very stable, but prone to do wrong,
But we pardon him much for the sake of his song—
And singing, you know, is a simple affair,
He has only to think of some old happy air,
And look at the sky with his chin lifted—so,
And his words of themselves in sweet measure will flow.
If e'er he goes fishing for thoughts, he's at fault,
For the thought that is angled for's never worth salt.’
So lightly, my son, of his wisdom talk men,
And he justifies all that they say now and then.
“Myself have seen one standing still, like a fool,
In the rain, at the brink of a little road-pool,
There weaving the first happy lines of a strain,
Whose burden (to be) was ‘The beautiful rain;’
What music its low measured pattering awoke,
And to those who would listen how wisely it spoke!
How it scorned in the clouds to be longer confined,
And to reach the dull earth made a steed of the wind;
How it paused in its flight the bare hedge to adorn,
By hanging a pearl on the point of each thorn;
How it trickled down trees in the tiniest rills,
Or gathered in torrents to rush from the hills;
How it came when it chose, not at any one's call,
And meant no offence in its falling at all.
In the rain, at the brink of a little road-pool,
There weaving the first happy lines of a strain,
Whose burden (to be) was ‘The beautiful rain;’
What music its low measured pattering awoke,
And to those who would listen how wisely it spoke!
How it scorned in the clouds to be longer confined,
And to reach the dull earth made a steed of the wind;
How it paused in its flight the bare hedge to adorn,
By hanging a pearl on the point of each thorn;
132
Or gathered in torrents to rush from the hills;
How it came when it chose, not at any one's call,
And meant no offence in its falling at all.
“But the wise ones of earth might have envied the fool,
Who stood so entranced by the little road-pool—
Not fearing the storm nor complaining of fate,
He smiled like an angler on Garnock in spate.
He was craving an alms at the threshold of thought,
And took with delight the poor pittance he sought.
Who stood so entranced by the little road-pool—
Not fearing the storm nor complaining of fate,
He smiled like an angler on Garnock in spate.
He was craving an alms at the threshold of thought,
And took with delight the poor pittance he sought.
“The rain-drops were mortals, the little pool earth,
And the bubble each drop made at falling was birth,
And the circle that spread round each drop when it fell,
To the mark a man makes in the world answered well;
And the meeting and breaking of circles the strife
Of men jostling men in the battle of life;
Though the bubbles and circles to some might reveal
The bob and the whirl of a blithe Scottish reel,
That memory would waken, and make the cheeks glow
With the music and dancing of long years ago.
And the bubble each drop made at falling was birth,
And the circle that spread round each drop when it fell,
To the mark a man makes in the world answered well;
And the meeting and breaking of circles the strife
Of men jostling men in the battle of life;
Though the bubbles and circles to some might reveal
The bob and the whirl of a blithe Scottish reel,
133
With the music and dancing of long years ago.
“In the brattling of burns, and the glistening of leaves,
The Bard more than others aye hears and perceives;
The mountain afar, through the mist peering dim,
Is more than a vapour-veiled mountain to him.
Dear, dear is the glen where the green ivy creeps,
And the beech-bough the face of the mossy crag sweeps;
And, oh! how delicious the vague gloaming dream,
Where the fern-royal's dipping her fronds in the stream—
How dear the delight when he stealthily roams
In the wood's sacred shade where the great river foams;
For inanimate things, that to others are mute,
For him have a voice and a cheerful salute.”
The Bard more than others aye hears and perceives;
The mountain afar, through the mist peering dim,
Is more than a vapour-veiled mountain to him.
Dear, dear is the glen where the green ivy creeps,
And the beech-bough the face of the mossy crag sweeps;
And, oh! how delicious the vague gloaming dream,
Where the fern-royal's dipping her fronds in the stream—
How dear the delight when he stealthily roams
In the wood's sacred shade where the great river foams;
For inanimate things, that to others are mute,
For him have a voice and a cheerful salute.”
“How grandly your words on my wondering ears fall!
But, father, their meaning comes not at my call:
That bards should hear ought in the voice of the stream,
Beyond a sweet murmur, a marvel doth seem;
Why flowers in their presence should cease to be dumb,
And mountains ought else than great mountains become,
Seems more than a wonder—but why it is so,
I fear is not meant that a schoolboy should know.
Sometimes as I walk from the school all alone,
I smile when I think what a dreamer I've grown;
And once—more than once, father, many a time—
I've wondered to find myself thinking in rhyme,
And wondered still more when a thought, ere I wist,
Would start into view like a ship in the mist,
And startle me strangely, and then, ere I knew,
Like a ship in the mist it would flit from my view;
And often I've found my tears ready to fall,
When the phantom thought would not return at my call.
And now I've but one wish, and that is, to sing
Just one ode like that of the cuckoo and spring.”
But, father, their meaning comes not at my call:
That bards should hear ought in the voice of the stream,
Beyond a sweet murmur, a marvel doth seem;
134
And mountains ought else than great mountains become,
Seems more than a wonder—but why it is so,
I fear is not meant that a schoolboy should know.
Sometimes as I walk from the school all alone,
I smile when I think what a dreamer I've grown;
And once—more than once, father, many a time—
I've wondered to find myself thinking in rhyme,
And wondered still more when a thought, ere I wist,
Would start into view like a ship in the mist,
And startle me strangely, and then, ere I knew,
Like a ship in the mist it would flit from my view;
And often I've found my tears ready to fall,
When the phantom thought would not return at my call.
And now I've but one wish, and that is, to sing
Just one ode like that of the cuckoo and spring.”
| Annie Weir and Other Poems | |