The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir Edited by Thomas Aird: With A Memoir of the Author |
| 2 |  |
| I. |
 |
| ELEGIAC EFFUSIONS. |
|
|
|
| 2 | | II. |
 | The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir |  |
53
ELEGIAC EFFUSIONS.
55
THE BOWER OF PEACE.
I
When Hope's illusions all have waned,And silence broods above the dead,
When Sorrow's gloomy clouds have rain'd
Full oft on man's devoted head,—
The time-taught spirit loves to wend
Back through the past its mazy way,
And see the early larks ascend
Up to the gates of day:
While earth, outspread to childhood's glance,
Glow'd like a dream of bright romance.
II
'Twas in the depth of dazzling May,When bland the air and blue the skies,
When groves in blossom'd pride were gay,
And flow'rets of innumerous dyes
Gemm'd Earth's green carpet, that I stray'd,
On a salubrious morning bright,
Out to the champaign, and survey'd,
With thrillings of delight,
Landscapes around my path unfurl'd,
That made an Eden of this world.
56
III
I listen'd to the blackbird's song,That from the covert of green trees
Came like a hymn of Heaven along,
Borne on the bloom-enamour'd breeze:
I listen'd to the birds that trill'd,
Each in its turn, some witching note;
With insect swarms the air was fill'd,
Their wintry sleep forgot;
Such was the summer feeling there,
God's love seem'd breathing every where.
IV
The water-lilies in the wavesRear'd up their crowns all freshly green,
And, bursting forth as from their graves,
King-cups and daffodils were seen;
The lambs were frisking in the mead;
Beneath the white-flower'd chestnut tree
The ox reclin'd his stately head,
And bent his placid knee;
From brakes the linnets carol'd loud,
While larks responded from the cloud.
V
I stood upon a high green hill,On an oak stump mine elbow laid,
And, pondering, leant to gaze my fill
Of glade and glen, in pomp array'd.
57
A peaceful dwelling I espied,
Girt with its orchard branches round,
And bearing on its side
Rich cherry-trees, whose blossoms white
Half robb'd the windows of their light:—
VI
There dozed the mastiff on the green—His night-watch finished; and, elate,
The strutting turkey-cock was seen,
Arching his fan-like tail in state.
There was an air of placid rest
Around the spot so blandly spread,
That sure the inmates must be blest,
Unto my soul I said;
Sin, strife, or sorrow cannot come,
To desolate so sweet a home!
VII
Far from the hum of crowds remote,From life's parade and idle show,
'Twould be an enviable lot
Life's silent tenor here to know;
To banish every thought of sin,
To gaze with pure and blameless eyes;
To nurse those holy thoughts within
Which fit us for the skies,
And to regenerate hearts dispense
A bliss akin to innocence.
58
VIII
We make our sorrows; Nature knowsAlone of happiness and peace;
'Tis guilt that girds us with the throes
And hydra-pangs that never cease:
Is it not so? And yet we blame
Our fate for frailties all our own,
Giving, with sighs, Misfortune's name
To what is fault alone:
Plunge we in sin's black flood, yet dream
To rise unsullied from such stream?
IX
Vain thought! far better, then, to shunThe turmoils of the rash and vain,
And pray the Everlasting One
To keep the heart from earthly stain;
Within some sylvan home like this,
To hear the world's far billows roll;
And feel, with deep contented bliss,
They cannot shake the soul,
Or dim the impress bright and grand,
Stamp'd on it by the Maker's hand.
X
When round this bustling world we look,What treasures observation there?
Doth it not seem as man mistook
This passing scene of toil and care
59
This cloud-land were his final home;
And that he mock'd the great belief
Of something yet to come?
Rears he not sumptuous palaces,
As if his faith were built in these?
Many years ago, in sauntering through the Abbey burialground of Melrose, the Author was much struck with the following inscription on a small but venerable tombstone—
“The Earth walks upon the earth, glistering like gold;The Earth goeth to the earth sooner than it wold;
The Earth builds upon the earth temples and tow'rs;
But the earth sayeth to the Earth all shall be ours!”
He has since learned that the original appertains to a churchyard in Gloucestershire, from which the above is only a transcription.
XI
To Power he says—“I trust in thee!”As if terrestrial strength could turn
The avenging shafts of Destiny,
And disappoint the funeral urn:
To Pride—“Behold, I must, and can!”
To Fame—“Thou art mine idol-god!”
To Gold—“Thou art my talisman
And necromantic rod!”
Down Time's far stream he darts his eye,
Nor dreams that he shall ever die.
XII
Oh, fool, fool, fool!—and is it thusThou feed'st of vanity the flame?
The great, the good, are swept from us,
And only live in deed or name.
From out the myriads of the past,
Two only have been spared by Death;
“Christians looking on death not only as the sting, but the
period and end of sin, the horizon and isthmus between this
life and a better, and the death of this world but as the nativity
of another, do contentedly submit unto the common necessity,
and envy not Enoch nor Elias.”
—Sir Thomas Browne's Letter to a Friend.
And deem'st thou that a spell thou hast
To deprecate his wrath?
Or dost thou hope, in frenzied pride,
By threats to turn his scythe aside?
60
XIII
Where are the warrior-chiefs of old?Where are the realms on which they trod?
While conquest's blood-red flag unroll'd,
And man proclaim'd himself a god!
Where are the sages and their saws,
Whence wisdom shone with dazzling beams?
The legislators, and their laws,
What are they now but dreams?
The prophets, do they still forebode?
Our fathers, where are they?—with God!
XIV
Our fathers! We ourselves have seenThe days when vigour arch'd each brow—
Our fathers!!—are they aught, I ween,
But household recollections now?
Our fathers!!!—nay, the very boys,
Who, with ourselves, were such at school,
When, nectar-sweet, life's cup of joys
Felt almost over-full,
Although one parish gave them birth,
Their graves are scatter'd o'er the earth!
XV
Where are the blazon'd dreams of Youth,And where the friends on whom we leant,
Whose feelings—ay! whose hearts of truth,
Fraternal, with our own were blent?
61
In which the universe was drest,
As Evening, like a city on fire,
Burn'd down along the West,
Leaving the enchanted eastern sky
To the round moon's calm argentry?
XVI
Alas! with care we sow the wind,To reap the whirlwind for our pains;
On the dark day of need to find
Each proffer'd ransom Time disdains:
All that was once our idle boast,
Weigh'd in the balance dust shall be;
Death knocks—frail man gives up the ghost—
He dies—and where is he?
Vanish'd for ever and forgot,
The place that knew him knows him not!
XVII
Ho! wanderer, ho!—eschew the wrong,To reason turn, from error cease;
And list the words of wisdom's tongue,
The still small tongue that whispers peace:
Withhold the heart from worldly strife—
Do good—love mercy—evil fly;
And know that, from this dream call'd life,
We wake but when we die;—
Unto the eager to be pure
The path is straight—the palm is sure!
62
XVIII
For ne'er hath prodigal come round,Subdued in heart and craving grace,
Whate'er his faults, who hath not found
Forgiveness in the Saviour's face;
At contrite hearts he will not scoff—
Whoever knocks, an entrance wins:
Then let us at the Cross throw off
The burden of our sins;
And though their dye be black as night,
His blood can make—has made them white!
WEEP NOT FOR HER.
A DIRGE.
I
Weep not for her!—Oh! she was far too fair,Too pure to dwell on this guilt-tainted earth!
The sinless glory, and the golden air
Of Zion, seem'd to claim her from her birth:
A spirit wander'd from its native zone,
Which, soon discovering, took her for its own:
Weep not for her!
63
II
Weep not for her!—Her span was like the sky,Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright;
Like flowers that know not what it is to die;
Like long-link'd shadeless months of Polar light;
Like music floating o'er a waveless lake,
While Echo answers from the flowery brake:
Weep not for her!
III
Weep not for her!—She died in early youth,Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues;
When human bosoms seem'd the homes of truth,
And earth still gleam'd with beauty's radiant dews;
Her summer-prime waned not to days that freeze;
Her wine of life was run not to the lees:
Weep not for her!
IV
Weep not for her!—By fleet or slow decay,It never grieved her bosom's core to mark
The playmates of her childhood wane away,
Her prospects wither, or her hopes grow dark;
Translated by her God, with spirit shriven,
She pass'd as 'twere in smiles from earth to Heaven:
Weep not for her!
64
V
Weep not for her!—It was not hers to feelThe miseries that corrode amassing years,
'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel,
To wander sad down Age's vale of tears;
As whirl the wither'd leaves from Friendship's tree,
And on earth's wintry world alone to be:
Weep not for her!
VI
Weep not for her!—She is an angel now,And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise;
All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow,
Sin, sorrow, suffering, banish'd from her eyes;
Victorious over death, to her appear
The vista'd joys of Heaven's eternal year:
Weep not for her!
VII
Weep not for her!—Her memory is the shrineOf pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers;
Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline;
Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers;
Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light;
Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night:
Weep not for her!
65
VIII
Weep not for her!—There is no cause for woe;But rather nerve the spirit, that it walk
Unshrinking o'er the thorny paths below,
And from earth's low defilements keep thee back:
So, when a few fleet severing years have flown,
She'll meet thee at Heaven's gate—and lead thee on!
Weep not for her!
THE FOWLER.
And is there care in Heaven? and is there love
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base,
That may compassion of their evils move?
There is—else much more wretched were the case
Of men than beasts. But O! the exceeding grace
Of highest God, that loves his creatures so,
And all his works with mercy doth embrace,
That blessed angels he sends to and fro,
To serve on wicked man—to serve his wicked foe!
Spenser.
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base,
That may compassion of their evils move?
There is—else much more wretched were the case
Of men than beasts. But O! the exceeding grace
Of highest God, that loves his creatures so,
And all his works with mercy doth embrace,
That blessed angels he sends to and fro,
To serve on wicked man—to serve his wicked foe!
Spenser.
I.
I have an old remembrance—'tis as oldAs childhood's visions, and 'tis mingled with
Dim thoughts and scenes grotesque, by fantasy
From out oblivion's twilight conjured up,
Ere truth had shorn imagination's beams,
Or to forlorn reality tamed down
66
Of winter twilight, often as the year
Revolves, and hoar-frost grimes the window-sill,
Bring back the lone waste scene that gave it birth,
And make me, for a moment, what I was
Then, on that Polar morn—a little boy,
And Earth again the realm of fairyland.
II
A Fowler was our visitant; his talkAt eve beside the flickering hearth, while howl'd
The outward winds, and hail-drops on the pane
Tinkled, or down the chimney in the flame
Whizz'd as they melted, was of forest and field,
Wherein lay bright wild birds and timorous beasts,
That shunn'd the face of man; and O! the joy,
The passion which lit up his brow, to con
The feats of sleight and cunning skill by which
Their haunts were near'd, or on the heathy hills,
Or 'mid the undergrove; on snowy moor,
Or by the rushy lake—what time the dawn
Reddens the east, or from on high the moon
In the smooth waters sees her pictured orb,
The white cloud slumbering in the windless sky,
And midnight mantling all the silent hills.
III.
I do remember me the very time—
(Though thirty shadowy years have lapsed between)—
'Tis graven as by the hand of yesterday.
For weeks had raved the winds, the angry seas
Howl'd to the darkness, and down fallen the snows;
The redbreast to the window came for crumbs;
Hunger had to the coleworts driven the hare;
The crow at noontide peck'd the travell'd road;
And the wood-pigeon, timorously bold,
Starved from the forest, near'd the homes of man.
It was the dreariest depth of winter-tide,
And on the ocean and its isles was felt
The iron sway of the North; yea, even the fowl—
That through the polar summer months could see
A beauty in Spitzbergen's naked isles,
Or on the drifting icebergs seek a home—
Even they had fled, on southern wing, in search
Of less inclement shores.
(Though thirty shadowy years have lapsed between)—
67
For weeks had raved the winds, the angry seas
Howl'd to the darkness, and down fallen the snows;
The redbreast to the window came for crumbs;
Hunger had to the coleworts driven the hare;
The crow at noontide peck'd the travell'd road;
And the wood-pigeon, timorously bold,
Starved from the forest, near'd the homes of man.
It was the dreariest depth of winter-tide,
And on the ocean and its isles was felt
The iron sway of the North; yea, even the fowl—
That through the polar summer months could see
A beauty in Spitzbergen's naked isles,
Or on the drifting icebergs seek a home—
Even they had fled, on southern wing, in search
Of less inclement shores.
Perturb'd by dreams
Pass'd o'er the slow night-watches; many a thought
And many a hope was forward bent on morn;
But weary was the tedious chime on chime,
And hour on hour 'twas dark, and still 'twas dark.
At length we arose—for now we counted five—
And by the flickering hearth array'd ourselves
In coats and 'kerchiefs, for the early drift
And biting season fit; the fowling-piece
Was shoulder'd, and the blood-stain'd game-pouch slung
On this side, and the gleaming flask on that;
In sooth we were a most accordant pair;
And thus accoutred, to the lone sea-shore
In fond and fierce precipitance we flew.
Pass'd o'er the slow night-watches; many a thought
And many a hope was forward bent on morn;
But weary was the tedious chime on chime,
And hour on hour 'twas dark, and still 'twas dark.
At length we arose—for now we counted five—
And by the flickering hearth array'd ourselves
In coats and 'kerchiefs, for the early drift
And biting season fit; the fowling-piece
Was shoulder'd, and the blood-stain'd game-pouch slung
On this side, and the gleaming flask on that;
In sooth we were a most accordant pair;
And thus accoutred, to the lone sea-shore
In fond and fierce precipitance we flew.
68
IV.
There was no breath abroad; each in its cave,As if enchanted, slept the winds, and left
Earth in a voiceless trance: around the porch
All stirlessly the darksome ivy clung;
All silently the leafless trees held up
Their bare boughs to the sky; the atmosphere,
Untroubled in its cold serenity,
Wept icy dews; and now the later stars,
As by some hidden necromantic charm,
Dilate, amid the death-like calm profound,
On the white slumber-mantled earth gazed down.—
Words may not tell, how to the temperament,
And to the hue of that enchanted hour,
The spirit was subdued—a wizard scene!
In the far west, the Pentland's gloomy ridge
Belted the pale blue sky, whereon a cloud,
Fantastic, grey, and tinged with solemn light,
Lay, like a dreaming monster, and the moon,
Waning, above its silvery rim upheld
Her horns—as 'twere the Spectre of the Past.
Silently, silently, on we trode and trode,
As if a spell had frozen up our words:—
White lay the wolds around us, ankle-deep
In new-fallen snows, which champ'd beneath our tread;
And, by the marge of winding Esk, which show'd
The mirror'd stars upon its map of ice,
Downwards in haste we journey'd to the shore
Of Ocean, whose drear, multitudinous voice
Unto the listening spirit of Silence sang.
69
V.
O leaf! from out the volume of far yearsDissever'd, oft, how oft have the young buds
Of spring unfolded, have the summer skies
In their deep blue o'ercanopied the earth,
And autumn, in September's ripening breeze,
Rustled her harvests, since the theme was one
Present, and darkly all that Future lay,
Which now is of the perish'd and the past!
Since then a generation's span hath fled,
With all its varied whirls of chance and change—
With all its casualties of birth and death;
And, looking round, sadly I feel this world
Another, though the same;—another in
The eyes that gleam, the hearts that throb, the hopes,
The fears, the friendships of the soul; the same
In outward aspect—in the hills which cleave,
As landmarks of historical renown,
With azure peaks the sky; in the green plain,
That spreads its annual wild-flowers to the sun;
And in the river, whose blue course is mark'd
By many a well-known bend and shadowy tree:
Yet o'er the oblivious gulf, whose mazy gloom
Ensepulchres so many things, I see
As 'twere of yesterday—yet robed in tints
Which yesterday has lost, or never had—
The desolate features of that Polar morn,—
Its twilight shadows, and its twinkling stars—
The snows far spreading—the expanse of sand,
Ribb'd by the roaring and receded sea,
70
The waning moon above the dim-seen hills.
VI.
At length, upon the solitary shoreWe walk'd of Ocean, which, with sullen voice,
Hollow and never-ceasing, to the north
Sang its primeval song. A weary waste!—
We pass'd through pools, where mussel, clam, and wilk,
Clove to their gravelly beds; o'er slimy rocks,
Ridgy and dark, with dank fresh fuci green,
Where the prawn wriggled, and the tiny crab
Slid sideway from our path, until we gain'd
The land's extremest point, a sandy jut,
Narrow, and by the weltering waves begirt
Around; and there we laid us down and watch'd,
While from the west the pale moon disappear'd,
Pronely, the sea-fowl and the coming dawn.
VII.
Now day with darkness for the mastery strove:The stars had waned away—all, save the last
And fairest, Lucifer, whose silver lamp,
In solitary beauty, twinkling, shone
'Mid the far west, where, through the clouds of rack
Floating around, peep'd out at intervals
A patch of sky;—straightway the reign of night
Was finish'd, and, as if instinctively,
The ocean flocks, or slumbering on the wave
Or on the isles, seem'd the approach of dawn
71
Shrill shrieks and pipings desolate—a pause
Ensued, and then the same lone sounds return'd,
And suddenly the whirring rush of wings
Went circling round us o'er the level sands,
Then died away; and, as we look'd aloft,
Between us and the sky we saw a speck
Of black upon the blue—some huge, wild bird,
Osprey or eagle, high amid the clouds
Sailing majestic, on its plumes to catch
The earliest crimson of the approaching day.
VIII.
'Twere sad to tell our murderous deeds that morn.Silent upon the chilly beach we lay
Prone, while the drifting snow-flakes o'er us fell,
Like Nature's frozen tears for our misdeeds
Of wanton cruelty. The eider ducks,
With their wild eyes, and necks of changeful blue,
We watch'd, now diving down, now on the surge
Flapping their pinions, of our ambuscade
Unconscious—till a sudden death was found;
While floating o'er us, in the graceful curves
Of silent beauty, down the sea-mew fell;
The gilinot upon the shell-bank lay
Bleeding, and oft, in wonderment, its mate
Flew round, with mournful cry, to bid it rise,
Then shrieking, fled afar; the sand-pipers,
A tiny flock, innumerable, as round
And round they flew, bewail'd their broken ranks;
72
With blood-bedabbled plumes around us rose
A slaughter'd hecatomb; and to my heart
(My heart then open to all sympathies)
It spoke of tyrannous cruelty—of man
The desolator; and of some far day,
When the accountable shall make account,
And but the merciful shall mercy find.
IX.
Soul-sicken'd, satiate, and dissatisfied,An alter'd being homewards I return'd,
My thoughts revolting at the thirst for blood,
So brutalising, so destructive of
The finer sensibilities, which man
In boyhood owns, and which the world destroys.
Nature had preach'd a sermon to my heart:
And from that moment, on that snowy morn—
(Seeing that earth enough of suffering has
And death)—all cruelty my soul abhorr'd,
Yea, loathed the purpose and the power to kill.
73
THE DESERTED CHURCHYARD.
I
There lay an ancient churchyardUpon a heathy hill,
And oft of yore I loiter'd there,
Amid the twilight still;
For 'twas a place deserted,
And all things spake a tone,
Whose wild long music vibrated
To things for ever gone.
II
Yes! Nature's face look'd lonelierTo fancy's brooding eye,
The dusky moors, the mountains,
And solitary sky;
And there was like a mournfulness
Upon the fitful breeze,
As it wail'd among the hoary weeds,
Or mounted through the trees.
74
III
Around were gnarly sycamores,And, by the wizard stream,
I lay in youth's enchanted ring,
When life was like a dream;
And spectral generations pass'd
Before my mind like waves,
Men that for creeping centuries
Had moulder'd in their graves.
IV
There, as the west was paling,And the evening-star shone out,
I leant to watch the impish bat,
That flitting shriek'd about;
Or the crow that to the forest,
With travel-wearied wing,
Sail'd through the twilight duskily,
Like some unearthly thing.
V
The scowl of DesolationHung o'er it like a shade;
And Ruin there, amid the moss,
Her silent dwelling made:
Only unto the elements
'Twas free, and human breath
Felt like unhallow'd mockery,
In that calm field of death.
75
VI
Within that solitary placeNo monuments were seen
Of woman's love, or man's regret,
To tell that such had been;
And to the soul's wild question,
“Oh dead! where are ye flown?”
Waved to and fro, in mournful guise,
The thistle's beard of down.
VII
There as I linger'd, pondering,Amid the mantling night,
Upon the old grey wall the hawk
Would silently alight;
And, rushing from the blasted hills,
With rain-drops on its wing,
The wind amid the hemlock-stalks
Would desolately sing.
VIII
Life, and the living things of earth,Seem'd vanish'd quite away;
As there, in vague abstraction,
Amid the graves I lay:
The world seem'd an enchanted world,
A region dim and drear,
A shadowy land of reverie,
Where Silence dwelt with Fear.
76
IX
'Twas hard to think that PassionHad stirr'd, how many a breast,
Which now beneath the nettles rank
Decay'd in lonely rest;
That once they loved like kindred,
These unacknowledged dead,
From whose bare, mouldering relics long
The famish'd worm had fled.
X
For ages there no mournerTo wail his loss had come;
The dead, and their descendants,
Like yesterday, were dumb;
And sang the hoary cannach,
Upon the casual wind,
A dirge for generations
That left no trace behind.
XI
So dreary and so desolateThat churchyard was, and rude,
That Fantasy upon the verge
Of Night and Chaos stood;
And, like a Sybil's chronicle,
Mysteriously it told,
In hieroglyph and symbol,
The shadowy days of old.
77
TO A WOOD-PIGEON.
I
Have I scared thee from thy bough,Tenant of the lonely wild,
Where, from human face exiled,
'Tis thine the sky to plough;
Hearing but the wailing breeze,
Or the cataract's sullen roaring,
Where, 'mid clumps of ancient trees,
O'er its rocks the stream is pouring?—
Up on ready wing thou rushest
To the gloom of woods profound,
And through silent ether brushest
With a whirring sound.
II
Ring-dove beauteous! is the faceOf man so hateful, that his sight
Startles thee in wild affright,
From beechen resting-place?—
Time was once, when sacrifice,
Served by blue-eyed Druids hoary,
78
O'er their human victims gory;
And time hath been when veil'd Religion
Bade the calm-brow'd Hermit roam,
Seeking, with the lark and pigeon,
Guilt-untroubled home.
III
Truly 'twas an erring choice—If (as Reason says) be given
Earth, preparative for Heaven,
And calm, unclouded joys.
Nobler far 'tis sure to brave
Every barrier which retards us,
Than, to craven fear a slave,
Flee the path that Fate awards us:
He, from duty never altering,
Who, with Faith's heroic ken,
Forward treads with step unfaltering,
Is the man of men!
IV
Surely pleasant life is thine,Underneath the shining day;
Thus from sorrow far away,
'Mid bowering groves to pine—
To pine in wild, luxurious love,
With thy cooing partner near thee;
79
And nought around to fear thee;
While thy bill so gently carries
To thy young, from field or wood,
Seeds, or fruits, or purple berries,
For their slender food.
V
In sequester'd haunts like thine,Where, in solitude, the trees
Blossom to the sun and breeze,
Worth has loved to shine;
And ardent Genius structured high
Her magic piles of bright invention,
Achieving immortality,
And sharing not in Time's declension:
Glorious task, that nobly smothers
Earthward cravings, power and pelf,
Scorning, in proud zeal for others,
Every thought of self.
VI
Time was once, when Man, like thee,In the forest made his home,
Near the river's yellow foam,
Beneath the spreading tree.
Cities then were not: he dwelt
In the cavern's twilight chamber;
80
When the morn with clouds of amber,
Or the wild birds singing round him,
Bade him to the chase arise;
Then with quiver'd shafts he bound him
'Neath the opal skies.
VII
Rapidly thou wing'st away—I saw thee now, a tiny spot—
Again—and now I see thee not—
Nought save the skies of day.
The Psalmist once his prayer address'd—
“Dove, could I thy pinions borrow,
My soul would flee, and be at rest,
Far from Earth's oppressing sorrow!”
“O that I had wings like a dove! for then would I flee away, and be at rest. Lo, then would I wander far off, and remain in the wilderness. I would hasten my escape from the windy storm and tempest.”—Psalm lv. 6-8.
The same sentiment has afforded a groundwork for a beautiful lyric by Mrs Hemans—“The Wings of the Dove”—of which part of the above quotation is the motto. It was also evidently thrilling through the heart of Keats in these lines from his deep-thoughted “Ode to the Nightingale:”—
“That—I might leave the world unseen,And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit, and hear each other groan,”
Alas! we turn to brave the billows
Of the world's tempestuous sway,
Where Life's stream, beneath Care's willows,
Murmurs night and day!
81
THE YELLOW LEAF.
I.
The year is on the wane—the blueOf heaven assumes a paler hue;
And when the sun comes forth at morn,
Through melancholy mists forlorn,
A while he struggles ere his beam
Falls on the forest and the stream;
And then 'tis with a feebler power
He gilds the day and marks the hour!
Scathed are the mountains and the plains
By sweeping winds and plashing rains,
And both that wintry look assume,
Which speaks to us of wither'd bloom
And vanish'd beauty: roaring floods
Are grown from tiny streams; the woods,
Instead of emerald green, are known
By yellow sere and sullen brown;
And all things which the eyes survey
Are tinged with death, and preach decay!
82
II.
But yet no hour more sweet than this,More perfect in its tranquil bliss,
Could man of Heaven desire; the light
Of eve is melting into night,
And from her eastern shrine, where lie,
Pillow'd upon the soft blue sky,
A wreath of snowy clouds, the rim
Of the white moon about to swim
Her course of glory; all around
The scene becomes enchanted ground:
The stream that late in darkness stray'd,
The forest late so black with shade,
Are lighted up; and lo! the hills
A flood of argent glory fills;
While even—far off—the murmuring sea
Is seen in its immensity,
A line of demarcation given
As 'twere between the earth and heaven!
III.
In gazing o'er a scene so fair,Well may the wondering mind compare
Majestic nature with the strife
And littleness of human life!
Within the rank and narrow span,
Where man contends with brother man,
And where, a few brief seasons past,
Death is the common doom at last,
83
The generous thought, the liberal deed?—
Or in prosperity, the kind
O'erflowing of congenial mind?
Ah no! instead of these, to Woe
Is ever given another blow;
A drop to Misery's cup of gall;
To Error's feet a further fall;
And, where 'tis least expected, still
Grows up Resentment or Ill-will—
Envy has poison, and has power
To wither Friendship's brightest flower;
And Love, too oft a gilded dream,
Melts like the rain-drop in the stream.
IV.
But Nature grows not old; 'tis weWho change, and not the flower or tree—
For years, as they revolve, renew
The faded with reviving dew
And genial heat, until as bright
Earth rises on the startled sight,
As when enchanted Adam's eyes
The leafing groves of Paradise—
And shower'd the new-made sun his beams
On spangled plains and crystal streams!
V.
O! could we let the heart retainIts glow, and dash away the stain
84
Have made its tablet white upon,
Then might we feel that Earth is not
Entirely an accursed spot;
That gleams of beauty, sparks of bliss,
Flash oft athwart Life's drear abyss;
That from the poison-cup of Woe
A balm of healing oft may flow;
That round the heart are twisted ties
To keep us good, or make us wise;
That duty is the Polar Star
Which leads to peace, though from afar;
And to the pure in heart are given
Visions, whose resting-place is Heaven!
THE DYING SPANIEL.
I
Old Oscar, how feebly thou crawl'st to the door,Thou who wert all beauty and vigour of yore;
How slow is thy stagger the sunshine to find,
And thy straw-sprinkled pallet—how crippled and blind!
But thy heart is still living—thou hearest my voice—
And thy faint-wagging tail says thou yet canst rejoice;
Ah! how different art thou from the Oscar of old,
The sleek and the gamesome, the swift and the bold!
85
II
At sunrise I waken'd to hear thy proud bark,With the coo of the house-dove, the lay of the lark;
And out to the green fields 'twas ours to repair,
When sunrise with glory empurpled the air;
And the streamlet flow'd down in its gold to the sea;
And the night-dew like diamond sparks gleam'd from the tree;
And the sky o'er the earth in such purity glow'd,
As if angels, not men, on its surface abode!
III
How then thou would'st gambol, and start from my feet,To scare the wild birds from their sylvan retreat;
Or plunge in the smooth stream, and bring to my hand
The twig or the wild-flower I threw from the land:
On the moss-sprinkled stone if I sat for a space,
Thou would'st crouch on the greensward, and gaze in my face,
Then in wantonness pluck up the blooms in thy teeth,
And toss them above thee, or tread them beneath.
IV
Then I was a schoolboy all thoughtless and free,And thou wert a whelp full of gambol and glee;
Now dim is thine eyeball, and grizzled thy hair,
And I am a man, and of grief have my share!
Thou bring'st to my mind all the pleasures of youth,
When Hope was the mistress, not handmaid of Truth;
When Earth look'd an Eden, when Joy's sunny hours
Were cloudless, and every path glowing with flowers.
86
V
Now Summer is waning; soon tempest and rainShall harbinger desolate Winter again,
And Thou, all unable its gripe to withstand,
Shalt die, when the snow-mantle garments the land:
Then thy grave shall be dug 'neath the old cherry-tree,
Which in spring-time will shed down its blossoms on thee;
And, when a few fast-fleeting seasons are o'er,
Thy faith and thy form shall be thought of no more!
VI
Then all who caress'd thee and loved, shall be laid,Life's pilgrimage o'er, in the tomb's dreary shade;
Other steps shall be heard on these floors, and the past
Be like yesterday's clouds from the memory cast:
Improvements will follow; old walls be thrown down,
Old landmarks removed, when old masters are gone;
And the gard'ner, when delving, will marvel to see
White bones, where once blossom'd the old cherry-tree!
VII
Frail things! could we read but the objects around,In the meanest some deep-lurking truth might be found,
Some type of our frailty, some warning to show
How shifting the sands are we build on below:
Our fathers have pass'd, and have mix'd with the mould;
Year presses on year, till the young become old;
Time, though a stern teacher, is partial to none;
And the friend and the foe pass away, one by one!
87
EVENING TRANQUILLITY.
I
How still this hour! the mellow sunWithdraws his western ray,
And, evening's haven almost won,
He leaves the seas of day:
Soft is the twilight reign, and calm,
As o'er autumnal fields of balm
The languid zephyrs stray;
Across the lawn the heifers roam,
The wearied reaper seeks his home.
II
The laden earth is rich with flowers,All bathed in crimson light;
While hums the bee, mid garden bowers
With clustering roses bright:
The woods outshoot their shadows dim;
O'er the smooth lake the swallows skim
In wild erratic flight;
Moor'd by the marge, the shallop sleeps,
Above its deck the willow weeps.
88
III
'Tis sweet, in such an hour as this,To bend the pensive way,
Scan Nature, and partake the bliss
Which charms like hers convey:
No city's bustling noise is near;
And but the little birds you hear,
That chant so blithe and gay;
And ask ye whence their mirth began?
Perchance since free, and far from man.
IV
Their little lives are void of care;From bush to brake they fly,
Filling the rich ambrosial air
Of August's vermeil sky:
They flit about the fragrant wood;
Elisha's God provides them food,
And hears them when they cry:
For ever blithe and blest are they,
Their sinless span a summer's day.
V
Yon bending clouds all purpling streakThe mantle of the west;
And trem'lously the sunbeams break
On Pentland's mountain crest:
89
All wear one placid look, and seem
In silent beauty blest;
As if created Natures raised
To Heaven their choral songs, and praised.
VI
Above yon cottage on the plainThe wreathy smoke ascends;
A silent emblem, with the main
Of sailing clouds it blends;
Like a departed spirit gone
Up from low earth to Glory's throne
To mix with sainted friends,
Where, life's probation voyage o'er,
Grief's sail is furl'd for evermore!
90
HYMN TO HESPERUS.
Εσπερε παντα φερεις.
Sapph. Frag.
Sapph. Frag.
I
Bright lonely beam, fair heavenly speck,That, calling all the stars to duty,
Through stormless ether gleam'st to deck
The fulgent west's unclouded beauty;
All silent are the fields, and still
The umbrageous wood's recesses dreary,
As if calm came at thy sweet will,
And Nature of Day's strife were weary.
II
Blent with the season and the scene,From out her treasured stores, Reflection
Looks to the days when life was green,
With fond and thrilling retrospection;
The earth again seems haunted ground;
Youth smiles, by Hope and Joy attended;
And bloom afresh young flowers around,
With scent as rich and hues as splendid.
91
III
How oft, 'mid eves as clear and calm,These wild-wood pastures have I stray'd in,
When all these scenes of bliss and balm
Blue Twilight's mantle were array'd in!
How oft I've stole from bustling man,
From Art's parade and city riot,
The sweets of Nature's reign to scan,
And muse on Life in rural quiet!
IV
Fair Star! with calm repose and peaceI hail thy vesper beam returning;
Thou seem'st to say that troubles cease
In the calm sphere where thou art burning:
Sweet 'tis on thee to gaze and muse;—
Sure angel wings around thee hover,
And from Life's fountain scatter dews
To freshen Earth, Day's fever over.
V
Star of the Bee! with laden thighThy twinkle warns its homeward winging;
Star of the Bird! thou bidd'st her lie
Down o'er her young, and hush her singing;
Star of the Pilgrim! travel-sore,
How sweet, reflected in the fountains,
He hails thy circlet, gleaming o'er
The shadow of his native mountains!
92
VI
Thou art the Star of Freedom, thouUndo'st the bonds which gall the sorest;
Thou bring'st the ploughman from his plough;
Thou bring'st the woodman from his forest;
Thou bring'st the wave-worn fisher home,
With all his scaly wealth around him;
And bidd'st the hearth-sick schoolboy roam,
Freed from the letter'd tasks that bound him.
VII
Star of the Mariner! thy car,O'er the blue waters twinkling clearly,
Reminds him of his home afar,
And scenes he still loves, ah, how dearly!
He sees his native fields, he sees
Grey twilight gathering o'er his mountains,
And hears the rustle of green trees,
The bleat of flocks, and gush of fountains.
VIII
How beautiful, when, through the shrouds,The fierce presaging storm-winds rattle,
Thou glitterest far above the clouds,
O'er waves that lash, and gales that battle;
And as, athwart the billows driven,
He turns to thee in fond devotion,
Star of the Sea! thou tell'st that Heaven
O'erlooks alike both land and ocean.
93
IX
Star of the Mourner! 'mid the gloom,When droops the West o'er Day departed,
The widow bends above the tomb
Of him who left her broken-hearted:
Darkness within, and Night around,
The joys of life no more can move her,
When lo! thou lightest the profound,
To tell that Heaven's eye glows above her.
X
Star of the Lover! O, how brightAbove the copsewood dark thou shinest,
As longs he for those eyes of light,
For him whose lustre burns divinest!
Earth and the things of earth depart,
Transform'd to scenes and sounds Elysian;
Warm rapture gushes o'er his heart,
And Life seems like a faëry vision.
XI
Yes, thine the hour when, daylight done,Fond Youth to Beauty's bower thou lightest;
Soft shines the moon, bright shines the sun,
But thou, of all things, softest, brightest.
Still is thy beam as fair and young,
The torch illuming Evening's portal,
As when of thee lorn Sappho sung,
With burning soul, in lays immortal.
94
XII
Star of the Poet! thy pale fire,A wakening, kindling inspiration,
Burns in blue ether, to inspire
The loftiest themes of meditation;
He deems some holier, happier race
Dwells in the orbit of thy beauty,—
Souls of the Just, redeem'd by grace,
Whose path on earth was that of duty.
XIII
Beneath thee Earth turns ParadiseTo him, all radiant, rich, and tender;
And dreams arrayed by thee arise
'Mid Twilight's dim and dusky splendour:
Blest or accurst each spot appears;
A frenzy fine his fancy seizes;
He sees unreal shapes, and hears
The wail of spirits on the breezes.
XIV
Bright leader of the hosts of Heaven!When day from darkness God divided,
In silence through the empyrean driven,
Forth from the East thy chariot glided:
Star after star, o'er night and earth,
Shone out in brilliant revelation;
And all the angels sang for mirth,
To hail the finished, fair Creation.
95
XV
Star of declining Day, farewell!—Ere lived the Patriarchs, thou wert yonder;
Ere Isaac, 'mid the piny dell,
Went forth at eventide to ponder:
And when to Death's stern mandate bow
All whom we love, and all who love us,
Thou shalt uprise, as thou dost now,
To shine, and shed thy tears above us.
XVI
Star that proclaims Eternity,When o'er the lost Sun Twilight weepeth,
Thou light'st thy beacon-tower on high,
To say, “He is not dead, but sleepeth;”
And forth with Dawn thou comest too,
As all the hosts of Night surrender,
To prove thy sign of promise true,
And usher in Day's orient splendour.
96
FADED FLOWERS.
I
Farewell, ye perish'd flowersThat on the cold ground lie;
How gay ye smiled
'Mid the brown wild,
'Neath summer's painted sky;—
Pass'd hath your bloom away;
Your stalks are sere and bent:
On the howling blast
The rain sweeps past,
From the dim firmament.
II
I think me of your pride,When Zephyr came with Spring;
Then sigh to know
What wreck and woe
A few brief months may bring!
Emblems of human fate,
Ye say—“Though bright and fair
Life's morning be,
Its eve may see
The clouds of grief and care!”
97
III
In you I scan the fateLife's sunniest hopes have met,
When Youth's bright noon,
(Alas! how soon!)
In manhood's twilight set—
Yes! joy by joy decay'd
As ye did fade, sweet blooms,
Leaving behind,
Upon the wind,
A while your soft perfumes.
IV
As waned each blossom bright,So doom'd were to depart
Friend after friend—
And each to rend
A fibre from the heart:
Green Spring again shall bid
Your boughs with bloom be crown'd;
But alas! to Man,
In earth's brief span,
No second spring comes round!
V
Yes! friends who clomb Life's hillTogether, long ago,
Are parted, and
Their fatherland
No more their places know!
98
Among the garden bowers;
They have pass'd away
In bright decay,
Like you, ye perish'd flowers!
VI
Mourn not—we meet again,Although we meet not here;
Turn ye above,
Where Faith and Love
Taste Heaven's eternal year:—
For though Time's winter bows
The grey head to the clod,
Dust goes to dust,
But (as we trust)
The Spirit back to God!
99
THE NIGHT HAWK.
Vox, et præterea nihil.
I
The winds are pillow'd on the waveless deep,And from the curtain'd sky the midnight moon
Looks sombred o'er the forest depths, that sleep
Unstirring, while a soft melodious tune,
Nature's own voice, the lapsing stream, is heard,
And ever and anon th' unseen, night-wandering bird.
II
An Arab of the air, it floats along,Enamour'd of the silence and the night,
The tall pine-tops, the mountains dim among,
Aye wheeling on in solitary flight;
Like an ungentle spirit earthwards sent,
To haunt the pale-faced moon, a cheerless banishment.
100
III
A lone, low sound—a melancholy cry,Now near, remoter now, and more remote;
In the blue dusk, unseen, it journeys by,
Loving amid the starlight-calm to float;
Now sharp and shrill, now faint; and by degrees
Fainter, like summer winds that die 'mid leafy trees.
IV
Listening, in the blue solitude I stand—The breathless hush of midnight—all is still;
Unmoved the valleys spread, the woods expand;
There is a slumbering mist upon the hill;
Nature through all her regions seems asleep,
Save, ever and anon, that sound so wild and deep.
V
Moonlight and midnight! all so vast and void,Life seems a vision of the shadowy past,
By mighty silence swallow'd and destroy'd,
And Thou of living things the dirge and last:
Such quietude enwraps the moveless scene,
As if, all discord o'er, Mankind had never been.
101
VI
Doubtless in elder times, unhallow'd sound,When Fancy ruled the subject realms, and Fear,
Some demon elf, or goblin shrieking round,
Darkly thou smot'st on Superstition's ear:
The wild wood had its spirits, and the glen
Swarm'd with dim shapes and shades inimical to Men.
VII
Then Fairies tripp'd it in the hazel glade;And Fahm stalk'd muttering thro' the cavern's gloom;
Fahm—a deformed and malignant spirit, peculiar to the Highlands of Scotland, and more particularly to the mountains surrounding Glen-Avin. His accustomed visitations to earth are said to be immediately preceding daybreak; and he is accused by the natives of inflicting diseases upon their cattle. If any person happens to cross his track before the sun has shone on it, death is believed to be the inevitable consequence.
Popular report also denies vegetation to the spots where witches have held their orgies, or been burned.
And corpse-fires, glancing thro' the yew-trees' shade,
Lighted each sheeted spectre from its tomb;
While Morning show'd, in nature's grassy death,
Where the Foul Fiend had danced with Witches on the heath.
VIII
On Summer's scented eve, when fulgent skiesThe last bright traces of the day partook,
And heaven look'd down on earth with starry eyes,
Reflected softly in the wimpling brook,
Far, far above, wild solitary bird,
Thy melancholy scream 'mid woodlands I have heard;
102
IX
And I have heard thee, when December's snowMantled with chilling white the moonless vales,
Thro' the drear darkness, wandering to and fro,
And mingling with the sharp and sighing gales
Thy wizard note—when Nature's prostrate form,
In desolation sad, lay buried in the storm.
X
It is a sound most solemn, strange, and lone,That wildly talks of something far remote
Amid the past—of something dimly known—
Of Time's primeval voice, a parted note—
The echo of Antiquity—the cry
Of Ruin, fluttering o'er some Greatness doom'd to die.
XI
So parted from communion with mankind,So sever'd from all life, and living sound,
Calmly the solemnised and soften'd mind
Sinks down, and dwells, in solemn thought profound,
On dreams of yore, on visions swept away—
The loves and friendships warm of being's early day.
103
XII
Lov'st Thou, when storms are dark, and rains come down,When wild winds round lone dwellings moan and sigh,
And Night is hooded in its gloomiest frown,
To mingle with the tempest thy shrill cry,
To pierce the rolling thunder-clouds, and brook
The scythe-wing'd lightning's glare with fierce unshrinking look?
XIII
Most lonely voice! most wild unbodied scream!Aye haunting thus the sylvan wilderness,
Thou tellest man that life is but a dream,
Romantic as the tones of thy distress,
Leaving on earth no lingering trace behind,
And melting as thou meltest on the trackless wind.
XIV
Faint come the notes: Thou meltest distant far,Scarce heard at intervals upon the night,
Leaving to loneliness each listening star,
The trees, the river, and the moonshine bright;
And, 'mid this stirless hush, this still of death,
Heard is my bosom's throb, and audible my breath.
104
XV
Thus wane the noonday dreams of Youth away,And twilight hues the path of Life pervade;
Thus, like the western sunlight, ray by ray,
Into the darkness of old age we fade;
While of our early friends the memories seem
Half lost in bygone years, like fragments of a dream.
XVI
Lo! 'mid the future dim, remote or near,Lurks in the womb of Time a final day,
When shuddering Earth a trumpet voice shall hear,
And ruin seize the Universe for prey;
And Silence, as the pulse of Nature stills,
In viewless robe, shall sit enthroned on smoking hills.
105
STARLIGHT REFLECTIONS.
I
On this grey column—overthrownBy giant Time's unsparing hand,
Where lichens spring and moss is strown
Along the desert land—
Resting alone, I fix mine eye,
With feelings of sublime delight,
On June's resplendent galaxy,
The studded arch of night.
How awful is the might of Him
Who stretch'd the skies from pole to pole!
And breathed, through chaos waste and dim,
Creation's living soul!
A thousand worlds are glowing round,
And thousands more than sight can trace
Revolve throughout the vast profound,
And fill the realms of space:
Then what is man? It ill befits
That such should hear or heed the prayer—
Lip-mockery of the worm that sits
Within the scorner's chair!
106
II
There are no clouds to checker night;The winds are hush'd, the skies serene;
The landscape, outlined darkly bright,
Is still distinctly seen:
Remotest Ocean's tongue is heard
Declaiming to his island shores;
And wails the lonely water-bird
From yonder marshy moors.
This is the realm of solitude;
A season and a scene for thought,
When Melancholy well may brood
On years, that now are not—
On syren years, whose witchery smiled,
Ere time had leagued the heart with strife—
The Eden of this earthly wild—
The paradise of life.
They feign, who tell us wealth can strike
In to the thornless paths of bliss;
Alas! its best is, Judas-like,
To sell us with a kiss.
III
Ambition is a gilded toy,A baited hook, a trap of guile;
Alluring only to destroy,
And mocking with a smile.
Alas! for what hath youth exchanged
The garden of its vernal prime?
107
More gently lenient Time?
Doth Friendship quaff from bowl more deep?
Bathes Hope in more delightful streams?
Comes Love to charm the pillow'd sleep
With brighter, holier dreams?
Ah, no! the ship of life is steer'd
More boldly to the central main,
Only to cope with tempests fear'd,
Lightning, and wind, and rain!
Around lurks shipwreck; hidden rocks
Beneath the billows darkling lie;
Death threatens in the breaker's shocks
And thunder-cloven sky!
IV
Hearken to Truth! Though joys remain,And friends unchanged and faithful prove,
The heart can never love again
As when it learn'd to love:
Oh! ne'er shall manhood's bosom feel
The raptures boyhood felt of yore;
Nor fancy lend, nor life reveal
Such faëry landscapes more!
Above the head when tempests break,
When cares flit round on ebon wing,
When Hope o'er being's troubled lake
No sunny gleam can fling;
When Love's clear flame no longer burns,
108
Then Retrospection fondly turns
To long-departed joy—
The visions brought by sleep, the dreams
By scarce-awaken'd daylight brought,
And reveries by sylvan streams,
And mountains far remote.
V
Elysium's hues have fled: the joyOf youth departs on seraph wing;
Soon breezes from the Pole destroy
The opening blooms of Spring!
We gaze around us; earth seems bright
With flowers and fruit, the skies are blue;
The bosom flutters with delight,
And deems the pageant true:—
Then lo! a tempest darkles o'er
The summer plain and waveless sea;
Lash the hoarse billows on the shore;
Fall blossoms from the tree;
Star after star is quench'd; the night
Of blackness gathers round in strife;
And storms howl o'er a scene of blight;—
Can such be human life?
Expanding beauties charm the heart,
The garden of our life is fair;
But in a few short years we start,
To find a desert there!
109
VI
Stars! far above that twinkling roll—Stars! so resplendent, yet serene—
Ye look (ah! how unlike the soul)
As ye have ever been:
In you 'tis sweet to read at eve
The themes of youth's departed day,
Call up the past, and fondly grieve
O'er what hath waned away—
The faces that we see no more;
The friends whom Fate hath doom'd to roam;
Or silence, through Death's iron door,
Call'd to his cheerless home!
O! that the heart again were young;
O! that the feelings were as kind,
Artless and innocent; the tongue
The oracle of mind:
O! that the sleep of Night were sweet,
Gentle as childhood's sleep hath been,
When angels, as from Jacob's feet,
Soar'd earth and Heaven between.
VII
What once hath been no more can be—'Tis void, 'tis visionary all;
The past hath joined eternity—
It comes not at the call.
No! worldly thoughts and selfish ways
Have banish'd Truth, to rule instead;
110
Have run where Folly led;
Yet happiness was found not there—
The spring-bloom of the heart was shed;
We turn'd from Nature's face, though fair,
To muse upon the dead!
As dewdrops from the sparry cave
Trickling, new properties impart,
A tendency Life's dealings have
To petrify the heart.
There is an ecstasy in thought,
A soothing warmth, a pleasing pain;
Away! such dreams were best forgot—
They shall not rise again!
111
TO A WOUNDED PTARMIGAN.
I
Haunter of the herbless peak,Habitant 'twixt earth and sky,
Snow-white bird of bloodless beak,
Rushing wing, and rapid eye,
Hath the Fowler's fatal aim
Of thy freeborn rights bereft thee,
And, 'mid natures curb'd or tame,
Thus encaged, a captive left thee?—
Thee, who Earth's low valleys scorning,
From thy cloud-embattled nest
Wont to catch the earliest morning
Sunbeam on thy breast!
II
Where did first the light of daySee thee bursting from thy shell?
Was it where Ben-Nevis grey
Towers aloft o'er flood and fell?
Or where down upon the storm
Plaided shepherds gaze in wonder,
112
Rolling with its clouds and thunder?
Or with summit, heaven-directed,
Where Benvoirlich views, in pride,
All his skyey groves reflected
In Loch Ketturin's tide?
III
Boots it not—but this we knowThat a wild free life was thine,
Whether on the peak of snow
Or amid the clumps of pine;
Now on high begirt with heath,
Now, decoy'd by cloudless weather,
To the golden broom beneath,
Happy with thy mates together;
Yours were every cliff and cranny
Of your birth's majestic hill;—
Tameless flock! and ye were many,
Ere the spoiler came to kill!
IV
Gazing, wintry bird, at thee,Thou dost bring the wandering mind
Visions of the Polar Sea—
Where, impell'd by wave and wind,
Drift the icebergs to and fro,
Crashing oft in fierce commotion,
113
In its anger tumults ocean;—
Naked, treeless shores, where howling
Tempests vex the brumal air,
And the famish'd wolf-cub prowling
Shuns the fiercer bear:—
V
And far north the daylight dies—And the twinkling stars alone
Glitter through the icy skies,
Down from mid-day's ghastly throne;
And the moon is in her cave;
And no living sound intruding,
Save the howling wind and wave,
'Mid that darkness ever brooding;
Morn as 'twere in anger blotted
From Creation's wistful sight,
And Time's progress only noted
By the Northern Light.
VI
Sure 'twas sweet for thee, in spring,Nature's earliest green to hail,
As the cuckoo's slumberous wing
Dreamt along the sunny vale;
As the blackbird from the brake
Hymn'd the Morning Star serenely;
114
Ice-unfetter'd, oar'd it queenly;
Brightest which?—the concave o'er thee
Deepening to its summer hue,
Or the boundless moors before thee,
With their bells of blue?
VII
Then from larchen grove to grove,And from wild-flower glen to glen,
Thine it was in bliss to rove,
High o'er hills, and far from men;
Wilds Elysian! not a sound
Heard except the torrents booming;
Nought beheld for leagues around
Save the heath in purple blooming:
Why that startle? From their shieling
On the hazel-girded mount,
'Tis the doe and fawn down stealing
To the silvery fount.
VIII
Sweet to all the summer time—But how sweeter far to thee,
Sitting in thy home sublime,
High o'er cloud-land's soundless sea;
Or if morn, by July drest,
Steep'd the hill-tops in vermilion,
115
Even like Glory's own pavilion;
While were fix'd thine ardent eyes on
Realms, outspread in blooming mirth,
Bounded but by the horizon
Belting Heaven to Earth.
IX
Did the Genius of the place,Which of living things but you
Had for long beheld no trace,
That unhallow'd visit rue?
Did the gather'd snow of years
Which begirt that mountain's forehead,
Thawing, melt as 'twere in tears,
O'er that natural outrage horrid?
Did the lady-fern hang drooping,
And the quivering pine-trees sigh,
As, to cheer his game-dogs whooping,
Pass'd the spoiler by?
X
None may know—the dream is o'er—Bliss and beauty cannot last;
To that haunt, for evermore,
Ye are creatures of the past!
And for you it mourns in vain;
While the dirgeful night-breeze only
116
'Mid your homes forlorn and lonely.
Ye have pass'd—the bonds enthral you
Of supine and wakeless death;
Never more shall spring recall you
To the scented heath!
XI
Such their fate—but unto thee,Bleeding bird! protracted breath,
Hopeless, drear captivity,
Life which in itself is death:—
Yet alike the fate of him
Who, when all his views are thwarted,
Finds earth but a desert dim,
Relatives and race departed;
Soon are Fancy's realms Elysian
Peopled by the brood of Care;
And Truth finds Hope's gilded vision
Painted but—in air.
117
THE CHILD'S BURIAL IN SPRING.
I
Where Ocean's waves to the hollow caves murmur a low wild hymn,In pleasant musing I pursued my solitary way;
Then upwards wending from the shore, amid the woodlands dim,
From the gentle height, like a map in sight, the downward country lay.
II
'Twas in the smile of “green Aprile,”“Grene Aprile,” the favourite appellation of the month by Chaucer, Spenser, Browne, and the older poets.
A prose character, equally impregnated with emerald, is given to its personification, in a curious duodecimo of 1681, entitled “The Queen-like Closet or Rich Cabinet,” quoted in Hone's “Every-Day Book,” (vol. ii. 517,) by Charles Lamb, in which the fair author, Anne Wooley, thus describes him:—
“Aprile—A young man in green, with a garland of myrtle, and hawthorn buds; Winged; in one hand Primroses and Violets, in the other the sign Taurus.”
In ecstasy the birds sang forth from many a leafing tree;
Both bud and bloom, with fresh perfume, proclaim'd the awaken'd year;
And Earth, array'd in beauty's robes, seem'd Heaven itself to be.
118
III
So cheerfully the sun shone out, so smilingly the skyO'erarch'd green earth, so pleasantly the stream meander'd on,
So joyous was the murmur of the honey-bee and fly,
That of our fall, which ruin'd all, seem'd traces few or none.
IV
Then hopes, whose gilded pageantry wore all the hues of truth—Elysian thoughts—Arcadian dreams—the poet's fabling strain—
Again seem'd shedding o'er our world an amaranthine youth,
And left no vestiges behind of death, decay, or pain.
V
At length I reach'd a churchyard gate—a churchyard? Yes! but thereBreathed out such calm serenity o'er every thing around,
That “the joy of grief” (as Ossian sings) o'erbalm'd the very air,
And the place was less a mournful place than consecrated ground.
119
VI
Beneath the joyous noontide sun, beneath the cloudless sky,'Mid bees that humm'd, and birds that sang, and flowers that gemm'd the wild,
The sound of measured steps was heard—a grave stood yawning by—
And lo! in sad procession slow, the Funeral of a Child!
VII
I saw the little coffin borne unto its final rest;The dark mould shovell'd o'er it, and replaced the daisied sod;
I mark'd the deep convulsive throes that heaved the Father's breast,
As he return'd (too briefly given!) that loan of love to God!
VIII
Then rose in my rebellious heart unhallow'd thoughts and wild,Daring the inscrutable decrees of Providence to scan—
How death should be allotted to a pure, a sinless child,
And length of days the destiny of sinful, guilty man!
120
IX
The laws of the material world seem'd beautiful and clear;The day and night, the bloom and blight, and seasons as they roll
In regular vicissitude to form a circling year,
Made up of parts dissimilar, and yet a perfect whole.
X
But darkness lay o'er the moral way which man is told to tread;A shadow veil'd the beam divine by Revelation lent:
“How awfully mysterious are thy ways, O Heaven!” I said;
“We see not whence, nor know for what fate's arrows oft are sent!
XI
Under the shroud of the sullen cloud, when the hills are capp'd with snow,When the moaning breeze, through leafless trees, bears tempest on its wing—
In the Winter's wrath, we think of death; but not when lilies blow,
And, Lazarus-like, from March's tomb walks forth triumphant Spring.
121
XII
As in distress o'er this wilderness I mused of stir and strife,Where, 'mid the dark, seem'd scarce a mark our tangled path to scan,
A shadow o'er the season fell; a cloud o'er human life—
A veil to be by Eternity but ne'er by time withdrawn!
SPRING HYMN.
I
How pleasant is the opening year!The clouds of Winter melt away;
The flowers in beauty reappear;
The songster carols from the spray;
Lengthens the more refulgent day;
And bluer glows the arching sky;
All things around us seem to say—
“Christian! direct thy thoughts on high.”
122
II
In darkness, through the dreary lengthOf Winter slept both bud and bloom;
But Nature now puts forth her strength,
And starts renew'd, as from the tomb;
Behold an emblem of thy doom,
O man!—a star hath shone to save—
And morning yet shall re-illume
The midnight darkness of the grave!
III
Yet ponder well, how then shall breakThe dawn of second life on thee—
Shalt thou to hope—to bliss awake?
Or vainly strive God's wrath to flee?
Then shall pass forth the dread decree,
That makes or weal or woe thine own:
Up, and to work! Eternity
Must reap the harvest Time hath sown.
123
OCTOBER—A SKETCH.
In spring, in summer, in autumnal wane,
How beautiful are Nature's thousand hues!
And which the fairest who can say? For each
In turn is passing fair, possesses charms
Peculiar, and upon the heart and mind
Leaves an imperial impress. Blandly crown'd
With crocus and with snowdrop coronal,
First comes the vestal Spring, with emerald scarf
And cheeks of glowing childhood. Summer next,
With all her gay and gorgeous trappings on,
Rejoicing in the glory of her youth,
And braiding roses in her auburn hair,
Under the light of the meridian sun,
In the green covert of a spreading beech:
While all around the fields are musical
With song of bird, and hum of bee. And lo!
Matronly Autumn passes, bright at first
In eye, and firm of step, her cincture rich,
Of wheat-ear and of vine-wreath intertwined;
But sadness dwells in her departing look,
And darklier glooms the atmosphere around,
Till Winter meets her on the desert heath,
And breathes consumption on her sallow cheek.
How beautiful are Nature's thousand hues!
And which the fairest who can say? For each
In turn is passing fair, possesses charms
Peculiar, and upon the heart and mind
Leaves an imperial impress. Blandly crown'd
With crocus and with snowdrop coronal,
First comes the vestal Spring, with emerald scarf
And cheeks of glowing childhood. Summer next,
With all her gay and gorgeous trappings on,
Rejoicing in the glory of her youth,
And braiding roses in her auburn hair,
Under the light of the meridian sun,
In the green covert of a spreading beech:
While all around the fields are musical
With song of bird, and hum of bee. And lo!
Matronly Autumn passes, bright at first
In eye, and firm of step, her cincture rich,
Of wheat-ear and of vine-wreath intertwined;
But sadness dwells in her departing look,
124
Till Winter meets her on the desert heath,
And breathes consumption on her sallow cheek.
The year is now declining, and the air,
When morning blushes on the orient hills,
Embued with icy chillness. Ocean's wave
Has lost its tepid glow, and slumbering fogs
Brood o'er its level calm on windless days;
Yet when enshrined at his meridian height,
The sun athwart the fading landscape smiles
With most paternal kindness, softly warm,
And delicately beautiful—a Prince
Blessing the realms whose glory flows from him.
From bough to bough of the thick holly-tree
The spider weaves his net; the gossamer—
A tenuous line, glistening at intervals—
Now floats and now subsides upon the air;
The foliage of the forest, brown and sere,
Drops on the margin of the stubble-field,
In which the partridge lingers insecure,
And raises oft at sombre eventide,
With plaintive throat, a wild and tremulous cry.
The sickle of the husbandman hath ceased,
Leaving the lap of nature shorn and bare,
And even the latest gleaner disappear'd.
The dandelion, from the wayside path,
Its golden sun eclipsed, hath pass'd away;
And the sere nettle seeds along the bank.
The odorous clover flowers—these purely white,
Those richly purple—now are seen no more;
The perfume of the bean-field has decay'd;
And roams the wandering bee o'er many a strath,
For blossoms which have perish'd. Grassy blades,
Transparent, taper, and of sickly growth,
Shoot, soon to wither, in the sterile fields,
Doom'd in their spring to premature old age.
The garden fruits have mellow'd with the year,
Have mellow'd, and been gathered—all are gone;
And save the lingering nectarine—but half,
Not wholly reconcil'd to us—remains
Nor trace nor token of the varied wealth
Which Summer boasted in her cloudless prime.
Yet on the wild-brier grows the yellow hip;
The dew-sprent bramble shows its clusters ripe;
Reddens, 'mong fading branches, the harsh sloe;
And from the mountain-ash, in scarlet pride,
The fairy bunches drop their countless beads
In richness; on the lithe laburnum's bough,
Mix pods of lighter green among the leaves;
And, on the jointed honeysuckle's stalk,
The succulent berries hang. The robin sits
Upon the mossy gateway, singing clear
A requiem to the glory of the woods—
The bright umbrageousness, which, like a dream,
Hath perish'd and for ever passed away;
And, when the breeze awakes, a frequent shower
Of wither'd leaves bestrew the weeded paths,
Or from the branches of the willow whirl,
With rustling sound, into the turbid stream.
When morning blushes on the orient hills,
Embued with icy chillness. Ocean's wave
Has lost its tepid glow, and slumbering fogs
Brood o'er its level calm on windless days;
Yet when enshrined at his meridian height,
The sun athwart the fading landscape smiles
With most paternal kindness, softly warm,
And delicately beautiful—a Prince
Blessing the realms whose glory flows from him.
From bough to bough of the thick holly-tree
The spider weaves his net; the gossamer—
A tenuous line, glistening at intervals—
Now floats and now subsides upon the air;
The foliage of the forest, brown and sere,
Drops on the margin of the stubble-field,
In which the partridge lingers insecure,
And raises oft at sombre eventide,
With plaintive throat, a wild and tremulous cry.
The sickle of the husbandman hath ceased,
Leaving the lap of nature shorn and bare,
And even the latest gleaner disappear'd.
The dandelion, from the wayside path,
Its golden sun eclipsed, hath pass'd away;
And the sere nettle seeds along the bank.
The odorous clover flowers—these purely white,
125
The perfume of the bean-field has decay'd;
And roams the wandering bee o'er many a strath,
For blossoms which have perish'd. Grassy blades,
Transparent, taper, and of sickly growth,
Shoot, soon to wither, in the sterile fields,
Doom'd in their spring to premature old age.
The garden fruits have mellow'd with the year,
Have mellow'd, and been gathered—all are gone;
And save the lingering nectarine—but half,
Not wholly reconcil'd to us—remains
Nor trace nor token of the varied wealth
Which Summer boasted in her cloudless prime.
Yet on the wild-brier grows the yellow hip;
The dew-sprent bramble shows its clusters ripe;
Reddens, 'mong fading branches, the harsh sloe;
And from the mountain-ash, in scarlet pride,
The fairy bunches drop their countless beads
In richness; on the lithe laburnum's bough,
Mix pods of lighter green among the leaves;
And, on the jointed honeysuckle's stalk,
The succulent berries hang. The robin sits
Upon the mossy gateway, singing clear
A requiem to the glory of the woods—
The bright umbrageousness, which, like a dream,
Hath perish'd and for ever passed away;
And, when the breeze awakes, a frequent shower
Of wither'd leaves bestrew the weeded paths,
Or from the branches of the willow whirl,
With rustling sound, into the turbid stream.
126
Yet there is still a brightness in the sky—
A most refulgent and translucent blue:
Still, from the ruin'd tower, the wallflower tells
Mournfully of what midsummer's pride hath been;
And still the mountains heave their ridgy sides
In pastoral greenness. Melancholy time!
Yet full of sweet sad thought; for everything
Is placid, if not joyful, as in Spring,
When Hope was keen, and, with an eagle eye,
Pry'd forward to the glories yet to come.
A most refulgent and translucent blue:
Still, from the ruin'd tower, the wallflower tells
Mournfully of what midsummer's pride hath been;
And still the mountains heave their ridgy sides
In pastoral greenness. Melancholy time!
Yet full of sweet sad thought; for everything
Is placid, if not joyful, as in Spring,
When Hope was keen, and, with an eagle eye,
Pry'd forward to the glories yet to come.
There cannot be a sweeter hour than this,
Even now, altho' encompass'd with decay,
To him who knows the world wherein he lives,
And all its mournful mutabilities!
There is not on the heavens a single cloud;
There is not in the air a breathing wind;
There is not on the earth a sound of grief;
Nor in the bosom a repining thought:—
Faith having sought and gained the mastery,
Quiet and contemplation mantle all!
Even now, altho' encompass'd with decay,
To him who knows the world wherein he lives,
And all its mournful mutabilities!
There is not on the heavens a single cloud;
There is not in the air a breathing wind;
There is not on the earth a sound of grief;
Nor in the bosom a repining thought:—
Faith having sought and gained the mastery,
Quiet and contemplation mantle all!
| The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir | |