Poems By Robert Leighton: 2nd ed |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. | XIX.
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| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
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 | Poems |  |
XIX.
[For one whole week I breathed Orcadian air—]
For one whole week I breathed Orcadian air—
So far up in the north that, all the time,
I felt among cloud-islands of the skies.
And Autumn lay asleep among the isles;
The fiords all had still'd their roaring throats,
Afraid to wake her, and, into themselves,
Murmur'd a drowsy bass; the grim-brow'd cliffs
Bent forward, half relax'd their savage looks
At seeing them reflected in the pools.—
As oft I stood upon a tiptoe hill,
The lesser islands sail'd out in the bays,
And promontories drifted into isles.
It was enchanted land—some other world—
That hung within the void; and rounding all,
Beneath it as above, was calm blue sky.
So far up in the north that, all the time,
I felt among cloud-islands of the skies.
And Autumn lay asleep among the isles;
The fiords all had still'd their roaring throats,
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Murmur'd a drowsy bass; the grim-brow'd cliffs
Bent forward, half relax'd their savage looks
At seeing them reflected in the pools.—
As oft I stood upon a tiptoe hill,
The lesser islands sail'd out in the bays,
And promontories drifted into isles.
It was enchanted land—some other world—
That hung within the void; and rounding all,
Beneath it as above, was calm blue sky.
High over all, the weather-beaten head
Of Hoy rises. On his scarrèd brow
He wears a precious stone—a carbuncle—
Enough, 'tis thought, to buy Orcadia.
From certain points its fiery beams are seen;
And many an islander has mark'd the spot,
Then clomb the footless heights to snatch the prize,
And be for ever rich. In vain his search!
The bright delusion's never to be found.
But when he has retraced the perilous steep,
The thing he sought is in its place again,
And laughs at him. So are we ever fool'd
On earth by things that glitter. Wealth and fame
When reach'd are never found. But, failing oft,
We learn at last our truest wealth is love,—
Best fame, approving conscience.
Of Hoy rises. On his scarrèd brow
He wears a precious stone—a carbuncle—
Enough, 'tis thought, to buy Orcadia.
From certain points its fiery beams are seen;
And many an islander has mark'd the spot,
Then clomb the footless heights to snatch the prize,
And be for ever rich. In vain his search!
The bright delusion's never to be found.
But when he has retraced the perilous steep,
The thing he sought is in its place again,
And laughs at him. So are we ever fool'd
On earth by things that glitter. Wealth and fame
When reach'd are never found. But, failing oft,
We learn at last our truest wealth is love,—
Best fame, approving conscience.
Up the cliffs
Of Hoy, there's another precious stone,
Suggesting richer wealth than diamond,
Ruby or pearl—yea, all the ruck of gems.
The breezy front of that high beetled rock
Presents, as if medallion'd on the sky,
By Nature chissel'd, the exact profile
Of Walter Scott. There has the wizzard brow
Hung brooding o'er the isles from time unknown,
And seen enacted all the stirring lore
Of pirates, smugglers, jarls and old sea-kings.
O storied Prince! from that high stand, on this,
Its northern bound, look southward and behold
Thy legendary empire.
Of Hoy, there's another precious stone,
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Ruby or pearl—yea, all the ruck of gems.
The breezy front of that high beetled rock
Presents, as if medallion'd on the sky,
By Nature chissel'd, the exact profile
Of Walter Scott. There has the wizzard brow
Hung brooding o'er the isles from time unknown,
And seen enacted all the stirring lore
Of pirates, smugglers, jarls and old sea-kings.
O storied Prince! from that high stand, on this,
Its northern bound, look southward and behold
Thy legendary empire.
In the north
Both Nature and Antiquity had freaks
Of writing thoughts in stone. In yonder holm,
All solitary, far from human strife,
Some desert soul has hewn itself a house
Out of the solid rock. Tradition gives
No record but its name—The Dwarfie Stone.
Yet oft a history is in a name:
And we in this may read the gnarl'd dwarf,
Unhuman held, uncanny, to be fear'd,—
Retiring to the desert from the gaze
Of superstitious, half averted eyes,
Knowing no kindred but his own weird thoughts,
The trailing clouds, the shrieking winds, the sprite
That whistles 'mong the rocks before a storm;
Perhaps the visitings of troubled ghosts,
Or deeper stir of the eternal God;—
And, driven thus within himself, becoming
Wrapp'd with the visions of the inner world,
That make him fear'd the more; unearthly light
Gathering within his eyes, and lonely thought
Ensphering him in visionary mist;
Till, like a thing in fairy waters dipt,
He takes mysterious change, and comes to be
The weird but innocent tyrant of the isles.
Both Nature and Antiquity had freaks
Of writing thoughts in stone. In yonder holm,
All solitary, far from human strife,
Some desert soul has hewn itself a house
Out of the solid rock. Tradition gives
No record but its name—The Dwarfie Stone.
Yet oft a history is in a name:
And we in this may read the gnarl'd dwarf,
Unhuman held, uncanny, to be fear'd,—
Retiring to the desert from the gaze
Of superstitious, half averted eyes,
Knowing no kindred but his own weird thoughts,
The trailing clouds, the shrieking winds, the sprite
That whistles 'mong the rocks before a storm;
Perhaps the visitings of troubled ghosts,
Or deeper stir of the eternal God;—
87
Wrapp'd with the visions of the inner world,
That make him fear'd the more; unearthly light
Gathering within his eyes, and lonely thought
Ensphering him in visionary mist;
Till, like a thing in fairy waters dipt,
He takes mysterious change, and comes to be
The weird but innocent tyrant of the isles.
And in Orcadia we find the rocks
That Miller read—the very rocks that gave
To him their “testimony,” in a type
Already ancient when our Adam came,
To which his Eden's but a minute since,
The fabled flood the rain that fell e'en now:
Those marvellous stone scriptures that reveal
What monsters trod the earth and swam the seas,
Or crawl'd in slime of half-created earth,
Age after age, ere yet the eye of man
Was there to watch; and how the aged woods,
Year after year, put on their roofs of green,
And waited eras with their oaken aisles,
Without one Druid soul to dedicate
Their silences to prayer: whose only sounds
Were of the winds and rains, the beasts that made
Fierce loves and fiercer wars, heaven's fiery bolts
That rent the groaning oaks, the old-world screams
Of birds to us unknown; but surely not
The linkèd music of our modern woods;
For in my heart I read that merle and thrush,
Yea, all the voices of our woodland quires
Were given to Eve in paradise, long, long
After the writing of those books of stone.
That Miller read—the very rocks that gave
To him their “testimony,” in a type
Already ancient when our Adam came,
To which his Eden's but a minute since,
The fabled flood the rain that fell e'en now:
Those marvellous stone scriptures that reveal
What monsters trod the earth and swam the seas,
Or crawl'd in slime of half-created earth,
Age after age, ere yet the eye of man
Was there to watch; and how the aged woods,
Year after year, put on their roofs of green,
And waited eras with their oaken aisles,
Without one Druid soul to dedicate
Their silences to prayer: whose only sounds
Were of the winds and rains, the beasts that made
Fierce loves and fiercer wars, heaven's fiery bolts
That rent the groaning oaks, the old-world screams
Of birds to us unknown; but surely not
The linkèd music of our modern woods;
For in my heart I read that merle and thrush,
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Were given to Eve in paradise, long, long
After the writing of those books of stone.
Inland the explorer turns—if inland be,
Where all is island, even the islands cleft
With reaches of the sea—and he beholds
Stennis, the mystic Stonehenge of the north,
Upon a tongue of springy sward that parts
Two bleak, half-salted lochs. A stranger, he
Knows not what sight awaits him, passing down
The easy sloping road, when starts in view
A curve of visionary things, that shine
Like ghosts amid the sunlight, white or gray,
As pass the sailing shadows of the clouds.
With wondering gaze and speculative thought,
He nears and nears them, while by slow removes
They've rank'd themselves into a giant ring
Of hoary stones, and, in the centre, one
Of huger bulk than any of the rest.
Where all is island, even the islands cleft
With reaches of the sea—and he beholds
Stennis, the mystic Stonehenge of the north,
Upon a tongue of springy sward that parts
Two bleak, half-salted lochs. A stranger, he
Knows not what sight awaits him, passing down
The easy sloping road, when starts in view
A curve of visionary things, that shine
Like ghosts amid the sunlight, white or gray,
As pass the sailing shadows of the clouds.
With wondering gaze and speculative thought,
He nears and nears them, while by slow removes
They've rank'd themselves into a giant ring
Of hoary stones, and, in the centre, one
Of huger bulk than any of the rest.
Speak! ye dumb priests of eld, and say what kind
Of men they were that set you thus on end,
And to what purpose? Not a single word!
The yellowhammer sits on your bald crowns,
And mocks my queries with its moorland pipe:
Methinks a whisper runs from each to each,
But 'tis the wind upon your flinty sides,
And not your inward voices. Ye have slept
The dream of many ages, and your own
Is harden'd into stone. It will not yield
To us the reflex of its inner self,
Long cross'd Time's dusky gulf, though living still
In some far circle of eternal light.
Yet underneath the springy sward, and through
The solid hearts of these old stones, I feel
The beating thought that raised them; and within
This almost mythic temple I am bow'd
With worship deeper than mere stones evoke.
A haunted place—the ancient forms of men,
And their devotion gone, all long, long gone!
But these gray stones that heard their songs and pray'rs,
Ring with their spirits yet; this grass has lived
Perennially since then—the same they trod:
Yon sun, so old and young, look'd down on them,
And saw their rites: he looks the same on me.
O, Druid! we are one; I feel thy thoughts
Now climbing up to God. The form of thought
Goes with the age—the thought is for all time.
Of men they were that set you thus on end,
And to what purpose? Not a single word!
The yellowhammer sits on your bald crowns,
And mocks my queries with its moorland pipe:
Methinks a whisper runs from each to each,
But 'tis the wind upon your flinty sides,
And not your inward voices. Ye have slept
The dream of many ages, and your own
89
To us the reflex of its inner self,
Long cross'd Time's dusky gulf, though living still
In some far circle of eternal light.
Yet underneath the springy sward, and through
The solid hearts of these old stones, I feel
The beating thought that raised them; and within
This almost mythic temple I am bow'd
With worship deeper than mere stones evoke.
A haunted place—the ancient forms of men,
And their devotion gone, all long, long gone!
But these gray stones that heard their songs and pray'rs,
Ring with their spirits yet; this grass has lived
Perennially since then—the same they trod:
Yon sun, so old and young, look'd down on them,
And saw their rites: he looks the same on me.
O, Druid! we are one; I feel thy thoughts
Now climbing up to God. The form of thought
Goes with the age—the thought is for all time.
In sight of Stennis there's another waif
Of the forgotten times. On the dark heath
There is a circular mound—as many such,
In outside look, among those isles there be:
But most are only heap'd-up earth and stones,
O'ergrown with Nature's coverlet of green.
In this one, when the antiquarian spade,
Only the other day, upturn'd the sod,
Some blocks of unlimed masonry appear'd.
Then pick and labouring crowbar came to work,
And pick'd and prized, when lo! this ponderous roof—
For such 'twas found to be—fell, groaning, in,
And darkness, the freed prisoner, leapt out.
All eyes were in amaze, and, looking down,
Beheld a chamber, square, and all compact,
Its firm walls built of uncemented flags,
Knit flat upon each other. On three sides,
Recesses, breast high, open'd into cells
About the size of beds, paved, roof'd and wall'd
With single flags. A passage on the fourth,
Some twenty feet in length, each side one block,
Led outward from the chamber; would have led
Into the open day, but for the earth
That choked its outer entrance, and the sod
That green'd the whole into a grassy mound.
Of the forgotten times. On the dark heath
There is a circular mound—as many such,
In outside look, among those isles there be:
But most are only heap'd-up earth and stones,
O'ergrown with Nature's coverlet of green.
In this one, when the antiquarian spade,
Only the other day, upturn'd the sod,
Some blocks of unlimed masonry appear'd.
Then pick and labouring crowbar came to work,
90
For such 'twas found to be—fell, groaning, in,
And darkness, the freed prisoner, leapt out.
All eyes were in amaze, and, looking down,
Beheld a chamber, square, and all compact,
Its firm walls built of uncemented flags,
Knit flat upon each other. On three sides,
Recesses, breast high, open'd into cells
About the size of beds, paved, roof'd and wall'd
With single flags. A passage on the fourth,
Some twenty feet in length, each side one block,
Led outward from the chamber; would have led
Into the open day, but for the earth
That choked its outer entrance, and the sod
That green'd the whole into a grassy mound.
And what its history? Who knows? who knows?
No implement of peace or war was found,
No relic of the living or the dead.—
Yet may itself tell all. Upon the slabs
That pillar the four corners, and around
The lintels of the cells, are many lines
Of Runic writ, but all so out of date
That none in all the north can read one word:
They wait the coming Daniel. At one place—
And strangely out of place among the Runes—
Was found a dragon artfully engraved;
The doing, clearly, of some after age;
And 'twas inferr'd from this, that once before
The place had been discover'd, and this now
Only a re-discovery.—Nothing more
Is to be known until the dragon speak,
And older Runes reveal. But only think
With what sweet faith the gravers cut their thoughts
Into the during stone—that, while it lasts,
Their names and day might live! These unearth'd walls,
Shut from the washing rains and beating winds,
Are fresh as when first quarried from the earth;
But who shall wake a living soul within
Their mummied characters, and make them tell—
E'en tell how long their histories are dead!
No implement of peace or war was found,
No relic of the living or the dead.—
Yet may itself tell all. Upon the slabs
That pillar the four corners, and around
The lintels of the cells, are many lines
Of Runic writ, but all so out of date
That none in all the north can read one word:
They wait the coming Daniel. At one place—
And strangely out of place among the Runes—
Was found a dragon artfully engraved;
The doing, clearly, of some after age;
And 'twas inferr'd from this, that once before
The place had been discover'd, and this now
91
Is to be known until the dragon speak,
And older Runes reveal. But only think
With what sweet faith the gravers cut their thoughts
Into the during stone—that, while it lasts,
Their names and day might live! These unearth'd walls,
Shut from the washing rains and beating winds,
Are fresh as when first quarried from the earth;
But who shall wake a living soul within
Their mummied characters, and make them tell—
E'en tell how long their histories are dead!
The quaint Orcadian towns—Kirkwall, Stromness!—
Their streets about as wide as one might span
With good long arms outstretch'd—like closes paved—
And crooked as the inside of a whelk—
Gables and angles jutting to the front—
And while in other towns, stables and sheds
Are in the rear of houses, these have piers,
Where, in the olden time, each house kept moor'd
Its own sea steed, and in the later days
The skipper snugg'd his schooner and enjoy'd
His winter ease: secluded havens and safe—
Suggesting rolls of silk, and pipes of wine,
And tales of starlight smuggling.—In our age
Of lighted towns, how fine to realize
The antique dream of darkness in the streets!
Stromness is yet in innocence of gas—
In subterranean gloom, with, here and there,
A lamp that fights to keep its oily soul
Amid the drowning dark; and when we grope
Our doubting way about the winding streets,
Meetings, not unromantic, oft take place.
Their streets about as wide as one might span
With good long arms outstretch'd—like closes paved—
And crooked as the inside of a whelk—
Gables and angles jutting to the front—
And while in other towns, stables and sheds
Are in the rear of houses, these have piers,
Where, in the olden time, each house kept moor'd
Its own sea steed, and in the later days
The skipper snugg'd his schooner and enjoy'd
His winter ease: secluded havens and safe—
Suggesting rolls of silk, and pipes of wine,
And tales of starlight smuggling.—In our age
Of lighted towns, how fine to realize
The antique dream of darkness in the streets!
Stromness is yet in innocence of gas—
In subterranean gloom, with, here and there,
92
Amid the drowning dark; and when we grope
Our doubting way about the winding streets,
Meetings, not unromantic, oft take place.
But Kirkwall, the metropolis of the isles,
Shines with the modern flame; which throws its glare
Against the ancient palaces of earls,
And halls of old sea-kings. For here we find
The strong palatial gateways, the paved courts
And thick-wall'd mansions of the lordly times,
Degraded into hostelries and shops.
And here Saint Magnus lifts his sacred pile
In bold cathedral beauty, seen afar
By islanders at labour in their fields,
Or drawing the sea's produce from the fiords,
And by the straining eyes that pass in ships.
For though all earth, with its Mosaic floor
Of heath and rock, green plain, and shore, and sea,
And yon far ceiling of the dreamy blue,
Should be our God-built temple, yet we think
We reach some inner worship in those shrines
That men have built to God; and thus, far seen,
They work a Sabbath in the gazer's heart.
Shines with the modern flame; which throws its glare
Against the ancient palaces of earls,
And halls of old sea-kings. For here we find
The strong palatial gateways, the paved courts
And thick-wall'd mansions of the lordly times,
Degraded into hostelries and shops.
And here Saint Magnus lifts his sacred pile
In bold cathedral beauty, seen afar
By islanders at labour in their fields,
Or drawing the sea's produce from the fiords,
And by the straining eyes that pass in ships.
For though all earth, with its Mosaic floor
Of heath and rock, green plain, and shore, and sea,
And yon far ceiling of the dreamy blue,
Should be our God-built temple, yet we think
We reach some inner worship in those shrines
That men have built to God; and thus, far seen,
They work a Sabbath in the gazer's heart.
Saint Magnus, though I may refuse thy creed,
These massive, grim, red, weather-beaten walls,
Their dim old epitaphs, with sea devices,
And even thy two brass platters that receive
The weekly pence—large, round and rude, like shields
Of sea-gods, with quaint mottoes round their rims,
In stout old English of a northern ring,—
Saint Magnus, these, with Christ's dear life that breathes
Through every stone, and consecrateth all,
Put out the creeds, and leave thee a pure shrine,
Wherein the universal heart might kneel—
Yea, all that know the everlasting God.
These massive, grim, red, weather-beaten walls,
Their dim old epitaphs, with sea devices,
And even thy two brass platters that receive
The weekly pence—large, round and rude, like shields
93
In stout old English of a northern ring,—
Saint Magnus, these, with Christ's dear life that breathes
Through every stone, and consecrateth all,
Put out the creeds, and leave thee a pure shrine,
Wherein the universal heart might kneel—
Yea, all that know the everlasting God.
Within an ancient hostelry I lay;
The revellers of night had dropt to rest;
And Dawn's gray eye was opening, when I heard
A gathering of noises in the streets:
The bleat of sheep, the short sharp bark of dogs,
The nickering of ponies, the mix'd rowte
Of bullocks, some like groans, and some as shrill
Almost as trumpets, and the shouts of men—
Drovers that whoop'd and whistled through their teeth.
And when I rose the bay was molten gold;
The steamer and her shadow, keel to keel,
Lay dreamily at anchor: her thick smoke
Curl'd up in one straight column and dissolved
Into the viewless air: her decks were pack'd
With all those noisy breakers of my sleep,
Now quietly resign'd: boats, gunwale deep
With passengers and luggage from the shore,
Pass'd others lightly coming for their loads.
Before the sun had reach'd halfway to noon
We had embark'd. The steamer's jarring bell
Clash'd out its last alarum to the shore,
Amid the roar of the impatient steam.
But soon that labouring giant found its work
Among the ponderous cranks, and he was still'd.
We steer'd to sea, clove through the gleaming calm,
Pass'd little isles and weather-eaten rocks
On either side, still keeping out to sea;
And soon Orcadia pass'd into the clouds.
The revellers of night had dropt to rest;
And Dawn's gray eye was opening, when I heard
A gathering of noises in the streets:
The bleat of sheep, the short sharp bark of dogs,
The nickering of ponies, the mix'd rowte
Of bullocks, some like groans, and some as shrill
Almost as trumpets, and the shouts of men—
Drovers that whoop'd and whistled through their teeth.
And when I rose the bay was molten gold;
The steamer and her shadow, keel to keel,
Lay dreamily at anchor: her thick smoke
Curl'd up in one straight column and dissolved
Into the viewless air: her decks were pack'd
With all those noisy breakers of my sleep,
Now quietly resign'd: boats, gunwale deep
With passengers and luggage from the shore,
Pass'd others lightly coming for their loads.
Before the sun had reach'd halfway to noon
We had embark'd. The steamer's jarring bell
Clash'd out its last alarum to the shore,
Amid the roar of the impatient steam.
94
Among the ponderous cranks, and he was still'd.
We steer'd to sea, clove through the gleaming calm,
Pass'd little isles and weather-eaten rocks
On either side, still keeping out to sea;
And soon Orcadia pass'd into the clouds.
| Poems | |