The poetical works of William Motherwell :: :: University of Virginia Library

T---m A---k---n mounted his berry brown steed,
Thro' all the West Country unequalled for speed;
And, save an odd threepence to pay for the toll,
He carried no weight but a placard in scroll.
So lightly and jaunty he Eastward did hie,
With the Bill in his heart, and the Mail in his eye—
He swore that, for once, he would e-clipse the Sun,
And darken the shine of his neighbour, M'P---n.

Camlachie folk stared, and Tollcross stood abeigh,
So rapid he rode, and the steed was so skeigh;
But Tom did not value his horsemanlike skill,
His thoughts were ‘Reform,’ and ‘nought but the Bill.’
Yea, even in passing the scene at Carmyle,
The Whig field of honour seemed worthless the while—
For still he expected to e-clipse the Sun,
And darken the shine of his neighbour, M'P---n.

Then onward he sped, till he came to a turn
Of the road, when the Guard of the Mail cried—‘Adjourn!’
And about ship went Tom, and the spur did apply,
And the Stationer, truly, for once seemed to fly.
His Tontine constituents soon did he hail,
For near eighteen minutes he distanc'd the Mail;
The ‘Adjourn’ was repeated, e-clipsed was the Sun,
The shine was o'erclouded of neighbour, M'P---n.

Sir D. K. S---f---d next mounted his beast,
With its tail to the West and its head to the East,
And on like a War Knight the brute he did urge,
To nose the effect of the fam'd ‘Russell Purge;’
But at Bothwell the Mail Guard roar'd out—‘Lost by Eight!’
When about went the prad, as it had taken fright;
Sir Dan he stuck on, and again 'clipsed the Sun,
To the utter confounding of neighbour, M'P---n.

POEMS.

THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGURD.

I

The eagle hearts of all the North
Have left their stormy strand;
The warriors of the world are forth
To choose another land!
Again, their long keels sheer the wave,
Their broad sheets court the breeze;
Again, the reckless and the brave,
Ride lords of weltering seas.
Nor swifter from the well-bent bow
Can feathered shaft be sped,
Than o'er the ocean's flood of snow
Their snoring galleys tread.
Then lift the can to bearded lip,
And smite each sounding shield,

Wassaile! to every darked-ribbed ship,
To every battle-field!
So proudly the Skalds raise their voices of triumph,
As the Northmen ride over the broad-bosom'd billow.

II

Aloft, Sigurdir's battle-flag
Streams onward to the land,
Well may the taint of slaughter lag
On yonder glorious strand.
The waters of the mighty deep,
The wild birds of the sky,
Hear it like vengeance shoreward sweep,
Where moody men must die.
The waves wax wroth beneath our keel—
The clouds above us lower,
They know the battle sign, and feel
All its resistless power!
Who now uprears Sigurdir's flag,
Nor shuns an early tomb?
Who shoreward through the swelling surge,
Shall bear the scroll of doom?
So shout the Skalds as the long ships are nearing
The low-lying shores of a beautiful land.

III

Silent the Self-devoted stood
Beside the massive tree;
His image mirror'd in the flood
Was terrible to see!
As leaning on his gleaming axe,
And gazing on the wave,
His fearless soul was churning up,
The death-rune of the brave.
Upheaving then his giant form
Upon the brown bark's prow,
And tossing back the yellow storm
Of hair from his broad brow;
The lips of song burst open, and
The words of fire rushed out,
And thundering through that martial crew
Pealed Harald's battle shout;—
It is Harald the dauntless that lifteth his great voice,
As the Northmen roll on with the Doom-written banner.

IV

“I bear Sigurdir's battle-flag
Through sunshine or through gloom;
Through swelling surge on bloody strand

I plant the scroll of doom!
On Scandia's lonest, bleakest waste,
Beneath a starless sky,
The shadowy Three like meteors passed,
And bade young Harald die;—
They sang the war-deeds of his sires,
And pointed to their tomb;
They told him that this glory-flag
Was his by right of doom.
Since then, where hath young Harald been,
But where Jarl's son should be?
'Mid war and waves—the combat keen
That raged on land or sea!”
So sings the fierce Harald, the thirster for glory,
As his hand bears aloft the dark death-laden banner.

V

“Mine own death's in this clenched hand!
I know the noble trust;
These limbs must rot on yonder strand—
These lips must lick its dust,
But shall this dusky standard quail
In the red slaughter day;
Or shall this heart its purpose fail—
This arm forget to slay?

I trample down such idle doubt;
Harald's high blood hath sprung
From sires whose hands in martial bout
Have ne'er belied their tongue;
Nor keener from their castled rock
Rush eagles on their prey,
Than, panting for the battle-shock,
Young Harald leads the way.”
It is thus that tall Harald, in terrible beauty,
Pours forth his big soul to the joyaunce of heroes.

VI

“The ship-borne warriors of the North,
The son's of Woden's race,
To battle as to feast go forth,
With stern, and changeless face;
And I, the last of a great line—
The Self-devoted, long
To lift on high the Runic sign
Which gives my name to song.
In battle-field young Harald falls
Amid a slaughtered foe,
But backward never bears this flag,
While streams to ocean flow;—

On, on above the crowded dead
This Runic scroll shall flare,
And round it shall the lightnings spread,
From swords that never spare.”
So rush the hero-words from the Death-doomed one,
While Skalds harp aloud the renown of his fathers.

VII

“Flag! from your folds, and fiercely wake
War-music on the wind,
Lest tenderest thoughts should rise to shake
The sternness of my mind;
Brynhilda, maiden meek and fair,
Pale watcher by the sea,
I hear thy wailings on the air,
Thy heart's dirge sung for me;—
In vain thy milk-white hands are wrung
Above the salt sea foam;
The wave that bears me from thy bower,
Shall never bear me home;
Brynhilda! seek another love,
But ne'er wed one like me,

Who death foredoomed from above
Joys in his destiny.”
Thus mourned young Harald as he thought on Brynhilda,
While his eyes filled with tears which glittered, but fell not.

VIII

“On sweeps Sigurdir's battle-flag,
The scourge of far from shore;
It dashes through the seething foam,
But I return no more!
Wedded unto a fatal bride—
Boune for a bloody bed—
And battling for her, side by side,
Young Harald's doom is sped!
In starkest fight, where kemp on kemp,
Reel headlong to the grave,
There Harald's axe shall ponderous ring,
There Sigurd's flag shall wave;—
Yes, underneath this standard tall,
Beside this fateful scroll,
Down shall the tower-like prison fall
Of Harald's haughty soul.”

So sings the Death-seeker, while nearer and nearer
The fleet of the Northmen bears down to the shore.

IX

“Green lie those thickly-timbered shores
Fair sloping to the sea;
They're cumbered with the harvest stores
That wave but for the free:
Our sickle is the gleaming sword,
Our garner the broad shield
Let peasants sow, but still he's lord
Who's master of the field;
Let them come on, the bastard-born,
Each soil-stain'd churle!—alack!
What gain they but a splitten skull,
A sod for their base back?
They sow for us these goodly lands,
We reap them in our might,
Scorning all title but the brands
That triumph in the fight!”
It was thus the land-winners of old gained their glory,
And grey stonesvoiced their praise in the bays of far isles.

X

“The rivers of yon island low,
Glance redly in the sun,
But ruddier still they're doomed to glow,
And deeper shall they run;
The torrent of proud life shall swell
Each river to the brim,
And in that spate of blood, how well
The headless corpse will swim!
The smoke of many a shepherd's cot
Curls from each peopled glen;
And, hark! the song of maidens mild,
The shout of joyous men!
But one may hew the oaken tree,
The other shape the shroud;
As the Landeyda o'er the sea
Sweeps like a tempest cloud:”—
So shouteth fierce Harald—so echo the Northmen,
As shoreward their ships like mad steeds are careering.

XI

“Sigurdir's battle-flag is spread
Abroad to the blue sky,
And spectral visions of the dead,

Are trooping grimly by;
The spirit heralds rush before
Harald's destroying brand,
They hover o'er yon fated shore
And death-devoted band.
Marshal, stout Jarls, your battle fast!
And fire each beacon height,
Our galleys anchor in the sound,
Our banner heaves in sight!
And through the surge and arrowy shower
That rains on this broad shield,
Harald uplifts the sign of power
Which rules the battle-field!”
So cries the Death-doomed on the red strand of slaughter
While the helmets of heroes like anvils are ringing.

XII

On rolled the Northmen's war, above
The Raven Standard flew,
Nor tide nor tempest ever strove
With vengeance half so true.
'Tis Harald—'tis the Sire-bereaved—
Who goads the dread career,
And high amid the flashing storm

The flag of Doom doth rear.
“On, on,” the tall Death-seeker cries,
“These earth-worms soil our heel,
Their spear-points crash like crisping ice
On ribs of stubborn steel!”
Hurra! hurra! their whirlwinds sweep,
And Harald's fate is sped;
Bear on the flag—he goes to sleep
With the life-scorning dead.
Thus fell the young Harald, as of old fell his sires,
And the bright hall of heroes bade hail to his spirit.

THE WOOING SONG OF JARL EGILL SKALLAGRIM.

Bright maiden of Orkney,
Star of the blue sea!
I've swept o'er the waters
To gaze upon thee;
I've left spoil and slaughter,
I've left a far strand,
To sing how I love thee,
To kiss thy small hand!
Fair Daughter of Einar,
Golden-haired maid!
The lord of yon brown bark,
And lord of this blade;
The joy of the ocean—
Of warfare and wind,
Hath boune him to woo thee,
And thou must be kind.
So stoutly Jarl Egill wooed Torf Einar's daughter.

In Jutland—in Iceland
On Neustria's shore,
Where'er the dark billow
My gallant bark bore,
Songs spoke of thy beauty,
Harps sounded thy praise,
And my heart loved thee long ere
It thrilled in thy gaze;
Ay, Daughter of Einar,
Right tall may'st thou stand,
It is a Vikingir
Who kisses thy hand:
It is a Vikingir
That bends his proud knee,
And swears by Great Freya,
His bride thou must be!
So Jarl Egill swore when his great heart was fullest.

Thy white arms are locked in
Broad bracelets of gold;
Thy girdle-stead's gleaming
With treasures untold:
The circlet that binds up
Thy long yellow hair,

Is starred thick with jewels,
That bright are and rare;
But gifts yet more princely
Jarl Egill bestows,
For girdle, his great arm
Around thee he throws;
The bark of a sea-king
For palace, gives he,
While mad waves and winds shall
Thy true subjects be.
So richly Jarl Egill endowed his bright bride.

Nay, frown not, nor shrink thus,
Nor toss so thy head,
'Tis a Vikingir asks thee,
Land-maiden, to wed!
He skills not to woo thee,
In trembling and fear,
Though lords of the land may
Thus troop with the deer.
The cradle he rock'd in
So sound and so long,
Hath framed him a heart
And a hand that are strong:

He comes then as Jarl should,
Sword belted to side,
To win thee and wear thee
With glory and pride.
So sternly Jarl Egill wooed, and smote his long brand.

Thy father, thy brethren,
Thy kin keep from me,
The maiden I've sworn shall
Be Queen of the sea!
A truce with that folly—
Yon sea-strand can show
If this eye missed its aim,
Or this arm failed its blow:
I had not well taken
Three strides on this land
Ere a Jarl and his six sons
In death bit the sand.
Nay, weep not, pale maid, though
In battle should fall
The kemps who would keep thy
Bridegroom from the hall.
So carped Jarl Egill and kissed the bright weeper.

Through shadows and horrors,
In worlds underground,
Through sounds that appal
And through sights that confound,
I sought the Weird women
Within their dark cell,
And made them surrender
Futurity's spell;
I made them rune over
The dim scroll so free,
And mutter how Fate sped
With lovers like me.
Yes, maiden, I forced them
To read forth my doom,
To say how I should fare
As jolly bridegroom.
So Jarl Egill's love dared the world of grim shadows.

They waxed and they waned,
They passed to and fro,
While lurid fires gleamed o'er
Their faces of snow;

Their stony eyes moveless,
Did glare on me long,
Then sullen they chanted:
“The Sword and the Song
Prevail with the gentle,
Sore chasten the rude,
And sway to their purpose
Each evil-shaped mood!”
Fair Daughter of Einar,
I've sung the dark lay
That the Weird sisters runed, and
Which thou must obey.
So fondly Jarl Egill loved Einar's proud daughter.

The curl of that proud lip,
The flash of that eye,
The swell of that bosom,
So full and so high,
Like foam of sea-billow,
Thy white bosom shows,
Like flash of red levin
Thine eagle eye glows:
Ha! firmly and boldly,
So stately and free,

Thy foot treads this chamber,
As bark rides the sea:
This likes me—this likes me,
Stout maiden of mould,
Thou wooest to purpose;
Bold hearts love the bold.
So shouted Jarl Egill, and clutched the proud maiden.

Away and away then,
I have thy small hand;
Joy with me—our tall bark
Now bears toward the strand;
I call it the Raven,
The wing of black night,
That shadows forth ruin
O'er islands of light:
Once more on its long deck,
Behind us the gale,
Thou shalt see how before it
Great kingdoms do quail;
Thou shalt see then how truly,
My noble-souled maid,
The ransom of kings can
Be won by this blade.
So bravely Jarl Egill did soothe the pale trembler.

Ay, gaze on its large hilt,
One wedge of red gold;
But doat on its blade, gilt
With blood of the bold.
The hilt is right seemly,
But nobler the blade,
That swart Velint's hammer
With cunning spells made;
I call it the Adder,
Death lurks in its bite,
Through bone and proof-harness
It scatters pale light.
Fair Daughter of Einar,
Deem high of the fate
That makes thee, like this blade,
Proud Egill's loved mate!
So Jarl Egill bore off Torf Einar's bright daughter.

THE SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI.

'Tis not the grey hawk's flight
O'er mountain and mere;
'Tis not the fleet hound's course
Tracking the deer;
'Tis not the light hoof print
Of black steed or grey,
Though sweltering it gallop
A long summer's day;
Which mete forth the Lordships
I challenge as mine;
Ha! ha! 'tis the good brand
I clutch in my strong hand,
That can their broad marches
And numbers define.
Land Giver! I kiss thee.

Dull builders of houses,
Base tillers of earth,
Gaping, ask me what lordships
I owned at my birth;
But the pale fools wax mute
When I point with my sword
East, west, north, and south,
Shouting, “There am I Lord!”
Wold and waste, town and tower,
Hill, valley, and stream,
Trembling, bow to my sway
In the fierce battle fray,
When the star that rules Fate, is
This falchion's red gleam.
Might Giver! I kiss thee.

I've heard great harps sounding,
In brave bower and hall,
I've drank the sweet music
That bright lips let fall,
I've hunted in greenwood,
And heard small birds sing;
But away with this idle
And cold jargoning;

The music I love, is
The shout of the brave,
The yell of the dying,
The scream of the flying,
When this arm wields Death's sickle,
And garners the grave.
Joy Giver! I kiss thee.

Far isles of the ocean
Thy lightning have known,
And wide o'er the main land
Thy horrors have shone.
Great sword of my father,
Stern joy of his hand,
Thou hast carved his name deep on
The stranger's red strand,
And won him the glory
Of undying song.
Keen cleaver of gay crests,
Sharp piercer of broad breasts,
Grim slayer of heroes,
And scourge of the strong.
Fame Giver! I kiss thee.

In a love more abiding
Than that the heart knows,
For maiden more lovely
Than summer's first rose,
My heart's knit to thine,
And lives but for thee;
In dreamings of gladness,
Thou'rt dancing with me,
Brave measures of madness
In some battle-field,
Where armour is ringing,
And noble blood springing,
And cloven, yawn hemlet,
Stout hauberk and shield.
Death Giver! I kiss thee.

The smile of a maiden's eye
Soon may depart;
And light is the faith of
Fair woman's heart;
Changeful as light clouds,
And wayward as wind,
Be the passions that govern
Weak woman's mind.

But thy metal's as true
As its polish is bright;
When ills wax in number,
Thy love will not slumber,
But starlike, burns fiercer,
The darker the night.
Heart Gladdener! I kiss thee.

My kindred have perished
By war or by wave—
Now, childless and sireless,
I long for the grave.
When the path of our glory
Is shadowed in death,
With me thou wilt slumber
Below the brown heath;
Thou wilt rest on my bosom,
And with it decay—
While harps shall be ringing,
And Scalds shall be singing
The deeds we have done in
Our old fearless day.
Song Giver! I kiss thee.

JEANIE MORRISON.

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through mony a weary way;
But never, never can forget
The luve o' life's young day!
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en,
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows ower my path,
And blind my een wi' tears:
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,
As memory idly summons up
The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,
'Twas then we twa did part;
Sweet time—sad time! twa bairns at scule,
Twa bairns, and but ae heart!
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,
To leir ilk ither lear;
And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,
Remembered evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink,
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof,
What our wee heads could think?
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,
Wi' ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee.

Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said,
We cleek'd thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays,
(The scule then skail't at noon,)

When we ran aff to speel the braes—
The broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O' scule-time and o' thee.
Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luve!
Oh lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like simmer blossoms sprang!

Oh mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon?
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin o' the wood,
The throssil whusslit sweet;

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,

And we with Nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;
And on the knowe abune the burn,
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trinkled doun your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,
When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gushed all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled—unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae been to thee
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts,
As ye hae been to me?
Oh! tell me gin their music fills
Thine ear as it does mine;
Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
I've borne a weary lot;
But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye never were forgot.
The fount that first burst frae this heart,
Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O' bygane days and me!

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.

My heid is like to rend, Willie,
My heart is like to break—
I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,
I'm dyin' for your sake!
Oh lay your cheek to mine, Willie,
Your hand on my briest-bane—
Oh say ye'll think on me, Willie,
When I am deid and gane!

It's vain to comfort me, Willie,
Sair grief maun hae its will—
But let me rest upon your briest,
To sab and greet my fill.
Let me sit on your knee, Willie,
Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,
I never sall see mair!

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,
For the last time in my life—
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,
A mither, yet nae wife.
Ay, press your hand upon my heart,
And press it mair and mair—
Or it will burst the silken twine
Sae strang is its despair!

Oh wae's me for the hour, Willie,
When we thegither met—
Oh wae's me for the time, Willie
That our first tryst was set!
Oh wae's me for the loanin' green
Where we were wont to gae—
And wae's me for the destinie,
That gart me luve thee sae!

Oh! dinna mind my words, Willie,
I downa seek to blame—
But oh! it's hard to live, Willie,
And dree a warld's shame!
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,
And hailin' ower your chin;

Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,
For sorrow and for sin?

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,
And sick wi' a' I see—
I canna live as I hae lived,
Or be as I should be.
But fauld unto your heart, Willie,
The heart that still is thine—
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek,
Ye said was red langsyne.

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,
A sair stoun' through my heart—
Oh! haud me up and let me kiss
Thy brow ere we twa pairt.
Anither, and anither yet!—
How fast my life-strings break!
Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yaird
Step lichtly for my sake!

The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,
That lilts far ower our heid,
Will sing the morn as merrilie
Abune the clay-cauld deid;

And this green turf we're sittin' on,
Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,
Will hap the heart that luvit thee
As warld has seldom seen.

But oh! remember me, Willie,
On land where'er ye be—
And oh! think on the leal, leal heart,
That ne'er luvit ane but thee!
And oh! think on the cauld, cauld mools,
That file my yellow hair—
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin,
Ye never sall kiss mair!

THE MADMAN'S LOVE.

Ho! Flesh and Blood! sweet Flesh and Blood
As ever strode on earth!
Welcome to Water and to Wood—
To all a Madman's mirth.
This tree is mine, this leafless tree
That's writhen o'er the linn;
The stream is mine that fitfully
Pours forth its sullen din.
Their lord am I; and still my dream
Is of this Tree—is of that Stream.

The Tree, the Stream—a deadly Twain!
They will not live apart;
The one rolls thundering through my brain,
The other smites my heart:
Ay, this same leafless fire-scathed tree,
That groweth by the rock,

Shakes its old sapless arms at me,
And would my madness mock!
The slaves are saucy—well they know
Good service did they long ago.

I've lived two lives: The first is past
Some hundred years or more;
But still the present is o'ercast
With visionings of yore.
This tree, this rock that's cushioned sweet
With tufts of savoury thyme,
That unseen river which doth greet
Our ears with its rude rhyme,
Were then as now—they form the chain
That links the present with past pain.

Sweet Flesh and Blood! how deadly chill
These milk-white fingers be!
The feathery ribs of ice-bound rill
Seem not so cold to me;—
But press them on this burning brow
Which glows like molten brass,
'Twill thaw them soon; then thou shalt know
How ancient visions pass

Before mine eyes, like shapes of life,
Kindling old loves and deadly strife.

Drink to me first!—nay do not scorn
These sparkling dews of night;
I pledge thee in the silver horn
Of yonder moonlet bright:
'Tis stinted measure now, but soon
Thy cup shall overflow;
It half was spilled two hours agone,
That little flowers might grow,
And weave for me fine robes of silk;
For which good deeds, stars drop them milk.

Nay, take the horn into thy hand,
The goodly silver horn,
And quaff it off. At my command
Each flower-cup, ere the morn,
Shall brimful be of glittering dews,
And then we'll have large store
Of heaven's own vintage ripe for use,
To pledge our healths thrice o'er;
So skink the can as maiden free,
Then troll the merry bowl to me!

Hush—drink no more! for now the trees,
In yonder grand old wood,
Burst forth in sinless melodies
To cheer my solitude;
Trees sing thus every night to me,
So mournfully and slow—
They think, dear hearts, 'twere well for me,
Could large tears once forth flow
From this hard frozen eye of mine,
As freely as they stream from thine.

Ay, ay, they sing right passing well,
And pleasantly in tune,
To midnight winds a canticle
That floats up to the moon;
And she goes wandering near and far
Through yonder vaulted skies,
No nook whereof but hath a star
Shed for me from her eyes;—
She knows I cannot weep, but she
Weeps worlds of light for love of me!

Yes, in her bower of clouds she weeps
Night after night for me—

The lonely man that sadly keeps
Watch by the blasted tree.
She spreads o'er these lean ribs her beams,
To scare the cutting cold;
She lends me light to read my dreams,
And rightly to unfold
The mysteries that make men mad,
Or wise, or wild, or good, or bad.

So lovingly she shines through me,
Without me and within,
That even thou, methinks, might'st see,
Beneath this flesh so thin,
A heart that like a ball of fire
Is ever blazing there,
Yet dieth not; for still the lyre
Of heaven soothes its despair—
The lyre that sounds so sadly sweet,
When winds and woods and waters meet.

Hush! hush! so sang yon ghastly wood,
So moaned the sullen stream
One night, as TWO on this rock stood
Beneath this same moonbeam:—

Nay, start not!—one was Flesh and Blood,
A dainty straight-limbed dame,
That clung to me and sobbed—O God!
Struggling with maiden shame,
She faltered forth her love, and swore—
“On land or sea, thine evermore!”

By Wood, by Water, and by Wind,
Yea, by the blessed light
Of the brave moon, that maiden kind
Eternal faith did plight;
Yea, by the rock on which we stood—
This altar-stone of yore—
That loved one said, “On land or flood,
Thine, thine for evermore!”
The earth reeled round, I gasped for breath,
I loved, and was beloved till death!

I felt upon my brow a kiss,
Upon my cheek a tear;
I felt that now life's sum of bliss
Was more than heart could bear.

Life's sum of bliss? say rather pain,
For heart to find its mate,
To love, and be beloved again,
Even when the hand of Fate
Motions farewell!—and one must be
A wanderer on the faithless sea.

Ay, Land or Sea! for, mark me now,
Next morrow o'er the foam,
Sword girt to side, and helm on brow,
I left a sorrowing home;
Yet still I lived as very part
Even of this sainted rock,
Where first that loved one's tristful heart
Its secret treasure broke
In my love-thirsting ear alone,
Here, here, on this huge altar-stone.

Hear'st thou the busy sounds that come
From yonder glittering shore:
The madness of the doubling drum,
The naker's sullen roar—

The wild and shrilly strains that swell
From each bright brassy horn—
The fluttering of each penoncel
By knightly lance upborne—
The clear ring of each tempered shield,
And proud steeds neighing far afield?

Sweet Flesh and Blood! my tale's not told,
'Tis scantly well begun:—
Our vows were passed, in heaven enrolled,
And then next morrow's sun
Saw banners waving in the wind,
And tall barks on the sea:
Glory before, and Love behind,
Marshalled proud chivalrie,
As every valour-freighted ship
Its gilt prow in the wave did dip.

And then passed o'er a merry time—
A roystering gamesome life,
Till cheeks were tanned with many a clime,
Brows scarred in many a strife.

But what of that? Year after year,
In every battle's shock,
Or 'mid the storms of ocean drear,
My heart clung to this rock;
Was with its very being blent,
Sucking from it brave nourishment.

All life, all feeling, every thought
Was centred in this spot;
The Unforgetting being wrought
Upon the Unforgot.
Time fleeted on; but time ne'er dimmed
The picturings of the heart—
Freshly as when they first were limned,
Truth's fadeless tints would start;
Yes! wheresoe'er Life's bark might steer,
This changeless heart was anchored here.

Ha! laugh, sweet Flesh and Blood, outright,
Nor smother honest glee,
Your time is now; but ere this night
Hath travelled over me,

My time shall come; and then, ay, then
The wanton stars shall reel
Like drunkards all, when we madmen
Upraise our laughter-peal.
I see the cause: the Twain—the One—
The Shape that gibbered in the sun!

You pinch my wrist, you press my knee,
With fingers long and small;
Light fetters these—not so on me
Did heathen shackles fall,
When I was captived in the fight
On Candy's fatal shore;
And paynims won a battered knight,
A living well of gore;—
How the knaves smote me to the ground,
And hewed me like a tree all round!

They hammered irons on my hand,
And irons on my knee;
They bound me fast with many a band,
To pillar and to tree;
They flung me in a loathsome pit,
Where loathly things were rife—

Where newte, and toad, and rat would sit,
Debating for my life,
On my breast-bone; while one and all
Hissed, fought, and voided on their thrall.

Yet lived I on, and madman-like,
With unchanged heart I lay;
No venom to its core could strike,
For it was far away:—
'Twas even here beside this Tree,
Its Trysting-place of yore,
Where that fond maiden swore to me,
“Thine, thine, for evermore.”
Faith in her vow made that pit seem
The palace of Arabian dream.

And so was passed a weary time,
How long I cannot tell,
'Twas years ere in that sunny clime
A sunbeam on me fell.
But from that tomb I rushed in tears,
The fetters fell from me,
They rusted through with damp and years,
And rotted was the tree,

When the Undying crawled from night—
From loathsomeness, into God's light.

O Lord! there was a flood of sound
Came rushing through my ears,
When I arose from underground,
A wild thing shedding tears:—
The voices of glad birds and brooks,
And eke of greenwood tree,
With all the long-remembered looks
Of earth, and sky, and sea,
Danced madly through my 'wildered brain,
And shook me like a wind-swung chain.

Men marvelled at the ghastly form
That sat before the sun—
That laughed to scorn the pelting storm,
Nor would the thunders shun;
The bearded Shape that gibbered sounds
Of uncouth lore and lands,
Struck awe into these Heathen hounds,
Who, lifting up their hands,

Blessed the wild prophet, and then brought
Raiment and food unthanked, unsought.

I have a dreaming of the sea—
A dreaming of the land—
A dreaming that again to me
Belonged a good knight's brand—
A dreaming that this brow was pressed
With plumed helm once more,
That linked mail reclad this breast
When I retrod the shore,
The blessed shores of my father-land,
And knelt in prayer upon its strand.

“Years furrow brows and channel cheeks,
But should not chase old loves away;
The language which true heart first speaks,
That language must it hold for aye.”
This poesie a war-worn man
Did mutter to himself one night,
As upwards to this cliff he ran,
That shone in the moonlight;
And by the moonlight curiously,
He scanned the bark of this old tree.

“No change is here, all things remain
As they were years ago;
With selfsame voice the old woods playne,
When shrilly winds do blow—
Still murmuring to itself, the stream
Rolls o'er its rocky bed—
Still smiling in its quiet dream,
The small flower nods its head;
And I stand here,” the War-worn said,
“Like Nature's heart, unaltered.”

Now, Flesh and Blood, that sits by me
On this bare ledge of stone,
So sat that Childe of chivalrie,
One summer eve alone.
I saw him, and methought he seemed
Like to the Bearded Form
That sat before the sun, and gleamed
Defiance to the storm;
I saw him in his war-weed sit,
And other Two before him flit.

Yes, in the shadow of that tree,
And motionless as stone,

Sat the War-worn, while mirthfully
The other Two passed on;—
By heaven! one was a comely bride,
Her face gleamed in the moon,
As richly as in full-fleshed pride,
Bright roses burst in June;
Methought she was the maiden mild,
That whilome loved the wandering Childe!

But it was not her former love
That wandered with her there—
Oh, no! long absence well may move
A maiden to despair;
Old loves we cast unto the winds,
Old vows into the sea,
'Tis lightsome for all gentle minds
To be as fancy free.
So the Vow-pledged One loved another,
And wantoned with a younger brother.

I heard a dull, hoarse, chuckle sound,
Beside that trysting-tree;

I saw uprising from the ground,
A ghastly shape like me.
But no!—it was the War-worn wight,
That pale as whited wall,
Strode forth into the moonshine bright,
And let such hoarse sounds fall.
A voice uprushing from the tomb
Than his, were less fulfilled with doom.

“Judgment ne'er sleeps!” the War-worn said,
As striding into light,
He stood before that shuddering maid,
Between her and that knight.
Judgment ne'er sleeps! 'tis wondrous odd,
One gurgle, one long sigh,
Ended it all. Upon this sod
Lay one with unclosed eye,
And then the boiling linn that night,
Flung on its banks a lady bright.

She tripped towards me as you have tripped,
Pale maiden! and as cold;
She sipped with me as you have sipped,
Night dews, and then I told

To her as you my weary tale
Of double life and pain;
And thawed her fingers chill and pale
Upon my burning brain;—
That daintiest piece of Flesh on earth,
I welcomed her to all my mirth.

And then I pressed her icy hand
Within my burning palm,
And told her tales of that far land,
Of sunshine, flowers, and balm;
I told her of the damp, dark hole,
The fetters and the tree,
And of the slimy things that stole
O'er shuddering flesh so free:
Yea, of the Bearded Ghastliness,
That sat in the sun's loveliness.

I welcomed her, I welcome thee,
To sit upon this stone,
And meditate all night with me,
On ages that are gone:
To dream again each marvellous dream,
Of passion and of truth,

And re-construct each shattered beam
That glorified glad youth.
These were the days!—hearts then could feel,
Eyes weep, and slumbers o'er them steal.

But not so now. The second life
That wearied hearts must live,
Is woven with that thread of strife—
Forget not, nor Forgive!
Fires, scorching fires run through our veins,
Our corded sinews crack,
And molten lead boils in our brains,
For marrow to the back.
Ha! ha! What's life? Think of the joke,
The fiercest fire still ends in smoke.

Fill up the cup! fill up the can!
Drink, drink, sweet Flesh and Blood,
The health of the grim-bearded man
That haunteth solitude;—
The wood pours forth its melodies,
And stars whirl fast around;

Yon moon-ship scuds before the breeze—
Hark, how sky-billows sound!
Drink, Flesh and Blood! then trip with me,
One measure round the Madman's Tree!

HALBERT THE GRIM.

There is blood on that brow,
There is blood on that hand;
There is blood on that hauberk,
And blood on that brand.

Oh! bloody all o'er is
His war-cloak, I weet;
He is wrapped in the cover
Of murder's red sheet.

There is pity in man—
Is there any in him?
No! ruth were a strange guest
To Halbert the Grim.

The hardest may soften,
The fiercest repent;
But the heart of Grim Halbert
May never relent.

Death doing on earth is
For ever his cry;
And pillage and plunder
His hope in the sky!

'Tis midnight, deep midnight,
And dark is the heaven;
Sir Halbert, in mockery,
Wends to be shriven.

He kneels not to stone,
And he bends not to wood;
But he swung round his brown blade,
And hewed down the Rood!

He stuck his long sword, with
Its point in the earth;
And he prayed to its cross hilt,
In mockery and mirth.

Thus lowly he louteth,
And mumbles his beads;
Then lightly he riseth,
And homeward he speeds.

His steed hurries homewards,
Darkling and dim;
Right fearful it prances
With Halbert the Grim.

Still fiercer it tramples,
The spur gores its side;
Now downward and downward
Grim Halbert doth ride.

The brown wood is threaded,
The grey flood is past,
Yet hoarser and wilder
Moans ever the blast.

No star lends its taper,
No moon sheds her glow;
For dark is the dull path
That Baron must go.

Though starless the sky, and
No moon shines abroad,
Yet, flashing with fire, all
At once gleams the road.

And his black steed, I trow,
As it galloped on,
With a hot sulphur halo,
And flame-flash all shone.

From eye and from nostril,
Out gushed the pale flame,
And from its chafed mouth, the
Churned fire-froth came.

They are two! they are two!—
They are coal-black as night,
That now staunchly follow
That grim Baron's flight.

In each lull of the wild blast,
Out breaks their deep yell:
'Tis the slot of the Doomed One,
These hounds track so well.

Ho! downward, still downward,
Sheer slopeth his way;
No let hath his progress,
No gate bids him stay.

No noise had his horse-hoof
As onward it sped;
But silent it fell, as
The foot of the dead.

Now redder and redder
Flares far its bright eye,
And harsher these dark hounds
Yell out their fierce cry.

Sheer downward! right downward!
Then dashed life and limb,
As careering to hell,
Sunk Halbert the Grim!

TRUE LOVE'S DIRGE.

Some love is light and fleets away,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
Some love is deep and scorns decay,
Ah, well-a-day! in vain.

Of loyal love I sing this lay,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
'Tis of a knight and lady gay,
Ah, well-a-day! bright twain.

He loved her—heart loved ne'er so well,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
She was a cold and proud damsel,
Ah, well-a-day! and vain.

He loved her—oh, he loved her long,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
But she for love gave bitter wrong,
Ah, well-a-day! Disdain!

It is not meet for knight like me,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
Though scorned, love's recreant to be,
Ah, well-a-day! Refrain.

That brave knight buckled to his brand,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
And fast he sought a foreign strand,
Ah, well-a-day! in pain.

He wandered wide by land and sea,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
A mirror of bright constancye,
Ah, well-a-day! in vain.

He would not chide, he would not blame,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
But at each shrine he breathed her name,
Ah, well-a-day! Amen!

He would not carpe, he would not sing,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
But broke his heart with love-longing,
Ah, well-a-day! poor brain.

He scorned to weep, he scorned to sigh,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
But like a true knight he could die—
Ah, well-a-day! life's vain.

The banner which that brave knight bore,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
Had scrolled on it “Faith Evermore,”
Ah, well-a-day! again.

That banner led the Christian van,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
Against Seljuck and Turcoman,
Ah, well-a-day! bright train.

The fight was o'er, the day was done,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
But lacking was that loyal one—
Ah, well-a-day! sad pain.

They found him on the battle-field,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
With broken sword and cloven shield,
A well-a day! in twain.

They found him pillowed on the dead,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
The blood-soaked sod his bridal bed,
Ah, well-a-day! the Slain.

On his pale brow, and paler cheek,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
The white moonshine did fall so meek—
Ah, well-a-day! sad strain.

They lifted up the True and Brave,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
And bore him to his lone cold grave,
Ah, well-a-day! in pain.

They buried him on that far strand,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
His face turned towards his love's own land.
Ah, well-a-day! how vain.

The wearied heart was laid at rest,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
To dream of her it liked best,
Ah, well-a-day! again.

They nothing said, but many a tear,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
Rained down on that knight's lowly bier,
Ah, well-a-day! amain.

They nothing said, but many a sigh,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
Told how they wished like him to die,
Ah, well-a-day! sans stain.

With solemn mass and orison,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain,
They reared o'er him a cross of stone,
Ah, well-a-day! in pain.

And on it graved with daggers bright,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
Here lies a true and gentle Knight,
Ah, well-a-day! Amen!

requiescat. in. pace.

THE DEMON LADY.

Again in my chamber!
Again at my bed!
With thy smile sweet as sunshine,
And hand cold as lead!
I know thee, I know thee!—
Nay, start not, my sweet!
These golden robes shrank up,
And showed me thy feet;
These golden robes shrank up,
And taffety thin,
While out crept the symbols
Of Death and of Sin!

Bright, beautiful devil!
Pass, pass from me now;
For the damp dew of death
Gathers thick on my brow;
And bind up thy girdle,
Nor beauties disclose,
More dazzlingly white
Than the wreath-drifted snows:

And away with thy kisses;
My heart waxes sick,
As thy red lips, like worms,
Travel over my cheek!

Ha! press me no more with
That passionless hand,
'Tis whiter than milk, or
The foam on the strand;
'Tis softer than down, or
The silken-leafed flower;
But colder than ice thrills
Its touch at this hour.
Like the finger of Death
From cerements unrolled,
Thy hand on my heart falls
Dull, clammy, and cold.

Nor bend o'er my pillow—
Thy raven black hair
O'ershadows my brow with
A deeper despair;
These ringlets thick falling
Spread fire through my brain,

And my temples are throbbing
With madness again.
The moonlight! the moonlight!
The deep-winding bay!
There are two on that strand,
And a ship far away!

In its silence and beauty,
Its passion and power,
Love breathed o'er the land,
Like the soul of a flower.
The billows were chiming
On pale yellow sands;
And moonshine was gleaming
On small ivory hands.
There were bowers by the brook's brink,
And flowers bursting free;
There were hot lips to suck forth
A lost soul from me!

Now, mountain and meadow,
Frith, forest, and river,
Are mingling with shadows—
Are lost to me ever.

The sunlight is fading,
Small birds seek their nest;
While happy hearts flower-like,
Sink sinless to rest.
But I!—'tis no matter;
Ay, kiss cheek and chin;
Kiss—kiss—thou hast won me,
Bright, beautiful Sin!

ZARA.

“A silvery veil of pure moonlight
Is glancing o'er the quiet water,
And oh! 'tis beautiful and bright
As the soft smile of Selim's daughter.

“Sleep, moonlight! sleep upon the wave,
And hush to rest each rising billow,
Then dwell within the mountain cave,
Where this fond breast is Zara's pillow.

“Shine on, thou blessed moon! brighter still,
Oh, shine thus ever night and morrow;
For day-break mantling o'er the hill,
But wakes my love to fear and sorrow.”

'Twas thus the Spanish youth beguiled
The rising fears of Selim's daughter;
And on their loves the pale moon smiled,
Unweeting of the morrow's slaughter.

Alas! too early rose that morn
On harnessed knight and fierce soldada—
Alas! too soon the Moorish horn
And tambour rang in Old Grenada.

The dew yet bathes the dreaming flower,
The mist yet lingers in the valley,
When Selim and his Zegris' power
From port and postern sternly sally.

Marry! it was a gallant sight
To see the plain with armour glancing,
As on to Alpuxara's height
Proud Selim's chivalry were prancing.

The knights dismount; on foot they climb
The rugged steeps of Alpuxara;
In fateful and unhappy time,
Proud Selim found his long-lost Zara.

They sleep—in sleep they smile and dream
Of happy days they ne'er shall number;
Their lips breathe sounds,—their spirits seem
To hold communion while they slumber.

A moment gazed the stern old Moor,
A scant tear in his eye did gather,
For as he gazed, she muttered o'er
A blessing on her cruel father.

The hand that grasped the crooked blade,
Relaxed its gripe, then clutched it stronger;
The tear that that dark eye hath shed
On the swart cheek, is seen no longer.

'Tis past!—the bloody deed is done,
A father's hand hath sealed the slaughter!
Yet in Grenada many a one
Bewails the fate of Selim's daughter.

And many a Moorish damsel hath
Made pilgrimage to Alpuxara;
And breathed her vows where Selim's wrath
O'ertook the Spanish youth and Zara.

OUGLOU'S ONSLAUGHT.

A TURKISH BATTLE-SONG.

Tchassan Ouglou is on!
Tchassan Ouglou is on!
And with him to battle
The faithful are gone.
Allah, il allah!
The tambour is rung;
Into his war-saddle
Each Spahi hath swung;—
Now the blast of the desert
Sweeps over the land,
And the pale fires of heaven
Gleam in each Damask brand.
Allah, il allah!

Tchassan Ouglou is on!
Tchassan Ouglou is on!
Abroad on the winds, all
His Horse-tails are thrown.
'Tis the rush of the eagle
Down cleaving through air,—

'Tis the bound of the lion
When roused from his lair.
Ha! fiercer and wilder
And madder by far,—
On thunders the might
Of the Moslemite war.
Allah, il allah!

Forth lash their wild horses,
With loose-flowing rein;
The steel grides their flank,
Their hoof scarce dints the plain.
Like the mad stars of heaven,
Now the Delis rush out;
O'er the thunder of cannon
Swells proudly their shout,—
And sheeted with foam,
Like the surge of the sea,
Over wreck, death, and woe, rolls
Each fierce Osmanli.
Alla, il allah!

Fast forward, still forward,
Man follows on man,

While the horse-tails are dashing
Afar in the van;—
See where yon pale crescent
And green turban shine,
There, smite for the Prophet,
And Othman's great line!
Allah, il allah!
The fierce war-cry is given,—
For the flesh of the Giaour
Shriek the vultures of heaven.
Allah, il allah!

Allah, il allah!
How thick on the plain,
The infidels cluster
Like ripe, heavy grain.
The reaper is coming,
The crooked sickle's bare,
And the shout of the Faithful
Is rending the air.
Bismillah! Bismillah!
Each far-flashing brand
Hath piled its red harvest
Of death on the land!
Allah, il allah!

Mark, mark yon green turban
That heaves through the fight,
Like a tempest-tost bark
'Mid the thunders of night;
See parting before it,
On right and on left,
How the dark billows tumble,—
Each saucy crest cleft!
Ay, horseman and footman
Reel back in dismay,
When the sword of stern Ouglo
Is lifted to slay.
Allah, il allah!

Alla, il allah!
Tchassan Ouglou is on!
O'er the Infidel breast
Hath his fiery barb gone:—
The bullets rain on him,
They fall thick as hail;
The lances crash round him
Like reeds in the gale,—
But onward, still onward,
For God and his law,

Through the dark strife of Death
Bursts the gallant Pacha.
Allah, il allah!

In the wake of his might,
In the path of the wind,
Pour the sons of the Faithful,
Careering behind;
And bending to battle
O'er each high saddle-bow,
With the sword of Azrael,
They sweep down the foe.
Allah, il allah!
'Tis Ouglou that cries,—
In the breath of his nostril
The Infidel dies!
Allah, il allah!

ELFINLAND WUD.

AN IMITATION OF THE ANCIENT SCOTTISH ROMANTIC BALLAD.

Erl William has muntit his gude grai stede,
(Merrie lemis munelicht on the sea,)
And graithit him in ane cumli weid.
(Swa bonilie blumis the hawthorn tree.)

Erl William rade, Erl William ran,—
(Fast they ryde quha luve trewlie,)
Quhyll the Elfinland wud that gude Erl wan—
(Blink ower the burn, sweit may, to mee.)

Elfinland wud is dern and dreir,
(Merrie is the grai gowkis sang,)
Bot ilk ane leafis quhyt as silver cleir,
(Licht makis schoirt the road swa lang.)

It is undirnith ane braid aik tree,
(Hey and a lo, as the leavis grow grein,)
Thair is kythit ane bricht ladie,
(Manie flouris blume quhilk ar nocht seen.)

Around hir slepis the quhyte muneschyne,
(Meik is mayden undir kell,)
Her lips bin lyke the blude reid wyne;
(The rois of flouris hes sweitest smell.)

It was al bricht quhare that ladie stude,
(Far my luve, fure ower the sea.)
Bot dern is the lave of Elfinland wud,
(The knicht pruvit false that ance luvit me.)

The ladie's handis were quhyte als milk,
(Ringis my luve wore mair nor ane.)
Her skin was safter nor the silk;
(Lilly bricht schinis my luvis halse bane.)

Save you, save you, fayr ladie,
(Gentil hert schawis gentil deed.)
Standand alane undir this auld tree;
(Deir till knicht is nobil steid.)

Burdalane, if ye dwall here,
(My hert is layed upon this land.)
I wuld like to live your fere;
(The schippis cum sailin to the strand.)

Nevir ane word that ladie sayd;
(Schortest rede hes least to mend.)
Bot on hir harp she evir playd;
(Thare nevir was mirth that had nocht end.)

Gang ye eist, or fare ye wast,
(Ilka stern blinkis blythe for thee,)
Or tak ye the road that ye like best,
(Al trew feeris ryde in cumpanie.)

Erl William loutit doun full lowe;
(Luvis first seid bin courtesie.)
And swung hir owir his saddil bow,
(Ryde quha listis, ye'll link with mee.)

Scho flang her harp on that auld tree,
(The wynd pruvis aye ane harpir gude.)
And it gave out its music free;
(Birdis sing blythe in gay green wud.)

The harp playde on its leeful lane,
(Lang is my luvis yellow hair.)
Quhill it has charmit stock and stane,
(Furth by firth, deir lady fare.)

Quhan scho was muntit him behynd,
(Blyth be hertis quhilkis luve ilk uthir.)
Awa thai flew like flaucht of wind;
(Kin kens kin, and bairnis thair mither.)

Nevir ane word that ladie spak;
(Mim be maydens men besyde.)
But that stout steid did nicher and schaik;
(Small thingis humbil hertis of pryde.)

About his breist scho plet her handis;
(Luvand be maydens quhan thai lyke.)
Bot they were cauld as yron bandis.
(The winter bauld bindis sheuch and syke.)

Your handis ar cauld, fayr ladie, sayd hee,
(The caulder hand the trewer hairt.)
I trembil als the leif on the tree;
(Licht caussis muve ald friendis to pairt.)

Lap your mantil owir your heid,
(My luve was clad in the red scarlett,)
And spredd your kirtil owir my stede;
(Thair nevir was joie that had nae lett.)

The ladie scho wald nocht dispute;
(Nocht woman is scho that laikis ane tung.)
But caulder her fingeris about him cruik.
(Some sangis ar writt, bot nevir sung.)

This Elfinland wud will neir haif end;
(Hunt quha listis, daylicht for mee.)
I wuld I culd ane strang bow bend,
(Al undirneth the grene wud tree.)

Thai rade up, and they rade doun,
(Wearilie wearis wan nicht away.)
Erl William's heart mair cauld is grown;
(Hey, luve mine, quhan dawis the day?)

Your hand lies cauld on my briest-bane,
(Smal hand hes my ladie fair,)
My horss he can nocht stand his lane,
(For cauldness of this midnicht air.)

Erl William turnit his heid about;
(The braid mune schinis in lift richt cleir.)
Twa Elfin een are glentin owt,
(My luvis een like twa sternis appere.)

Twa brennand eyne, sua bricht and full,
(Bonnilie blinkis my ladeis ee,)
Flang fire flauchtis fra ane peelit skull;
(Sum sichts ar ugsomlyk to see.)

Twa rawis of quhyt teeth then did say,
(Cauld the boysteous windis sal blaw,)
Oh, lang and weary is our way,
(And donkir yet the dew maun fa'.)

Far owir mure, and far owir fell,
(Hark the sounding huntsmen thrang;)
Thorow dingle, and thorow dell,
(Luve, come, list the merlis sang.)

Thorow fire, and thorow flude,
(Mudy mindis rage lyk a sea;)
Thorow slauchtir, thorow blude,
(A seamless shrowd weird schaipis for me!)

And to rede aricht my spell,
Eerilie sal night wyndis moan,
Quhill fleand Hevin and raikand Hell,
Ghaist with ghaist maun wandir on.

MIDNIGHT AND MOONSHINE.

All earth below, all heaven above,
In this calm hour, are filled with Love;
All sights, all sounds, have throbbing hearts,
In which its blessed fountain starts,
And gushes forth so fresh and free,
Like a soul-thrilling melody.

Look! look! the land is sheathed in light,
And mark the winding stream,
How, creeping round yon distant height,
Its rippling waters gleam.
Its waters flash through leaf and flower—
Oh! merrily they go;
Like living things, their voices pour
Dim music as they flow.

Sinless and pure they seek the sea,
As souls pant for eternity;—
Heaven speed their bright course till they sleep
In the broad bosom of the deep.

High in mid air, on seraph wing,
The paley moon is journeying
In stillest path of stainless blue;
Keen, curious stars are peering through
Heaven's arch this hour; they doat on her
With perfect love; nor can she stir
Within her vaulted halls a pace,
Ere rushing out, with joyous face,
These Godkins of the sky
Smile, as she glides in loveliness;
While every heart beats high
With passion, and breaks forth to bless
Her loftier divinity.

It is a smile worth worlds to win—
So full of love, so void of sin,
The smile she sheds on these tall trees,
Stout children of past centuries.
Each little leaf, with feathery light,
Is margined marvellously;

Moveless all droop, in slumberous quiet;
How beautiful they be!
And blissful as soft infants lulled
Upon a mother's knee.

Far down yon dell the melody
Of a small brook is audible;
The shadow of a thread-like tone,—
It murmurs over root and stone,
Yet sings of very love its fill;—
And hark! even now, how sweetly shrill
It trolls its fairy glee,
Skywards unto that pure bright one;
O! gentle heart hath she,
For, leaning down to earth, with pleasure,
She lists its fond and prattling measure.

It is indeed a silent night
Of peace, of joy, and purest light;—
No angry breeze, in surly tone,
Chides the old forest till it moan;
Or breaks the dreaming of the owl,
That, warder-like, on yon gray tower,
Feedeth his melancholy soul
With visions of departed power;

And o'er the ruins Time hath sped,
Nods sadly with his spectral head.

And lo! even like a giant wight
Slumbering his battle toils away,
The sleep-locked city, gleaming bright
With many a dazzling ray,
Lies stretched in vastness at my feet;
Voiceless the chamber and the street,
And echoless the hall;—
Had Death uplift his bony hand
And smote all living on the land,
No deeper quiet could fall.
In this religious calm of night,
Behold, with finger tall and bright,
Each tapering spire points to the sky,
In a fond, holy ecstacy;—
Strange monuments they be of mind,—
Of feelings dim and undefined,
Shaping themselves, yet not the less,
In forms of passing loveliness.

O God! this is a holy hour:—
Thy breath is o'er the land;

I feel it in each little flower
Around me where I stand,—
In all the moonshine scattered fair,
Above, below me, everywhere,—
In every dew-bead glistening sheen,
In every leaf and blade of green,—
And in this silence grand and deep,
Wherein thy blessed creatures sleep.

The trees send forth their shadows long
In gambols o'er the earth,
To chase each other's innocence
In quiet, holy mirth;
O'er the glad meadows fast they throng,
Shapes multiform and tall;
And lo! for them the chaste moonbeam,
With broadest light doth fall.
Mad phantoms all, they onward glide,—
On swiftest wind they seem to ride
O'er meadow, mount, and stream:
And now, with soft and silent pace,
They walk as in a dream,
While each bright earth-flower hides its face
Of blushes, in their dim embrace.

Men say, that in this midnight hour,
The disembodied have power
To wander as it liketh them,
By wizard oak and fairy stream,—
Through still and solemn places,
And by old walls and tombs, to dream,
With pale, cold, mournful faces.
I fear them not; for they must be
Spirits of kindest sympathy,
Who choose such haunts, and joy to feel
The beauties of this calm night steal
Like music o'er them, while they woo'd
The luxury of Solitude.

Welcome, ye gentle spirits! then,
Who love and feel for earth-chained men,—
Who, in this hour, delight to dwell
By moss-clad oak and dripping cell,—
Who joy to haunt each age-dimmed spot,
Which ruder natures have forgot;
And, in majestic solitude,
Feel every pulse-stroke thrill of good
To all around, below, above;—
Ye are the co-mates whom I love!

While, lingering in this moonshine glade,
I dream of hopes that cannot fade;
And pour abroad those phantasies
That spring from holiest sympathies
With Nature's moods, in this glad hour
Of silence, moonshine, beauty, power,
When the busy stir of man is gone,
And the soul is left with its God alone!

THE WATER! THE WATER!

The Water! the Water!
The joyous brook for me,
That tuneth, through the quiet night,
Its ever-living glee.
The Water! the Water!
That sleepless merry heart,
Which gurgles on unstintedly,
And loveth to impart
To all around it some small measure
Of its own most perfect pleasure.

The Water! the Water!
The gentle stream for me,
That gushes from the old gray stone,
Beside the alder tree.
The Water! the Water!
That ever-bubbling spring
I loved and looked on while a child,
In deepest wondering,—

And asked it whence it came and went,
And when its treasures would be spent.

The Water! the Water!
The merry, wanton brook,
That bent itself to pleasure me,
Like mine own shepherd crook.
The Water! the Water!
That sang so sweet at noon,
And sweeter still at night, to win
Smiles from the pale proud moon,
And from the little fairy faces
That gleam in heaven's remotest places.

The Water! the Water!
The dear and blessed thing
That all day fed the little flowers
On its banks blossoming.
The Water! the Water!
That murmured in my ear,
Hymns of a saint-like purity,
That angels well might hear;
And whisper in the gates of heaven,
How meek a pilgrim had been shriven.

The Water! the Water!
Where I have shed salt tears,
In loneliness and friendliness,
A thing of tender years.
The Water! the Water!
Where I have happy been,
And showered upon its bosom flowers
Culled from each meadow green,
And idly hoped my life would be
So crowned by love's idolatry.

The Water! the Water!
My heart yet burns to think
How cool thy fountain sparkled forth,
For parched lip to drink.
The Water! the Water!
Of mine own native glen;
The gladsome tongue I oft have heard,
But ne'er shall hear again;
Though fancy fills my ear for aye
With sounds that live so far away!

The Water! the Water!
The mild and glassy wave,

Upon whose gloomy banks I've longed
To find my silent grave.
The Water! the Water!
Oh bless'd to me thou art;
Thus sounding in life's solitude,
The music of my heart,
And filling it, despite of sadness,
With dreamings of departed gladness.

The Water! the Water!
The mournful pensive tone,
That whispered to my heart how soon
This weary life was done.
The Water! the Water!
That rolled so bright and free,
And bade me mark how beautiful
Was its soul's purity;
And how it glanced to heaven its wave,
As wandering on it sought its grave.

THREE FANCIFUL SUPPOSES.

Were I a breath of viewless wind,
As very spirits be,
Where would I joy at length to find
I was no longer free?
Oh, Margaret's cheek,
Whose blushes speak
Love's purest sympathies,
Would be the site,
Where gleaming bright,
My prison-dome should rise:
I'd live upon that rosy shore,
And fan it with soft sighs,
Nor other paradise explore
Beneath the skies.

Were I a pranksome Elfin knight,
Or eke the Faerye king,
Who, when the moonshine glimmers bright,
Loves to be wandering;

Where would I ride,
In all the pride
Of Elfin chivalry,
With each sweet sound
Far floating round,
Of Faerye minstrelsy?—
'Tis o'er her neck of drifted snow,
Her passion-breathing lip,
Her dainty chin and noble brow,
That I would trip.

Were I a glossy plumaged bird,
A small glad voice of song,
Where would my love-lays aye be heard—
Where would I nestle long?—
In Margaret's ear
When none were near,
I'd strain my little throat,
To sing fond lays
In Margaret's praise,
That could not be forgot;
Then on her bosom would I fall,
And from it never part—
Dizzy with joy, and proud to call
My home her heart!

A CAVEAT TO THE WIND

Sing high, sing low, thou moody wind,
It skills not—for thy glee
Is ever of a fellow-kind
With mine own fantasy.
Go, sadly moan or madly blow
In fetterless free will,
Wild spirit of the clouds! but know
I ride thy comrade still;
Loving thy humours, I can be
Sad, wayward, wild, or mad, like thee.

Go, and with light and noiseless wing,
Fan yonder murmuring stream—
Brood o'er it, as the sainted thing,
The spirit of its dream;
Give to its voice a sweeter tone
Of calm and heartfelt gladness;
Or, to those old trees, woe-begone,
Add moan of deeper sadness,—

It likes me still; for I can be
All sympathy of heart, like thee.

Rush forth, in maddest wrath, to rouse
The billows of the deep;
And in the blustering storm, carouse
With fiends that never weep.
Go, tear each fluttering rag away,
Outshriek the mariner,
And hoarsely knell the mermaid's lay
Of death and shipwreck drear;—
What reck I, since I still dare be
Harsh, fierce, and pitiless, like thee?

I love thy storm-shout on the land,
Thy storm-shout on the sea;
Though shapes of death rise on each hand,
Dismay troops not with me.
With iron-cheek, that never showed
The channel of a tear,
With haughty heart, that never bowed
Beneath a dastard fear,
I rush with thee o'er land and sea,
Rejoicing in thy thundering glee.

Lovest thou those cloisters, old and dim,
Where ghosts at midnight stray,
To pour abroad unearthly hymn,
And fright the stars away?
Add to their sighs thy hollow tone
Of saddest melancholy—
For I, too, love such places lone,
And court such guests unjolly:
Such haunts, such mates, in sooth, to me
Be welcome as they are to thee.

Blow as thou wilt, blow any where,
Wild spirit of the sky,
It matters not—earth, ocean, air,
Still echoes to my cry,
“I follow thee;” for, where thou art,
My spirit, too, must be,
While each chord of this wayward heart,
Thrills to thy minstrelsy;
And he that feels so sure must be
Meet co-mate for a shrew like thee!

WHAT IS GLORY? WHAT IS FAME?

What is Glory? What is Fame?
The echo of a long lost name;
A breath, an idle hour's brief talk;
The shadow of an arrant nought;
A flower that blossoms for a day,
Dying next morrow;
A stream that hurries on its way,
Singing of sorrow;—
The last drop of a bootless shower,
Shed on a sere and leafless bower;
A rose, stuck in a dead man's breast—
This is the World's fame at the best!

What is Fame? and what is Glory?
A dream—a jester's lying story,
To tickle fools withal, or be
A theme for second infancy;
A joke scrawled on an epitaph;
A grin at Death's own ghastly laugh;

A visioning that tempts the eye,
But mocks the touch—nonentity;
A rainbow, substanceless as bright,
Flitting for ever
O'er hill-top to more distant height,
Nearing us never;
A bubble, blown by fond conceit,
In very sooth itself to cheat;
The witch-fire of a frenzied brain;
A fortune, that to lose were gain;
A word of praise, perchance of blame;
The wreck of a time-bandied name,—
Ay, This is Glory!—this is Fame!

THE SOLEMN SONG OF A RIGHTEOUS HEARTE.

AFTER THE FASHION OF AN EARLY ENGLISH POET.

There is a mightie Noyse of Bells,
Rushing from the turret free;
A solemn tale of Truthe it tells,
O'er Land and Sea,
How heartes be breaking fast, and then
Wax whole againe.

Poor fluttering Soule! why tremble soe,
To quitt Lyfe's fast decaying Tree;
Time wormes its core, and it must bowe
To Fate's decree;
Its last branch breakes, but Thou must soare,
For Evermore.

Noe more thy wing shal touch grosse Earth;
Far under shal its shadows flee,
And al its sounds of Woe or Mirth
Growe strange to thee.

100

Thou wilt not mingle in its noyse,
Nor court its Joies.

Fond One! why cling thus unto Life,
As if its gaudes were meet for thee;
Surely its Follie, Bloodshed, Stryfe,
Liked never thee?
This World growes madder each newe daie,
Vice beares such sway.

Couldst thou in Slavish artes excel,
And crawle upon the supple knee—
Couldst thou each Woe-worn wretch repel,—
This Worldes for Thee.
Not in this Spheare Man ownes a Brother:
Then seek another.

Couldst thou bewraie thy Birthright soe
As flatter Guilt's prosperitye,
And laude Oppressiounes iron blowe—
This Worldes for Thee.
Sithence to this thou wilt not bend,
Life's at an end.

101

Couldst thou spurn Vertue meanly clad,
As if 'twere spotted Infamy,
And prayse as Good what is most Bad—
This Worldes for Thee.
Sithence thou canst not will it soe,
Poor Flutterer, goe!

If Head with Hearte could so accord,
In bond of perfyte Amitie,
That Falsehood raigned in Thoughte, Deed, Word—
This Worldes for Thee.
But scorning guile, Truth-plighted one!
Thy race is run.

Couldst thou laughe loude, when grieved hearts weep
And Fiendlyke probe theire Agonye,
Rich harvest here thou soon wouldst reape—
This Worldes for Thee;
But with the Weeper thou must weepe,
And sad watch keep.

Couldst thou smyle swete when Wrong hath wrung
The withers of the Poore but Prowde,

102

And by the rootes pluck out the tongue
That dare be lowde
In Righteous cause, whate'er may be—
This Worldes for Thee.

This canst thou not! Then fluttering thing
Unstained in thy puritye,
Sweep towards heaven with tireless wing—
Meet Home for Thee.
Feare not, the crashing of Lyfe's Tree—
God's Love guides Thee.

And thus it is:—these solemn bells,
Swinging in the turret free,
And tolling forth theire sad farewells,
O'er Land and Sea,
Tell how Hearts breake, full fast, and then
Growe whole againe.

103

MELANCHOLYE.

Adieu! al vaine delightes
Of calm and moonshine nightes;
Adieu! al pleasant shade
That forests thicke have made;
Adieu! al musick swete
That little fountaynes poure,
When blythe theire waters greete
The lovesick lyly-flowre.

Adieu! the fragrant smel
Of flowres in boskye dell;
And all the merrie notes
That tril from smal birdes' throates;
Adieu! the gladsome lighte
Of Day, Morne, Noone, or E'en;
And welcome gloomy Nighte,
When not one star is seen.

Adieu! the deafening noyse
Of cities, and the joyes

104

Of Fashioun's sicklie birth;
Adieu! al boysterous mirthe,
Al pageant, pompe, and state,
And every flauntynge thing
To which the would-be-great
Of earth in madness cling.

Come with me, Melancholye,
We'll live like eremites holie,
In some deepe uncouthe wild
Where sunbeame never smylde:
Come with me, pale of hue,
To some lone silent spot,
Where blossom never grewe,
Which man hath quite forgot.

Come with thy thought-filled eye,
That notes no passer by,
And drouping solemne head,
Where phansyes strange are bred,
And saddening thoughts doe brood,
Which idly strive to borrow
A smyle to vaile thy moode
Of heart-abyding sorrow.

105

Come to yon blasted mound
Of phantom-haunted ground,
Where spirits love to be;
And list the moody glee
Of night-windes as they moane,
And the ocean's sad replye
To the wild unhallowed tone
Of the wandering sea-bird's cry.

There sit with me and keep
Vigil when al doe sleepe;
And when the curfeu bell
Hath rung its mournfull knel,
Let us together blend
Our mutual sighes and teares,
Or chaunt some metre penned,
Of the joies of other yeares!

Or in cavern hoare and damp,
Lit by the glow-worm's lamp,
We'll muse on the dull theme
Of Life's heart-sickening dreame—
Of Time's resistlesse powre—
Of Hope's deceitful lips—

106

Of Beauty's short-livde houre—
And Glory's dark eclipse!

Or, wouldst thou rather chuse
This World's leaf to peruse,
Beneath some dripping vault
That scornes rude Time's assaulte;
Whose close-ribbed arches still
Frown in their green old age,
And stamp an awfull chill
Upon that pregnant page?

Yes, thither let us turne,
To this Time-shattered urne,
And quaintly carved stone—
(Dim wrackes of ages gone;)
Here on this mouldering tomb
We'll con that noblest truth,
The Flesh and Spirit's doome—
Dust and Immortall Youthe.

107

I AM NOT SAD!

I am not sad, though sadness seem
At times to cloud my brow;
I cherished once a foolish dream—
Thank Heaven, 'tis not so now.
Truth's sunshine broke,
And I awoke
To feel 'twas right to bow
To Fate's decree, and this my doom,
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb.

I grieve not, though a tear may fill
This glazed and vacant eye;
Old thoughts will rise, do what we will,
But soon again they die;
An idle gush,
And all is hush,
The fount is soon run dry:
And cheerly now I meet my doom,
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb.

108

I am not mad, although I see
Things of no better mould
Than I myself am, greedily
In Fame's bright page enrolled,
That they may tell
The story well,
What shines may not be gold.
No, no! content I court my doom,
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb.

The luck is theirs—the loss is mine,
And yet no loss at all;
The mighty ones of eldest time,
I ask where they did fall?
Tell me the one
Who e'er could shun
Touch with Oblivion's pall?
All bear with me an equal doom,
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb.

Brave temple and huge pyramid,
Hill sepulchred by art,
The barrow acre-vast, where hid
Moulders some Nimrod's heart;

109

Each monstrous birth
Cumbers old earth,
But acts a voiceless part,
Resolving all to mine own doom,
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb.

Tradition with her palsied hand,
And purblind History, may
Grope and guess well that in this land
Some great one lived his day;
And what is this,
Blind hit or miss,
But labour thrown away,
For counterparts to mine own doom,
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb?

I do not peak and pine away,
Lo! this deep bowl I quaff;
If sigh I do, you still must say
It sounds more like a laugh.
'Tis not too late
To separate
The good seed from the chaff;
And scoff at those who scorn my doom,
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb.

110

I spend no sigh, I shed no tear,
Though life's first dream is gone;
And its bright picturings now appear
Cold images of stone;
I've learned to see
The vanity
Of lusting to be known,
And gladly hail my changeless doom,
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb!

111

THE JOYS OF THE WILDERNESS.

I have a wish, and it is this, that in some uncouth glen,
It were my lot to find a spot unknown by selfish men;
Where I might be securely free, like Eremite of old,
From Worldly guile, from Woman's wile, and Friendships brief and cold;
And where I might, with stern delight, enjoy the varied form
Of Nature's mood, in every rude burst of the thundering storm.

Then would my life, lacking fierce strife, glide on in dreamy gladness,
Nor would I know the cark and woe which come of this world's madness;
While in a row, like some poor show, its pageantries would pass,
Without a sigh, before mine eye, as shadows o'er a glass:

112

Nonentity these shadows be,—and yet, good Lord! how brave
That knavish rout doth strut and flout, then shrink into the grave!

The Wilderness breathes gentleness;—these waters bubbling free,
The gallant breeze that stirs the trees, form Heaven's own melody;
The far-stretched sky, with its bright eye, pours forth a tide of love
On every thing that here doth spring, on all that glows above.
But live with man,—his dark heart scan,—its paltry selfishness
Will show to thee, why men like me, love the lone Wilderness!

113

A SOLEMN CONCEIT.

Stately trees are growing,
Lusty winds are blowing,
And mighty rivers flowing
On, for ever on.
As stately forms were growing,
As lusty spirits blowing,
And as mighty fancies flowing
On, for ever on;
But there has been leave-taking,
Sorrow and heart-breaking,
And a moan, pale Echo's making,
For the gone, for ever gone!

Lovely stars are gleaming,
Bearded lights are streaming,
And glorious suns are beaming
On, for ever on.
As lovely eyes were gleaming,
As wondrous lights were streaming,
And as glorious minds were beaming
On, for ever on;—

114

But there has been soul-sundering,
Wailing, and sad wondering;
For graves grow fat with plundering
The gone, for ever gone!

We see great eagles soaring,
We hear deep oceans roaring,
And sparkling fountains pouring
On, for ever on.
As lofty ones were soaring,
As sonorous voices roaring,
And as sparkling wits were pouring
On, for ever on;—
But, pinions have been shedding,
And voiceless darkness spreading,
Since a measure Death's been treading
O'er the gone, for ever gone!

Every thing is sundering,
Every one is wondering,
And this huge globe goes thundering
On, for ever on.
But, 'mid this weary sundering,
Heart-breaking and sad wondering,

115

And this huge globe's rude thundering
On, for ever on,
I would that I were dreaming,
Where little flowers are gleaming,
And the long green grass is streaming
O'er the gone, for ever gone!

116

THE EXPATRIATED.

No bird is singing
In cloud or on tree,
No eye is beaming
Glad welcome to me;
The forest is tuneless;
Its brown leaves fast fall—
Changed and withered, they fleet
Like hollow friends all.

No door is thrown open,
No banquet is spread;
No hand smoothes the pillow
For the Wanderer's head;
But the eye of distrust
Sternly measures his way,
And glad are the cold lips
That wish him—good day!

Good day!—I am grateful
For such gentle prayer,

117

Though scant be the cost
Of that morsel of air.
Will it clothe, will it feed me,
Or rest my worn frame?
Good day! wholesome diet,
A proud heart to tame.

Now the sun dusks his glories
Below the blue sea,
And no star its splendor
Deems worthy of me;
The path I must travel,
Grows dark as my fate,
And nature, like man, can
Wax savage in hate.

My country! my country!
Though step-dame thou be,
Yet my heart, in its anguish,
Cleaves fondly to thee;
Still in fancy it lingers
By mountain and stream,
And thy name is the spirit
That rules its wild dream.

118

This heart loved thee truly,—
And O! it bled free,
When it led on to glory
Thy proud chivalry;
And O! it gained much from
Thy prodigal hand,—
The freedom to break in
The stranger's cold land!

119

FACTS FROM FAIRYLAND.

“Oh then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you!”

Wouldst thou know of me
Where our dwellings be?
'Tis under this hill,
Where the moonbeam chill
Silvers the leaf and brightens the blade,—
'Tis under this mound
Of greenest ground,
That our crystal palaces are made.

Wouldst thou know of me
What our food may be?
'Tis the sweetest breath
Which the bright flower hath
That blossoms in wilderness afar,—
And we sip it up,
In a harebell cup,
By the winking light of the tweering star.

Wouldst thou know of me
What our drink may be?

120

'Tis the freshest dew,
And the clearest, too,
That ever hung on leaf or flower;
And merry we skink
That wholesome drink,
Thorough the quiet of the midnight hour.

Wouldst thou know of me,
What our pastimes be?
'Tis the hunt and halloo,
The dim greenwood through;
O, bravely we prance it with hound and horn,
O'er moor and fell,
And hollow dell,
Till the notes of our Woodcraft wake the morn.

Wouldst thou know of me
What our garments be?
'Tis the viewless thread,
Which the gossamers spread
As they float in the cool of a summer eve bright,
And the down of the rose,
Form doublet and hose
For our Squires of Dames on each festal night.

121

Wouldst thou know of me
When our revelries be?
'Tis in the still night,
When the moonshine white
Glitters in glory o'er land and sea,
That, with nimble foot,
To tabor and flute,
We whirl with our loves round yon glad old tree.

122

CERTAIN PLEASANT VERSES TO THE LADY OF MY HEART.

The murmur of the merry brook,
As gushingly and free
It wimples with its sun-bright look,
Far down yon sheltered lea,
Humming to every drowsy flower
A low, quaint lullaby,
Speaks to my spirit, at this hour,
Of Love and thee.

The music of the gay green wood,
When every leaf and tree
Is coaxed by winds of gentlest mood,
To utter harmony;
And the small birds that answer make
To the wind's fitful glee,
In me most blissful visions wake,
Of Love and thee.

The rose perks up its blushing cheek,
So soon as it can see

123

Along the eastern hills, one streak
Of the Sun's majesty:
Laden with dewy gems, it gleams
A precious freight to me,
For each pure drop thereon me seems
A type of thee.

And when abroad in summer morn,
I hear the blythe bold bee
Winding aloft his tiny horn,
(An errant knight perdy,)
That winged hunter of rare sweets
O'er many a far country,
To me a lay of love repeats,
Its subject—thee.

And when, in midnight hour, I note
The stars so pensively,
In their mild beauty, onward float
Through heaven's own silent sea:
My heart is in their voyaging
To realms where spirits be,
But its mate, in such wandering,
Is ever thee!

124

But O, the murmur of the brook,
The music of the tree;
The rose with its sweet shamefast look,
The booming of the bee;
The course of each bright voyager
In heaven's unmeasured sea,
Would not one heart-pulse of me stir,
Loved I not thee!

125

BENEATH A PLACID BROW.

Beneath a placid brow,
And tear-unstained cheek,
To bear as I do now
A heart that well could break;
To simulate a smile
Amid the wrecks of grief,—
To herd among the vile,
And therein seek relief,—
For the bitterness of thought
Were joyance dearly bought.

When will man learn to bear
His heart nailed on his breast,
With all its lines of care
In nakedness confessed?—
Why, in this solemn mask
Of passion-wasted life,
Will no one dare the task,
To speak his sorrows rife?—
Will no one bravely tell,
His bosom is a hell?

126

I scorn this hated scene
Of masking and disguise,
Where men on men still gleam,
With falseness in their eyes;
Where all is counterfeit,
And truth hath never say;
Where hearts themselves do cheat,
Concealing hope's decay.
And writhing at the stake,
Themselves do liars make.

Go, search thy heart, poor fool!
And mark its passions well;
'Twere time to go to school,—
'Twere time the truth to tell,—
'Twere time this world should cast
Its infant slough away,
And hearts burst forth at last
Into the light of day;—
'Twere time all learned to be
Fit for Eternity!

127

THE COVENANTER'S BATTLE CHANT.

To battle! to battle!
To slaughter and strife!
For a sad, broken Covenant
We barter poor life.
The great God of Judah
Shall smite with our hand,
And break down the idols
That cumber the land.

Uplift every voice
In prayer, and in song;
Remember! the battle
Is not to the strong:—
Lo, the Ammonites thicken!
And onward they come,
To the vain noise of trumpet,
Of cymbal and drum.

They haste to the onslaught,
With hagbut and spear;

128

They lust for a banquet
That's deathful and dear.
Now, horseman and footman,
Sweep down the hill-side:
They come, like fierce Pharaohs,
To die in their pride!

See, long plume and pennon
Stream gay in the air;
They are given us for slaughter—
Shall God's people spare?
Nay, nay; lop them off—
Friend, father, and son;
All earth is athirst till
The good work be done.

Brace tight every buckler,
And lift high the sword!
For biting must blades be
That fight for the Lord.
Remember, remember,
How Saints' blood was shed,
As free as the rain, and
Homes desolate made!

129

Among them!—among them!
Unburied bones cry;
Avenge us—or like us,
Faith's true martyrs die.
Hew, hew down the spoilers!
Slay on, and spare none:
Then shout forth in gladness,
Heaven's battle is won!

130

TIM THE TACKET.

A LYRICAL BALLAD, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY W. W.

A bark is lying on the sands,
No rippling wave is sparkling near her;
She seems unmanned of all her hands—
There's not a soul on board to steer her!

'Tis strange to see a ship-shape thing
Upon a lonely beach thus lying,
While mystic winds for ever sing
Among its shrouds like spirits sighing.

Oh! can it be a spectre-ship,
Forwearied of the storm and ocean,
That here hath ended its last trip,
And sought repose from ceaseless motion?

I deem amiss: for yonder, see,
A sailor struts in dark-blue jacket—
A little man with face of glee—
His neighbours call him Tim the Tacket.

131

I know him well; the master he
Of a small bark—an Irish coaster;
His heart is like the ocean, free,
And like the breeze his tongue's a boaster.

He is a father, too, I'm told,
Of children ten, and some say twenty;
But it's no matter, he's grown old,
And, ten or more, he has got plenty!

List! now he sings a burly stave
Of waves and winds, and shipwrecks many,
Of flying fish and dolphins brave,
Of mermaids lovely but uncanny.

Right oft, I ween, he joys to speak
Of slim maids in the green waves dancing,
Or singing in some lonesome creek,
While kembing locks like sunbeams glancing.

Oh, he hath tales of wondrous things
Spied in the vast and gousty ocean;
Of monstrous fish whose giant springs
Give to the seas their rocking motion;

132

And serpents huge, whose rings embrace
Some round leagues of the great Pacific;
And men of central Ind, sans face,
But not on that head less terrific!

Lo! he hath lit a brown cigar,
A special smooth-skinned real Havannah,
And swirling smoke he puffs afar—
'Tis sweet to him as dessert manna!

Away, away the reek doth go,
In wiry thread or heavy volume;
Now black, now blue, gold, grey, or snow
In colour and in height a column!

His little eyes, deep-set and hedged
All round and round with bristles hoary,
Do twinkle like a hawk's new-fledged—
Sure he hath dreams of marvellous glory!

Well, I would rather be that wight,
Contented, puffing, midst his tackling,
Than star-gemmed lord or gartered knight,
In masquerade or senate cackling.

133

He suns his limbs upon the deck,
He hears the music of the ocean;
He lives not on another's beck,
He pines not after court promotion.

He is unto himself—he is
A little world within another;
And furthermore he knoweth this,
That all mankind to him is brother.

He sings his songs and smokes his weed,
He spins his yarn of monstrous fables,
He cracks his biscuit, and at need
Can soundly sleep on coiled-up cables.

Although the sea be sometimes rough,
His bark is stout, its rudder steady,
At other whiles 'tis calm enough,
And buxom as a gentle lady.

In sooth, too, 'tis a pleasant thing,
To sail and feel the sea-breeze blowing
About one's cheek—oh! such doth bring
Full many a free-born thought and glowing.

134

For who upon the deep, deep sea,
Ere dwelt and saw its great breast heaving,
But by a kindred sympathy
Felt his own heart its trammels leaving?

The wide and wild, the strange and grand,
Commingle with his inmost spirit;
He feels a riddance from the land—
A boundlessness he may inherit.

Good night, thou happy ancient man!
Farewell, thou mariner so jolly!
I pledge thee in this social can,
Thou antipode of melancholy!

135

THE WITCHES' JOYS.

A RHAPSODY MOST PLEASANT AND MERRY.

[I.]

When night winds rave
O'er the fresh scooped grave,
And the dead therein that lie,
Glare upward to the sky;
When gibbering imps sit down,
To feast on lord or clown,
And tear the shroud away
From their lithe and pallid prey;
Then clustering close, how grim
They munch each withered limb!
Or quarrel for dainty rare,
The lip of lady fair—
The tongue of high-born dame,
That never would defame,
And was of scandal free
As any mute could be!
Or suck the tintless cheek
Of maiden mild and meek;
And when in revel rout
They kick peeled skulls about,

136

And shout in maddest mirth—
“These dull toys awed the earth!”
Oh then, oh then, oh then,
We hurry forth amain;
For with such eldritch cries,
Begin our revelries!

II.

When the murderer's blanched corse
Swings with a sighing hoarse
From gibbet and from chain,
As the bat sucks out his brain,
And the owlet pecks his eyes,
And the wild fox gnaws his thighs;
While the raven croaks with glee,
Lord of the dead man's tree;
And rocked on that green skull,
With sated look and dull,
In gloomy pride looks o'er
The waste and wildered moor,
And dreams some other day
Shall bring him fresher prey;
When over bog and fen,
To lure wayfaring men,

137

Malicious spirits trail
A ground-fire thin and pale,
Which the belated wight
Pursues the livelong night,
Till in the treacherous ground
An unmade grave is found,—
Oh then, oh then, oh then,
We hurry forth amain,
Ha! ha! his feeble cries
Begin our revelries.

III.

When the spirits of the North,
Hurl howling tempests forth;
When seas of lightning flare,
And thunders choke the air;
When the ocean starts to life,
To madness, horror, strife,
And the goodly bark breaks up,
Like ungirded drinking cup,
And each stately mast is split
In some rude thunder-fit;
And like feather on the foam,
Float shattered plank and boom;

138

When, midst the tempest's roar,
Pale listeners on the shore
Hear the curse and shriek of men,
As they sink and rise again
On the gurley billow's back,
And their strong broad breast-bones crack
On the iron-ribbed coast,
As back to hell they're toss'd,
Oh then, oh then, oh then,
We hurry forth again!
For amid such lusty cries,
Begin our revelries.

IV.

When aged parents flee
The noble wreck to see,
And mark their sons roll in
Through foam and thundering din,
All mottled black and blue—
Their icy lips cut through
In the agony of death,
While drifting on their path;
When gentle maidens stand
Upon the wreck-rich strand,

139

And every labouring wave
That doth their small feet lave,
Gives them a ghastly lover
To wring their white hands over,
And tear their spray-wet hair
In the madness of despair;—
Oh then, oh then, oh then,
We hurry home amain;
For their heart-piercing cries,
Shame our wild revelries!

140

A SABBATH SUMMER NOON.

The calmness of this noontide hour,
The shadow of this wood,
The fragrance of each wilding flower,
Are marvellously good;
Oh, here crazed spirits breathe the balm
Of nature's solitude!

It is a most delicious calm
That resteth everywhere—
The holiness of soul-sung psalm,
Of felt but voiceless prayer!
With hearts too full to speak their bliss,
God's creatures silent are.

They silent are; but not the less,
In this most tranquil hour,
Of deep unbroken dreaminess,
They own that Love and Power
Which, like the softest sunshine, rests
On every leaf and flower.

141

How silent are the song-filled nests
That crowd this drowsy tree—
How mute is every feathered breast
That swelled with melody!
And yet bright bead-like eyes declare
This hour is extacy.

Heart forth! as uncaged bird through air,
And mingle in the tide
Of blessed things that, lacking care,
Now full of beauty glide
Around thee, in their angel hues
Of joy and sinless pride.

Here, on this green bank that o'er-views
The far retreating glen,
Beneath the spreading beech-tree muse,
On all within thy ken;
For lovelier scene shall never break
On thy dimmed sight again.

Slow stealing from the tangled brake
That skirts the distant hill,
With noiseless hoof two bright fawns make
For yonder lapsing rill;
Meek children of the forest gloom,
Drink on and fear no ill!

142

And buried in the yellow broom
That crowns the neighbouring height,
Couches a loutish shepherd groom,
With all his flocks in sight;
Which dot the green braes gloriously
With spots of living light.

It is a sight that filleth me
With meditative joy,
To mark these dumb things curiously,
Crowd round their guardian boy;
As if they felt this Sabbath hour
Of bliss lacked all alloy.

I bend me towards the tiny flower,
That underneath this tree
Opens its little breast of sweets
In meekest modesty,
And breathes the eloquence of love
In muteness, Lord! to thee.

There is no breath of wind to move
The flag-like leaves that spread
Their grateful shadow far above
This turf-supported head;
All sounds are gone—all murmurings
With living nature wed.

143

The babbling of the clear well-springs,
The whisperings of the trees,
And all the cheerful jargonings
Of feathered hearts at ease;
That whilome filled the vocal wood,
Have hushed their minstrelsies.

The silentness of night doth brood
O'er this bright summer noon;
And nature, in her holiest mood
Doth all things well attune
To joy, in the religious dreams
Of green and leafy June.

Far down the glen in distance gleams
The hamlet's tapering spire,
And glittering in meridial beams,
Its vane is tongued with fire;
And hark how sweet its silvery bell—
And hark the rustic choir!

The holy sounds float up the dell
To fill my ravished ear,
And now the glorious anthems swell
Of worshippers sincere—
Of hearts bowed in the dust, that shed
Faith's penitential tear.

144

Dear Lord! thy shadow is forth spread
On all mine eye can see;
And filled at the pure fountain-head
Of deepest piety,
My heart loves all created things,
And travels home to Thee.

Around me while the sunshine flings
A flood of mocky gold,
My chastened spirit once more sings
As it was wont of old,
That lay of gratitude which burst
From young heart uncontrolled,

When, in the midst of nature nursed,
Sweet influences fell
On childly hearts that were athirst,
Like soft dews in the bell
Of tender flowers that bowed their heads,
And breathed a fresher smell.

So, even now this hour hath sped
In rapturous thought o'er me,
Feeling myself with nature wed—
A holy mystery—
A part of earth, a part of heaven,
A part, great God! of Thee.

145

Fast fade the cares of life's dull sweven,
They perish as the weed,
While unto me the power is given,
A moral deep to read
In every silent throe of mind
External beauties breed.

146

A MONODY.

I

Hour after hour,
Day after day,
Some gentle flower
Or leaf gives way
Within the bower
Of human hearts;
Tear after tear
In anguish starts,
For, green or sere,
Some loved leaf parts
From the arbère
Of human hearts;—
The keen winds blow;
Rain, hail and snow
Fall everywhere!
And one by one,
As life's sands run,
These loved things fare

147

Till plundered hearts at last are won,
To woo despair.

II

Why linger on,
Fate's mockery here,
When each is gone,
Heart-loved, heart-dear?
Stone spells to stone
Its weary tale,
How graves were filled,
How cheeks waxed pale,
How hearts were chilled
With biting gale,
And life's strings thrilled
With sorrow's wail.
Flower follows flower
In the heart's bower,
To fleet away;
While leaf on leaf,
Sharp grief on grief,—
Night chasing day,
Tell as they fall, all joy is brief,
Life but decay.

148

III

The sea-weed thrown
By wave or wind,
On strand unknown,
Lone grave to find;
Methinks may own,
Of kindred more
Than I dare claim
On life's bleak shore.
Name follows name
For evermore,
As swift waves shame
Slow waves before;—
For keen winds blow;
Rain, hail, and snow
Fall everywhere,
Till life's sad tree,
In mockery,
Skeletoned bare
Of every leaf, is left to be
Mate of despair.

IV

The world is wide,
Is rich and fair,

149

Its things of pride
Flaunt everywhere;
But can it hide
Its hollowness
One mighty shell
Of bitterness,
One grand farewell
To happiness,
One solemn knell
To love's caress,
It seems to me.
The shipless sea
Hath bravery more
Than this waste scene,
Where what hath been
Beloved of yore,
In the heart's bower so fresh and green,
Fades evermore!

V

From all its kind,
This wasted heart—
This moody mind
Now drifts apart;

150

It longs to find
The tideless shore,
Where rests the wreck
Of Heretofore,—
The glorious wreck
Of mental ore;
The great heartbreak
Of loves no more.
I drift alone,
For all are gone
Dearest to me;
And hail the wave
That to the grave
On hurrieth me:
Welcome, thrice welcome, then, thy wave,
Eternity!

151

THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS.

They come! the merry summer months of Beauty, Song, and Flowers;
They come! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers.
Up, up, my heart, and walk abroad, fling cark and care aside,
Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide;
Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree,
Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity.

The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand,
And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland;
The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously,
It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and welcome thee:
And mark how with thine own thin locks,—they now are silvery grey,—
That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering “Be gay!”

152

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky,
But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody:
Thou see'st their glittering fans outspread all gleaming like red gold,
And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold.
God bless them all, these little ones, who far above this earth,
Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound, from yonder wood it came;
The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name;—
Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that apart from all his kind,
Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind;
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again,—his notes are void of art,
But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart!

153

Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me,
To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree!
To suck once more in every breath their little souls away,
And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day,
When rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless truant boy
Wandered through green woods all day long, a mighty heart of joy!

I'm sadder now, I have had cause; but O! I'm proud to think
That each pure joy-fount loved of yore, I yet delight to drink;—
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky,
Still mingle music with my dreams as in the days gone by.
When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold,
I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse,—a heart that hath waxed old!

154

CHANGE SWEEPETH OVER ALL.

Change sweepeth over all!
In showers leaves fall
From the tall forest tree;
On to the sea
Majestic rivers roll,
It is their goal.
Each speeds to perish in man's simple seeming,—
Each disappears;
One common end o'ertakes life's idle dreaming
Dust, darkness, tears!

Day hurries to its close:
The sun that rose
A miracle of light,
Yieldeth to night;
The skirt of one vast pall
O'ershadows all,
Yon firmamental cresset lights forth shining,
Heaven's highest born!

155

Droop on their thrones, and, like pale spirits pining,
Vanish with morn.

O'er cities of old days,
Dumb creatures graze;
Palace and pyramid
In dust are hid;
Yea, the sky-searching tower
Stands but its hour.
Oceans their wide-stretched beds are ever shifting,
Sea turns to shore,
And stars and systems through dread space are drifting,
To shine no more.

Names perish that erst smote
Nations remote,
With panic, fear, or wrong;
Heroic song
Grapples with time in vain;
On to the main
Of dim forgetfulness for ever rolling,
Earth's bubbles burst;
Time o'er the wreck of ages sternly tolling
The last accurst.

156

The world is waxing old,
Heaven dull and cold;
Nought lacketh here a close
Save human woes.
Yet they too have an end,—
Death is man's friend:
Doomed for a while, his heart must go on breaking
Day after day,
But light, love, life,—all,—all at last forsaking,
Clay claspeth clay!

157

SONGS.

159

O WAE BE TO THE ORDERS.

O wae be to the orders that marched my luve awa',
And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears doun fa',
O wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie Germanie,
For they hae ta'n my luve, and left a broken heart to me.

The drums beat in the mornin' afore the scriech o' day,
And the wee wee fifes piped loud and shrill, while yet the morn was grey;
The bonnie flags were a' unfurled, a gallant sight to see,
But waes me for my sodger lad that marched to Germanie.

O, lang, lang is the travel to the bonnie Pier o' Leith,
O dreich it is to gang on foot wi' the snaw-drift in the teeth!

160

And O, the cauld wind froze the tear that gathered in my ee,
When I gade there to see my luve embark for Germanie!

I looked ower the braid blue sea, sae long as could be seen,
Ae wee bit sail upon the ship that my sodger lad was in;
But the wind was blawin' sair and snell, and the ship sail'd speedilie,
And the waves and cruel wars hae twinn'd my winsome luve frae me.

I never think o' dancin', and I downa try to sing,
But a' the day I spier what news kind neibour bodies bring;
I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be,
Syne for every loop that I cast on, I am sure to let doun three.

My father says I'm in a pet, my mither jeers at me,
And bans me for a dautit wean, in dorts for aye to be;
But little weet they o' the cause that drumles sae my ee:
O they hae nae winsome luve like mine in the wars o' Germanie!

161

WEARIE'S WELL.

In a saft simmer gloamin',
In yon dowie dell,
It was there we twa first met
By Wearie's cauld well.
We sat on the brume bank
And looked in the burn,
But sidelang we looked on
Ilk ither in turn.

The corn-craik was chirming
His sad eerie cry,
And the wee stars were dreaming
Their path through the sky;
The burn babbled freely
Its love to ilk flower,
But we heard and we saw nought
In that blessed hour.

We heard and we saw nought
Above or around;

162

We felt that our love lived,
And loathed idle sound.
I gazed on your sweet face
Till tears filled my ee,
And they drapt on your wee loof,—
A warld's wealth to me.

Now the winter snaw's fa'ing
On bare holm and lea;
And the cauld wind is strippin'
Ilk leaf aff the tree.
But the snaw fa's not faster,
Nor leaf disna part
Sae sune frae the bough, as
Faith fades in your heart.

Ye've waled out anither
Your bridegroom to be;
But can his heart luve sae
As mine luvit thee?
Ye'll get biggings and mailins,
And monie braw claes;
But they a' winna buy back
The peace o' past days.

163

Fareweel, and for ever,
My first luve and last,
May thy joys be to come,—
Mine live in the past.
In sorrow and sadness,
This hour fa's on me;
But light, as thy luve, may
It fleet over thee!

164

SONG OF THE DANISH SEA-KING.

Our bark is on the waters deep, our bright blade's in our hand,
Our birthright is the ocean vast—we scorn the girdled land;
And the hollow wind is our music brave, and none can bolder be
Than the hoarse-tongued tempest raving o'er a proud and swelling sea!

Our bark is dancing on the waves, its tall masts quivering bend
Before the gale, which hails us now with the hollo of a friend;
And its prow is sheering merrily the upcurled billow's foam,
While our hearts, with throbbing gladness, cheer old Ocean as our home!

165

Our eagle-wings of might we stretch before the gallant wind,
And we leave the tame and sluggish earth a dim mean speck behind;
We shoot into the untracked deep, as earth-freed spirits soar,
Like stars of fire through boundless space—through realms without a shore!

Lords of this wide-spread wilderness of waters, we bound free,
The haughty elements alone dispute our sovereignty;
No landmark doth our freedom let, for no law of man can mete
The sky which arches o'er our head—the waves which kiss our feet!

The warrior of the land may back the wild horse, in his pride;
But a fiercer steed we dauntless breast—the untamed ocean tide;
And a nobler tilt our bark careers, as it quells the saucy wave,
While the Herald storm peals o'er the deep the glories of the brave.

166

Hurrah! hurrah! the wind is up—it bloweth fresh and free,
And every cord, instinct with life, pipes loud its fearless glee;
Big swell the bosomed sails with joy, and they madly kiss the spray,
As proudly, through the foaming surge, the Sea-King bears away!

167

THE CAVALIER'S SONG.

A steed! a steed of matchlesse speed,
A sword of metal keene!
All else to noble heartes is drosse,
All else on earth is meane.
The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde,
The rowlinge of the drum,
The clangor of the trumpet lowde,
Be soundes from heaven that come;
And O! the thundering presse of knightes
Whenas their war cryes swell,
May tole from heaven an angel brighte,
And rouse a fiend from hell.

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants, all,
And don your helmes amaine:
Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call
Us to the field againe.
No shrewish teares shall fill our eye
When the sword-hilt's in our hand,—

168

Heart whole we'll part, and no whit sighe
For the fayrest of the land!
Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
Thus weepe and puling crye,
Our business is like men to fight,
And hero-like to die!

169

THE MERRY GALLANT.

The Merry Gallant girds his sword,
And dons his helm in mickle glee!
He leaves behind his lady love
For tented fields and deeds which prove
Stout hardiment and constancy.

When round him rings the din of arms—
The notes of high-born chivalry,
He thinks not of his bird in bower,
And scorns to own Love's tyrant power
Amid the combats of the Free.

Yet in the midnight watch, I trow,
When cresset lights all feebly burn,
Will hermit Fancy sometimes roam
With eager travel back to home,
Where smiles and tears await—return.

“Away! away!” he boldly sings,
“Be thrown those thoughts which cling to me;

170

That mournful look and glistering eye—
That quivering lip and broken sigh;—
Why crowd each shrine of memory?

“O, that to-morrow's dawn would rise
To light me on my path of glory,
Where I may pluck from niggard fame
Her bravest laurels—and the name
That long shall live in minstrel story!

“Then, when my thirst for fame is dead,
Soft love may claim his wonted due;
But now, when levelled lances gleam,
And chargers snort, and banners stream,
To lady's love a long adieu!”

171

THE KNIGHT'S SONG.

Endearing! endearing!
Why so endearing
Are those dark lustrous eyes,
Through their silk fringes peering?
They love me! they love me!
Deeply, sincerely;
And more than aught else on earth,
I love them dearly.

Endearing! endearing!
Why so endearing
Glows the glad sunny smile
On thy soft cheek appearing?
It brightens! it brightens!
As I am nearing;
And 'tis thus that thy fond smile
Is ever endearing.

Endearing! endearing!
Why so endearing

172

Is that lute-breathing voice
Which my rapt soul is hearing
'Tis singing, 'tis singing
Thy deep love for me,
And my faithful heart echoes
Devotion to thee.

Endearing! endearing!
Why so endearing,
At each Passage of Arms
Is the herald's bold cheering?
'Tis then thou art kneeling
With pure hands to heaven,
And each prayer of thy heart
For my good lance is given.

Endearing! endearing!
Why so endearing
Is the fillet of silk
That my right arm is wearing?
Once it veiled the bright bosom
That beats but for me;
Now it circles the arm that
Wins glory for thee!

173

THE TROOPER'S DITTY.

Boot, boot into the stirrup, lads,
And hand once more on rein;
Up, up into the saddle, lads,
A-field we ride again:
One cheer, one cheer for dame or dear,
No leisure now to sigh,
God bless them all—we have their prayers,
And they our hearts—“Good-bye!”
Off, off we ride, in reckless pride,
As gallant troopers may,
Who have old scores to settle, and
Long slashing swords to pay.

The trumpet calls—“trot out, trot out,”—
We cheer the stirring sound;
Swords forth, my lads—through smoke and dust
We thunder o'er the ground.
Tramp, tramp, we go through sulphury clouds,
That blind us while we sing,—

174

Woe worth the knave who follows not
The banner of the King;
But luck befall each trooper tall,
That cleaves to saddle-tree,
Whose long sword carves on rebel sconce,
The rights of Majesty.

Spur on, my lads; the trumpet sounds
Its last and stern command—
“A charge! a charge!”—an ocean burst
Upon a stormy strand.
Ha! ha! how thickly on our casques
Their pop-guns rattle shot;
Spur on, my lads, we'll give it them
As sharply as we've got.
Now for it:—now, bend to the work—
Their lines begin to shake;
Now, through and through them—bloody lanes
Our flashing sabres make!

“Cut one—cut two—first point,” and then
We'll parry as we may;
On, on the knaves, and give them steel
In bellyfuls to-day.

175

Hurrah! hurrah! for Church and State,
For Country and for Crown,
We slash away, and right and left
Hew rogues and rebels down.
Another cheer! the field is clear,
The day is all our own;
Done like our sires,—done like the swords
God gives to guard the Throne!

176

HE IS GONE! HE IS GONE!

He is gone! he is gone!
Lik the leaf from the tree;
Or the down that is blown
By the wind o'er the lea.
He is fled, the light-hearted!
Yet a tear must have started
To his eye, when he parted
From love-stricken me!

He is fled! he is fled!
Like a gallant so free,
Plumed cap on his head,
And sharp sword by his knee;
While his gay feathers fluttered,
Surely something he muttered,
He at least must have uttered
A farewell to me!

He's away! he's away
To far lands o'er the sea,—

177

And long is the day
Ere home he can be;
But where'er his steed prances,
Amid thronging lances,
Sure he'll think of the glances
That love stole from me!

He is gone! he is gone!
Like the leaf from the tree;
But his heart is of stone
If it ne'er dream of me!
For I dream of him ever:
His buff-coat and beaver,
And long-sword, O, never
Are absent from me!

178

THE FORESTER'S CAROL.

Lusty Hearts! to the wood, to the merry green wood,
While the dew with strung pearls loads each blade,
And the first blush of dawn brightly streams o'er the lawn,
Like the smile of a rosy-cheeked maid.

Our horns with wild music ring glad through each shaw,
And our broad arrows rattle amain;
For the stout bows we draw, to the green woods give law,
And the Might is the Right once again!

Mark yon herds, as they brattle and brush down the glade;
Pick the fat, let the lean rascals go,
Under favor 'tis meet that we tall men should eat,—
Nock a shaft and strike down that proud doe!

179

Well delivered, parfay! convulsive she leaps,—
One bound more,—then she drops on her side;
Our steel hath bit smart the life-strings of her heart,
And cold now lies the green forest's pride.

Heave her up, and away!—should any base churl
Dare to ask why we range in this wood,
There's a keen arrow yare, in each broad belt to spare,
That will answer the knave in his blood!

Then forward, my Hearts! like the bold reckless breeze
Our life shall whirl on in mad glee;
The long bows we bend, to the world's latter end,
Shall be borne by the hands of the Free!

180

MAY MORN SONG.

The grass is wet with shining dews,
Their silver bells hang on each tree,
While opening flower and bursting bud
Breathe incense forth unceasingly;
The mavis pipes in greenwood shaw,
The throstle glads the spreading thorn,
And cheerily the blythesome lark
Salutes the rosy face of morn.
'Tis early prime;
And hark! hark! hark!
His merry chime
Chirrups the lark:
Chirrup! chirrup! he heralds in
The jolly sun with matin hymn.

Come, come, my love! and May-dews shake
In pailfuls from each drooping bough;
They'll give fresh lustre to the bloom,
That breaks upon thy young cheek now.
O'er hill and dale, o'er waste and wood,
Aurora's smiles are streaming free;

181

With earth it seems brave holyday,
In heaven it looks high jubilee.
And it is right,
For mark, love, mark!
How bathed in light
Chirrups the lark:
Chirrup! chirrup! he upward flies,
Like holy thoughts to cloudless skies.

They lack all heart who cannot feel
The voice of heaven within them thrill,
In summer morn when mounting high
This merry minstrel sings his fill.
Now let us seek yon bosky dell
Where brightest wild-flowers choose to be,
And where its clear stream murmurs on,
Meet type of our love's purity;
No witness there,
And o'er us hark!
High in the air
Chirrups the lark:
Chirrup! chirrup! away soars he,
Bearing to heaven my vows to thee!

182

THE BLOOM HATH FLED THY CHEEK, MARY.

The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary,
As spring's rath blossoms die,
And sadness hath o'ershadowed quite
Thy once bright eye;
But, look on me, the prints of grief
Still deeper lie.
Farewell!

Thy lips are pale and mute, Mary,
Thy step is sad and slow,
The morn of gladness hath gone by
Thou erst didst know;
I, too, am changed like thee, and weep
For very woe.
Farewell!

It seems as 'twere but yesterday
We were the happiest twain,

183

When murmured sighs and joyous tears,
Dropping like rain,
Discoursed my love and told how loved
I was again.
Farewell!

'Twas not in cold and measured phrase
We gave our passion name;
Scorning such tedious eloquence,
Our heart's fond flame
And long imprisoned feelings fast
In deep sobs came.
Farewell!

Would that our love had been the love
That merest worldlings know,
When passion's draught to our doomed lips
Turns utter woe,
And our poor dream of happiness
Vanishes so!
Farewell!

But in the wreck of all our hopes,
There's yet some touch of bliss,

184

Since fate robs not our wretchedness
Of this last kiss:
Despair, and love, and madness, meet
In this, in this.
Farewell!

185

IN THE QUIET AND SOLEMN NIGHT.

In the quiet and solemn night,
When the moon is silvery bright,
Then the screech owl's eerie cry
Mocks the beauties of the sky:
Tu whit, tu whoo,
Its wild halloo
Doth read a drowsy homily.

From yon old castle's chimneys tall,
The bat on leathern sail doth fall
In wanton-wise to skim the earth,
And flout the mouse that gave it birth.
Tu whit, tu whoo,
That wild halloo
Hath marred the little monster's mirth.

Fond lovers seek the dewy vale,
That swimmeth in the moonshine pale;

186

But maids! beware, when in your ear
The screech-owl screams so loud and clear:
Tu whit, tu whoo,
Its wild halloo
Doth speak of danger lurking near.

It bids beware of murmured sigh,
Of air-spun oath and wistful eye;
Of star that winks to conscious flower
Through the roof of leaf-clad bower:
Tu whit, tu whoo,
That wild halloo
Bids startled virtue own its power!

187

THE VOICE OF LOVE.

When shadows o'er the landscape creep,
And twinkling stars pale vigils keep;
When flower-cups all with dew-drops gleam,
And moonshine floweth like a stream;
Then is the hour
That hearts which love no longer dream,—
Then is the hour
That the voice of love is a spell of power!

When shamefaced moonbeams kiss the lake,
And amorous leaves sweet music wake;
When slumber steals o'er every eye,
And Dian's self shines drowsily;
Then is the hour
That hearts which love with rapture sigh,—
Then is the hour
That the voice of love is a spell of power!

When surly mastiffs stint their howl,
And swathed in moonshine nods the owl;

188

When cottage-hearths are glimmering low,
And warder cocks forget to crow;
Then is the hour
That hearts feel passion's overflow,—
Then is the hour
That the voice of love is a spell of power!

When stilly night seems earth's vast grave,
Nor murmur comes from wood or wave;
When land and sea, in wedlock bound
By silence, sleep in bliss profound;
Then is the hour
That hearts like living well-springs sound,—
Then is the hour
That the voice of love is a spell of power!

189

AWAY! AWAY! O, DO NOT SAY.

Away! away! O, do not say
He can prove false to me:
Let me believe but this brief day
In his fidelity;
Tell me, that rivers backward flow,
That unsunned snows like fire-brands glow,
I may believe that lay,
But never can believe that he
Is false and fled away.

Ill acted part! ill acted part!
I knew his noble mind,
He could not break a trusting heart,
Nor leave his love behind;
Tell me yon sun will cease to rise,
Or stars at night to gem the skies,
I may believe such lay;
But never can believe that he
Is false and fled away.

190

Can it be so? O, surely no!
Must I perforce believe
That he I loved and trusted so,
Vowed only to deceive?
Heap coals of fire on this lone head,
Or in pure pity strike me dead,—
'Twere kindness, on the day
That tells me one I loved so well,
Is false,—is fled away!

191

O, AGONY! KEEN AGONY.

O, agony! keen agony,
For trusting heart, to find
That vows believed, were vows conceived
As light as summer wind.

O, agony! fierce agony,
For loving heart to brook,
In one brief hour the withering power
Of unimpassioned look.

O, agony! deep agony,
For heart that's proud and high,
To learn of fate how desolate
It may be ere it die.

O, agony! sharp agony,
To find how loath to part
With the fickleness and faithlessness
That break a trusting heart!

192

THE SERENADE.

Wake, lady, wake!
Dear heart, awake
From slumbers light;
For 'neath thy bower, at this still hour,
In harness bright,
Lingers thine own true paramour,
And chosen knight!
Wake, lady, wake!

Wake, lady, wake!
For thy loved sake,
Each trembling star
Smiles from on high with its clear eye,
While nobler far
Yon silvery shield lights earth and sky;
How good they are!
Wake, lady, wake!

Rise, lady, rise!
Not star-filled skies
I worship now,
A fairer shrine I trust is mine
For loyal vow:

193

O that the living stars would shine
That light thy brow!
Rise, lady, rise!

Rise, lady, rise,
Ere war's rude cries
Fright land and sea!
To-morrow's light sees mail-sheathed knight,
Even hapless me,
Careering through the bloody fight
Afar from thee!
Rise, lady, rise!

Mute, lady, mute?
I have no lute,
Nor rebeck small
To soothe thine ear with lay sincere,
Or Madrigal;
With helm on head and hand on spear,
On thee I call!
Mute, lady, mute!

Mute, lady, mute
To love's fond suit?

194

I'll not complain,
Since underneath thy balmy breath
I may remain
One brief hour more ere I seek death
On battle plain!
Mute, lady, mute!

Sleep, lady, sleep!
While watch I keep
Till dawn of day:
But o'er the wold now morning cold
Shines icy grey;
While the plain gleams with steel and gold,
And chargers neigh!
Sleep, lady, sleep!

Sleep, lady, sleep!
Nor wake to weep
For heart-struck me:
These trumpets knell my last farewell
To love and thee!
When next they sound, 'twill be to tell
I died for thee!
Sleep, lady, sleep!

195

COULD LOVE IMPART.

Could love impart,
By nicest art,
To speechless rocks a tongue,—
Their theme would be,
Beloved, of thee,—
Thy beauty, all their song.

And, clerklike, then,
With sweet amen,
Would echo from each hollow
Reply all day;
While gentle fay,
With merry whoop, would follow.

Had roses sense,
On no pretence
Would they their buds unroll;
For, could they speak,
'Twas from thy cheek
Their dantiest blush they stole.

Had lilies eyes,
With glad surprise

196

They'd own themselves outdone,
When thy pure brow
And neck of snow
Gleamed in the morning sun.

Could shining brooks,
By amorous looks,
Be taught a voice so rare,
Then, every sound
That murmured round
Would whisper, “Thou art fair!”

Could winds be fraught
With pensive thought
At midnight's solemn hour,
Then every wood,
In gleeful mood,
Would own thy beauty's power!

And, could the sky
Behold thine eye,
So filled with love and light,
In jealous haste,
Thou soon wert placed
To star, the cope of Night!

197

THE PARTING.

Oh! is it thus we part,
And thus we say farewell,
As if in neither heart
Affection e'er did dwell?
And is it thus we sunder
Without or sigh or tear,
As if it were a wonder
We e'er held other dear?

We part upon the spot,
With cold and clouded brow,
Where first it was our lot
To breathe love's fondest vows!
The vow both then did tender
Within this hallowed shade—
These vows we now surrender,
Heart-bankrupts both are made!

198

Thy hand is cold as mine,
As lustreless thine eye;
Thy bosom gives no sign
That it could ever sigh!
Well, well! adieu's soon spoken,
'Tis but a parting phrase,
Yet said, I fear, heart-broken
We'll live our after days!

Thine eye no tear will shed;
Mine is as proudly dry;
But many an aching head
Is ours before we die!
From pride we both can borrow—
To part we both may dare—
But the heart-break of to-morrow,
Nor you nor I can bear!

199

LOVE'S DIET.

Tell me, fair maid, tell me truly,
How should infant Love be fed;
If with dewdrops, shed so newly
On the bright green clover blade;
Or, with roses plucked in July,
And with honey liquored?
O, no! O, no!
Let roses blow,
And dew-stars to green blade cling:
Other fare,
More light and rare,
Befits that gentlest Nursling.

Feed him with the sigh that rushes
'Twixt sweet lips, whose muteness speaks
With the eloquence that flushes
All a heart's wealth o'er soft cheeks;
Feed him with a world of blushes,
And the glance that shuns, yet seeks:
For 'tis with food,
So light and good,

200

That the Spirit child is fed;
And with the tear
Of joyous fear
That the small Elf's liquored.

201

THE MIDNIGHT WIND.

Mournfully! O, mournfully
This midnight wind doth sigh,
Like some sweet plaintive melody
Of ages long gone by:
It speaks a tale of other years—
Of hopes that bloomed to die—
Of sunny smiles that set in tears,
And loves that mouldering lie!

Mournfully! O, mournfully
This midnight wind doth moan;
It stirs some chord of memory
In each dull heavy tone:
The voices of the much-loved dead
Seem floating thereupon—
All, all my fond heart cherished
Ere death had made it lone.

Mournfully! O, mournfully
This midnight wind doth swell,

202

With its quaint pensive minstrelsy,
Hope's passionate farewell
To the dreamy joys of early years,
Ere yet grief's canker fell
On the heart's bloom—ay! well may tears
Start at that parting knell!

203

POSTHUMOUS PIECES.

205

THE WAITHMAN'S WAIL.

The waithman goode of Silverwoode,
That bowman stout and hende,
In donjon gloom abydes his doome;
God dele him getil ende.

It breakes trew herte to see him sterte,
Whenas the small birdes sing;
And then to hear his sighynges drere
Whenas his fetters ryng.

Of bowe and shafte he bin bereft,
And eke of bugil horne;
A goodlye wighte, by craftie slyghte,
Alake! is overborne.

—Old Ballad.

My heart is sick! my heart is sick!
And sad as heart can be;
It pineth for the forest brook,
And for the forest tree;
It pineth for all gladsome things
That haunt the woodlands free.

O Silverwood, sweet Silverwood,
Thy leaves be large and long;

206

And there, God wot, in summer eve,
To list the small bird's song,
Were med'cine to the heart that breaks,
Like mine, in prison strong.

The sun, in idle wantonness,
Shines in this dungeon cold,
But his bright glance, through Silverwood,
I never shall behold!
I ne'er shall see each broad leaf gleam
Like banner-flag of gold.

It pains me, this o'ermastering light,
Fast flooding from the sky,
That streams through these black prison bars
In sheerest mockery,
Recalling thoughts, by green woods bred,
To mad me ere I die.

Dear western wind, now blowing soft
Upon my faded cheek,
Thy angel whisperings seem even now
Of Silverwood to speak;
Of streams and bowers that make man's heart
As very woman's weak.

207

Soft western wind, with music fraught,
Of all to heart most dear;
Of birds that sing in greenest glade,
Of streams that run so clear;
Why pour thy sweetness o'er the heart
That wastes in dungeon drear?

The sunshine's for the jocund heart,
The breeze is for the free;
They be for those who bend stout bow
Beneath the greenwood tree.
Sun ne'er should shine, breeze never blow,
For fettered slave like me.

I hear the hawk's scream in the wood,
The brayings of gaunt hound,
The sharp sough of the feathered shaft,
The bugle's thrilling sound;
I hear them; and, Oh God, these limbs
With Spanish irons bound!

Strike these foul fetters from my wrist,
These shackles from my knee,
Set this foot 'gainst an earthfast stone,
This back 'gainst broad oak tree;

208

Give but one span of earth for fight,
And I once more am free!

A single hand, a single brand,
Against uncounted foes;
A heart that's withered like a leaf,
In brooding o'er its woes,
Are surely not such deadly odds
For stout men to oppose.

But no; bound here midst rotting straw,
Within this noisome cell,
They joy to see a proud heart break,
And ring its own sad knell;
They joy to hear me, Silverwood,
Bid thee and life farewell.

So let it be; sweet Silverwood,
On daylight's latest beam,
My spirit seeks again thy glades,
Revisits flower and stream;
And fleets through thee, unchanged in love,
In this my dying dream.

209

THE TROUBADOUR'S LAMENT.

It was a gallant troubadour,
A child of sword and song,
That loved a gentle paramour,
And loved her leal and long;
He woo'd her as a knight should woo,
And laying lance in rest,
In listed fields, her colours flew
O'er many a haughty crest.
He loved her as a bard should do,
And taking harp in hand,
In sweetest lays, that lady's praise
He poured o'er many a land:
But all in vain,
His noblest strain
Awoke no kind return;
That lady proud
Smiled on the crowd,
But his true love did spurn.

It was a tristful troubadour,
Heart-broken by disdain,

210

That then to France and belle amour
Bequeathed this mournful strain,
As riding on the yellow sand
With many a knightly feere,
He smote his harp with feeblest hand,
To sing with feebler cheer:
Adieu, proud love! adieu, fair land!
Where heathen banners float,
This broken heart can act its part,
Can die, and be forgot.
Alas! too late;
It was its fate
To learn, with saddest pain,
It loved one
Who scorned to own
Her heart could love again.

Fair France, farewell! my latest breath
Shall still be spent for thee,
While meeting strife, I court my death
In distant Galilee.
My soul is bound up with the glaive
That glitters at my thigh,
And fixed upon the banner brave
Now flashing to the sky.

211

A last adieu I well may waive
To her I loved so well;
She does not care what doom I bear,
Yet, heartless maid, farewell!
No bridal sheet
For me is meet,
I seek the soldier's bier,
Who, for his God,
Sleeps on the sod,
Unstained by woman's tear.

212

WHEN I BENEATH THE COLD RED EARTH AM SLEEPING.

When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping,
Life's fever o'er,
Will there for me be any bright eye weeping
That I'm no more?
Will there be any heart still memory keeping
Of heretofore?

When the great winds through leafless forests rushing,
Like full hearts break,
When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing,
Sad music make;
Will there be one whose heart despair is crushing
Mourn for my sake?

When the bright sun upon that spot is shining
With purest ray,
And the small flowers their buds and blossoms twining,
Burst through that clay;
Will there be one still on that spot repining
Lost hopes all day?

When the night shadows, with the ample sweeping
Of her dark pall;

213

The world and all its manifold creation sleeping,
The great and small—
Will there be one, even at that dread hour, weeping
For me—for all?

When no star twinkles with its eye of glory,
On that low mound;
And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary
Its loneness crowned;
Will there be then one versed in misery's story
Pacing it round?

It may be so,—but this is selfish sorrow
To ask such meed,—
A weakness and a wickedness to borrow
From hearts that bleed,
The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow
Shall never need.

Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling,
Thou gentle heart;
And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling,
Let no tear start;
It were in vain,—for Time hath long been knelling—
Sad one, depart!

214

SPIRITS OF LIGHT!—SPIRITS OF SHADE!

Spirits of Light! Spirits of Shade!
Hark to the voice of your love-craz'd maid,
Who singeth all night so merrily,
Under the cope of the huge elm tree.
The snow may fall, and the bitter wind blow,
But still with love must her heart overflow.

The great elm tree is leafy and high,
And its topmost branch wanders far up in the sky;
It is clothed with leaves from top to toe;
For it loveth to hear the wild winds blow,—
The winds that travel so fast and free,
Over the land, and over the sea,
Singing of marvels continuously.
The moon on these leaves is shining ever,
And they dance like the waves of a gleaming river.
But, oft in the night,
When her smile shines bright,

215

With the cold, cold dew they shiver.
Oh, woe is me, for the suffering tree,
And the little green leaves that shiver and dream
In the icy moonbeam.
Oh, woe is me!

I would I were clad with leaves so green,
And grew like this elm, a fair forest queen;
Could shoot up ten fingers like branches tall,
Till the cold—cold dews would on me fall;
For to shiver is sweet when winds blow keen,
Or hoar frost powders the dreary scene.
And oh! I would like that my flesh could creep
With cold, as it was wont to do;
And that my heart, like a flower went to sleep,
When Winter his icy trumpet blew,
And shook o'er the wolds and moorland fells,
His crisping beard of bright icicles,
While his breath, as it swept adown the strath,
Smote with death the burn as it brawled on its path,
Stilled its tongue, and laid it forth
In a lily-white smock from the freezing north.
But woe, deep woe,
It is not so.

216

Spirits of Light! Spirits of Shade!
Hearken once more to your love-stricken maid
For, oh, she is sad as sad may be,
Pining all night underneath this tree,
Yet lacking thy goodly company.
She is left self-alone,
While the old forests groan,
As they hear, down rushing from the skies,
The embattled squadrons of the air,
Pealing o'er ridgy hills their cries
Of battle, and of fierce despair.
Through sunless valleys, deep and drear,
Hark, to their trumpets' brassy blare,
The tramp of steed, and crash of spear!
Nearer yet the strife sweeps on,
And I am left thus self-alone,
With never a guardian spirit near,
To couch for me a generous lance,
When the Storm-fiends madly prance
On their steeds of cloud and flame,
To work a gentle maiden shame,
Oh, misery!
I die; and yet I scorn to blame
Inconstancy.

217

All in this old wood,
They may shed my blood,
But false to my true love
I never can be.

Peace, breaking heart! it is not so,
For sweetly I hear your voices flow—
All your sad soft voices flow
Like the murmurs of the ocean,
Kissed by Zephyrs into motion;
And when shells have found a tongue
To sing, as they were wont to sing,
When this noble world was young;
And the sea formed love's bright ring,
And hearts found hearts in every thing.
Now the trees find apt replying,
To your music, with a sighing
That doth witch the owl to sleep;
And, waving their great arms to and fro,
They feel ye walk, and their heads they bow
In adoration deep.
And I, with very joy could now,
Like weakest infant weep,
That hath its humour, and doth go
With joy-wrung tears to sleep.

218

And now all the leaves that are sere and dry,
Noiselessly fall, like stars from the sky;
They are showering down on either hand,
A brown, brown burden upon the land.
And thus it will be with the love-stricken maid,
That loveth the Spirits of Light and Shade,
And whose thoughts commune with the spirits that write
The blue book of heaven with words of light.
And who bend down in love for her,
From their stately domes on high,
To teach her each bright character
That gleameth in her eye,
When the solemn night unrols
The vast map of the world of souls.
Oh, extacy! rapt extacy!
For a poor maiden of earth like me;
To have and hold
The spirits who shine like molten gold,
Eternally.

Beautiful Spirits! flee me not;
For this is the hour, and this is the spot,
Where we were wont of old to spell
The language of the star-filled sky;

219

And walk through heaven's own citadel,
With stately step and upcast eye,
And brows, on which were deeply wrought,
The fadeless prints of glorious thought.

Ye melt fast away in the dewy chill
O' the moonbeam, but yield to a maiden's will;
Take, ere ye vanish, this guerdon fair,
A long lock of her sun-bright hair;
It was shorn from temples that throbbed with pain,
As the fearful thought wandered through the brain.
That never again, as in days of yore,
It might be her hap to gather lore
From the dropping richness of liquid tones,
That fall from the lips of spiritual ones.
Scorn not my gift—Oh, it is fair,
As, streaming, it follows your course high in air;
And here is a brave and flaunting thing:—
A jolly green garland, braided well
With roses wild, and foxglove bell—
With sage, and rue, and eglantine—
With ivy leaf and holly green.
Three times it was dipped in a faery spring,
And three times spread forth in a faery ring,

220

When the dews fell thick and the moon was full;
And three times it clipped a dead man's skull—
And three times it lay pillowed under this cheek,
And lips that would, but could not speak,
Where its bloom was preserved, by tears freshly shed,
From a bursting heart's fond fountain head.
Take these gifts, then, ere ye go,
Or my heart will break with its weight of woe,
Oh, misery!
To love, and yet to be slighted so,
Sad misery.

Spirits of Light! Spirits of Shade!
Once more thus prays your love-stricken maid:
Dig out, and spread in the white moonshine,
A goodly couch for these limbs of mine;
Fast by the roots of this stately tree,
And three fathoms deep that couch must be.
And lightly strew o'er her the withered leaf;
Meet shroud for maiden mild 'twill prove;
And as it falls it will lull her grief,
With gentlest rustlings, breathing love.
Then choose a turf that is wondrous light,
And lap it softly o'er this breast;

221

And charge the dew-drops, large and bright,
On its green grass for ever to rest.
So that, like a queen, clad in gems, she may lie,
Right holily,
With hands crossed in prayer, gazing up to the sky,
Tranquilly,
Eternally.

222

THE CRUSADER'S FAREWELL.

The banners rustle in the breeze,
The angry trumpets swell;
They call me, lady, from thy arms,
They bid me sigh farewell!

They call me to a heathen land,
To quell a heathen foe;
To leave love's blandishments, and court
Rude dangers, strife, and wo.

Yet deem not, lady, though afar
It be my hap to roam,
That this right loyal heart can stray
From love, from thee, and home.

No! in the tumult of the fight,
Midst Salem's chivalrie,
The thought that arms this hand with death
Shall be the thought of thee.

223

THE MIDNIGHT LAMP.

Thou pale and sickly lamp,
Now glimmering like the glow-worm of the swamp,
Shine on, I pray thee, for another hour,
And shed thy wan and feeble lustre o'er
This precious volume of forgotten lore
My eyes devour.
Shine on, I pray thee, but some little while
Soon will the morning's ruddy smile
Peep through the casement, like a well-known guest,
And give thee needful rest.

Even now the grey owl seeks his nest;
And in the farm-yards, lusty cocks begin
To flap their wings, and, with a rousing din,
Cheer on the lagging morn.
Right soon the careful churle will go
To view his ripening corn;
And up, and up, in a merry row,
A thousand many-voiced birds will spring,
And in one general chorus sing
Their matins to the skies.

224

Then live some little while, poor sickening light,
And glad my aching eyes;
Thou wilt not die until the morrow bright
Has seen thy exequies.
Thou wilt not quit me like a thankless one,
Who, when grief closes with the fainting heart,
Doth shape his leave.
I pray thee tarry, then. Alas! thou'rt gone.
Pity it is that in this mood we part.

225

COME DOWN, YE SPIRITS.

Come down, ye Spirits! in your might, come down!
Come down, ye Spirits of this midnight hour;
Come down in all your dim sublimity
And majesty of terror! How I joy
To meet you in your own dark territories,
And hold mysterious converse in a tongue
That hath quite perished among the sons
Of fallen man! Ye Spirits that do roam
With unconfined footsteps o'er the paths
Of measureless eternity;—ye who skim
The bosomed cloud, or pace with hasty step
The earth's green surface, and its every spot,
Though ne'er so lone, deserted, and profound;
Repeople with strange sounds and voices sweet,
Which circle round, even when all else is still,
And breed in vulgar breasts a nameless dread
And awe inexplicable; which bids the flesh
To creep, as if its every fibre were
A many-footed and a living thing,
Come down! come down!

226

I hear ye come! I hear your sounding wings
Beat the impassive air with mighty strokes,
And in the flickering moonshine I can see
Your shadowy limbs, descending like a mist
Of fleecy whiteness, on the slumbering earth.
And now I hear the mingled harmonies
Of all your voices, fill the vaulted sky.
Ye call upon me—and my soul is glad
To meet you on your pilgrimage, and join
Its feeble echoes to your mighty song.

227

DING DONG!

Ding dong! ding dong!
The church bells chime
At early prime—
A solemn stave—
Ding dong! ding dong!
O'er the lovers' grave.

Ding dong! ding dong!
The slow sounds weep,
And cadence keep
With the wail of woe—
Ding dong! ding dong!
O'er the grave below.

Ding dong! ding dong!
Strew garlands round
The holy ground,
Where twin hearts sleep.
Ding dong! ding dong!
And two friends weep.

228

Ding dong! ding dong!
The church bells play
At close of day,
With hollow tone.
Ding dong! ding dong!
They ever moan.

Ding dong! ding dong!
Cold death hath laid
In earthly bed
Two hearts alone.
Ding dong! ding dong!
And made them one.

Ding dong! ding dong!
The church bells loom
Above the tomb
Where true loves meet.
Ding dong! ding dong!
How sad and sweet!

229

CLERKE RICHARD AND MAID MARGARET.

A man must nedes love maugre his hed,
He may not fleen it though he should be ded.
—Chaucer.

There were two lovers who loved each other.
For many years, till hate did start,
And yet they never quite could smother
The former love that warmed their heart;
And both did love, and both did hate,
Till both fulfilled the will of fate.

Years after, and the maid did marry
One that her heart had ne'er approved,
Nor longer could Clerke Richard tarry
Where he had lost all that he loved.
To foreign lands he reckless went
To nourish love—hate—discontent.

A word—an idle word of folly,
Had spilled their love when it was young,

230

And hatred, grief, and melancholy,
In either heart as idly sprung;
And yet they loved—and hate did wane,
And much they wished to meet again.

Of Richard still is Margaret dreaming;
His image lingered in her breast;
And oft at midnight, to her seeming,
Her former lover stood confest;
And shedding on her bosom tears,
The bitter wrecks of happier years.

Where'er he went, by land or ocean,
Still Richard sees dame Margaret there;
And every throb and kind emotion
His bosom knew were felt for her.
And never new love hath he cherished;
The power to love with first love perished.

Homeward is Clerke Richard sailing,
An altered man from him of old,
His hate had changed to bitter wailing,
And love resumed its wonted hold

231

Upon his heart, which yearned to see
The haunts and loves of infancy.

He knew her faithless, nathless, ever;
He loved her, though no more his own;
Nor could he proudly now dissever
The chain that round his heart was thrown.
He loved her without hope, yet true,
And sought her but to say adieu.

For even in parting there is pleasure,
A bitter joy that wrings the soul;
And there is grief surpassing measure
That will not bide nor brook control;
And yet a formal fond-leave taking
Is wished for by a heart nigh breaking.

Oh, there is something in the feeling,
And trembling falter of the hand,
And something in the tear down stealing,
And voice so broken and so bland,
And something in the word farewell
That worketh like a powerful spell!

232

These lovers met, and never parted;
They met as lovers wont to do
Who meet when both are broken-hearted,
To breathe a last and long adieu.
Pale Margaret wept. Clerke Richard sighed;
And, folded in each other's arms, they died.

Yes, they did die ere word was spoken;
Surprise, grief-love had chained their tongue;
And now that hatred was ywroken,
A wondrous joy in them had sprung.
And then despair froze either heart,
Which lived to meet—but died to part.

Clerke Richard, he was buried low
In fair Linlithgow; and his love
Was laid beside him there; and lo,
A bonnie tree did grow above
Their double grave, and it doth flourish
Green o'er the spot where love did perish.

233

LORD ARCHIBALD.

A BALLAD.

O saftlie, saftlie laie him doun, and hap upo' his heid
The cauld reid erd ful lichtlie feris, this is a knichtlie rede;
And pight a carvit croce of stane abune quhare he dois lye,
Syne it was for the halie rude Lord Archibald did die.

Its saftlie, saftlie have thay layd Lord Archibald in graif,
And its dowie, dowie owre his bouk thair plumis and banneris waif;
And its lichtlie, lichtlie doe thay hap the red erth on his heid;
And waefil was ilk knichtly fere to luik upon the deid.

Thay layd him doun wi' sighe and sab, and they layd him doun wi' tearis;
And nou abune the Olyve wuddis the ice-cauld mune apperis;

234

Quhyl thai muntit on thayr stedis amayne a sorrowand cumpanie,
And be the munelicht forthy thai begin a lang jornie

Awa thai rade, away thai rade, and the wynd souchit eerie by,
And quhiskit aff ilk heavie tere quhilk gatherit in thair eye;
For weil thay luvit Lord Archibald as knichtis suld luve thair feris;
But littil thai affect Syr Hew, quha now thair fealtie bearis.

Its thai have spurrit, and egre spurrit, and thair stedes ar al a fome,
And nevir a word frae anie lip of thir silent knichtis hes come;
And still they spurrit and pukit on, til a lonesum lodge they wan,
Then voydit thae thair saddilis al, and til the yett thay ran.

Nae licht is schinand in the lodge, and nae portir keepis the dore;

235

Nae warder strade, wi lustie spere, that dreirie lodge before;
Nae harp is heard inurth the hall, and nae sang frae ladie braive,
But al was quiet as Ermites houff, and stylliche as the grave.

Swith pacit thai in be twa and twa, ilk wi his outdrawn swerd,
And thai gang throu vaultit passages, albeit nae sound thay heard,
Bot and it was the heavy clamp quhilk thair fit rang on the flore,
Til that thay stude, ilk knicht of them, fornentes the grit hall dore.

Now enter thou, the bauld Syr Hew, for treason do we feare;
Now entir first, as Captaine thou, of your brithern knichtis sae dier;
For syne the gude Lord Archibald was layd aneth the stane,
Our manlyke courage has yfled, and al our hertis have gane.

236

The dark Sir Hew gade on before, and ane yreful man was he;
“Oh, schame upon your manheidis al, and dishonour on ye be;
“Quhat fleyis ye sua that nane may daur to threuw this chalmer lok;”
Then wi' his iron gauntlet he that aiken dore has broke.

“Come in, Syr Hew; come in, Syr Hew;” a voice cryit fra within;
“Come in, Syr Hew, my buirdly bairn, quhilk are sua wicht and grim,
“But nevir nane sal entir here bot an yoursel alane;
“Now welcum blythe to dark Sir Hew in this puir lodge of stane.”

Ilk knicht did hear the lonsum voyce, but the speiker nane did see,
And dark Syr Hew waxit deadlie pale, quhyl the mist cam owre his ee.
“Now turn wi' me, my merrie men al, to hald us on our way,

237

“For in this ugsum lodge this nicht nae pilgrimer may stay.”
“Come back, Syr Hew, my knicht of grace, and come hither my trusty fere;
“For thou hast wan a gudely fee, though nae lerges ye mote spere:
“Oh, three woundis were on your britheris face, and three abune his knee,
“But the deepest wound was throu his hert, and that was gi'en be thee.”

Ilk ane has heard the lonesum voyce, for it was schil and hie;
Ilk ane has heard its eerie skreich as it gaed souning by;
Yet mervailous dul that lodge dois seem, and bot anie bruit or din;
Nae liand wicht dois herbour here but an that voyce within.

And everie knicht has turnit him round to leave that hauntit ha',
And muntit on his swelterand stede, and pricket richt sune awa';

238

And quhan this gallant cumpanye auld Askelon had nearit,
The wan mune had gane fra the lift, and the grai daylight apperit.

Then did they count thair numberis, and thay countit wyse and true,
And everilk ane was thair convenit bot and the dark Syr Hew;
But in the press his horse was kythit wi' ane saddil toom and bare;
Och and alace, its maister sure liggis in som lanelie lair.

Back hae thay ridden league and myl, but nevir Syr Hew thai see;
Back hae thay ridden league and myl til quhare that lodge suld be;
Och and alace, nae lodge is thair, nouthir of stane nor wud,
But quhair it was lay the dark Syr Hew amid thick clotterit blude.

His lyre was wan, his teeth were clenchit, and his eyne did open stare,

239

And wonderouslie lyke stiffened cordis stude up his coal-black hair,
And his hand was glewit until the haft of his swerd sue scharp and trew,
Bot the blade was broke, and on the grund it lay in pieces two.

He streiket was upon the garse, and it was red of blee,
Wi' the drappyng of the ruddie blude that trinklit doun his knee;
And his brunie bricht was dintit sair, and heart in pieces ten,
O nevir was a knicht sae hackit by armis of mortal men.

Thay sayit to raise him, bot alace, thai culd not muve a limm;
But heavie as the lead he lay, that Captaine dark and brym;
And his eye was luik, and fierslie fell, and his hand was rased a lite,
Albeit no lyf was in the corps of that cauld paly knighte.

240

Then did thay leave him on that spot to rot and fal away,
And thay put na stane upon his heid, and on his corps nae clay,
For thay had lerit in ferly wise that hindernicht I rede,
That dark Syr Hew, by felon means, did make his brither bleed.

241

AND HAVE I GAZED?

And have I gazed on this bright form
While it was fast decaying?
And have I looked on these pale lips
While ghastly death and woman's love
Thereon with smiles were playing?
And do I see that lustrous eye
Now quenched in hopeless night?
And was that feebly-murmured sigh
Thy spirit's heavenward flight?

A moment since that eye was bright,
A moment since it beamed on me,
And now that lovely orb of light
Is fixed on dull vacuity;
That bosom throbb'd, that cheek was warm,
And in that round and polish'd arm
The thin blue veins were filled with life;
Now motionless and pale they lie;
Sad beauteous wrecks of that stern strife
In which a soul escaped on high!

242

Can I forget thy sad sweet smile,
Thy last, thy long impassioned look?
Can I forget the last farewell
It then so fondly took?
Oh no—methinks thy lips still seem
That smile of deepest love to beam,
And these eyes that now calmly sleep
Beneath their half-closed thin transparent covers,
Have all the lustre in their slumber deep
They had in life, and proud dominion keep
With light and sunshine over hearts and lovers.
Vain thought! Imagination's hollow trick
To wean the heart from brooding o'er its sorrow,
Away! Death's blighting dews have fallen thick
On that dear maiden's pale and bloodless cheek.
She smiled to-day; some gentle words did speak,
But nor one smile nor syllable will break
The silence of to-morrow!

Feast, feast mine eyes on happiness forelore,
Banquet on loveliness that hath not died,
A beauty slumbers there as heretofore,
A soul made to be deified.
What though the rose, like coward base, hath fled

243

From this cold cheek; the lily still is there;
And mark how its pure white is softly spread,
Where not one vagrant rose shall dare
Again to blossom on this maiden's cheek,
Or its bright innocence with shame to streak.

244

SHE IS NOT DEAD.

She is not dead—oh! do not say she's dead.
Good friends, she lives! what though the rose hath fled
From her sweet face, doth not the lily there
As beautiful a form and 'semblance bear?
Good friends, I say she lives! her beauty lives!
And death destroys all loveliness of hue;
And were she dead, that lustre life but gives,
From her, methinks, would have evanished too.

Good friends, join with me—do but give me space
To feast upon the beauties of this face.
She lives in death, she triumphs in the tomb,
And, like a grave's flower, springs in fresher bloom
The nearer it is planted to the dead!
Raise, raise a little more her drooping head;
Her bosom heaves not—'tis, like marble, white,
And, like it, cold. But mark how exquisite
And finely fashioned is this pale stiff arm
Which sleeps upon it; touch it, it will not harm.

245

No, not one finger moves; they're locked in sleep,
And very cold withal; pray do not weep,
Else I would weep too, that I could not break
Her pleasant slumbers for your pity's sake.

Good friends, I pray withdraw that veil once more,
And say, is she not lovely as before;
Hath not this brow, this cheek, this neck, this arm,
And this fair body all some goodly charm
Hovering around them, though the soul is gone
On some far pilgrimage from this bright one?
Men say this maiden loved me—simple me,
Even from the cradle and sweet infancy,
Till we had learned speech to speak our loves
As others do, by streams and shaded groves;
But that is false in part, for never word
Of love from either lip by us was heard;
The tongue is false and cogging, but the eye,
The vanishing rosy smile, speak faithfully.
Yes, Love beneath these cold lids did repair
As to a crystal palace, there to blend
His essence with the lights they did defend;
And when they op'd their portals, what a light
Poured from the worlds they hid! Two bright

246

All-radiant worlds—two stars of living fire,
Having joint sway and majesty entire
Within their fair domains and beauteous spheres,
And gemmed with diamonds like to dropping tears,
And Love was there enshrined, and laughed through,
The pensive glories of these eyes so blue.

247

SWEET EARLSBURN, BLYTHE EARLSBURN.

Sweet Earlsburn, blythe Earlsburn,
Mine own, my native stream,
My heart grows young again, while thus
On thy green banks I dream.
Yes, dream! in sooth I can no more,
For as thy murmurs roll,
They wake the ancient melodies
That stirred my infant soul.

I've told thee, one by one, the thoughts;
Strange shapeless forms were they,
That hung around me fearfully
In childhood's dreamy day.
And still thy mystic music spake
Dimly articulate,
Yielding meet answer to the dreams
That shadowed forth my fate.

I've wept by thee a sorrowing child;
I've sported, mad with glee,

248

And still thou wert the only one
That seemed to care for me;
For in whatever mood I came
To wander by thy brim,
Thy murmurs were most musical,
Soul-soothing as a hymn.

I've wandered far in other lands,
And mixed with stranger men,
But still my heart untravelled sought
Repose within thy glen.
The pictures of my memory
Were fresh as they were limned,
Nor change of scene, nor lapse of years,
Their lustre ever dimmed.

249

BEGONE, BEGONE THOU TRUANT TEAR.

Begone, begone thou truant tear
That trembles on my cheek,
And far away be born the sigh
That more than words can speak.

And cease, my merry harp, to wake
The song of former days,
And perish all the minstrel lyre
That framed these happy lays.

She loves me not who woke these strains,
Then, wherefore should they be?
True, she doth smile as she was wont,
But doth she smile on me?

Her neck with kindly arch ne'er bends
When listing to my song,
Nor does her passion-moving lips
The trembling notes prolong.

250

Time was, indeed, when she would hang
Enamoured on my theme;
But ah, that happy time hath fled,
And vanished like a dream.

Peace, thou proud heart, and prate no more,
Thy sun of joy hath set,
And dark and starless is the sky
The troubadour has met.

251

O BABBLE NOT TO ME, GRAY EILD.

Oh babble not to me, Gray Eild,
Of days and years mis-spent,
Unless thou can'st again restore
Youth's scenes of merriment.

Can'st thou recal to me the heart
That bounded sorrow-free,
Or wake to life the lovely one
Who stole that heart from me?

Can'st thou by magic art compel
The shrouded dead to rise,
And all the friends of early years
Again to glad my eyes?

Can'st thou renew Hope's flattering dream
That promised joys in store,
Or bid me taste again those few,
Alas! that are no more?

252

Then babble not to me, Gray Eild,
Of days and years mis-spent,
Unless thou can'st again restore
Youth's dreams of sweet content.

253

SONNET—THE PATRIOT'S DEATH.

His eye did lose its lustre for a space,
And a bright colour mantled o'er his face;
His lips did tremulous move, as if to speak,
But no words came. On his brow did break
The heavy and cold dew of coming death;
And thick and difficult hath grown his breath.
A moment's space, it was no more, for soon
Calmness and sunshine did again illume
His stern-resolved features, and a glow
Of deep but bridled wrath sat on his brow;
But it frowned not, nor did his piercing eye
Speak aught that wronged his proud heart's privacy.
Fear did not there abide, nor yet did rage
Gleam in its fire. Far nobler moods assuage
Its potent brilliance and restrain its ire;
It nothing knew but the brave patriot's fire,
Who slaketh life to grasp at liberty,
And dies rejoicing that he has lived free,
Well knowing that his death to other men
Will be a gathering call—a watchword, when
The brave on freedom look in after times.

254

SONNET—PALE DAUGHTER OF THE NIGHT.

Oh thou most beautiful and meek-eyed virgin,
Pale daughter of the night, how tempest tost
And wildered in these thickening clouds thou art,
Yet smiling ever with so sweet a face
Of love around thee, that in truth, methinks,
Even at these clouds thou canst not take offence,
Knowing thy glory and majestic form
Cannot be sullied; and the innocent,
Even like to thee, with undiminished beam,
Burst through the clouds of envious calumny
To shame the tongues, and give the lie to thoughts
Having no saintlike charity! Oh, yes, like thee,
Thus shine on darkness with forgiving look,
For Innocence and Mercy are twin-born!

255

SONNET—THE HAND'S WILD GRASP.

The hand's wild grasp, the dark flash of the eye,
Like the troubled gleam of a winter's sky,
The bosom's bitter throb, the half-choked sigh,
When the parting hour is hurrying nigh,
Are known but to those who love.
Sad is that fateful hour, and pale the cheek,
And fain the tongue would, but it cannot speak,
And the cold lips will not move.

Oh, could the eyes find tears kind hope hath sprung,
And could the lips but syllable a sound,
Albeit to wail, the heart with passion wrung
Would to its prisoned feeling thus give vent;
But in any icy circle they are bound,
And when that breaks, the heart's last chord is rent!

256

SONNET—SILVERY HAIRS.

Ha! on my brow, what straggling silvery hairs
Be ye who curl and mingle in the throng
Of a more youthful race? Beshrew my heart,
Ye have a frosty aspect right severe,
And come to babble nonsense of the times
That once have been, and of the days that speed
With noiseless pinions o'er me—of the grave
That hungers for me, and impatiently
Awaits my coming. Softly now, fair sirs,
Emblems of frail mortality; in sooth,
Are ye the fruits of time, or those chance weeds
That sorrow's sullen flood hath left to mock
The broken heart that it hath desolated,
And killed each bud of hope that blossomed there?

257

LADY MARGARET.

I lay within the chamber lone
Where the Lady Margaret died;
And wildly there the midnight wind
Like hapless spirit sighed.

I mused upon that peerless One,
So beautiful of blee;
And marvelled much of her sad death's
Time-hallowed mystery:
For, as a rainbow-tinted cloud,
Smote by a gentle wind,
Sails o'er the deep, slow paced and proud,
Yet leaves no trace behind;
Nor can conjecture index true
Where one bright shadow lay,
Till all has melted from the view,
In nothingness away;
So did that lady vanish quite,
In her sad latter day!

258

It is a hundred years agone
Since living limb did rest
Within that chamber's chilling gloom,
And rose a living guest!
But many a brave and stately corpse
Of lord and lady tall,
Have here lain cold and motionless
Ere their proud funeral:
For no sound or sight, however strange,
Can lifeless flesh appal.
But ancient crones have noted well
Of each corpse that lay there,
That writhen was each ghastly limb,
The eyelid opened wide, and grim
Each cold dead eye did glare.

It is a hundred years agone,
Even on this very night,
Since, in this unsunned room, and lone,
Reposed that lady bright—
A miracle of loveliness—
A very beam of light.
Blythe dawns the morn—her bridal morn,
And merry minstrels play;

259

The brisk bridegroom, and all his kin,
Came trooping with a joyous din,
In seemliest array.
The bridegroom came, but ah! the bride
Was missing and away!
And of that gentle lady's fate
None wot of till this day!
And, since that night, all tenantless
Of life hath been her room;
Till even I did madly break
Upon its sacred gloom.

It was a dull and eerie night
Of wind and bitter sleet,
When first that tomb-like chamber rung
With the echoes of my feet;
And on its narrow casements hard
The hail and rain did beat,
While through each crazed and time-worn chink
The hollow wind did moan,
As if a hundred harps were strung
Within that chamber lone,
And every minstrel there had been
Some disembodied one!

260

But it is a lofty chamber,
And passing rich withal
When on its gilded mouldings huge
The quivering moonbeams fall.
And, ever and anon, in sooth,
Even on that stormy night,
Would some pale tempest-shattered ray
Through the dim windows find its way—
A very thread of light—
To glimmer on the needlecraft
And curious tapestry
Which moulder on the walls,—brave scrolls
Of dim antiquitye,
Embodying many a quaint device
Of love and chivalrye.

Oh! it is a lofty chamber,
But dull it is to see,
In the dead pause of the deep midnight,
When the faggots dying be,
And nought but embers red
Throw round a dubious gleam,
Like the indistinct forthshadowings
Of a sad and unquiet dream.

261

Then suddenly to wake from sleep,
To gaze round that dim room
We're sure to feel as one whose pulse
Again beats in the tomb,
Swelling with idle life and strength
Within its stifling gloom.

'Twas even so that I awoke
(Sure awake I could not be),
Though with the life-likeness of waking truths
Were all things clothed to me.
'Twas in terror I awoke
Within that chamber dim;
The sweat drop burst on my cold brow,
Dull horror numbed each limb.
In agony my temples beat,
Life only throbbed there;
And creeping cold, like living things,
Stood up each clammy hair.
It seemed as if a spell from hell
Were drugg'd deep with the air;
Yet wherefore should I fear,
To me was all unknown;
For that chamber was, as heretofore,
Dim, desolate, and lone.

262

And I heard the angry winter's wind
Still shrilly whistling by;
I heard it stir the leafless trees,
And heard their faint reply.
While the ticking clock, right audibly,
Did note time's passing sigh,
And, like some dusky banner broad,
Loud flapping in the breeze,
The faded arras on the walls
Sung its own exiquies.

Then, then, methought I heard a foot,
It sounded soft and still;
And slowly then it died away,
Like echo on the hill,
Or like the far faint murmuring
Of a lone hermit rill.
Again that footstep sounded near,
Again it died away;
And then I heard it gliding past
The couch on which I lay!
I raised my head, and wildly gazed
Into the glimmering gloom;
But nothing save the embers red,

263

That on the spacious hearth were spread,
I saw within that room.
And all was dusky round,
Save where these embers shed
A pale and sickly gleam of light
On the Lady Margaret's bed.
On the couch where I did lye
That sickly light did shine
With one bright flash, when, as a voice
Did cry—“Revenge is mine!”
Another answered straight,
And said, “The hour is come!”
I listened—but these voices twain
For evermore were dumb.
But again the still soft foot
Came creeping stealthy on;
And then, Oh God! mine ear upcaught
A deep and stifled groan.
It echoed through the lofty room
So loud, so clear, and shrill,
Methinks even to my dying-day
I'll hear that echo still.
Again that deep and smothered groan—
That rattle in the throat—

264

That awful sob of struggling life—
On my strained ear-strings smote.
In desperate fear I madly strove
To start from that witch'd bed,
But on my breast there seem'd up-piled
A mountain weight of lead.
And when I strove to speak aloud,
To dissipate that spell,
I shuddered at the shapeless sounds
That from mine own lips fell.
'Twas then, full filled with fear, I shut
Mine eyes t' escape the gaze
Of that dim chamber's arras'd walls,
With their tales of other days,
Lest ghastly shapes should start from them
To sport in horrid glee
Before my tortured sight—dark scenes
Of their life's tragedy,
And like exulting fiends proclaim
How black man's heart can be.

But visionless scant space I lay
With throbbing downshut lid,
When o'er my brow and cheek, dear Lord!
A clammy coldness slid.

265

O'er brow and cheek I felt it slide;
And, like a frozen rill,
The blood waxed thick within my veins,
Grew pulseless, and stood still.
O'er brow and cheek I felt it slide,
So clammy and so cold,
Like the touch of one whose lifeless limbs
In winding-sheet are rolled.
Straight upward did I look, and then
From the thick obscurity—
Oh, horrible! there downward gleamed
Two glittering eyes on me.
From the ceiling of that lofty room
These glittering eyes did stare;
They rested on me, under them,
With a fixed and fearful glare.
Oh, never human eyes did flash
So wild and strange a light,
As these twin eyes straight downward poured
On that unhappy night.
Their beams shot down like lances long,
Unutterably bright.
And still these glittering living lights
Did steadfast gaze on me;

266

And each fibre of my heart shrunk up
Beneath their sorcery.
Still, still they gleam—their searching glance
Has pierced into my brain.
I feel the stream of fire pass through,
I feel its cureless pain!

One moment seemed to pass, and then
My vision waxed more clear
And livelier to my spell-fraught sight,
These blazing eyes appear.
As with unholy light they lit
A pallid cheek and brow,
And quivered on a lip as cold
And blenched as driven snow.
And I did gaze on that pale brow,
And on that lovesome cheek;
I watched those cold part-opened lips,
Methought that they would speak;
But motionless, and void of life
As monumental stone,
Was every feature, save those eyes,
That evermore out shone
With a fearful lustre, that to life
On earth, is never known.

267

That face was all a deadly white,
Yet beautiful to see;
And indistinctly floated down
Its body's symmetry,
In ample folds and wimples quaint
Of gorgeous drapery.
And gleaming forth, like spots of snow
On a sad coloured field,
A small white hand on either side
Was partially revealed.
O'er me a deeper horror,
A marvellous rush of light—
Long-perished memories returned
Upon that dreadful night.
I heard the voice of other times,
The tale of other years,
Re-acted were their direst crimes,
Re-shed their bitterest tears!

268

CRUXTOUN CASTLE.

Thou grey and antique tower,
Receive a wanderer of the lonely night,
Whose moodful sprite
Rejoices at this witching time to brood
Amid thy shattered strength's dim solitude!
It is a fear-fraught hour—
A death-like stillness reigns around,

269

Save the wood-skirted river's eerie sound,
And the faint rustling of the trees that shower
Their brown leaves on the stream,
Mournfully gleaming in the moon's pale beam:
O! I could dwell for ever and for ever
In such a place as this, with such a night!
When, o'er thy waters and thy waving woods
The moon-beams sympathetically quiver,
And no ungentle thing on thee intrudes,
And every voice is dumb, and every object bright!

Forgive, old Cruxtoun, if, with step unholy,
Unwittingly a pilgrim should profane
The regal quiet, the august repose,
Which o'er thy desolated summit reign—
When the fair moon's abroad, at evening's close—
Or interrupt that touching melancholy—
Image of fallen grandeur—softly thrown
O'er every crumbling and moss-bedded stone,
And broken arch, and pointed turret hoar,
Which speak a tale of times that are no more;
Of triumphs they have seen,
When Minstrel-craft, in praise of Scotland's Queen,
Woke all the magic of the harp and song,
And the rich, varied, and fantastic lore
Of those romantic days was carped, I ween,

270

Amidst the pillared pomp of lofty hall,
By many a jewelled throng
Of smiling dames and soldier barons bold;
When the loud cheer of generous wassail rolled
From the high deis to where the warder strode,
Proudly, along the battlemented wall,
Beneath his polished armour's ponderous load;
Who paused to hear, and carolled back again,
With martial glee, the jocund vesper strain:
Thou wilt forgive! Mine is no peering eye,
That seeks, with glance malign, the suffering part,
Thereby, with hollow show of sympathy,
To smite again the poor world-wounded heart:
No—thy misfortunes win from him a sigh
Whose soul towers, like thyself, o'er each lewd passer-by.

Relique of earlier days,
Yes, dear thou art to me!—
And beauteous, marvellously,
The moon-light strays
Where banners glorious floated on thy walls—
Clipping their ivied honours with its thread
Of half-angelick light:
And though o'er thee Time's wasting dews have shed
Their all-consuming blight,

271

Maternal moon-light falls
On and around thee full of tenderness,
Yielding thy shattered frame pure love's divine caress.

Ah me! thy joy of youthful lustyhood
Is gone, old Cruxtoun! Ever, ever gone!
Here hast thou stood
In nakedness and sorrow, roofless, lone,
For many a weary year—and to the storm
Hast bared thy wasted form—
Braving destruction, in the attitude
Of reckless desolation. Like to one
Who in this world no longer may rejoice,
Who watching by Hope's grave
With stern delight, impatient is to brave
The worst of coming ills—So, Cruxtoun! thou
Rear'st to the tempest thy undaunted brow;
When Heaven's red coursers flash athwart the sky—
Startling the guilty as they thunder by—
Then raisest thou a wild, unearthly hymn,
Like death-desiring bard whose star hath long been dim!

Neglected though thou art,
Sad remnant of old Scotland's worthier days,
When independence had its chivalrie,

272

There still is left one heart
To mourn for thee!
And though, alas! thy venerable form
Must bide the buffet of each vagrant storm,
One spirit yet is left to linger here
And pay the tribute of a silent tear;
Who in his memory registers the dints
That Time hath graved upon thy sorrowing brow;
Who of thy woods loves the Autumnal tints,
Whose voice—perforce indignant—mingles now
In all thy lamentations—with the tone,
Not of these paltry times, but of brave years long gone.

Nor is't the moonshine clear,
Leeming on tower, and tree, and silent stream,
Nor hawthorn blossoms which in Spring appear,
Most prodigal of perfume—nor the sweets
Of wood-flowers, peeping up at the blue sky;
Nor the mild aspect of blue hills which greet
The eager vision—blessed albeit they seem,
Each with its charm particular—To my eye,
Old Cruxtoun hath an interest all its own—
From many a cherished, intersociate thought—
From feelings multitudinous well known
To souls in whom the patriot fire hath wrought
Sublime remembrance of their country's fame:

273

Radiant thou art in the ethereal flame—
The lustrous splendour—which those feelings shed
O'er many a scene of this my father-land!
Thou, grey magician, with thy potent wand,
Evok'st the shades of the illustrious dead!
The mists dissolve—up rise the slumbering years—
On come the knightly riders cap-a-pie—
The herald calls—hark, to the clash of spears!
To Beauty's Queen each hero bends the knee;
Dreams of the Past, how exquisite ye be—
Offspring of heavenly faith and rare antiquity!

Light feet have trod
The soft, green, flowering sod
That girdles thy baronial strength, and traced,
All gracefully, the labyrinthine dance;
Young hearts discoursed with many a passionate glance,
While rose and fell the Minstrel's thrilling strain—
(Who, in this iron age, might sing in vain—
His largesse coarse neglect, and mickle pain!)
Waste are thy chambers tenantless, which long
Echoed the notes of gleeful minstrelsie—
Notes once the prelude to a tale of wrong,
Of Royalty and love.—Beneath yon tree—
Now bare and blasted—so our annals tell—

274

The martyr Queen, ere that her fortunes knew
A darker shade than cast her favourite yew,
Loved Darnley passing well—
Loved him with tender woman's generous love,
And bade farewell awhile to courtly state
And pageantry for yon o'ershadowing grove—
For the lone river's banks where small birds sing—
Their little hearts with summer joys elate—
Where tall broom blossoms, flowers profusely spring;
There he, the most exalted of the land,
Pressed, with the grace of youth, a Sovereign's peerless hand.

And she did die!—
Die as a traitor—in the brazen gaze
Of her—a kinswoman and enemy—
O well may such an act my soul amaze!
My country, at that hour, where slept thy sword?
Where was the high and chivalrous accord,
To fling the avenging banner of our land,
Like sheeted flame, forth to the winds of heaven?
O shame among the nations—thus to brook
The damning stain to thy escutcheon given!
How could thy sons upon their mothers look,
Degenerate Scotland! heedless of the wail
Of thy lorn Queen, in her captivity!

275

Unmov'd wert thou by all her bitter bale—
Untouch'd by thought that she had governed thee—
Hard was each heart and cold each powerful hand—
No harnessed steed rushed panting to the fight;
O listless fell the lance when Mary laid
Her head upon the block—and high in soul,
Which lacked not then thy frugal sympathy,
Died—in her widowed beauty, penitent—
Whilst thou, by foul red-handed faction rent,
Wert falsest recreant to sweet majesty!

'Tis past—she rests—the scaffold hath been swept,
The headsman's guilty axe to rust consigned—
But, Cruxtoun, while thine aged towers remain,
And thy green umbrage wooes the evening wind—
By noblest natures shall her woes be wept,
Who shone the glory of thy festal day:
Whilst aught is left of these thy ruins grey,
They will arouse remembrance of the stain
Queen Mary's doom hath left on History's page—
Remembrance laden with reproach and pain,
To those who make, like me, this pilgrimage!

276

ROLAND AND ROSABELLE.

A tomb by skilful hands is raised,
Close to a sainted shrine,
And there is laid a stalwart Knight,
The last of all his line.
Beside that noble monument,
A Squire doth silent stand,
Leaning in pensive wise upon
The cross-hilt of his brand.

Around him peals the harmony
Of friars at even-song,
He notes them not, as passing by
The hymning brothers throng:
And he hath watched the monument
Three weary nights and days,
And ever on the marble cold
Is fixed his steadfast gaze.

277

‘I pray thee, wakeful Squire, unfold’—
Proud Rosabella said—
‘The story of the warrior bold,
Who in this tomb is laid?’
‘A champion of the Cross was he’—
The Squire made low reply—
‘And on the shore of Galilee,
In battle did he die.

‘He bound me by a solemn vow,
His body to convey
Where lived his love—there rests it now,
Until the judgment-day:
And by his stone of record here,
In loyalty I stand,
Until I greet his leman dear—
The Lady of the Land!’

‘Fair stranger, I would learn of thee
The gentle warrior's name,
Who fighting fell at Galilee
And won a deathless name?’
The Squire hath fixed an eye of light
Full on the Lady tall—
‘Men called,’ he said, ‘that hapless Knight
Sir Roland of the Hall!

278

‘His foot was foremost in the fray,
And last to leave the field—
A braver arm in danger's day
Ne'er shivered lance on shield!’
‘In death, what said he of his love—
Thou faithful soldier tell?’
‘Meekly he prayed to Him above
For perjured Rosabelle.’

‘Thy task is done—my course is run—
(O fast her tears did fall!)
I am indeed a perjured one—
Dear Roland of the Hall!’
Even as the marble cold and pale,
Waxed Rosabella's cheek;
The faithful Squire resumed travail—
The Lady's heart did break!

279

SONG.

[How I envy the ring that encircles thy finger!—]

How I envy the ring that encircles thy finger!—
Dear daughter of beauty how happy were I
If, by some sweet spell, like that ring, I might linger
At ease in the light of thy heart-thrilling eye!

I would joy in the music thy light pulse is making,
I would press the soft cheek where the rose-buds unfold—
I would rest on the brow where pure thought's ever waking,
And lovingly glide through thy tresses of gold.

On the ripe smiling lip which young Cupid is steeping
In dews of love's day-dawn, I'd tenderly play—
And when in thy innocence, sweet, thou wert sleeping,
I'd watch thee, and bless thee, and guard thee for aye!

280

FOR BLITHER FIELDS AND BRAVER BOWERS.

For blither fields and braver bowers
The little bird, in Spring,
Quits its old tree and wintry hold,
With wanton mates to sing;
And yet a while that wintry home
To branch and twig may cling;
But wayward blast, or truant boy,
May rend it soon away,
And scatter to the heedless winds
The toil of many a day—
And where, when Winter comes, shall then
The bird its poor head lay?

The moss, the down, the twisted grass,
The slender wands that bound
The dear warm nest, are parted now,
Or scattered far around—
Belike the woodman's axe hath felled
The old tree to the ground!
And now keen Winter's wreathing snows
O'er frozen Nature lie—

281

The sun forgets to warm the earth,
Forgets to light the sky;
I fear me lest the wandering bird
May, houseless, shivering, die!

Forgive me, Helen—thou art free
To keep, or quit, the nest
I built for thee, and sheltered in
The foliage of my breast,
And fenced so well none other might
Be harbour'd there as guest.
Flee if thou wilt—if other love
Thy fickle heart enfold,
Thou'rt free to rove where fancy waves
Her wand of fairy gold—
But Helen, ere thou canst return,
This bosom will be cold!

282

HOPE AND LOVE.

Through life on journeying, by its thorny paths,
Or pleasant ways—its rank green hemlock wastes,
Or roseate bowers—in utter loneliness,
Or 'mid the din of busy multitudes—
Two babes of beauty linger near us still—
Twin Cherubim—that leave us not until
We've passed the threshold of that crowded inn
Which borders on Eternity! One doth point,
With gleaming eye and finger tremulous,
To clefts in azure, where the sunbeams slumber
On couch of vermeil dye and amethyst,
Bordered with flowers that never know decay;
Where living fountains, cool and argentine,
Trill on in measured cadence, night and morn:
The other, with an eye of sweet regard,
And voice the spirit of pure melody,
Sheds o'er the darkest track some ray of gladness—
To elevate the heart, and nerve the soul,
With unslacked sinews, vigorously to brave
The perils of the unattempted road:
Love, gentle Love—one fellow-pilgrim is—
The other Hope—dear, never-dying Hope!—
And they to churle, as well as keysour yield
The tender ministering of faithful friends!

283

SONGE OF THE SCHIPPE.

When surly windes and grewsome cloudes
Are tilting in the skye,
And every little star's abed,
That glimmered cheerilie—
O then 'tis meet for mariners
To steer righte carefulie!
For mermaides sing the schippman's dirge,
Where ocean weddes the skye—
A blessing on our gude schippe as lustilie she sailes,
O what can match our gude schippe when blest with favouring gales!

Blythely to the tall top-mast,
Up springs the sailor boy—
Could he but hail a distant port,
How he would leap with joy!
By bending yard and rope he swings—
A fair-haired child of glee—

284

But oh! a cruel sawcie wave
Hath swept him in the sea!
There's sadness in the gude schippe that breasts the waters wild,
Though safe ourselves we'll think with tears of our poor ocean-child!

Our main-mast now is clean cut downe,
The tackle torn away—
And thundering o'er the stout schippe's side,
The seas make fearful play!
Yet cheerlie cheerlie on we go,
Though fierce the tempest raves,
We know the hand unseen that guides
The schippe o'er stormie waves!
We'll all still stand by the old schippe as should a trusty crew,
For He who rules the wasting waves may some port bring to view!

Our gude schippe is a shapely schippe—
A shapely and a stronge—
Our hearts sang to our noble schippe,
As she careered along!
And fear ye not my sturdy mates
Though sayles and masts be riven—

285

We know, while drifting o'er the deep,
Above there's still a haven!
Though sorely we're benighted upon the weltering foam,
The sun may rise upon the morn and guide us to a home!

286

HE STOOD ALONE.

He stood alone in an unpitying crowd—
His mates fell from him, as the grub-worms drop
From the green stalk that once had nourished them,
But now is withered and all rottenness
Because it gave such shelter. Pleasure's train—
The light-winged tribes that seek the sunshine only—
No more endeavoured from his eye to win
The smile of approbation. Grief and Care
Stalked forth upon the theatre of his heart,
In many a gloomy and mishapen guise,
Till of the glories of his earlier self
The world, his base and hollow auditory,
Left but a ghastly phantom. As a tree,
A goodly tree—that stricken is and wasted,
By elemental conflicts—falls at last,
Even in the fulness of its branching honours,
Prostrate before the storm—yet majestic
In its huge downfal, so, at last, fell he!

287

CUPID'S BANISHMENTE.

What recke I now of comely dame?
What care I now for fair pucelle?
Unscorchde I meet their glance of flame,
Unmovede I mark their bosoms swel,
For Love and I have sayde farewel!

Go, prattlynge fool!—go, wanton wilde!
Seke thy fond mother this to tel—
That loveliest maydes on me have smyled,
And that I stoutly did rebel,
And bade thee and thy arts farewel!

With me thy tyrant reigne is o'er,
Thou hear'st thy latest warninge knel;
Speed, waywarde urchin, from my doore,—
My hert to thee gives no handsel,
For thou and I have sworne farewel!

So trimme thy bow, and fleche thy shafte,
And peer where sillie gallants dwel,
On them essaye thy archer crafte,
No more on me thy bolte schal tel—
False Love and I have sunge farewel!

288

THE SHIP OF THE DESERT.

‘Onward, my Camel!—On, though slow;
Halt not upon these fatal sands!
Onward my constant Camel go—
The fierce Simoom hath ceased to blow,
We soon shall tread green Syria's lands!

‘Droop not my faithful Camel! Now
The hospitable well is near!
Though sick at heart, and worn in brow,
I grieve the most to think that thou
And I may part, kind comrade, here!

‘O'er the dull waste a swelling mound—
A verdant paradise—I see;
The princely date-palms there abound,
And springs that make it sacred ground
To pilgrims like to thee and me!’

The patient Camel's filmy eye,
All lustreless, is fixed in death!

289

Beneath the sun of Araby
The desert wanderer ceased to sigh,
Exhausted on its burning path.

Then rose upon the Wilderness
The solitary Driver's cry:
Thoughts of his home upon him press,
As, in his utter loneliness,
He sees his burden-bearer die.

Hope gives no echo to his call—
Ne'er from his comrade will he sever!
The red sky is his funeral pall;
A prayer—a moan—'tis over, all—
Camel and lord now rest for ever!

A three hour's journey from the spring
Loved of the panting Caravan—
Within a little sandy ring—
The Camel's bones lie whitening,
With thine, old, unlamented man!

290

THE POET'S WISH.

O would that in some wild and winding glen
Where human footstep ne'er did penetrate,
And from the haunts of base and selfish men
Remote, in dreamy loneness situate,
I had my dwelling: and within my ken
Nature desporting in fantastic form—
Asleep in green repose, and thundering in the storm!

Then mine should be a life of deep delight,—
Rare undulations of ecstatic musing;
Thoughts calm, yet ever-varying, stream bedight
With flowers immortal of quick Fancy's choosing—
And like unto the ray of tremulous light,
Blent by the pale moon with the entranced water,
I'd wed thee, Solitude, dear Nature's first-born daughter!

291

ISABELLE.

A SERENADE.

Hark! sweet Isabelle, hark to my lute,
As softly it plaineth o'er
The story of one to whose lowly suit
Thy heart shall beat no more!
List to its tender plaints, my love,
Sad as the accents of saints, my love,
Who mortal sin deplore!

Awake from your slumber, Isabelle, wake,
'Tis sorrow that tunes these strings;
A last farewell would the minstrel take
Of her whose beauty he sings:
The moon seems to weep on her way, my love,
And, shrouded in clouds, seems to say, my love,
No hope with the morning springs!

Deep on the breeze peals the hollow sound
Of the dreary convent bell;
Its walls, ere a few short hours wheel round,
Will girdle my Isabelle!

292

They'll take thee away from these arms, love,
And bury thy blossoming charms, love,
Where midnight requiems swell.

At the high altar I see thee kneel,
With pallid and awe-struck face;
I see the veil those looks conceal
That shone with surpassing grace—
The shade will prey on thy bloom, my love,
While I shall wend to the tomb, my love,
And leave of my name no trace.

We lov'd and we grew, we grew and we lov'd,
Twin flowers in a dewy vale;
The churchman's cold hand hath one remov'd,
The other will soon wax pale:
O fast will be its decline, my love,
As this dying note of mine, my love,
Lost in the evening gale!

293

WHAT IS THIS WORLD TO ME?

What is this world to me?
A harp sans melodie;
A dream of vain idlesse,
A thought of bitterness,
That grieves the aching brain,
And gnaws the heart in twain!

My spirit pines allwaie,
Like captive shut from day;
Or like a sillie flower,
Estranged from sun and shower—
Which, withering, soon must die,
In love-lorne privacie.

No joye my hearte doth finde,
With those they calle my kinde;
O dull it is and sad,
To see how men waxe bad:
As Autumn leaves decay,
So verteue fades away!

294

TO A LADY'S BONNET.

Invidious shade! why thus presume,
O'er face so fair to cast thy gloom;
And hide from the enamoured sight,
Those lips so sweet, and eyes so bright?
Why veil those blushes of the cheek,
Which purity of soul bespeak?
Why shroud that brow in hermit cell,
On which high thoughts serenely dwell?
Why chain severe the clustering hair,
That whilome shed a radiance rare—
A golden mist—o'er neck and brow,
Like sunset over drifted snow?

O kindly shade, for ever be
Between me and love's witchery!—
For ever be to Ellen's eyes,
Like grateful cloud in summer skies,
Mellowing the fervour of the day:
For should they dart another ray
Of their enchanting light on me,
Farewell the proud boast—I am free!

295

THE WANDERER.

No face I look upon doth greet me
With smile that generous welcome lends;
No ready hand, with cheerful glow,
Is now stretched out, all glad, to meet me:
A chill distrust on every brow,
Assures me I have here no friends!

I miss the music of home voices,
The rushing of the mountain flood,
My country's birds that blithely sung
In woodlands where green May rejoices,
Discoursing love when life was young,
And mirthful ever was my mood.

The breezes soft that fan my cheek,
The bower that shades the sun from me,
The sky that spans this Southern shore,
Do all a different language speak
From breeze and bower I loved of yore,
And sky that spans my own countree.

296

They bring not health to exiled men—
They light not up the home-bent eye;
No, piece-meal wastes the way-worn frame
That longs to tread its native glen—
That trembles when it hears the name
Of that land where its fathers lie!

The sun which shines seems not the sun
That rose upon my native fields;
Majestic rolls he on his way,
A cloudless course hath he to run—
But beams he with the kindly ray
He to our Northern landscape yields?

The moon that trembles in these skies,
Like to an argent mirror sheen—
Ruling with mistless splendour here—
Does she above the mountains rise,
And smile upon the waters clear,
As in my days of youth I've seen?

O beautiful and peerless light,
That thou should'st seem unlovely now,
That thou should'st fail to wake anew
Those looks of heartfelt pure delight,

297

Which youthful Fancy upward threw,
While gazing on thy cold, pale brow!

But this is not a kindred land,
Nor this the old familiar stream;
And these are not the friends of youth—
O heartless, loveless, seems this strand—
Its people lack the kindly ruth,
The soother of life's turbid dream!

Away regret! Here must I die,
Remote from all my soul held dear—
My grave, upon an alien shore,
Will ne'er attract the passer-by
The lonely sleeper to deplore—
No flower will grace the stranger's bier!

Winds of the melancholy night,
Begin your solemn dirge and bland!
The giant clouds are gathering fast,
The fearful moon withdraws her light—
In mournful visions of the past,
Again I'll seek my native land!

298

SONG.

[I look on thee once more,—]

I look on thee once more,—
I gaze on thee and sigh,
To think how soon some hearts run o'er
With love, and then run dry.

I need not marvel long
That love in thee expires,
For shallowest streams have loudest song,
Most smoke the weakest fires.

I deemed thee once sincere,—
Once thought thy breast must be
A fountain gushing through the year
With living love for me!

For so it was with mine,
The well-springs of my soul
Were opened up, and streamed to thine,
As their appointed goal.

And now they wander on,
O'er barren sands unblest,
Since falsehood placed its seal upon
Thy fair, but frozen, breast!

299

THE HUNTER'S WELL.

Life of this wilderness,
Pure gushing stream,
Dear to the Summer
Is thy murmuring!
Note of the song-bird,
Warbling on high,
Ne'er with my spirit made
Such harmony
As do thy deep waters,
O'er rock, leaf, and flower,
Bubbling and babbling
The long sunny hour!

Tongue of this desert spot,
Spelling sweet tones,
To the mute listeners—
Old mossy stones;
Who ranged these stones near
Thy silver rim,
Guarding the temple
Where rises thy hymn?

300

Some thirst-stricken Hunter—
Swarth priest of the wood,
Around thee hath strewn them,
In fond gratitude.

Orb of the green waste,
Open and clear,
Friend of the Hunter,
Loved of the deer;
Brilliantly breaking
Beneath the blue sky,
Gladdening the leaflets
That tremulous sigh;
Star of my wandering,
Symbol of love,
Lead me to dream of
The Fountain above!

301

IT DEEPLY WOUNDS THE TRUSTING HEART.

It deeply wounds the trusting heart
That ever throbs to good,
To know that by a perverse art
It still is misconstrued:

And thus the beauties of the field,
The glories of the sky,
To lofty natures often yield
Sole solace ere they die.

The things that harmless couch on earth,
Or pierce the blue of heaven,
Have mystic reasons in their birth
Why they should be sin-shriven.

The secrets of the human breast
No human eye may scan;
With Him alone those secrets rest
Who made and judgeth man.

302

Nor lightly should we estimate
The Hand which rules it so,
Nor idly seek to penetrate
What angels may not know.

Enough that with a righteous will,
In this disjointed scene,
The upright one, through good and ill,
Will be as he hath been.

And should a ribald multitude
Repay with hate his love,
He still can smile: man's ways are viewed
By Him who rules above.

303

THE ETTIN O' SILLARWOOD.

‘O, Sillarwood! sweet Sillarwood,
Gin Sillarwood were mine,
I'd big a bouir in Sillarwood
And theik it ower wi' thyme;
At ilka door, and ilka bore,
The red, red rose, wud shine!’

It's up and sang the bonnie bird,
Upon her milk-white hand—
‘I wudna lig in Sillarwood,
For all a gude Earl's land;
I wudna sing in Sillarwood,
Tho' gowden glist ilk wand!

‘The wild boar rakes in Sillarwood,
The buck drives thro' the shaw,
And simmer woos the Southern wind
Thro' Sillarwood to blaw.

304

‘Thro' Sillarwood, sweet Sillarwood,
The deer hounds run so free;
But the hunter stark of Sillarwood
An Ettin lang is he!’

‘O, Sillarwood! sweet Sillarwood,’
Fair Marjorie did sing,
‘On the tallest tree in Sillarwood,
That Ettin lang will hing!’

The Southern wind it blaws fu' saft,
And Sillarwood is near;
Fair Marjorie's sang in Sillarwood,
The stark hunter did hear.

He band his deer hounds in their leash,
Set his bow against a tree,
And three blasts on his horn has brocht
The wood elf to his knee.

‘Gae bring to me a shapely weed,
Of silver and of gold,
Gae bring to me as stark a steed,
As ever stepped on mold;
For I maun ride frae Sillarwood
This fair maid to behold!’

305

The wood elf twisted sun-beams red
Into a shapely weed,
And the tallest birk in Sillarwood
He hewed into a steed;
And shod it wi' the burning gold
To glance like ony glede.

The Ettin shook his bridle reins
And merrily they rung,
For four and twenty sillar bells
On ilka side were hung.

The Ettin rade, and better rade,
Some thretty miles and three,
A bugle horn hung at his breast,
A lang sword at his knee;
‘I wud I met,’ said the Ettin lang,
‘The maiden Marjorie!’

The Ettin rade and better rade
Till he has reached her bouir,
And there he saw fair Marjorie
As bricht as lily flouir.

‘O Sillarwood!—Sweet Sillarwood!—
Gin Sillarwood were mine,

306

The sleuthest hawk o' Sillarwood
On dainty flesh wud dine!’

‘Weel met, weel met,’ the Ettin said,
‘For ae kiss o' that hand,
I wud na grudge my kist o' gold
And forty fees o' land!

‘Weel met, weel met,’ the Ettin said,
‘For ae kiss o' that cheek,
I'll big a bower wi' precious stanes,
The red gold sal it theik:

‘Weel met, weel met,’ the Ettin said,
‘For ae kiss o' thy chin,
I'll welcome thee to Sillarwood
And a' that grows therein!’

‘If ye may leese me Sillarwood
Wi' a' that grows therein,
Ye're free to kiss my cheek,’ she said,
‘Ye're free to kiss my chin—
The Knicht that hechts me Sillarwood
My maiden thocht sal win!

‘My luve I've laid on Sillarwood—
Its bonnie aiken tree—

307

And gin that I hae Sillarwood
I'll link alang wi' thee!’

Then on she put her green mantel
Weel furred wi' minivere:
Then on she put her velvet shoon,
The silver shining clear.

She proudly vaulted on the black—
He bounded on the bay—
The stateliest pair that ever took
To Sillarwood their way!

It's up and sang the gentil bird
On Marjorie's fair hand—
‘I wudna wend to Sillarwood
For a' tis timbered land—
Nor wud I lig in Sillarwood
Tho' gowden glist ilk wand!

‘The Hunters chace thro' Sillarwood
The playfu' herte and rae;
Nae maiden that socht Sillarwood
E'er back was seen to gae!’

The Ettin leuch, the Ettin sang,
He whistled merrilie,

308

‘If sic a bird,’ he said, ‘were mine,
I'd hing it on a tree.’

‘Were I the Lady Marjorie,
Thou hunter fair but free,
My horse's head I'd turn about,
And think nae mair o' thee!’

It's on they rade, and better rade—
They shimmered in the sun—
'Twas sick and sair grew Marjorie
Lang e'er that ride was done!

Yet on they rade, and better rade,
They neared the Cross o' stane—
The tall Knicht when he passed it by
Felt cauld in every bane.

But on they rade, and better rade,
It evir grew mair mirk,
O loud, loud nichered the bay steed
As they passed Mary's Kirk!

‘I'm wearie o' this eerie road,’
Maid Marjorie did say—
‘We canna weel greet Sillarwood
Afore the set o' day!’

309

‘It's no the sinkin' o' the sun
That gloamins sae the ground,
The heicht it is o' Sillarwood
That shadows a' around.’

‘Methocht, Sir Knicht, broad Sillarwood
A pleasant bield wud be,
With nuts on ilka hazel bush,
And birds on ilka tree—
But oh! the dimness o' this wood
Is terrible to me!’

‘The trees, ye see, seem wondrous big,
The branches wondrous braid,
Then marvel nae if sad suld be
The path we hae to tread!’

Thick grew the air, thick grew the trees,
Thick hung the leaves around,
And deeper did the Ettin's voice
In the dread dimness sound—
‘I think,’ said Maiden Marjorie,
‘I hear a horn and hound!’

‘Ye weel may hear the hound,’ he said,
‘Ye weel may hear the horn,

310

For I can hear the wild halloo
That freichts the face o' Morn!

‘The Hunters fell o' Sillarwood
Hae packs full fifty-three:
They hunt all day, they hunt all nicht,
They never bow an ee:

‘The Hunters fell o' Sillarwood
Hae steeds but blude or bane:
They bear fiert maidens to a weird
Where mercy there is nane!

‘And I the Laird o' Sillarwood
Hae beds baith deep and wide,
(Of clay-cauld earth) whereon to streik
A proud and dainty bride!

‘Ho! look beside yon bonny birk—
The latest blink of day
Is gleamin' on a comely heap
Of freshly dug red clay;

‘Richt cunning hands they were that digged
Forenent the birken tree

311

Where every leaf that draps, frore maid,
Will piece a shroud for thee—
It's they can lie on lily breist
As they can lie on lea!

‘And they will hap thy lily breist
Till flesh fa's aff the bane—
Nor tell thy freres how Marjorie
To Sillarwood hath gane!

‘The bed is strewed, Maid Marjorie,
Wi' bracken and wi' brier,
And ne'er will gray cock clarion wind
For ane that slumbers here—
Ye wedded have the Ettin stark—
He rules the Realms of Fear!’

312

LIKE A WORN GRAY-HAIRED MARINER.

Like a worn gray-haired mariner whom the sea
Hath wrecked, then flung in mockery ashore,
To clamber some gaunt cliff, and list the roar
Of wave pursuing wave unceasingly;
His native land, dear home, and toil-won store
Inexorably severed from his sight;
His sole companions Hopelessness and Grief—
Who feels his day will soon be mirkest night—
Who from its close alone expects relief—
Praying life's sands, in pity, to descend
And rid him of life's burden,—So do I
Gaze on the world, and time fast surging by,
Drifting away each hope with each tried friend—
Leaving behind a waste where desolate I may die.

313

CHOICE OF DEATH.

Might I, without offending, choose
The death that I would die,
I'd fall, as erst the Templar fell,
Aneath a Syrian sky.

Upon a glorious plain of war,
The banners floating fair,
My lance and fluttering pennoncel
Should marshal heroes there!

Upon the solemn battle-eve,
With prayer to be forgiven,
I'd arm me for a righteous fight,
Imploring peace of Heaven!

High o'er the thunders of the charge
Should wave my sable plume,
And where the day was lost or won,
There should they place my tomb!

314

FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE.

Oft have I sighed for pleasure past,
Oft wept for secret smarting—
But far the heaviest drop of all
That ever on my cheek did fall
The tear was at our parting.

Why did our bosoms ever beat
Harmonious with each other,
If truest sympathies of soul
Might broken be, perhaps the whole
Concentred in another?

My fear it was when other scenes,
With other tongues, and faces,
Should greet thee, thou would'st haply be
Forgetful of our amity
In old frequented places.

'Tis even so—the thrall of love,
Past ties to thee seem common—

315

Well, hearts must yield to beauty rare,
And proud-souled friendship hardly dare
Contest the prize with woman!

Old friend, adieu! I blame thee not,
Since fair guest fills thy bosom—
Thy smiling love may flattered be
Our bonds to know, and feel that she
The pow'r had to unloose them!

Since thou surrenderest all for her,
May she, with faith unshaken,
Place every thought on thee alone,
While he who Friendship's dream hath known,
Must from that dream awaken!

316

THE LAY OF GEOFFROI RUDEL.

With faltering step would I depart,
From home and friend that claimed my heart—
And the big tear would dim mine eye,
Fixed on the scenes of early years,
(Each spot some pleasure past endears)
And I would mingle with a sigh
The accents of the farewell lay—
But for my love that's far away!

Friends and dear native land, adieu!
In hope we part—no tears bedew
My cheek—no dark regrets alloy
The buoyant feelings of the hour
That leads me to my ladye's bower—
My breast throbs with a wondrous joy,
While every life-pulse seems to say—
‘Haste to thy love that's far away!’

317

ENVIE.

Ane plante there is of the deidliest pouir
Quhilk flourischis deeply in the hert;
Its lang rutis creip and fald outoure
Ilka vive and breathen part:
Lustilie bourgenis the weid anon
Till hert hath rottit and lyf hath flown.

Blak is the sap of its baleful stem,
Lyk funeral blicht its leavis do fal;
In its moistoure is quenchit luve's pure flame,
It drappis rust on inmost saul:
Lustilie bourgenis the weid anon,
Till hert hath rottit and lyf hath flown.

Evir it flourischis meikel and hie,
Nae stay, nae hindraunce will it bruik;
In ae nicht sprynging up, a burdlie tree,
Schedding its bale at ae single luik:
Lustilie bourgenis the weid anon,
Till hert hath rottit and lyf hath flown.

318

It canna be kythit to the gudely sun,
It pynyth sae at his nobil sicht;
It shrinkyth quyte like a thing undone
Quhan luikit on by the blessit licht:
In hert whence heevinlie luve hath gone
Thilke evil weid aye bourgenis on.

Fell Envie's th' plant of mortal pouir
Quhilk flourischis grenelye in the hert—
Raining the slawe and poisonous shouir
Quhilk cankereth the vertuous part:
Black Envie wherever its seed is sawin,
Fashion is a hert like the foul Fiend's awin!

319

LOVE'S TOKENS.

Love's herald is not speech—
His fear-fraught tongue is mute—
His presence is bewrayed
By blushes deep that shoot
Athwart the conscious brow,
And mantle on the cheek,
Then fleet for tints of snow
Which soft confusion speak;
Thus red and white have place
By turns on true love's face.

Love vaunteth not his worth
In gaudy, glozing phrase,
His home is not in breast
Where thought of worldling stays;
In modest loyaltie
His fountain doth abide;
In bosom greatly good
The lucid pulses tide
That ebb and flow there ever,
Till soul and body sever.

320

Trust not the ready lip
Whence flows the fulsome song—
True love aye gently hymns,
False love chaunts loud and long.
Young Beauty, cherish well
The bashful, anxious eye,
The lip that may not move,
The breast that stills the sigh—
A recreant to thee
Their lord will never be!

321

O SAY NOT PURE AFFECTIONS CHANGE!

O say not pure affections change
When fixed they once have been,
Or that between two noble hearts
Hate e'er can intervene!

Though coldness for a while may freeze
The love-springs of the soul,
Though angry pride its sympathies
May for a time control,

Yet such estrangement cannot last—
A tone, a touch, a look,
Dissolves at once the icyness
That crisp'd affection's brook:

Again they feel the genial glow
Within the bosom burn,
And all their pent-up tenderness
With tenfold force return!

322

THE ROSE AND THE FAIR LILYE.

The Earlsburn Glen is gay and green,
The Earlsburn water cleir,
And blythely blume on Earlsburn bank
The broom and eke the brier!

Twa Sisters gaed up Earlsburn glen—
Twa maidens bricht o' blee—
The tane she was the Rose sae red,
The tither the Fair Lilye!

‘Ye mauna droop and dwyne, Sister’—
Said Rose to fair Lilye—
‘Yer heart ye mauna brek, Sister—
For ane that's ower the sea:

‘The vows we sillie maidens hear
Frae wild and wilfu' man,
Are as the words the waves wash out
When traced upon the san'!’

323

‘I mauna think yer speech is sooth,’
Saft answered the Lilye—
‘I winna dout mine ain gude Knicht
Tho' he's ayont the sea!’

Then scornfully the Rose sae red
Spake to the puir Lilye—
‘The vows he feigned at thy bouir door,
He plicht in mine to me!’

‘I'll hame and spread the sheets, Sister,
And deck my bed sae hie—
The bed sae wide made for a bride,
For I think I sune sal die!

‘Your wierd I sal na be, Sister,
As mine I fear ye've bin—
Your luve I wil na cross, Sister,
It were a mortal sin!’

Earlsburn Glen is green to see,
Earlsburn water cleir—
Of the siller birk in Earlsburn Wood
They framit the Maiden's bier!

324

There's a lonely dame in a gudely bouir,
She nevir lifts an ee—
That dame was ance the Rose sae red,
She is now a pale Lilye.

A Knicht aft looks frae his turret tall,
Where the kirk-yaird grass grows green;
He wonne the weed and lost the flouir,
And grief aye dims his een:

At noon of nicht, in the moonshine bricht,
The warrior kneels in prayer—
He prays wi' his face to the auld kirk-yaird,
And wishes he were there!

325

LIKE MIST ON A MOUNTAIN TOP BROKEN AND GRAY.

Like mist on a mountain top broken and gray,
The dream of my early day fleeted away:
Now the evening of life, with its shadows, steals on,
And memory reposes on years that are gone!

Wild youth with strange fruitage of errors and tears—
A midday of bliss and a midnight of fears—
Though chequer'd, and sad, and mistaken you've been,
Still love I to muse on the hours we have seen!

With those long-vanished hours fair visions are flown,
And the soul of the minstrel sinks pensive and lone;
In vain would I ask of the future to bring
The verdure that gladden'd my life in its spring!

I think of the glen where the hazel-nut grew—
The pine-covered hill where the heather-bell blew—

326

The trout-burn which soothed with its murmuring sweet,
The wild flowers that gleamed on the red deer's retreat!

I look for the mates full of ardour and truth,
Whose joys, like my own, were the sunbeams of youth—
They passed e'er the morning of hope knew its close—
They left me to sleep where our fathers repose!

Where is now the wide hearth with the big faggot's blaze,
Where circled the legend and song of old days?
The legend's forgotten, the hearth is grown cold,
The home of my childhood to strangers is sold!

Like a pilgrim who speeds on a perilous way,
I pause, ere I part, oft again to survey
Those scenes ever dear to the friends I deplore,
Whose feast of young smiles I may never share more!

327

YOUNG LOVE.

It seems a dream the infant love
That tamed my truant will,
But 'twas a dream of happiness,
And I regret it still!

Its images are part of me,
A very part of mind—
Feelings and fancies beautiful
In purity combined!

Time's sunset lends a tenderer tinge
To what those feelings were,
Like the cloud-mellow'd radiance
Which evening landscapes bear:

They wedded are unto my soul,
As light is blent with heat,
Or as the hallowed confluence
Of air with odours sweet.

328

Though she, the spirit of that dream,
Lacks of the loveliness
Young fancy robed her in, yet I
May hardly love her less:

Even when as in my boyish time
I nestled by her side,
Her ever gentle impulses
Thorrow my being glide!

329

TO THE TEMPEST.

Chaunt on, ye stormy voices, loud and shrill
Your wild tumultuous melody—strip
The forest of its clothing—leave it bare,
As a deserted and world-trampled foundling!
Lash on, ye rains, and pour your tide of might
Unceasingly and strong, and blench the Earth's
Green mantle with your floods: Suddenly swell
The brawling torrent in the sleep-locked night,
That it may deluge the subjacent plain,
And spread destruction where security
Had fondly built its faith, and knelt before
The altar of its refuge—Sweep ye down
Palace and mansion, hall and lofty tower,
And creeping shed, into one common grave!

Ye lightnings that are flashing fitfully—
(Heaven's messengers) askant the lurid sky,
Burst forth in one vast sheet of whelming fire—
Pass through the furnace the base lords of earth,
With subtile fury inextinguishable—
That, purified, they may again appear

330

As erst they were, free of soul-searing sin
And worldly-mindedness! For mailed they be,
Obdurate all, in selfish adamant,
So rivetted, that it would need a fire
Potential as the ever-burning pit,
To overcome and melt it, so that hearts
Might beat and spirits move to chords sublime,
Tuned by the hand of the Omnipotent,
As when man, from His Hands, in His beauty came!

331

SONG.

[If to thy heart I were as near]

If to thy heart I were as near
As thou art near to mine,
I'd hardly care though a' the year
Nae sun on earth suld shine, my dear,
Nae sun on earth suld shine!

Twin starnies are thy glancin' een—
A warld they'd licht and mair—
And gin that ye be my Christine,
Ae blink to me ye'll spare, my dear,
Ae blink to me ye'll spare!

My leesome May I've wooed too lang—
Aneath the trystin' tree,
I've sung till a' the plantins rang,
Wi' lays o' love for thee, my dear,
Wi' lays o' love for thee.

The dew-draps glisten on the green,
The laverocks lilt on high,
We'll forth and doun the loan, Christine,
And kiss when nane is nigh, my dear,
And kiss when nane is nigh!

332

AND HAE YE SEEN MY AIN TRUE LUVE?

‘And hae ye seen my ain true luve
As ye cam thro' the fair?
Ae blink o' her's worth a' the goud
And gear that glistens there!’—
‘And how suld I ken your true luve
Frae ither lasses braw
That trysted there, busked out like queens,
Wi' pearlins knots and a'?’

‘Ye may ken her by her snaw-white skin,
And by her waist sae sma;
Ye may ken her by her searchin' ee,
And hair like glossy craw;
Ye may ken her by the hinnie mou,
And by the rose-dyed cheek,
But best o' a' by smiles o' licht
That luve's ain language speak!

‘Ye may ken her by her fairy step—
As she trips up the street,

333

The very pavement seems to shine
Aneath her genty feet!
Ye may ken her by the jewell'd rings
Upon her fingers sma',
Yet better by the dignity
That she glides through them a'.

‘And ye may ken her by the voice—
The music o' her tongue—
Wha heard her speak incontinent
Wad think an angel sung!
And such seems she to me, and mair,
That wale o' woman's charms—
It's bliss to press her dear wee mou
And daut her in my arms!’

334

GOE CLEED WI' SMYLIS THE CHEEK

Goe cleed wi' smylis the cheek,
Goe fill wi' licht the eye—
O vain when sorrows seek
The fontis of bliss to drie!

Quhan Hope hath pyned away,
Quhan carke and care haif sprung,
Quhan hert hath faun a prey
To grief that hed nae tongue;
O then it is nae tyme
To feinzie quhat we fele,
Or wi' ane merrie chime,
To droun the solemne peal
Quhilk ringis dreir and dul,
Quhan hert and eyne ar ful.

Nae joy is thair for me
In lyf againe to knowe—
Nae plesuir can I see
In its fals and fleetinge schew!—

335

Lyk wyld and fearful waste
Of wavis and bollen sand,
Apperis the path I've tracit
Inwith my natif land:
Fra it I must depairt,
And fra al quhilk hed mie hert.

Fareweil to kith and kin,
Fareweil to luve untrew,
Fareweil to burn and lin,
Fareweil to lift sua blew—
Fareweil to banck and brae,
Fareweil to sang and glee—
Fareweil to pastyme gay,
Quhilk ance delytit me—
Fareweil thou sunny strand,
Fareweil ance kinde Scotland!

Fresch flouirs beare mie frend,
Unto mie earlie graive,
Thair bid them nevir dwyne,
But ower mie headstane waive;
Perchance to sume they'll wake
Remembrance o' mie dome—
And though fading, they maye make
Less lonesum-lyk mie tombe—

336

Sins they will emblems be
Of thy luvinge sympathye.

Now fareweil day's dear licht—
Now fareweil frend and fae—
Hail to the starrie nicht,
Whair travailit saul maun gae!

337

THE SPELL-BOUND KNIGHT.

Lady, dar'st thou seek the shore
Which ne'er woman's footstep bore;—
Where beneath yon rugged steep,
Restless rolls the darksome deep?

Dar'st thou, though thy blood run chill,
Thither speed at midnight still—
And when Horror rules the sky,
Raise for lover lost thy cry?

Dar'st thou at that ghastiest hour
Breathe the word of magic power—
Word that breaks the mermaid's spell,
Which false lover knows too well?

When affrighted spectres rise
'Twixt pale floods and ebon skies,
Dar'st thou, reft of maiden fear,
Bid the Water-Witch appear?

338

When upon the sallow tide
Pearly elfin boat does glide,
When the mystic oar is heard,
Like the wing of baleful bird—
Dar'st thou with a voice of might
Call upon thy spell-bound knight?

When the shallop neareth land,
Dar'st thou, with thy snow-white hand,
Boldly on the warrior's breast
Place the Cross by Churchman blest?—
When is done this work of peril,
Thou hast won proud Ulster's Earl!

339

O THAT THIS WEARY WAR OF LIFE!

O that this weary war of life
With me were o'er,
Its eager cry of wo and strife
Heard never more!
I've fronted the red battle field
Mine own dark day;
I fain would fling the helmet, shield,
And sword away.
I strive not now for victory—
That wish hath fled;
My prayer is now to numbered be
Among the dead—
All that I loved, alas!—alas!
Hath perished!

They tell me 'tis a glorious thing,
This wearing war;
They tell me joy crowns suffering
And bosom scar.
Such speech might never pass the lips
That could unfold

340

How shrinketh heart when sorrow nips
Affections old:
When they who cleaved to us are dust,
Why live to moan?
Better to meet a felon thrust
Than strive alone—
Better than loveless palaces
The churchyard stone!

341

THE POET'S DESTINY.

Dark is the soul of the Minstrel—
Wayward the flash of his eye;
The voice of the proud is against him,
The rude sons of earth pass him by.

Low is the grave of the Minstrel—
Ungraced by the chissel of art;
Yet his name will be blazoned for ever
On the best of all 'scutcheons—the heart!

Strong is the soul of the Minstrel—
He rules in a realm of his own;
His world is peopled by fancies
The noblest that ever were known.

Light is the rest of the Minstrel,
Though heavy his lot upon earth;
From the sward that lies over his ashes
Spring plants of a heavenly birth!

342

I MET WI' HER I LUVED YESTREEN.

I met wi' her I luved yestreen,
I met her wi' a look o' sorrow;
My leave I took o' her for aye,
A weddit bride she'll be the morrow!

She durst na gie ae smile to me,
Nor drap ae word o' kindly feelin',
Yet down her cheeks the bitter tears,
In monie a pearly bead, were stealin'.

I could na my lost luve upbraid,
Altho' my dearest hopes were blighted,
I could na say—‘ye're fause to me!’—
Tho' to anither she was plighted.

Like suthfast friens whom death divides,
In Heaven to meet, we silent parted;
Nae voice had we our griefs to speak,
We felt sae lone and broken-hearted.

343

I'll hie me frae my native lan',
Far frae thy blythesome banks o' Yarrow!
Wae's me, I canna bide to see
My winsome luve anither's marrow!

I'll hie me to a distant lan',
Wi' down-cast ee and life-sick bosom,
A wearie waste the warld's to me,
Sin' I hae lost that bonnie blossom!

344

TO THE LADY OF MY HEART.

They oft have told me that deceit
Lies hid in dimpled smiles,
But eyes so chaste and lips so sweet
Conceal not wanton wiles!

I'll trust thee, lady!—To deceive,
Or guileful tale to speak,
Was never fashioned I believe
The beauty of thy cheek!

Yes, I will trust the azure eye
That thrilled me with delight,
The loving load-star of a sky
Which erst was darkest night.

Ever, dear maid, in weal or wo,
In gladness and in sorrow,
Hand clasped in hand, we'll forward go,
Both eventide and morrow!

345

THE FAUSE LADYE.

‘The water weets my toe,’ she said,
‘The water weets my knee;
Haud up, Sir Knicht, my horse's head,
If you a true luve be!’

‘I luved ye weel, and luved ye lang,
Yet grace I failed to win;
Nae trust put I in ladye's troth
Till water weets her chin!’

‘Then water weets my waist, proud lord,
The water weets my chin;
My achin' head spins round about,
The burn maks sik a din—
Now, help thou me, thou fearsome Knicht,
If grace ye hope to win!’

‘I mercy hope to win, high dame,
Yet hand I've nane to gie—
The trinklin' o' a gallant's blude
Sae sair hath blindit me!’

346

‘Oh! help!—Oh! help!—If man ye be
Have on a woman ruth—
The waters gather round my head
And gurgle in my mouth!’

‘Turn round and round, fell Margaret,
Turn round and look on me—
The pity that ye schawed yestreen
I'll fairly schaw to thee!

‘Thy girdle-knife was keen and bricht—
The ribbons wondrous fine—
'Tween every knot o' them ye knit
Of kisses I had nine!

‘Fond Margaret! Fause Margaret!
You kissed me cheek and chin—
Yet, when I slept, that girdle-knife
You sheathed my heart's blude in!

‘Fause Margaret! Lewde Margaret!
The nicht ye bide wi' me—
The body, under trust, you slew,
My spirit weds wi' thee!’

347

MY AIN COUNTRIE.

Ye bonnie haughs and heather braes
Whair I hae daft youth's gladsome days,
A dream o' by-gane bliss ye be
That gars me sigh for my ain countrie!

Lang dwinin' in a fremit land
Doth feckless mak' baith heart and hand,
And starts the tear-drap to the ee
That aye was bricht in the auld countrie.

Tho' Carron Brig be gray and worn,
Where I and my forebears were born,
Yet dearer is its time-touched stone
Than the halls of pride I now look on.

As music to the lingerin' ear
Were Carron's waters croonin' clear;
They call to me, where'er I roam,
The voices o' my long-lost home!

348

And gin I were a wee wee bird,
Adown to licht at Randie Ford,
In Kirk O' Muir I'd close mine ee,
And fald my wings in mine ain countrie!

349

TO A FRIEND AT PARTING.

Farewell, my friend!—Perchance again
I'll clasp thee to a faithful heart—
Farewell my friend!—We part in pain,
Yet we must part!

Were this memento to declare
All that the inward moods portray,
Dark boding grief were pictured there,
And wild dismay!

For thee, my fancy paints a scene
Of peace on life's remoter shore—
Thy wishes long fulfilled have been,
Or even more:

And when success hath crowned thy toil,
And hope hath raised thy heart to Heaven—
Thou well mayst love the generous soil
Where love was given.

350

For me, my friend, I fear there's nought,
In dim futurity, of gladness;
There ever rises on my thought
A dream of sadness:

Yet gazing upon guileless faces,
Sunned by the light of laughing eyes,
I recreant were to own no traces
Of social ties.

Even I may borrow from another
The smile I fain would call my own,
Striving, with childish art, to smother
The care unknown.

Farewell! Farewell!—All good attend thee—
At home, abroad—on land, or sea—
That Heaven may evermore befriend thee,
My prayer shall be!

Should a dark thought of him arise
Whose parting hand thou must resign,
Let it go forth to stormy skies,
Not tarnish thine:

351

Never may Melancholy's brood
Disturb the fountain of thy joy,
Nor dusky Passion's fitful mood
Thy peace alloy!

‘Up, anchor! up!’—The mariner
Thus hymns to the inconstant wind—
Heave not one sigh, where'er you steer,
For me behind!

352

I PLUCKED THE BERRY.

I've plucked the berry from the bush, the brown nut from the tree,
But heart of happy little bird ne'er broken was by me;
I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, slyly peer,
With their wild eyes, like glittering beads, to note if harm were near:
I passed them by, and blessed them all; I felt that it was good
To leave unmoved the creatures small whose home is in the wood.

And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue doth sing,
He pecks his swelling breast and neck, and trims his little wing,
He will not fly; he knows full well, while chirping on that spray,
I would not harm him for a world, or interrupt his lay;
Sing on, sing on, blythe bird! and fill my heart with summer gladness,
It has been aching many a day with measures full of sadness!

353

SONG.

[O licht, licht was maid Ellen's fit—]

O licht, licht was maid Ellen's fit—
It left nae print behind,
Until a belted Knicht she saw
Adown the valley wind!

And winsome was maid Ellen's cheek,
As is the rose on brier,
Till halted at her father's yett
A lordly cavalier.

And merrie, merrie was her sang,
Till he knelt at her bouir—
As lark's rejoicin' in the sun,
Her princely paramour.

But dull, dull now is Ellen's eye,
And wan, wan is her cheek,
And slow an' heavy is her fit
That lonesome paths would seek:

And never sang does Ellen sing
Amang the flowers sae bricht,
Since last she saw the dancin' plume
Of that foresworne Knicht!

354

TO ------

I never dreamed that lips so sweet,
That eyes of such a heavenly hue,
Were framed for falsehood and deceit,
Would prove, as they have proved—untrue.

Methought if love on earth e'er shone,
'Twas in the temple of thine eyes,
And if truth's accents e'er were known,
'Twas in the music of thy sighs.

Has then thy love been all a show,
Thy plighted truth an acted part—
Did no affection ever glow
In the chill region of that heart?

And could'st thou seem to me to cling
Like tendril of the clasping vine,
Yet all prove vain imagining,
Thy soul yield no response to mine?

355

It has been so—so let it be—
Rejoice, thou false one, in thy guile,
Others, perhaps, may censure thee,
I would not dim thy fickle smile.

Farewell!—In kindness I would part,
As once I deemed in love we met—
Farewell!—This wrong'd and bleeding heart
Can thee Forgive, but not Forget!

356

THE KNIGHT'S REQUIEM.

They have waked the knight so meikle of might,
They have cased his corpse in oak;
There was not an eye that then was dry,
There was not a tongue that spoke.
The stout and the true lay stretched in view,
Pale and cold as the marble stone;
And the voice was still that like trumpet shrill,
Had to glory led them on;
And the deadly hand whose battle brand
Mowed down the reeling foe,
Was laid at rest on the manly breast,
That never more mought glow.

With book, and bell, and waxen light,
The mass for the dead is sung;
Thorough the night in the turret's height,
The great church-bells are rung.
Oh wo! oh wo! for those that go
From light of life away,
Whose limbs may rest with worms unblest,
In the damp and silent clay!

357

With a heavy cheer they upraised his bier,
Naker and drum did roll;
The trumpets blew a last adieu
To the good knight's martial soul.
With measured tread thro' the aisle they sped,
Bearing the dead knight on,
And before the shrine of St James the divine,
They covered his corpse with stone:
'Twas fearful to see the strong agony
Of men who had seldom wept,
And to hear the deep groan of each mail-clad one,
As the lid on the coffin swept.

With many a groan, they placed that stone
O'er the heart of the good and brave,
And many a look the tall knights took
Of their brother soldier's grave.
Where banners stream and corslets gleam
In fields besprent with gore,
That brother's hand and shearing brand
In the van should wave no more:
The clarions call on one and all
To arm and fight amain,
Would never see, in chivalry,
Their brother's make again!

358

With book, and bell, and waxen light,
The mass for the dead is sung,
And thorough the night in the turret's height,
The great church-bells are rung.
Oh wo! oh wo! for those that go
From the light of life away,
Whose limbs must rest with worms unblest,
In the damp and silent clay!

359

THE ROCKY ISLET.

Perchance, far out at sea, thou may'st have found
Some lean, bald cliff—a lonely patch of ground,
Alien amidst the waters:—some poor Isle
Where summer blooms were never known to smile,
Or trees to yield their verdure—yet, around
That barren spot, the dimpling surges throng,
Cheering it with their low and plaintive song,
And clasping the deserted cast-away
In a most strict embrace—and all along
Its margin, rendering freely its array
Of treasured shell and coral. Thus we may
Note love in faithful woman; oft among
The rudest shocks of life's wide sea she shares
Man's lot, and more than half his burden bears
Around whose path are flowers, strewn by her tender cares.

360

TRUE WOMAN.

No quaint conceit of speech,
No golden, minted phrase—
Dame Nature needs to teach
To echo Woman's praise;
Pure love and truth unite
To do thee, Woman, right!

She is the faithful mirror
Of thoughts that brightest be—
Of feelings without error,
Of matchless constancie;
When art essays to render
More glorious Heaven's bow—
To paint the virgin splendour
Of fresh-fallen mountain snow—
New fancies will I find,
To laud true Woman's mind.

No words can lovelier make
Virtue's all-lovely name,

361

No change can ever shake
A woman's virtuous fame:
The moon is forth anew,
Though envious clouds endeavour
To screen her from our view—
More beautiful than ever:
So, through detraction's haze,
True Woman shines alwaies.

The many-tinted Rose,
Of gardens is the queen,
The perfumed Violet knows
No peer where she is seen—
The flower of woman-kind
Is aye a gentle mind.

362

THE PAST AND THE FUTURE.

I've looked, and trusted, sighed, and loved my last!
The dream hath vanished, the hot fever's past
That parched my youth!
Though cheerless was the matin of my years,
And dim life's dawning through a vale of tears,
Yet Hope, in ruth,
With smile persuasive, evermore would say—
‘Live on, live on!—Expect Joy's summer day’—
Vain counsel, void of truth!

Yes, to the world I've clung with fond embrace,
And each succeeding day did more efface
Its hollow joys,
And friends died out around me every where,
And I was left to be the idle stare
Of vagrant boys—
A land-mark on the ever-shifting tide
Of fashion, folly, impudence and pride,
And ribald noise.

363

Yes, I have lived, and lived until I knew
The world ne'er alters its ungrateful hue,
And glance malign;
And though, at times, some chance-sown noble spirit
Its wilderness a season may inherit,
In want and pine,
Yet these be weeded soon, and pass away,
All unbefriended, to their funeral clay!

Array thyself for flight, my soul, nor tarry—
Thou bird of glory ne'er wert doomed to marry
A sphere so rude—
But to be mated with some hermit star,
O'er heaven's soft azure keeping watch afar,
In pulchritude:
Uplift thy pinions, seek thy resting-place,
Where kindred spirits long for thy embrace—
Dear brotherhood.

364

OH, TURN FROM ME THOSE RADIANT EYES!

Oh, turn from me those radiant eyes,
With love's dark lightning beaming,
Or veil the power that in them lies
To set the young heart dreaming!
Oh, dim their fire, or look no more,
For sure 'tis wayward folly
To make a spirit, gay before,
To droop with melancholy!

Ungen'rous victor! not in vain
Thy wild wish to subdue me—
To woo once more thy glance I'm fain,
Even should that glance undo me:
What pity that thy lips of rose
So fitted for heart healing,
Should not, with tenderest kisses, close
The wounds thine eyes are dealing!

365

O THINK NAE MAIR O' ME, SWEET MAY!

O think nae mair o' me, sweet May!
O think nae mair o' me!
I'm but a wearied ghaist, sweet May,
That hath a wierd to dree;
That langs to leave a warld, sweet May,
O' eerie dull and pain,
And pines to gang the gate, sweet May,
That its first luve hath gane!

Although the form is here, sweet May,
The spirit is na sae;
It wanders to anither land—
A far and lonely way.
My bower is near a ruined kirk,
Hard by a grass-green grave,
Where, fed wi' tears, the gilliflowers
Above a true heart wave!

Then think nae mair o' me, sweet May,
If I had luve to gie,

366

It suld na need a glance but ane
To bind me, dear, to thee.
But blossoms twa o' life's best flower
This heart it canna bear—
It cast its leaves on Mary's grave,
And it can bloom nae mair!

367

THE LOVE-LORN KNIGHT AND THE DAMSEL PITILESS.

‘Uplift the Gonfanons of war—exalt the ruddy Rood—
Arise ye winds and bear me on against the Paynim brood!
Farewell to forest-cinctured halls, farewell to song and glee,
For toilsome march and clash of swords in glorious Galilee!
And grace to thee, haught damoisel—I ask no parting tear—
Another love may greet thee when I'm laid upon my bier!

‘My bark upon the foaming flood shall bound before the gale,
Like arrow in its flight, until the Holy Land we hail;
Then firmly shall our anchors grasp the belt of Eastern land,
For planks will shrink and cordage rot ere we regain this strand;

368

And welcome be the trumpet's sound, the war-steed's tramp and neigh,
And death, for Palestina's cause, in the battle's hot mellay!’

O never for that love-lorn youth did vessel cleave the seas!
The hand of death was on the lips that wooed the ocean breeze;
They bare him to the damoisel, they laid him at her knee,
Though knight and pilgrim wept aloud—no tear dropt that ladye—
Three times she kissed the clay-cold brow of her unbidden guest,
Then took the vows at Mary's shrine, and there her ashes rest.

369

LOVE IN WORLDLYNESSE.

The gentle heart, the truthful love,
Have flemed this earth and fled to Heaven—
The noblest spirits earliest prove
Not Here below, but There above,
Is Hope no shadow—Bliss no sweven!

There was a time, old Poets say,
When the crazed world was in its nonage,
That they who loved were loved alwaye,
With faith transparent as the day,
But this, meseems, was fiction's coinage.

We cannot mate here as we ought,
With laws opposed to simple feeling;
Professions are, like lutestring, bought,
And worldly ties soon breed distraught,
To end in cold congealing!

Forms we have worshipped oft become,
If haply they affect our passion,
Though faultless, icy cold and dumb,
Because we are not rich, like some,
Or proud—Such is this strange world's fashion!

370

Rapt Fancy lends to unchaste eyes
Ideal beauty, and on faces
Where red rose blent with lily tries
For mastery, in wanton wise,
Bestows enchanting graces:

Yet, as we gaze, the charms decay
That promised long with these to linger;
Of love's delight we're forced to say,
It melts like dreamer's wealth away,
Which cheers the eye but mocks the finger!

And, therefore, move I calmly by
The siren bosom softly heaving,
And mark, untouched, the tempter's sigh,
Or make response with tranquil eye—
‘Kind damsel, I am past deceiving!’

Long sued I as a man should do,
With cheek high flushed by deep emotion—
My lady's love had no such hue,
Hard selfishness would still break through
The glowing mask of her devotion!

No land had I—but I had health—
No store was mine of costly raiment—

371

My lady glided off by stealth
To wed a lozel for his wealth—
And this was Loyalty's repayment!

The language of the trusting heart,
The soothfast fondness firm, but tender—
Are now to most a studied part,
A tongue assumed, a trick of art,
Whereof no meaning can I render.

And hence I say that loyal love
Hath flemed the Earth and fled to Heaven;
And that not here, but there above,
Souls may love rightfully, and prove
Hope is no shadow—Bliss no sweven!

372

A NIGHT VISION.

Lucina shyning in silence of the nicht;
The hevin being all full of starris bricht;
To bed I went, bot there I tuke no rest,
With hevy thocht I was so sair oppressed,
That sair I langit after dayis licht.
Of fortoun I complainit hevely,
That echo to me stude so contrarously;
And at the last, quhen I had turnyt oft
For werines, on me ane slummer soft
Came, with ane dreming and a fantesy.
—Dunbar.

I had a vision in the depth of night—
A dream of glory—one long thrill of gladness—
A thing of strangest meaning and delight;
And yet upon my heart there came such sadness,
And dim forebodings of my after years,
That I awoke in sorrow and in tears!

There stood revealed before me a bright maid,
Clad in a white silk tunic, which displayed
The beautiful proportions of her frame;
And she did call upon me by my name—

373

And I did marvel at her voice, and shook
With terror, but right soon the smiling look
Of gentleness, that radiant maiden threw
From her large sparkling eyes of deepest blue,
Did reassure me. Breathless, I did gaze
Upon that lovely one, in fond amaze,
And marked her long white hair as it did flow,
With wanton dalliance, o'er the pillared snow
Of her swan-like neck;—and then my eye grew dim
With an exceeding lustre, for the slim
And gauze-wove raiment of her bosom fair,
Was somewhat ruffled by the midnight air;
And as it gently heaved, there sprung to view
Such glories underneath—such sisters two
Of rival loveliness! Oh, 'twere most vain
For fond conceit to fancy such again.
The robe she wore was broidered fetouslye
With flower and leaf of richest imagerye;
And threads of gold therein were entertwined
With quaintest needlecraft; and to my mind
It seemed, the waist of this most lovely one,
Was clipped within a broad and azure zone,
Studded with strange devices—One small hand
Waved gracefully a slender ivory wand,
And with the other, ever and anon,
She shook a harp, which, as the winds sighed past,

374

Gave a right pleasant and bewitching tone
To each wild vagrant blast.

Meseems,
After this wondrous guise, that maiden sweet
Stood visible before me, while the beams
Of Dian pale, laughed round her little feet
With icy lustre, through the narrow pane;
And this discourse she held in merry vein;
Although methought 'twas counterfeited, and
The matter strange, that none might understand.

She told me, that the moon was in her wane—
And life was tiding on, and that the world
Was waxen old—that nature grew unkind,
And men grew selfish quite, and sore bechurled—
That Honour was a bubble of the mind—
And Virtue was a nothing undefined—
And as for Woman, She, indeed, could claim
A title all her own—She had a name
And place in Time's long chronicles, Deceit—
And Glory was a phantom—Death a cheat!

She said I might remember her, for she
Had trifled with me in mine infancy;
And in those days, that now are long agone,

375

Had tended me, as if I were her own
And only offspring. When a very child,
She said, her soothing whispers oft beguiled
The achings of my heart—that in my youth,
She, too, had given me dreams of Honour, Truth,
Of Glory and of Greatness—and of Fame—
And the bright vision of a deathless name!
And she had turned my eye, with upward look,
To read the bravely star-enamelled book
Of the blue skies—and in the rolling spheres
To con strange lessons, penned in characters
Of most mysterious import—she had made
Life's thorny path to be all sown with flowers
Of diverse form and fragrance, of each shade
Of loveliness that glitters in the bowers
Of princely damoisels,—Nay, more, her hand
Had plucked the bright flowers of another land,
Belike of Faerye, and had woven them
Like to a chaplet, or gay diadem,
For me to wear in triumph—But that she
Had fostered me so long, she feared, I'd spoil
With very tenderness, nor ever be
Fit for this world's coarse drudgery and moil;
Did she not even now take leave of me,
And her protecting, loving arms uncoil

376

For ever and for ever,—and though late,
Now leave me to self-guidance, and to fate.

Then passed that glorious spirit, and the smile
She whilome wore fled from her beauteous cheek;
And paleness, and a troubled grief the while
Subdued her voice.—Methought I strove to speak
Some words of tender sympathy, and caught
Her small white trembling hand, but, she, distraught,
Turned her fair form away, and nearer drew
To where the clustering ivy leaves thick grew,
And shaded half the casement—There she stood,
Like a tall crystal column, in the flood
Of the fair moonshine, and right thoughtful-wise
She seemed to scan the aspect of the skies;
Sudden a tremulous tear filled either eye,
Yet fell not on her check, but dubiously,
Like dew gems upon a flower, hung quivering there;
And, like a love-crazed maiden, she half sang,
Half uttered mournful fancies in despair;
And indistinctly in my ear there rung
Something of years to be,—of dark, dark years,
Laden with sorrow, madness, fury, tears—
Of days that had no sunshine—and of nights
Estranged from slumber—of harsh worldly slights—

377

Of cruel disappointments—of a hell
That gloweth in the bosom, fierce and fell,
Which may not be extinguished—of the pains
Of journeying through lone and trackless plains
Which have no limits—and of savage faces,
That showed no trait of pity!

Then that maid
Stretched her long arms to heaven, and wept for shame;
And as upon her soul dim bodements came,
Once more, in veriest sadness, thus she said:
‘I may not cheer him more! I may not breathe
Life in his wasting limbs, nor healthy fire
In his grief-sunken eye—I may not wreathe
Fresh flowers for him to gaze on, nor inspire
Delicious dreamings, when the paly host
Of cares and troubles weigh his spirit down,
And hopes delayed, in worse despair are lost;
Unaided, he may sink upon the path,
No hand of succour near, nor melting eye
To yield its pittance poor of sympathy;
Already, too successful have I weaved
My tiny web of folly; undeceived,
At length, he'll view its baseless fabrick pass,
Like fleeting shadows o'er the brittle glass,

378

Leaving no substance there; and he may curse,
With bitter malison, his too partial nurse,
And charge her with his sufferings!’

So wept
That maid, in seeming sorrow, till there fell
From her lips Grief's volume-word—Farewell!
And then, methought, she softly passed away,
As a thin mist of glory on a ray
Of purest moonshine; or like starlet bright
Sailed onward through the ocean of the night!

And then, meseems, I heard the wailing sound
Of a wind-harp afar, and voice of one
Who sung thereto a plaintive melody;
And some words reached me, but the rest were drowned
In dimest distance, and the hollow moan
Of the night-breezes fitful sweeping by;
Yet these stray words, erewhile on earth they fell,
Told Hope had pitying smiled before her last farewell.

Then all grew dark and loveless, and afar
I saw the falling down of many a star,
As the moon paled in sorrow—And the roar
Of darkly tumbling floods I heard, that dashed

379

Through the deep fissures of the rifted rock—
While phantoms flitted by with ghastly mock,
And jeers malign—and demons on me glar'd
Looks of infernal meaning; then in silence
Troop'd onwards to their doom!

Starting, I broke
Sleep's leaden bonds of sorrow, and awoke,
Wondering to find my eye-balls red with tears!
And my breast heaving with sepulchral fears.

380

THIS IS NO SOLITUDE.

This is no Solitude; These brown woods speak
In tones most musical—this limpid river
Chaunts a low song, to be forgotten never!—
These my beloved companions are so meek,
So soul-sustaining, I were crazed to seek
Again the tumult, the o'erpowering hum,
Which of the ever busy hiving city come—
Parting us from ourselves.—Still let us breathe
The heavenly air of contemplation here;
And with old trees, grey stones, and runnels clear,
Claim kindred and hold converse. He that seeth
Upon this vesper spot no loveliness,
Nor hears therein a voice of tenderness,
Calling him friend, Nature in vain would bless!

381

THE LONE THORN.

Beneath the scant shade of an aged thorn,
Silvered with age, and mossy with decay,
I stood, and there bethought me of its morn
Of verdant lustyhood, long passed away;
Of its meridian vigour, now outworn
By cankering years, and by the tempest's sway
Bared to the pitying glebe.—Companionless,
Stands the gray thorn complaining to the wind—
Of all the old wood's leafy loveliness
The sole memorial that lags behind;
Its compeers perished in their youthfulness,
Though round the earth their roots seem'd firmly twined:
How sad it is to be so anchored here
As to outlive one's mates, and die without a tear!

382

THE SLAYNE MENSTREL.

Ane harper there was—ane harper gude—
Cam' harpin' at the gloamin fa'—
And he has won to the bonnie bield
Quhilk callit is the Newtoun Ha'.

‘Brume, brume on hil’—the harper sang—
‘And rose on brier are blythe to see—
I would I saw the brume sae lang,
Quhilk cleidis the braes o' my ain countree!’

‘Out on ye, out, ye prydefu' loun,
Wi' me ye winna lig the nicht—
Hie to some bordel in borrowe toun:
Of harpand craft I haud but licht!

‘Out on ye, out, ye menstrel lewde’—
Sayd the crewel Laird o' the Newtoun Ha'—
‘Ye'll nae bide here, by blessit Rude,
Gif harpe or lyf ye reck ava'!’

383

‘I care na for mie lyf ane plack’—
Quoth that auld harper sturdilie—
‘But this gude harpe upon mie back
Sal ne'er be fylit by ane lyk thee!’

‘Thou liest there, thou menstrel wicht!’
Outspak the Laird o' the Newtoun Ha'—
‘For ye to death bedene art dicht,
Haif at thee here and mend thy saw!’

Alace, Alace, the harper gude
Was borne back aganis the wa',
And wi' the best o' his auld hertis blude,
They weetit hae the Newtoun Ha'!

Yet did he die wi' harpe in han',
Maist lyk ane menstrel o' degree—
There was na ane in a' the land
Might matche wi' him o' the North countree!

Erle Douglas chauncit to ryde therebye—
Ane gallant gentleman was he—
Wi' four score o' weel harnessit men,
To harrie in the South countree.

He haltit at the Newtoun Ha'—
‘Quhat novelles now, bauld Laird, hae ye?’

384

‘It's I haif slayne a worthlesse wicht,
Ane menstrel lewde, as you may see!’

‘Now schaw to me the harper's heid,
And schaw to me the harper's hand,
For sair I fear you've causeless spilt
As gentil blude as in a' Scotland!’

‘Kep then his heid, thou black Douglas’—
Sayd boastfullie fase Newtoun Ha'—
‘And kep his hand, thou black Douglas,
His fingers slim his craft may schaw!’

The stout Erle vysit first the heid,
Then neist he lukit on the hand—
‘It's foul befa' ye, Newtoun Ha',
Ye've slayne the pryde o' gude Scotland

‘Now stir ye, stir, my merrie men,
The faggot licht, and bete the flame,
A fire sal rise o'er this buirdly bield,
And its saulless Laird in the lowe we'll tame!’

The bleeze blew up, the bleeze clipt roun'
The bonnie towers o' the Newtoun Ha',
And evir as armit men ran out,
Black Douglas slewe them ane and a'.

385

The bleeze it roarit and wantonit roun'
The weel-pilet wawis o' the Newtoun Ha',
And ruif and rafter, bauk and beam,
Aneath the bauld fyris doun did fa'!

Now waly for the crewel Laird—
As he cam loupin' through the lowe,
Erle Douglas swappit aff his heid
And swung it at his saddil bowe!

386

THE MERMAIDEN.

‘The nicht is mirk, and the wind blaws schill,
And the white faem weets my bree,
And my mind misgi'es me, gay maiden,
That the land we sall never see!’
Then up and spak' the mermaiden,
And she spak' blythe and free,
‘I never said to my bonnie bridegroom,
That on land we sud weddit be.

‘Oh! I never said that ane erthlie priest
Our bridal blessing should gi'e,
And I never said that a landwart bouir
Should hauld my love and me.’
‘And whare is that priest, my bonnie maiden,
If ane erthlie wicht is na he?’
‘Oh! the wind will sough, and the sea will rair,
When weddit we twa sall be.’

‘And whare is that bouir, my bonnie maiden,
If on land it sud na be?’
‘Oh! my blythe bouir is low,’ said the mermaiden,
‘In the bonnie green howes of the sea:

387

My gay bouir is biggit o' the gude ships' keels,
And the banes o' the drowned at sea;
The fisch are the deer that fill my parks,
And the water waste my dourie.

‘And my bouir is sklaitit wi' the big blue waves,
And paved wi' the yellow sand,
And in my chaumers grow bonnie white flowers
That never grew on land.
And have ye e'er seen, my bonnie bridegroom,
A leman on earth that wud gi'e
Aiker for aiker o' the red plough'd land,
As I'll gi'e to thee o' the sea?

‘The mune will rise in half ane hour,
And the wee bright starns will schine;
Then we'll sink to my bouir, 'neath the wan water
Full fifty fathom and nine!’
A wild, wild skreich gi'ed the fey bridegroom,
And a loud, loud lauch, the bride;
For the mune raise up, and the twa sank down
Under the silver'd tide.

388

SONG.

[He courted me in parlour, and he courted me in ha']

He courted me in parlour, and he courted me in ha',
He courted me by Bothwell banks, amang the flowers sae sma',
He courted me wi' pearlins, wi' ribbons, and wi'rings,
He courted me wi' laces, and wi' mony mair braw things;
But O he courted best o' a' wi' his black blythesome ee,
Whilk wi' a gleam o' witcherie cuist glaumour over me.

We hied thegither to the Fair—I rade ahint my joe,
I fand his heart leap up and doun, while mine beat faint and low;
He turn'd his rosy cheek about, and then, ere I could trow,
The widdifu' o' wickedness took arles o' my mou!
Syne, when I feigned to be sair fleyed, sae pawkily as he
Bann'd the auld mare for missing fit, and thrawin him ajee.

389

And aye he waled the loanings lang, till we drew near the town,
When I could hear the kimmers say—‘There rides a comelie loun!’
I turned wi' pride and keeked at him, but no as to be seen,
And thought how dowie I wad feel, gin he made love to Jean!
But soon the manly chiel, aff-hand, thus frankly said to me,
‘Meg, either tak me to yoursel, or set me fairly free!’

To Glasgow Green I link'd wi' him, to see the ferlies there,
He birled his penny wi' the best—what noble could do mair?
But ere ae fit he'd tak me hame, he cries—‘Meg, tell me noo:
Gin ye will hae me, there's my lufe, I'll aye be leal an' true.’
On sic an honest, loving heart how could I draw a bar?
What could I do but tak Rab's hand, for better or for waur?

390

THE LEAN LOVER.

I paced, an easy rambler,
Along the surf-washed shore—
And watched the noble freightage
The swelling ocean bore.
I met a moody fellow
Who thus discoursed his wo—
‘Across the inconstant waters,
Deceitful woman, go!

‘I loved that beauteous lady—
More truly wight ne'er loved—
I loved that high-born lady,
My faith she long had proved:
Her troth to me she plighted
With passion's amorous show—
Go o'er the inconstant waters,
Ungrateful worldling, go!

‘Be mine yon cliff-perched chapel
Which beetles o'er the deep;

391

There, like some way-worn palmer,
I'll sit me down and weep.
I'll note upon the billows
Her lessening sail of snow,
And waft across the waters—
Go, fleeting fair one, go!’

He clambered to the chapel
That toppled o'er the deep—
There, like a way-worn palmer,
He laid him down to weep:
And still I heard his wailing
Upon the strand below—
‘Go o'er the inconstant waters,
Go, faithless woman, go!’

392

AFFECTEST THOU THE PLEASURES OF THE SHADE?

Affectest thou the pleasures of the shade,
And pastoral customs of the olden time,
When gentle shepherd piped to gentle maid
On oaten reed, his quaint and antique rhyme?
Then welcome to the green and mossy nook,
The forest dark and silver poppling brook,
And flowers in fragrant indolence that blossom
On the sequestered valley's sloping bosom—
Where in the leafy halls glad strains are pealing,
The woodland songsters' amorous thoughts revealing:
Look how the morning's eager kisses wake
The clouds that guard the Orient, blushing red—
Behold heaven's phantom-chasing Sovereign shake
The golden honours of his graceful head
Above that earth his day-dawn saw so fair!—
Now damsels lithe trip lightsomely away,
To bathe their clustered brows and bosoms bare
In virgin dews of budding, balmy May!

393

MUSIC.

Strange how the mystically mingled sound
Of voices rising from these rifted rocks
And unseen valleys—whence no organ ever
Thundered harmonious its stupendous notes,
Nor pointed arch, nor low-browed darksome aisle,
Rolled back their mighty music—seems to me
An ocean vast, divinely undulating,
Where, bathed in beauty, floats the enraptured soul:
Now borne on the translucent deep, it skirts
Some dazzling bank of amaranthine flowers,
Now on a couch of odours cast supine,
It pants beneath o'erpowering redolence:—
Buoyant anon on a rejoicing surge,
It heaves, on tides tumultuous, far aloft,
Until it verges on the cope of heaven,
Whence issued, in their unity of joy,
The anthems of the earth-creating Morn:
Yielding again to an entrancing slumber,
In sweet abandonment, it glideth on
To amber caves and emerald palaces,

394

Where the lost Seraphs—welcomed by the main—
Their lyres suspended in their time of sorrow,
Amid the deepening glories of the flood;—
There the rude revels of the boisterous winds
The tranquillous waves afflict not, nor dispart
The passionate clasping of their azure arms!

395

THE SHIP-WRECKED LOVER.

The Port-Reeve's maid has laid her down
Upon a restless pillow,
But wakeful thought is wandering
Ayont the ocean billow.
Her love's away—he's far away—
A world of waves asunder—
Around him now the storm may burst
With fearful peals of thunder!

But yet—the night-wind's breath is faint,
The night-beam entereth meekly;
But when the moon's fair face is free,
Strange she should shine so weakly!—
Yet guided by her waning beam
His ship must swim securely—
Beneath so fair a sky as this
He'll strike his haven surely!

396

There came a knocking to the door,
That hour so lone and stilly;
And something to the maiden said—
‘Arise for true love Willie!’
Another knock! another still—
Three knocks were given clearly—
Then quickly rose the Port-Reeve's maid—
Her seaman she loved dearly!

And first she saw a streak of light,
Like moonshine cold and paly;
And then she heard a well-known step—
The maiden's pulse beat gaily!
She saw a light, she heard a step,
She marked a figure slender
Across the threshold pass like thought,
And stand in her lone chamber.

It paced the chamber once and twice,
It crossed it three times slowly—
But when she to her Maker prayed,
It fled like sprite unholy.
The form the vanished shadow wore
Was of her true love Willie—
O not a breath escaped the lips
That pallid looked and chilly!

397

Long motionless the maiden stood,
In wonder, fear, and sorrow—
A tale of wreck, a tale of wo
Was told her on the morrow!
The ship of her returning hopes
Had sunk beneath the billow—
The ocean-shell, the ocean-weed
Were now her lover's pillow!

398

HOLLO MY FANCY

Hollo, my Fancy! Thou art free—
Nor bolt nor shackle fetters thee!
Thy prison door is cleft in twain,
And Nature claims her child again;
Doff the base weeds of toil and strife,
And hail the world's returning life!

Up and away! 'Tis Nature's voice
Bids thee hie fieldward and rejoice;
She calls thee from unhallowed mirth
To walk with beauty o'er the earth;
Proudly she calls thee forth, and now
Prints blandest kisses on thy brow;
On lip, on cheek, on bosom bare,
She pours the balmy morning air:
The fulness of a mother's breast
Swells for thee in this gracious hour;
Up, Sluggard, up! from dreams unblest,
And let thy heart its love outpour!

399

Up, Sluggard, up! all is awake
With song and smile to welcome thee;
The flower its timid buds would break
Wert thou but once abroad to see!
Teeming with love, earth, ocean, air
Are musical with grateful prayer;
Each measured sound, each glorious sight,
Personifies intense delight!
The breeze that crisps the summer seas,
Or softly plains through leafy trees,
Or, on the hill-side, stoops to chase
The wild kid in its giddy race—
The breeze that, like a lover's sigh,
Of mingled fear and ecstacy,
Plays amorous over brow and cheek,
Methinks it has a voice to speak
The joys of the awakening morn—
When, on exulting pinion borne,
The lark, sole monarch of the sky,
Pours from his throat rich melody.

Hollo, my Fancy! Fast a-field,
Aurora's face is just revealed:
Night's shadows yet have scantly sped
Midway up yonder mountain's head—
While in the valley far below,

400

The misty billows, ebbing, show
Where fairy isles in beauty glow;
Delicious spots of elfin green,
Emerging from a world unseen,
Of dreams and quaintest phantasies—
Spots that would the Faerye Queen
To a very tittle please!
Away the shadowy phantoms roll,
Up-borne by the rising breeze,
Fluttering like some banner scroll;
While, peering o'er the silent seas
Of yon far shore, thou may'st descry
The red glance of the Day-Star's eye!

Hollo, my Fancy! Let us trace
The breaking of the vestal dawn!
Through dappled clouds, with stealthy pace,
It travels over mount and lawn.
Lacings of crimson and of gold,
Threaded and twined an hundred-fold,
Bar the far Orient, while the sea
Of molten brass appears to be.
And lo! upon that glancing tide
Vessels of snowy whiteness glide:
Some portward, self-impelled are steering,
Some in the distance disappearing;

401

And some, through mingled light and shade,
Like visions gleam—like visions fade.
Strange are these ocean mysteries!
No helmsman on the poop one sees,
No sailor nestled in the shrouds,
Singing to the passing clouds.
But let us leave old Neptune's show,
And to the dewy uplands go!
Now skyward, in a chequered crowd,
Rolls each rosy-edged cloud,
Flaunting in the upper air
Many a tabard rich and rare;
And mantling, as they onward rush,
Every hill top with a blush,
To dissolve, streak after streak,
Like rose tints on a maiden's cheek,
When, in wanton waggish folly,
The chord of love's sweet melancholy
Is rudely smitten, and the cheek
Tells tales the lip might never speak.

Hollo, my Fancy! It is good
To seek soul-soothing solitude;
To leave the city, and the mean,
Cold, abject things that crawl therein;
Flee crowded street and painted hall,

402

Where sin rules rampant over all;
To roam where greenwoods thickest grow,
Where meadows spread and rivers flow,
Where mountains loom in mist, or lie
Clad in a sunshine livery;
Wander through dingle and through dell,
Which the sweet primrose loveth well;
And where, in every ivied cranny
Of mouldering crag, unseen by any,
Clouds of busy birds are dinning
Anthems that welcome day's beginning:
Or, like lusty shepherd groom,
Wade through seas of yellow broom;
And, with foot elastic tread
On the shrinking floweret's head,
As it droops with dew-drops laden,
Like some tear-surcharged maiden:
Skip it, trip it deftly, till
Every flower-cup liquor spill,
And green earth grows bacchanal,
Freed from night's o'ershadowing pall;
Or let us climb the steep, and know
How the mountain breezes blow.

Hither, brave Fancy! Speed we on,
Like Judah's bard to Lebanon!

403

Every step we take, more nigh
Mounts the spirit to the sky.
Sounds of life are waxing low
As we high and higher go,
And a deeper silence given
For choice communing with heaven;
On this eminence awhile
Rest we from our vigorous toil:
Forth our eyes, mind's scouts that be,
Cull fresh food for fantasy!
Like a map, beneath these skies,
Fair the summer landscape lies—
Sea, and sand, and brook, and tree,
Meadow broad, and sheltered lea,
Shade and sunshine intermarried,
All deliciously varied:
Goodly fields of bladed corn,
Pastures green, where neatherd's horn
Bloweth through the livelong day,
Many a rudely jocund lay:
There be rows of waving trees,
Hymning saintliest homilies
To the weary passer by,
Till his heart mount to his eye,
And his tingling feelings glow
With deep love for all below,

404

While his soul, in rapturous prayer,
Finds a temple everywhere.
See, each headland hath its tower,
Every nook its own love bower—
While, from every sheltered glen,
Peep the homes of rustic men;
And apart, on hillock green,
Is the hamlet's chapel seen:
Mingled elms and yews surround
Its most peaceful burial ground;
Like sentinels the old trees stand,
Guarding death's sleep-silent land.
Adown the dell a brawling burn,
With wimple manifold, doth spurn
The shining pebbles in its course,
Foaming like spur-fretted horse—
A mighty voice in puny form,
Miniature of blustering storm,
It rates each shelving crag and tree
That would abridge its liberty,
And roundly swears it will be free!
'Tis even so, for now along
The plain it sweeps with softened song;
And there, in summer, morn and noon,
And eve, the village children wade,
Oft wondering if the streamlet's tune

405

Be by wave or pebble made;
But, unresolved of doubt, they say
Thus it tunes its pipe alway.

Wood-ward, brave Fancy! Over-head
The Sun is waxing fiery red;
No cloud is floating on the sky
To interrupt his brilliancy,
Or mar the glory of his ray
While journeying on his lucid way.
But here, within this forest chase,
We'll wander for a fleeting space,
'Mid walks beneath whose clustering leaves
Bright noontides wane to sober eves;
And where, 'mong roots of timbers old,
Pale flowers are seen like virgins cold—
(Virgins fearful of the Sun,
Most beautiful to look upon)—
In some soft and mossy nook,
Where dwells the wanderer's eager look.
Until the Sun hath sunken down
Over the folly-haunting town,
And curious Stars are forth to peer
With frost-like brilliance, silvery clear,
From the silent firmament—
Here be our walk of sweet content.

406

Around is many a sturdy oak
Never scaithed by woodman's stroke;
Many a stalwart green-wood tree,
Loved of Waithman bold and free,
When the arrow at his side,
And the bow he bent with pride,
Gave the right to range at will,
And lift whate'er broad shaft might kill.
Here, belike famed Robin Hood,
Or other noble of the wood,
Clym of the Cleuch, or Adam Bell,—
Young Gandelyn that shot full well,—
Will Cloudeslie, and Little John,
Or Bertram, wight of blood and bone,
Plied their woodcraft, maugre law:
Raking through the greenwood shaw,
Bow in hand, and sword at knee,
They lived true thieves, and Waithmen free.
In the twilight of this wood—
And, awe-breathing solitude—
Heathens of majestic mind,
Might a fitting temple find
Underneath some far-spread oak,
Nature blindly to invoke.
What is groined arch to this
Mass of moveless leafiness?

407

What are clustered pillars to
The gnarled trunk of silvery hue,
That, Titan-like, heaves its huge form
Through centuries of change and storm,
And stands as it were planted there,
Alike for shelter and for prayer?

Hither, my jocund Fancy! Turn,
And note how Heaven's pure watchfires burn
In yonder fields of deepest blue,
Investing space with glories new!
And hark how in the bosky dell
Warbles mate-robbed Philomel!
Every sound from that glade stealing
Sadness woos with kindred feeling—
The notes of a love-broken heart
Surpass the dull appeal of art;
Here rest awhile, for every where,
On lake, lawn, tower, and forest tree,
Falleth in floods the moonshine fair—
How beautiful night's glories be!
No stir is heard upon the land,
No murmur from the sea;
The pulse of life seems at a stand
As nature quaffeth, rapturously,

408

From yonder ambient worlds of light,
Deep draughts of passionate delight.

Hollo, my Fancy! It is well
To ponder on the spheres above—
To bid each fount of feeling swell
Responsive to the glance of love.
See! trooping in a gladsome row,
How steadfastly these tapers glow;
And light up hill and darksome glen
To cheer the path of wand'ring men,
And eke of frolic elf and fay
That haunt the hollow hill, or play
By crystal brook, or gleaming lake,
Or dance until the green wood shake
To fits of choicest minstrelsie,
Under the cope of the witch elm-tree.
When all is hush around and above,
Then is the hour to carpe of love;
When not an eye but ours is waking,
Nor even the lightest leaflet shaking—
When, like a newly-captured bird,
The fluttering of the heart is heard;
When tears come to the eye unbidden,
And blushing cheeks are in bosom hidden!

409

While hand seeks softer hand, and there
Seems spell-bound by the amorous air—
When love, in very silence, finds
The tone that pleads, the pledge that binds.

Hollo, my Fancy! Whither bounding?
Go where rolling orbs are sounding,
This dull nether world astounding
With celestial symphonies;
Inhale no more the soft replies
Which gurgling rills and fountains make,
Nor feed upon the fervid sighs
Of winds that fan the reedy lake;
Leave all terrestrial harmonies
That flow for pining minstrel's sake.

Skyward, adventurous Fancy! Dare
To cleave the ocean of the air;
Soaring on thy vane-like wings
Rise o'er earth and clod-like things.
Smite the rolling clouds that bar
Thy progress to those realms afar;
Career it with the Sisters seven,
Pace it through the star-paved heaven;
Snatch Orion's baldrick,—then,
Astride upon the Dragon, dare

410

To hunt the lazy-footed Bear
Around the pole and back again;
Scourge him tightly, scourge him faster,
Let the savage know his master!
And, to close the mighty feat,
Light thy lamp of brave conceit
With some grim, red-bearded star,
(Sign of Famine, Fire, and War,)
And hang it on the young moon's horn
To show how poet thought is born.

411

LOVE'S POTENCIE.

If men were fashioned of the stone,
Then might they never yield to love—
But fashioned as they are, they owne
(On earth, as in the realme above,)
That Beauty, in perfection, stil
Controls the thoughts, impels the wil.

And sure 'twere vaine to stemme the tide
Of passion surging in the breast—
Since fierce ambition, stubborn pryde
Have each the sovereigne power confest;
Which rolleth on, despite al staie,
Sweeping ilk prudent shifte awaye.

What though the mayden that we love
May fail to meet the troth we bear—
Nor once its generous warmth approve,
Nor bate one jot of our despaire—
Doth not the blind dictator say—
‘Thou foolish wichte pyne on alwaie!’

412

We cannot read the wondrous lawes
That knit the soul to lovelinesse;
We feel their influence, but their cause
Remains a theme of mysticknesse—
We only know Love may not be
O'ermastered by Wil's energie.

Nor would I wish to break the dream
Of troubled joy; that still is mine—
Albeit that the cheering gleam
Of hope hath almost ceased to shine—
So long as Beauty light doth give,
My heart must feel, its love must live!

413

LIFE.

O Life! what is thy quest?—What owns this world
Of stalking shadows, fleeting phantasies,
Enjoyments substanceless—to wed the mind
To its still querulous, ever-faltering mate—
Or crib the pinion of the aspiring soul
(Upborne ever by the mystical)
To a poor nook of this sin-stricken earth,
Or sterile point of time?—The Universe,
My spirit, is thy birth-right—and thy term
Of occupance, thou river, limitless—
Eternity!

414

SUPERSTITION.

Dim power! by very indistinctness made
More potent, as the twilight's shade
Gives magnitude to objects mean;
Thou power, though deeply felt, unseen,
That with thy mystic, undefined,
And boundless presence, fills my mind
With unimaginable fears, and chills
My aching heart, and all its pulses stills
Into a silence deeper than the grave,
That erst throbbed quick and brave!
Wherefore, at dead of night, by some lone stream,
Dost thou, embodying its very sound
In thy own substance, seem
To speak of some lorn maiden, who hath found
Her bridal pillow deftly spread
Upon the tall reeds' rustling head,
And the long green sedges graceful sweep,
Where the otter and the wild drake sleep?
And wherefore, in the moonshine clear,
Doth her wan form appear

415

For ever gliding on the water's breast
As shadowy mist that hath no rest,
But wanders idly to and fro
Whithersoe'er the wavering winds may blow?

Thou mystic spirit tell,
Why in the hollow murmurs of that bell
Which load the passing wind,
Each deep full tone but echoes to my mind
The footfall of the dead—
The almost voiceless, nameless tread,
And restless stirring to and fro of those
To whom the grave itself can never yield repose,
But whose dark, guilty sprites
Wander and wail with glowworm lights
Within the circle of the yew tree's shade,
Until the gray cock flaps his wings,
And the dubious light of morn upsprings
O'er yonder hoar hills' dewy head?

And say, while seated under this grey arch
Where old Time oft in sooth
Hath whet his pitiless tooth,
And gnawed clean through
Its ivy and moss-velvet coat of greenest hue,
I watch the moon's swift march

416

Through paths of heavenly blue:
Methinks that there are eyes which gaze on me,
And jealous spirits breathing near, who be
Floating around me, or in pensive mood
Throned on some shatter'd column's ivied head,
Hymning a warning lay in solitude,
Making the silent loneness of the place
More chilly, deep, and dead,
And more befitting haunt for their aerial race?

Terribly lovely power! I ask of thee,
Wherefore so lord it o'er my phantasye,
That in the forests moaning sound,
And in the cascade's far-off muttered noise,
And in the breeze of midnight, and the bound
And leap of ocean billows heard afar,
I still do deem these are
The whispering melodies of things that be
Immortal, viewless, formless—not of earth,
But heaven descended, and thus softly
At midnight mingling their wild mirth:
Or, when pale Dian loves to shroud
Her fair and glittering form, beneath the veil
Of watery mist or dusky fire-edged cloud,
And giant shadows sail
With stately march athwart the heaven's calm face;

417

Say then, why unto me is given
A clearer vision, so that I do see
Between the limits of the earth and heaven
A bright and marvellous race—
A goodly shining company—
Flaunting in garments of unsullied snow,
That ever and anon do come and go
From star to hill top, or green hollow glen,
And so back again?

Those visions strange, and portents dark and wild,
That in fond childhood had a painful pleasure,
Have not, by reason's voice, been quite exiled,
But still possess their relish in full measure;
And by a secret and consummate art
At certain times benumb my awe-struck heart—
Making it quail, but not with dastard fear,
But strange presentiment and awe severe,
With curious impertinence to pry
Behind the veil of dim futurity,
And that undying hope that we may still
Grasp at the purpose of the Eternal Will.

418

YE VERNAL HOURS!

Ye vernal hours, glad days that once have been!
When life was young, and hopes were budding seen!
When hearts were blythe, and eyes were glistening bright,
And each new morn awoke to new delight;
Ye happy days that softly passed away
In boyish frolic and fantastic play!
Why have ye fled? why left no more behind,
Ye sunbright relics of my earlier years,
Than that faint music which, the viewless wind
At midnight, to the lonely wanderer bears
From sighing woods, to melt him into tears?
The bridled stream by art may backwards flow,
Youth's fires, once spent, again shall never glow;
The flower-stalk broke, each blossom must decay,
And youth, once past, for aye hath past away!

419

COME, THOU BRIGHT SPIRIT!

Come, thou bright spirit of the skies,
With witching harp or potent lyre,
And bid those magic notes arise
That kindle souls, and tip with fire
The prophet's lips. Begin the strain,
That like the trumpet's stirring sound
Makes the lone heart to bound
From death-like lethargy to life again,
Bracing the slackened nerve and limb,
And calling from the eye, all sunk and dim,
Unwonted fire and noble daring;
Or wake that soothing melody
That stills the tumults of the heart despairing,
With all its many murmurings small,
Of soft and liquid sounds that be
Like to the music of a water-fall,
Heard from the farthest depths of some green wood,
In quiet moon-lit night, that stills the mood
Of painful thought, and fills the soul

420

With pleasant musings, such as childhood knows
When basking on some greenwood shady knoll,
And weaving garlands with the drooping boughs.
Or dost thou sing of woman—of the eye
That pierces through the heart, and wrays
Its own fond secrets by a sympathy
That scorns slow words and idle phrase?
Or of the lips that utter wondrous love,
And yet do scarcely move
Their ruby portals to emit a sound,
Or syllable a name, but round and round
Irradiate themselves with pensive smiles?
Or of the bosom, stranger to the wiles
And thoughts of worthless worldlings, which doth swell
With soft emotion underneath its cover,
And speaks unto the keen-eyed conscious lover
Thoughts, feelings, sympathies, tongue ne'er could tell?
Sing'st thou of arms—of glory in the field—
Where patriots meet in death's embrace,
To reap high honours where the clanging shield
And gleaming spear—the swayful ponderous mace,
And the shrill trumpet rings aloud its peal
Of martial music furious and strong;
Where ardent souls together throng

421

And struggle in the press of griding steel,
And fearful shout and battle cry,
Herald the quivering spirit's sigh,
That leaves the strife in agony,
And as it fleets away, still throws
Its stern defiance on its conquering foes,
Shrieking in wrath, not fear?

422

LAYS OF THE LANG BEIN RITTERS.

THE RITTERS RIDE FORTH.

“On the eastern bank of the noble Rhine stood a lofty tower, named the Ritterberg; and, in the pleasant simple days of which we speak, it was held by nine tall knights, men of huge stature and prodigious strength, whose principal amusement was knocking off the heads of the unfortunate serfs who inhabited the fruitful valleys circumjacent to their stronghold. They madly galloped over meadow and mountain, through firth and forest, blowing their large crooked hunting horns, and ever and anon uplifting their stormy voices in song.” —Motherwell.

O, beautiful valley,
We scar not thy bosom;
O bright gleaming lake, we
Disturb not thy slumber;

423

O tall hill, whose gray head
Is weeping in heaven,
We come not to pierce thro'
Thy dim holy chambers—
We see thee and love thee,
And never will mar thee:—
O beautiful valley,
Bright lake, and tall mountain,
The Ritters ride forth!

Churls scratch, with the base share,
The flower-girdled valley;
And sheer, with the sharp keel,
The dream-loving billow;
They pierce to the heart of
The grand giant mountain,
And fling on the fierce flame
His pale yellow life-strings.
We come to avenge thee,
To slay the destroyer.
O, beautiful valley,
Bright lake, and tall mountain,
The Ritters ride forth!

424

LAY OF THE BROKEN-HEARTED AND HOPE-BEREAVED MEN.

“Some of those who had been bereaved by these merciless marauders, and would not be comforted, then paced towards the hills, and looked back on the scenes of their youth. They sang with melancholy scorn and embittered passion, this querulous ditty, which later generations have remembered as the ‘Lay of the Broken-hearted and Hope-bereaved men,’ who went up to the hollowed mountain, where they shut themselves up in a cavern, building up its mouth strongly with huge stones; and there, in sunlessness and unavailing sorrow, these broken-hearted ones died.” —Motherwell.

The rude and the reckless wind, ruthlessly strips
The leaf that last lingered on old forest tree;
The widowed branch wails for the love it has lost;
The parted leaf pines for its glories foregone.
Now sereing, in sadness, and quite broken-hearted,
It mutters mild music, and swan-like on-fleeteth
A burden of melody, musing of death,

425

To some desert spot where, unknown and unnoted,
Its woes and its wanderings may both find a tomb,
Far far from the land where it grew in its gladness,
And hung from its brave branch, freshly and green,
Bathed in blythe dews and soft shimmering in sunshine,
From morn until even-tide, a beautiful joy!

DREAM OF LIFE'S EARLY DAY, FAREWELL FOR EVER.

“Others of the ‘Broken-hearted and Hope-bereaved men,’ as they went on their way, poured forth these melancholy measures.” —Motherwell.

Bright mornings! of beauty and bloom, that, in boyhood,
Gleamed gay with the visionings glorious of glad hope;
Dear days! that discoursed of delights never-dying,

426

And painted each pastime with tints of pure pleasure;
Bright days, when the heart leapt like kid o'er the mountain,
And gazed on the fair fields—one full fount of feeling—
When wood and when water, flower, blossom, and small leaf,
Were robed in a sunshine that seemed everlasting;
Ye were but a dream, and like dream have departed!
O! Dream of Life's early day, farewell for ever.

As the pale cloud that circled in morning the hill top,
Flitteth, in fleecy wreathes, fast in the sun-blaze;
Or, as the slim shadows steal silently over
The gray walls at noon-tide, so ghost-like on-gliding,
And leave not a line for remembrance to linger on;
So soon and so sadly have terribly perished
The joys we did muse of in youth's mildest morn;
Time spreads o'er the brow soon his pale sheaf of sorrow,
And freezes each heart-fount that whilome gushed freely;
Oh! Dream of Life's early day, farewell for ever.

427

The woods and the waters, the great winds of heaven,
Sound on and for ever their grand solemn symphonies;
The moon gleams with gladness,—the wakeful stars wander,
With bright eyes of beauty, that ever beam pleasure;
The sun scatters golden fire—bright rays of glory—
Till proud glows the earth, graithed in harness from heaven;
The fields flourish fragrant with summer flower blossoms;
Time robs not the earth of its brightness and braveries,
But he strips the lorn heart of the loves that it lived by.
Oh! Dream of Life's early day, farewell for ever.

We have sought for the smiles that shed sunshine around us,
For the voices that mingled mind-music with ours;
For hearts whose roots grew where the roots of our own grew,
While pulse sang to pulse the same lay of love-longing.
In the fair forest firth, on the wide waste of waters,
By brooks that gleam brightest, and banks that blush bravest,

428

On hill and in hollow, green holm, and broad meadow,
We have sought for these loved things, but never could find them,
We have shouted their names, and sad echoes made answer.
Oh! Dream of Life's early day, farewell for ever.

THE RITTERS RIDE HOME.

As eagles return to their eyrie,
Gorged with the flesh of the young kid,
Even so we return from the battle—
The banquet of noble blood.
We are drunk with that ruddy wine;
We are stained with its droppings all over;
We have drunk till our full veins are bursting,
Till the vessel was drained to its dregs—
Till the tall flaggons fell from our hands,
That were wearied with ever uplifting them:
We have drank till we no longer could find
The liquor divine of heroes.
The Ritters ride home!

429

Ask where great glory is won?
Enquire of the desolate land;
Of the city that hath no life,
Of the bay that hath no white sail,
The land that is trenched with mad feet,
Which turned up the soil in despair;
The city is silent and fireless,
And each threshold is crowded with dry bones;
The bay glitters sheenly in sunlight,
No oar shivers now its clear mirror;
The mast of the bark is not there,
Nor the shout of the mariner bold.
But the sea-maidens know of strange men,
Beclasped in strong plaits of iron:
They know of the pale-faced and silent,
Who sleep underneath the waves,
And never shall waken again
To stride o'er the beautiful dales,
The green and the flower-studded land.
The Ritters ride home!

We have come from the strife of shields;
From the bristling of mighty spears;
From the smith-shop, where brynies were anvils,
And the hammers were long swords and axes.

430

We have come from the mounds of the dead,
Where hero forms lay like hewn forests;
Where rivers run red in the sun,
And the ravens of heaven were made glad!
The Ritters ride home!

The small ones of earth pass away,
As chaff they have drifted and gone.
When the angry winds rush from the North,
And sound their great trumpets of wrath,
The tempest-steeds rush forth to battle,
They plough up the earth in their course,
They hollow a grave for the dead,
As the share scoops a bed for the seed.
The Ritters ride home!

Beautiful! beautiful! beautiful!
Is the home-coming of the War-faring;
Of them who have swam on the ocean;
Of fountains that spring from great hearts.
The sunshine of glory's around them;
Their names are the burthen of songs;
Their armour and banners become
The richest adornments of halls.
The Ritters ride home!

431

Beautiful! beautiful! beautiful!
Sounds the home-coming of the War-faring;
And their triumph-song echoes for ever
'Mid the vastness of gloomy Valhalla.
The Ritters' last home!

432

LINES,

Written after a Visit to the Grave of my Friend, WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, November, 1847.

Place we a stone at his head and his feet;
Sprinkle his sward with the small flowers sweet;
Piously hallow the Poet's retreat!
Ever approvingly,
Ever most lovingly,
Turned he to nature, a worshipper meet.

Harm not the thorn which grows at his head;
Odorous honours its blossoms will shed,
Grateful to him, early summoned, who sped
Hence, not unwillingly—
For he felt thrillingly—
To rest his poor heart 'mong the low-lying dead.

Dearer to him than the deep Minster bell,
Winds of sad cadence, at midnight, will swell,
Vocal with sorrows he knoweth too well,
Who, for the early day,
Plaining this roundelay,
Might his own fate from a brother's foretell.

433

Worldly ones treading this terrace of graves,
Grudge not the minstrel the little he craves,
When o'er the snow-mound the winter-blast raves—
Tears—which devotedly,
Though all unnotedly,
Flow from their spring, in the soul's silent caves.

Dreamers of noble thoughts, raise him a shrine,
Graced with the beauty which lives in his line;
Strew with pale flow'rets, when pensive moons shine,
His grassy covering,
Where spirits hovering,
Chaunt, for his requiem, music divine.

Not as a record he lacketh a stone!
Pay a light debt to the singer we've known—
Proof that our love for his name hath not flown
With the frame perishing—
That we are cherishing
Feelings akin to the lost Poet's own.

William Kennedy.