University of Virginia Library

HIGHLAND SONNETS.

HIGHLAND TOURISTS.

A pleasant life is yours, ye rambling men!
O'er field and fell, mountain and moor well driven,
Ye feast your eyes on a bright shifting heaven
Of varied view, while to each farthest glen
Of the once distant hills the steam-car flies.
All things are good: and of your light employ,
Birds of the summer wing, I wish you joy!
Wise is the man who feeds discerning eyes.
But me—my pleasure is much dashed with pain,
When o'er the lonesome hills lonesome I wander,
And seek for signs of human life in vain,
And on the clansman's faded glory ponder.
Stranger, forgive my tear; on this fair shore
Scotsmen are few; and soon Scotland shall be no more!

LOCH ERICHT.

The lake is smooth, the air is soft and still;
The water shines with a broad lambent gleam;
And the white cloud sleeps on the hoary hill,
With the mild glory of a sainted dream.
From the steep crag the distant bleatings come
Of sheep far-straggling o'er the turfy way,
And the harsh torrent, softened to a hum,
Gives murmurous music from the stony brae.
If here on earth a heaven may be, thou hast
Heaven here to-day; now give thy soul repose.
To-morrow, down this glen the ruffian blast
May sweep, while high the enchafed billow throws
Its surly might, and smites the sounding shore,
And the swollen rills rush down with thunderous roar!

AT LOCH ERICHT.

O heavens! a lovelier day ne'er shone upon
The gleaming beauty of the long-drawn flood!
Come hither, if Scotland boasts a loyal son,
And nurse the holy patriotic mood!
These crags that sink precipitous to the waves,
These floods that gush down the sheer-breasted hill,
They were not made to train soft fashion's slaves,
And to nice modes to trim the pliant will.
A strong rude heart once burned in Scottish men,
And Scotland shewed her stamp upon her sons;
The mountain-nursling all might surely ken;
But now through all one English smoothness runs;
Men cut their manners, as their clothes, by rule,
But none grows strong in rugged Nature's school.

SABBATH-DAY AT BRAEMAR.

'Tis Sabbath. All the village life is still;
The cold raw mists are fled; the sky is pure;
Fresh blows the West wind from the mountain moor,
And light-winged shadows sweep the purple hill.
O Thou, who in the seasons dost fulfil
Thy glory, changing still, and still the same,
To an accordant beauty gently frame
My soul this day, tuned to thy perfect will!
Wisely they use thy gifts who use the hour,
And, when the sun shines, pile the winnowed hay;
Nor less in shapely shrine, or birchen bower,
Who nurse pure thoughts on God's pure Sabbath-day.
Whoso hath tears to weep of godly sorrow,
Bid them flow now! A frost may come to-morrow.