The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
“O thou of existence the fountain and head,
The God of the living, and God of the dead;
This world is thine, and the starry frame—
The Lord Jehovah is thy name.
How shall I come my vows to pay?
What offering on thine altar lay?
Alas, my God! if e'er thine eyes
Accepted earthly sacrifice,
I bring the last that man can bring;
I am myself that offering;
And here I cry from the altar of death,
From the tabernacle of thy wrath,
'Mid the cries and the groans of the human race:
Oh hear in heaven thy dwelling-place!
The God of the living, and God of the dead;
This world is thine, and the starry frame—
The Lord Jehovah is thy name.
How shall I come my vows to pay?
What offering on thine altar lay?
Alas, my God! if e'er thine eyes
Accepted earthly sacrifice,
I bring the last that man can bring;
I am myself that offering;
And here I cry from the altar of death,
From the tabernacle of thy wrath,
'Mid the cries and the groans of the human race:
Oh hear in heaven thy dwelling-place!
“Though, hid in mystery, none can pierce
Thy reign of the ample universe;
Yet he who owns not thy hand alone,
In the high events that have come and gone,
Deserves not to possess of thee
The power of the reasoning faculty.
Thy reign of the ample universe;
Yet he who owns not thy hand alone,
In the high events that have come and gone,
Deserves not to possess of thee
The power of the reasoning faculty.
“When the destroyer left his throne,
To brave the eye of the frigid zone,
Was there a human head could guess
Or count on probable success?
Or was there a way in nature's course
So to o'erwhelm that cumbrous force,
Which strove the nations to enchain,
Or rouse them from their torpor again?
Thy bolts of wrath thou might'st have driven,
Or loosed the artillery of heaven;
Or, as just guerdon of offence,
Sent forth the wasteful pestilence:
But not in nature's wide command,
(And nature ever is thy hand),
Was other way so to destroy
That armed horde, the world's annoy.
To brave the eye of the frigid zone,
Was there a human head could guess
Or count on probable success?
Or was there a way in nature's course
So to o'erwhelm that cumbrous force,
Which strove the nations to enchain,
Or rouse them from their torpor again?
Thy bolts of wrath thou might'st have driven,
Or loosed the artillery of heaven;
Or, as just guerdon of offence,
Sent forth the wasteful pestilence:
But not in nature's wide command,
(And nature ever is thy hand),
Was other way so to destroy
That armed horde, the world's annoy.
“Yes, still as the northern patriot bled,
When the Russian eagles turned and fled,
Thy arm was seen in the foemen's wrath
That hurried them on to the bourn of death.
When first Iberia spurned the yoke
The judgment was set, and the seals were broke;
But when the city of sacred fame
Enwrapt the northern heaven in flame,
Their sentence thou passed'st ne'er to annul,
For the cup of the Amorite then was full!
When the Russian eagles turned and fled,
Thy arm was seen in the foemen's wrath
That hurried them on to the bourn of death.
When first Iberia spurned the yoke
The judgment was set, and the seals were broke;
But when the city of sacred fame
Enwrapt the northern heaven in flame,
Their sentence thou passed'st ne'er to annul,
For the cup of the Amorite then was full!
“The spirit of man awoke at thy nod,
The elements rose and owned their God;
The sun, and the moon, and the floods below,
And the stars in their courses fought thy foe;
The very heavens and earth seemed blent
In the lowering toiling firmament.
The clouds poured swiftly along the sky,
They thickened, they frowned, but they past not by!
The ravens called with boding sound,
The dogs of Moscow howled around;
And the shades of men and of maidens fair,
Were seen on the dull and cumbered air.
The storm descended, the tempest blew,
Thy vengeance poured on the ruthless crew.
O God! thy vengeance was never so due!
The elements rose and owned their God;
The sun, and the moon, and the floods below,
And the stars in their courses fought thy foe;
The very heavens and earth seemed blent
In the lowering toiling firmament.
The clouds poured swiftly along the sky,
They thickened, they frowned, but they past not by!
The ravens called with boding sound,
The dogs of Moscow howled around;
And the shades of men and of maidens fair,
Were seen on the dull and cumbered air.
The storm descended, the tempest blew,
Thy vengeance poured on the ruthless crew.
O God! thy vengeance was never so due!
“I saw thy hand in the coil of the war;
I heard thy voice in the thunder afar,
When the Elbe waved slow with the blood of man,
And the Saale scarce gurgled as it ran.
O Father! forgive the insensate heart
That ascribes such wonders to human part.
'Twas thou madest the hearts of the nations combine:
Yes, thine is the work, and the glory be thine.
I heard thy voice in the thunder afar,
When the Elbe waved slow with the blood of man,
And the Saale scarce gurgled as it ran.
O Father! forgive the insensate heart
That ascribes such wonders to human part.
'Twas thou madest the hearts of the nations combine:
Yes, thine is the work, and the glory be thine.
“But chiefly when he, the scourge of the earth,
Was proffered the friendship and hands of the north,
And thus, in that empire, the bane of the day,
His dynasty might have been 'stablished for aye;
What counsel of man could the proffer have scorned!
Nor reason, nor madness, could that have suborned.
But the hearts of men are thine own alone,
As the streams of water thou windest them on;
And save when thou parted'st Jordan's tide,
And the gates of the Red Sea opened'st wide,
Oh never so well since time hath been,
Was the governing arm of thy providence seen.
Was proffered the friendship and hands of the north,
And thus, in that empire, the bane of the day,
His dynasty might have been 'stablished for aye;
What counsel of man could the proffer have scorned!
Nor reason, nor madness, could that have suborned.
But the hearts of men are thine own alone,
As the streams of water thou windest them on;
And save when thou parted'st Jordan's tide,
And the gates of the Red Sea opened'st wide,
Oh never so well since time hath been,
Was the governing arm of thy providence seen.
“But the injured still were unavenged,
And the men of crimes remained unchanged,
Till thou roused'st them again in triple wrath,
And brought them like beasts to the house of death.
With other kings and armies leagued,
They might have contended or intrigued,
But the judgment was passed which they could not shun;
Thou brought'st them here, and the work was done!
The victory is thine, we nothing abate,
But thou gavest it the good as well as the great;
And their names are registered with thee
Who have bled for the cause of liberty.
And the men of crimes remained unchanged,
Till thou roused'st them again in triple wrath,
And brought them like beasts to the house of death.
With other kings and armies leagued,
They might have contended or intrigued,
But the judgment was passed which they could not shun;
Thou brought'st them here, and the work was done!
The victory is thine, we nothing abate,
But thou gavest it the good as well as the great;
And their names are registered with thee
Who have bled for the cause of liberty.
“This morn I bowed above my blade,
I bowed to thee, and for victory prayed;
I prayed that my countrymen might gain,
Though my heart's blood should steep the plain.
Thou hast heard my prayer, and answered me,
And with joy I yield my spirit to thee.
I bowed to thee, and for victory prayed;
I prayed that my countrymen might gain,
Though my heart's blood should steep the plain.
Thou hast heard my prayer, and answered me,
And with joy I yield my spirit to thee.
“And now, O God! the time is near
When I may no more address thine ear;
Few moments, and human scrutiny,
Tell me not what I then shall be:
An igneous lamp in the fields below;
A dye of heaven's aërial bow;
A stilly vapour on space reclined,
Or a breath of discoloured wandering wind:—
But oh, while I have speech to say
The thing that I would, I humbly pray
That I for a space may wander free,
To visit the scenes of my infancy:
The tiny green, where the schoolboys play;
The level pool, with its bridge so gray;
And oh, there's a cot by the lonely flood,
With its verdant steep, and its ancient wood,
Its willow ring, and its sounding stream,
So like the scene of a fairy dream;—
Oh might I there a while reside,
To rest with the lamb on the mountain's side,
Or stand by the heath-cock's ruby eye,
And wonder he cannot my form espy.
When I may no more address thine ear;
Few moments, and human scrutiny,
Tell me not what I then shall be:
An igneous lamp in the fields below;
A dye of heaven's aërial bow;
A stilly vapour on space reclined,
Or a breath of discoloured wandering wind:—
But oh, while I have speech to say
The thing that I would, I humbly pray
338
To visit the scenes of my infancy:
The tiny green, where the schoolboys play;
The level pool, with its bridge so gray;
And oh, there's a cot by the lonely flood,
With its verdant steep, and its ancient wood,
Its willow ring, and its sounding stream,
So like the scene of a fairy dream;—
Oh might I there a while reside,
To rest with the lamb on the mountain's side,
Or stand by the heath-cock's ruby eye,
And wonder he cannot my form espy.
“And in that cot there is a dame,
I cannot, dare not say her name!
Oh, how I long to listen there,
To hear that loved one's evening prayer;
And in that cot a cradle moves,
Where sleeps the infant that she loves:
Oh I would like to hover by,
When none but she and that child are nigh,
When her arms stretch to the dear embrace,
And the baby smiles her in the face;
Or when she presses him to her heart,
To watch when the holy tear shall start,
And list no other ear to hear,
If she named a name she once held dear.
I cannot, dare not say her name!
Oh, how I long to listen there,
To hear that loved one's evening prayer;
And in that cot a cradle moves,
Where sleeps the infant that she loves:
Oh I would like to hover by,
When none but she and that child are nigh,
When her arms stretch to the dear embrace,
And the baby smiles her in the face;
Or when she presses him to her heart,
To watch when the holy tear shall start,
And list no other ear to hear,
If she named a name she once held dear.
“O God, if such a thing might be
That a guardian spirit, empowered by thee,
Still round that dwelling linger must,
Oh may I beg the sacred trust?
I'll do, all evil to cause them shun,
More than a spirit before has done;
Against each danger I'll forecast,
And bring them to thyself at last.
That a guardian spirit, empowered by thee,
Still round that dwelling linger must,
Oh may I beg the sacred trust?
I'll do, all evil to cause them shun,
More than a spirit before has done;
Against each danger I'll forecast,
And bring them to thyself at last.
“But wherever my future lot may be,
I have no dread of wrath from thee;
For I know thee merciful and good,
Beyond the fathom of flesh and blood:
And there is a bond 'twixt man and thee,
'Twas sealed and finished on the tree;
Of that, too mystic to unfold,
I will not, cannot quit my hold.
Accept me, Lord, that I may bless
Thy name in better world than this.
I have no dread of wrath from thee;
For I know thee merciful and good,
Beyond the fathom of flesh and blood:
And there is a bond 'twixt man and thee,
'Twas sealed and finished on the tree;
Of that, too mystic to unfold,
I will not, cannot quit my hold.
Accept me, Lord, that I may bless
Thy name in better world than this.
“I have but one remembrance left,
Before my tongue of speech is reft.
My widowed parent oh regard,
And all her love to me reward.
Fondly she nursed my tender years,
With buoyant hopes, and yearning fears;
She weened not, in these hours of bliss,
That she reared her child to an end like this.
To save her declining age from woe,
Her darling's fate may she never know;
But still look down the mountain burn
To see her wandering son return,
Her parting blessing to receive,
And lay her head in an honoured grave:
That hope may still support her heart,
Till we meet again no more to part.”
Before my tongue of speech is reft.
My widowed parent oh regard,
And all her love to me reward.
Fondly she nursed my tender years,
With buoyant hopes, and yearning fears;
She weened not, in these hours of bliss,
That she reared her child to an end like this.
To save her declining age from woe,
Her darling's fate may she never know;
But still look down the mountain burn
To see her wandering son return,
Her parting blessing to receive,
And lay her head in an honoured grave:
That hope may still support her heart,
Till we meet again no more to part.”
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |