The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle With A Sketch of his Life, by Leitch Ritchie |
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| I. |
| THE AUTUMNAL EXCURSION.
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| II. |
| III. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle |  |
117
THE AUTUMNAL EXCURSION.
(A POETICAL EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.)
Hic inter flumina nota
Et fontes sacros------
Et fontes sacros------
Dear Story, while the southern breeze
Floats, fragrant, from the upland leas,
Whispering of Autumn's mellow spoils,
And jovial sports and grateful toils,—
Awakening in the softened breast
Regrets and wishes long supprest,—
O, come with me once more to hail
The scented heath, the sheafy vale,
The hills and streams of Teviotdale.
—'Tis but a parting pilgrimage,
To save, from Time's destroying rage,
And changeful Fortune's withering blast,
The pictured relics of the Past.
Floats, fragrant, from the upland leas,
Whispering of Autumn's mellow spoils,
And jovial sports and grateful toils,—
Awakening in the softened breast
Regrets and wishes long supprest,—
O, come with me once more to hail
The scented heath, the sheafy vale,
The hills and streams of Teviotdale.
—'Tis but a parting pilgrimage,
To save, from Time's destroying rage,
And changeful Fortune's withering blast,
The pictured relics of the Past.
Then come, dear Comrade!—welcome still
In every change of good or ill;
Whom young affection's wishes claim,
And friendship ever finds the same;
Awake, with all thy flow of mind,
With fancy bright and feelings kind,
And tune with me the rambling lay,
To cheer us on our mountain way.
Say, shall we wander where the swain,
Bent o'er his staff, surveys the plain,
With ruddy cheek and locks of grey,
Like patriarch of the olden day?—
Around him ply the reaper band,
With lightsome heart and eager hand:
And mirth and music cheer the toil;
While sheaves that stud the russet soil,
And sickles gleaming in the sun,
Tell, jocund Autumn is begun.
In every change of good or ill;
Whom young affection's wishes claim,
And friendship ever finds the same;
Awake, with all thy flow of mind,
With fancy bright and feelings kind,
And tune with me the rambling lay,
To cheer us on our mountain way.
118
Bent o'er his staff, surveys the plain,
With ruddy cheek and locks of grey,
Like patriarch of the olden day?—
Around him ply the reaper band,
With lightsome heart and eager hand:
And mirth and music cheer the toil;
While sheaves that stud the russet soil,
And sickles gleaming in the sun,
Tell, jocund Autumn is begun.
I love the blithesome harvest morn,
Where Ceres pours her plenteous horn:
The hind's hoarse cry from loaded car,
The voice of laughter from afar,
The placid master's sober joy,
The frolic of the thoughtless boy;
Cold is the heart when scenes like these
Have lost their genial power to please.
But yet, my friend, there is an hour
(Oft has thy bosom owned its power)
When the full heart, in pensive tone,
Sighs for a scene more wild and lone.
Oh then, more sweet on Scotland's shore
The beetling cliff, the breaker's roar,
The moorland waste, where all is still
Save wheeling plover's whistle shrill,—
More sweet the seat by ancient stone
Or tree with lichens overgrown,—
Than richest bower that Autumn yields
'Midst merry England's cultured fields.
Where Ceres pours her plenteous horn:
The hind's hoarse cry from loaded car,
The voice of laughter from afar,
The placid master's sober joy,
The frolic of the thoughtless boy;
Cold is the heart when scenes like these
Have lost their genial power to please.
But yet, my friend, there is an hour
(Oft has thy bosom owned its power)
When the full heart, in pensive tone,
Sighs for a scene more wild and lone.
Oh then, more sweet on Scotland's shore
The beetling cliff, the breaker's roar,
The moorland waste, where all is still
Save wheeling plover's whistle shrill,—
More sweet the seat by ancient stone
Or tree with lichens overgrown,—
Than richest bower that Autumn yields
'Midst merry England's cultured fields.
Then, let our pilgrim footsteps seek
Old Cheviot's pathless mossy peak;
For there the Mountain Spirit still
Lingers around the lonely hill,
To guard his wizard grottoes hoar
Where Cimbrian sages dwelt of yore;
Or, shrouded in his robes of mist,
Ascends the mountain's shaggy breast,
To seize his fearful seat—upon
The elf-enchanted Hanging Stone,
And count the kindred streams that stray
Through the broad regions of his sway:—
Fair sister streams, that wend afar
By rushy mead or rocky scaur,
Now hidden by the clustering brake,
Now lost amid the mountain lake,
Now clasping, with protective sweep,
Some mouldering castle's moated steep;
Till issuing from the uplands brown,
Fair rolls each flood by tower and town;
The hills recede, and on the sight
Swell the bold rivers broad and bright.
Old Cheviot's pathless mossy peak;
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Lingers around the lonely hill,
To guard his wizard grottoes hoar
Where Cimbrian sages dwelt of yore;
Or, shrouded in his robes of mist,
Ascends the mountain's shaggy breast,
To seize his fearful seat—upon
The elf-enchanted Hanging Stone,
And count the kindred streams that stray
Through the broad regions of his sway:—
Fair sister streams, that wend afar
By rushy mead or rocky scaur,
Now hidden by the clustering brake,
Now lost amid the mountain lake,
Now clasping, with protective sweep,
Some mouldering castle's moated steep;
Till issuing from the uplands brown,
Fair rolls each flood by tower and town;
The hills recede, and on the sight
Swell the bold rivers broad and bright.
The eye—the fancy almost fails
To trace them through their thousand vales,
Winding these Border hills among,
(The boast of chivalry and song,)
From Bowmont's banks of softest green
To the rude verge of dark Lochskene.
—'Tis a heart-stirring sight to view,
Far to the westward stretching blue,
That frontier ridge, which erst defied
The invader's march, or quelled his pride;
The bloody field, for many an age,
Of rival nations' wasteful rage;
In later times a refuge given
To outlaws in the cause of Heaven.
To trace them through their thousand vales,
Winding these Border hills among,
(The boast of chivalry and song,)
From Bowmont's banks of softest green
Beaumont or Bowmont Water is a sequestered pastoral stream in the south-eastern extremity of Roxburghshire, which, after crossing the English border, joins the river Till near Flodden Field.
The friend to whom the “Autumnal Excursion” is addressed, (that poem being originally designed as a mere rhyming epistle, without any view to publication,) is a native of the Vale of Beaumont. The author and he were born in adjoining parishes, amid the secluded glens of Cheviot, and were inscparable associates in early youth; and, though our pursuits in maturer life have been widely different, it is not the less pleasing to look back over a twenty years' friendship, which no selfish jealousy has ever disturbed, or coldness interrupted, or even long separation impaired. My old companion and valued friend will, I trust, excuse this slight expression of affectionate remembrance, and forgive me for adding that the R--- S--- of my little poem, though not the Poet Laureate of England, (as the Quarterly Review once supposed,) is a person who fears God, and loves mankind not less sincerely—namely, the Rev. Robert Story, minister of Roseneath.
To the rude verge of dark Lochskene.
—'Tis a heart-stirring sight to view,
Far to the westward stretching blue,
That frontier ridge, which erst defied
The invader's march, or quelled his pride;
The bloody field, for many an age,
Of rival nations' wasteful rage;
In later times a refuge given
To outlaws in the cause of Heaven.
120
Far inland, where the mountain crest
O'erlooks the waters of the west,
And 'mid the moorland wilderness,
Dark moss-cleughs form a drear recess,
Curtained with ceaseless mists, which feed
The sources of the Clyde and Tweed;
There, injured Scotland's patriot band
For Faith and Freedom made their stand;
When traitor Kings, who basely sold
Their country's fame for Gallic gold,—
Too abject o'er the free to reign,—
Warned by a Father's fate in vain,—
In bigot frenzy trampled down
The race to whom they owed their crown.—
There, worthy of his masters, came
The despots' champion, Bloody Graham,
To stain for aye a warrior's sword,
And lead a fierce though fawning horde,
The human bloodhounds of the earth
To hunt the peasant from his hearth!
—Tyrants! could not misfortune teach
That man had rights beyond your reach!
Thought ye the torture and the stake
Could that intrepid spirit break,
Which even in woman's breast withstood
The terrors of the fire and flood!—
O'erlooks the waters of the west,
And 'mid the moorland wilderness,
Dark moss-cleughs form a drear recess,
Curtained with ceaseless mists, which feed
The sources of the Clyde and Tweed;
There, injured Scotland's patriot band
For Faith and Freedom made their stand;
When traitor Kings, who basely sold
Their country's fame for Gallic gold,—
Too abject o'er the free to reign,—
Warned by a Father's fate in vain,—
In bigot frenzy trampled down
The race to whom they owed their crown.—
There, worthy of his masters, came
The despots' champion, Bloody Graham,
To stain for aye a warrior's sword,
And lead a fierce though fawning horde,
The human bloodhounds of the earth
To hunt the peasant from his hearth!
—Tyrants! could not misfortune teach
That man had rights beyond your reach!
Thought ye the torture and the stake
Could that intrepid spirit break,
Which even in woman's breast withstood
The terrors of the fire and flood!—
Ay!—though the sceptic's tongue deride
Those martyrs who for conscience died;
Though modish history blight their fame,
And sneering courtiers hoot the name
Of men who dared alone be free
Amidst a nation's slavery;
Yet long for them the poet's lyre
Shall breathe its notes of heavenly fire;
Their names shall nerve the patriot's hand
Uprear'd to save a sinking land;
And piety shall learn to burn
With holier transport o'er their urn!—
Those martyrs who for conscience died;
Though modish history blight their fame,
And sneering courtiers hoot the name
Of men who dared alone be free
Amidst a nation's slavery;
Yet long for them the poet's lyre
Shall breathe its notes of heavenly fire;
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Uprear'd to save a sinking land;
And piety shall learn to burn
With holier transport o'er their urn!—
But now, all sterner thoughts forgot,
Peace broods upon the peasant's cot;
And if tradition still prolongs
The memory of his father's wrongs,
'Tis blent with grateful thoughts that borrow
A blessing from departed sorrow.
Peace broods upon the peasant's cot;
And if tradition still prolongs
The memory of his father's wrongs,
'Tis blent with grateful thoughts that borrow
A blessing from departed sorrow.
How lovely seems the simple vale
Where lives our sires' heroic tale!
Where each wild pass and wandering flood
Was hallowed by the patriot's blood;
And the cold cavern once his tent,
Is now his deathless monument,—
Rehearsing, to the kindling thought,
What faith inspired and valour wrought!
—Oh, ne'er shall he whose ardent prime
Was fostered in the freeman's clime,
Though doomed to seek a distant strand,
Forget his glorious native land—
Forget these storied hills and streams,
Scenes of his youth's enthusiast dreams!
Sequestered haunts—so still—so fair—
That Holy Faith might worship there,
And Error weep away her stains,
And dark Remorse forget his pains;
And Homeless hearts, by fortune tost
Or early hopeless passion crost,
Regain the peace they long had lost!
Where lives our sires' heroic tale!
Where each wild pass and wandering flood
Was hallowed by the patriot's blood;
And the cold cavern once his tent,
Is now his deathless monument,—
Rehearsing, to the kindling thought,
What faith inspired and valour wrought!
—Oh, ne'er shall he whose ardent prime
Was fostered in the freeman's clime,
Though doomed to seek a distant strand,
Forget his glorious native land—
Forget these storied hills and streams,
Scenes of his youth's enthusiast dreams!
Sequestered haunts—so still—so fair—
That Holy Faith might worship there,
And Error weep away her stains,
And dark Remorse forget his pains;
And Homeless hearts, by fortune tost
Or early hopeless passion crost,
Regain the peace they long had lost!
122
Then, let us roam that lovely land,
By Teviot's lone, historic strand
By sylvan Yair, by Ettrick's glens,
By haunted Yarrow's ‘dowie dens;’
Till, with far-circling steps we hail
Thy native Bowmont's broomy dale,
And reach my boyhood's birchen bowers
'Mong Cayle's fair cottages and towers.
By Teviot's lone, historic strand
By sylvan Yair, by Ettrick's glens,
By haunted Yarrow's ‘dowie dens;’
Till, with far-circling steps we hail
Thy native Bowmont's broomy dale,
And reach my boyhood's birchen bowers
'Mong Cayle's fair cottages and towers.
The Cayla, or Cale-Water, is one of the many subsidiary branches of the river Teviot. Arising in the midst of the Cheviot mountains, it waters a pleasant pastoral valley, remote from all resorts of commerce or provincial bustle. Its name is conjectured by Chalmers, the author of Caledonia, to have been derived from the woody coverts which in ancient times covered its banks. Celli, in the British language, signifying a grove; and Coille, in the Gaelic, a wood.
Sweet Cayle! like voice of years gone by,
I hear thy mountain melody;
It comes with long-forgotten dreams
Once cherished by thy pastoral streams;
And sings of school-boy rambles free,
And heart-felt young hilarity!
I see the mouldering turrets hoar
Dim gleaming on thy woodland shore,
Where oft, afar from vulgar eye,
I loved at summer tide to lie;
Abandoned to the witching sway
Of some old bard's heroic lay;
Or poring o'er the immortal story
Of Roman and of Grecian glory.
But aye one minstrel charmed me more
Than all I learned of classic lore,
Or war and beauty gaily blent
In pomp of knightly tournament,—
Even he, in rustic verse, who told
Of Scotland's champion—Wallace bold—
Of Scotland's ancient “luve and lee,”
And Southrons' cruel treachery!
—And oft I conned that Harper's page
With old hereditary rage,
Till I have wept, in bitter mood,
That now no more, in English blood,
My country's falchion might atone
The warrior's fall and widow's moan!
—Or 'neath the oak's broad-bending shade,
With half-shut eye-lids musing laid,
(Weaving in fancy's tissue strange
The shapeless visions of revenge!)
I conjured back the past again—
The marshalled bands; the battle plain;
The Border slogan's pealing shout;
The shock, the tumult, and the rout;
Victorious Scotland's bugle blast;
And charging knights that hurry past;
Till down the dim-withdrawing vale
I seemed to see their glancing mail,
And hear the fleet barb's furious tramp
Re-echoed from yon ancient camp.
I hear thy mountain melody;
It comes with long-forgotten dreams
Once cherished by thy pastoral streams;
And sings of school-boy rambles free,
And heart-felt young hilarity!
I see the mouldering turrets hoar
Dim gleaming on thy woodland shore,
Where oft, afar from vulgar eye,
I loved at summer tide to lie;
Abandoned to the witching sway
Of some old bard's heroic lay;
Or poring o'er the immortal story
Of Roman and of Grecian glory.
But aye one minstrel charmed me more
Than all I learned of classic lore,
Or war and beauty gaily blent
In pomp of knightly tournament,—
Even he, in rustic verse, who told
Of Scotland's champion—Wallace bold—
Of Scotland's ancient “luve and lee,”
And Southrons' cruel treachery!
—And oft I conned that Harper's page
With old hereditary rage,
Till I have wept, in bitter mood,
That now no more, in English blood,
123
The warrior's fall and widow's moan!
—Or 'neath the oak's broad-bending shade,
With half-shut eye-lids musing laid,
(Weaving in fancy's tissue strange
The shapeless visions of revenge!)
I conjured back the past again—
The marshalled bands; the battle plain;
The Border slogan's pealing shout;
The shock, the tumult, and the rout;
Victorious Scotland's bugle blast;
And charging knights that hurry past;
Till down the dim-withdrawing vale
I seemed to see their glancing mail,
And hear the fleet barb's furious tramp
Re-echoed from yon ancient camp.
But chief, when summer Twilight mild
Drew her dim curtain o'er the wild,
I loved beside that ruin grey
To watch the dying gleam of day.
And though, perchance, with secret dread,
I heard the bat flit round my head,
While winds that waved the long lank grass
With sound unearthly seemed to pass,
Yet with a pleasing horror fell
Upon my heart the thrilling spell;
For all that met the ear or eye
Breathed such serene tranquillity,
I deemed nought evil might intrude
Within the saintly solitude.
—Still vivid memory can recall
The figure of each shattered wall;
The aged trees, all hoar with moss,
Low-bending o'er the circling fosse;
The rushing of the mountain flood;
The ring-doves cooing in the wood;
The rooks that o'er the turrets sail;
The lonely curlew's distant wail;
The flocks that high on Hounam rest;
The glories of the glowing west.
Drew her dim curtain o'er the wild,
I loved beside that ruin grey
To watch the dying gleam of day.
And though, perchance, with secret dread,
I heard the bat flit round my head,
While winds that waved the long lank grass
With sound unearthly seemed to pass,
Yet with a pleasing horror fell
Upon my heart the thrilling spell;
For all that met the ear or eye
Breathed such serene tranquillity,
I deemed nought evil might intrude
Within the saintly solitude.
—Still vivid memory can recall
The figure of each shattered wall;
The aged trees, all hoar with moss,
Low-bending o'er the circling fosse;
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The ring-doves cooing in the wood;
The rooks that o'er the turrets sail;
The lonely curlew's distant wail;
The flocks that high on Hounam rest;
The glories of the glowing west.
And, tinged with that departing sun,
To Fancy's eye arises dun
Lone Blaiklaw, on whose trenchèd brow,
Yet unprofaned by ruthless plough,
The shaggy gorse and brown heath wave
O'er many a nameless warrior's grave.
—Yon ridge, of yore, which wide and far
Gleam'd like the wakeful Eye of War,
And oft, with warning flame and smoke,
Ten thousand spears to battle woke,
Now down each subject glen descries
Blue wreaths from quiet hamlets rise,
To where, soft-fading on the eye,
Tweed's cultured banks in beauty lie,
Wide waving with a flood of grain,
From Eildon to the eastern main.
—Oft from yon height I loved to mark,
Soon as the morning roused the lark,
And woodlands raised their raptured hymn,
That land of glory spreading dim;
While slowly up the awakening dale
The mists withdrew their fleecy veil,
And tower, and wood, and winding stream,
Were brightening in the orient beam.
—Yet where the westward shadows fell,
My eye with fonder gaze would dwell;
Though wild the view, and brown and bare,—
Nor castled halls, nor hamlets fair,
Nor range of sheltering woods, were there—
Nor river's sweeping pride between,
To give expression to the scene.
There stood a simple home,—where swells
The meadow sward to moory fells,—
A rustic dwelling, thatched and warm,
Such as might suit the upland farm.
A honeysuckle clasped the sash,
Half shaded by the giant ash:
And there the wall-spread apple-tree
Gave its white blossoms to the bee,
Beside the hop-bower's twisted shade
Where age reclined and childhood played.
Below, the silvery willows shook
Their tresses o'er a rambling brook,
That gambolled 'mong its banks of broom,
Till lost in Lerdan's haunted gloom,
Methinks I hear that streamlet's din
Where straggling alders screen the linn,
Gurgling into its fairy pool,
With pebbled bottom clear and cool.
Full oft, in boyhood, from its marge
I loved to launch my mimic barge,
And laughed to see it deftly sail;
While faithful Chevy wagged his tail,
And, moved with sympathetic glee,
Would bounce and bark impatiently,
Until I bade him plunge and swim
To bring it dripping to the brim.
To Fancy's eye arises dun
Lone Blaiklaw, on whose trenchèd brow,
Yet unprofaned by ruthless plough,
The shaggy gorse and brown heath wave
O'er many a nameless warrior's grave.
—Yon ridge, of yore, which wide and far
Gleam'd like the wakeful Eye of War,
And oft, with warning flame and smoke,
Ten thousand spears to battle woke,
Now down each subject glen descries
Blue wreaths from quiet hamlets rise,
To where, soft-fading on the eye,
Tweed's cultured banks in beauty lie,
Wide waving with a flood of grain,
From Eildon to the eastern main.
—Oft from yon height I loved to mark,
Soon as the morning roused the lark,
And woodlands raised their raptured hymn,
That land of glory spreading dim;
While slowly up the awakening dale
The mists withdrew their fleecy veil,
And tower, and wood, and winding stream,
Were brightening in the orient beam.
—Yet where the westward shadows fell,
My eye with fonder gaze would dwell;
Though wild the view, and brown and bare,—
Nor castled halls, nor hamlets fair,
Nor range of sheltering woods, were there—
125
To give expression to the scene.
There stood a simple home,—where swells
The meadow sward to moory fells,—
A rustic dwelling, thatched and warm,
Such as might suit the upland farm.
A honeysuckle clasped the sash,
Half shaded by the giant ash:
And there the wall-spread apple-tree
Gave its white blossoms to the bee,
Beside the hop-bower's twisted shade
Where age reclined and childhood played.
Below, the silvery willows shook
Their tresses o'er a rambling brook,
That gambolled 'mong its banks of broom,
Till lost in Lerdan's haunted gloom,
Methinks I hear that streamlet's din
Where straggling alders screen the linn,
Gurgling into its fairy pool,
With pebbled bottom clear and cool.
Full oft, in boyhood, from its marge
I loved to launch my mimic barge,
And laughed to see it deftly sail;
While faithful Chevy wagged his tail,
And, moved with sympathetic glee,
Would bounce and bark impatiently,
Until I bade him plunge and swim
To bring it dripping to the brim.
From Teviot's richer dales remote
The traveller's glance would scarcely note
That simple scene,—or there espy
Aught to detain his wandering eye:
But partial memory pictures still
Each bush and stone that specked the hill;
The braes with broom and copsewood green;
The rocky knolls that rose between;
The fern that fringed each fairy nook;
The mottled mead; the mazy brook,
That, underneath its ozier shade,
Still to the wild its music made.
The traveller's glance would scarcely note
That simple scene,—or there espy
Aught to detain his wandering eye:
But partial memory pictures still
Each bush and stone that specked the hill;
126
The rocky knolls that rose between;
The fern that fringed each fairy nook;
The mottled mead; the mazy brook,
That, underneath its ozier shade,
Still to the wild its music made.
Beside that brook, among the hay,
I see an elfin band at play;
Blithe swinging on the green-wood bough;
Or guiding mimic wain and plough:
Intent a summer booth to build;
Or tilling each his tiny field:
Or, proudly ranged in martial rank,
In rival bands upon the bank,
With rushy helm and sword of sedge,
A bloodless Border War to wage.
I see an elfin band at play;
Blithe swinging on the green-wood bough;
Or guiding mimic wain and plough:
Intent a summer booth to build;
Or tilling each his tiny field:
Or, proudly ranged in martial rank,
In rival bands upon the bank,
With rushy helm and sword of sedge,
A bloodless Border War to wage.
Anon, with lapse of circling years,
In other guisc that group appears,
As childhood's gamesome mood gives place
To manly thought and maiden grace.
Beneath yon rock with lichens hoar,
Of fabled Elves the haunt of yore,
They sit beside the Fairy's Spring.
I hear the low winds whispering
The mournful ballad's simple strain;
Or breathing flute awakes again
The echoes of each sylvan grot,
With many a sweetly-melting note.
In other guisc that group appears,
As childhood's gamesome mood gives place
To manly thought and maiden grace.
Beneath yon rock with lichens hoar,
Of fabled Elves the haunt of yore,
They sit beside the Fairy's Spring.
I hear the low winds whispering
The mournful ballad's simple strain;
Or breathing flute awakes again
The echoes of each sylvan grot,
With many a sweetly-melting note.
Or, from the chambers of the north,
Comes Winter with his tempests forth;
Athwart the shivering glebe to fling
The blinding snow-drift from his wing;
Shrouding, with many a fleecy fold,
The bosky dell and battle wold;
While, banished from his half-ploughed field
The hind essays the flail to wield;
And o'er the hills, the perilous road
Alone by shepherd's foot is trod,
Who gathers on the furzy heath,
His flocks dug from the smothering wreath:—
Then, was it joy indeed to meet
With long-loved friends in that retreat;
And that bleak upland dell's recess
Could charm in winter's wildest dress:
Whether the mountain speat has drowned,
With mingling floods, the meadow ground,
And through their hundred sluices break
The headlong torrents to the Lake;
Or the choked streamlet's deafened flow
Is hushed in crystal caves below,
And down the cliffs the trickling rills
Congeal in columned icicles.
Comes Winter with his tempests forth;
Athwart the shivering glebe to fling
The blinding snow-drift from his wing;
127
The bosky dell and battle wold;
While, banished from his half-ploughed field
The hind essays the flail to wield;
And o'er the hills, the perilous road
Alone by shepherd's foot is trod,
Who gathers on the furzy heath,
His flocks dug from the smothering wreath:—
Then, was it joy indeed to meet
With long-loved friends in that retreat;
And that bleak upland dell's recess
Could charm in winter's wildest dress:
Whether the mountain speat has drowned,
With mingling floods, the meadow ground,
And through their hundred sluices break
The headlong torrents to the Lake;
Or the choked streamlet's deafened flow
Is hushed in crystal caves below,
And down the cliffs the trickling rills
Congeal in columned icicles.
But when day's hasty steps retire,
Still sweeter by the blazing fire,
In that low parlour's narrow bound,
To draw the social circle round;
Where no unwelcome step intrudes,
To check the heart's unstudied moods.
—Round flows the rural jest; the tale
Of Cloister in fair Clifton dale;
Of Weeping Spirit of the Glen;
Or Dragon of dark Wormeden;
Of Ladies doomed by Rome's command
To sift the Church-yard mound of sand,
By penance drear to wash away
Foul murder's dire anathema.
—Or graver history's pregnant page,
Or traveller's venturous toils engage;
Or poet's lay the bosom warms,
With virtue's praise and nature's charms,
And faithful loves and feats of arms.
Still sweeter by the blazing fire,
In that low parlour's narrow bound,
To draw the social circle round;
Where no unwelcome step intrudes,
To check the heart's unstudied moods.
—Round flows the rural jest; the tale
Of Cloister in fair Clifton dale;
Of Weeping Spirit of the Glen;
Or Dragon of dark Wormeden;
Of Ladies doomed by Rome's command
To sift the Church-yard mound of sand,
By penance drear to wash away
Foul murder's dire anathema.
128
Or traveller's venturous toils engage;
Or poet's lay the bosom warms,
With virtue's praise and nature's charms,
And faithful loves and feats of arms.
And 'midst that friendly circle now
I mark a Youth with open brow,
And thoughtful blue eyes beaming mild,
And temples wreathed with clusters wild
Of light brown hair. The pensive grace
Upon his features, seems the trace
Of thought more tender and refined
Than dawns upon the vulgar mind:
But oft across his blooming cheek
Flushes a quick and hectic streak,
Like that which, in an Indian sky,
Though cloudless, tells of danger nigh!
Deepening—until the gazer start,
As if he saw Fate's shadowy dart,
Foredoomed to strike from life and fame
The latest of a gentle name!
I mark a Youth with open brow,
And thoughtful blue eyes beaming mild,
And temples wreathed with clusters wild
Of light brown hair. The pensive grace
Upon his features, seems the trace
Of thought more tender and refined
Than dawns upon the vulgar mind:
But oft across his blooming cheek
Flushes a quick and hectic streak,
Like that which, in an Indian sky,
Though cloudless, tells of danger nigh!
Deepening—until the gazer start,
As if he saw Fate's shadowy dart,
Foredoomed to strike from life and fame
The latest of a gentle name!
How fearful to affection's view
That blush more bright than beauty's hue—
Where, sad as cypress wreath, the rose
Amid Consumption's ruin glows,
Bedecking with deceitful bloom
The untimely passage to the tomb!
That blush more bright than beauty's hue—
Where, sad as cypress wreath, the rose
Amid Consumption's ruin glows,
Bedecking with deceitful bloom
The untimely passage to the tomb!
Rememberest thou, my Friend, the hour
When some strange sympathetic power
Once led from far our wandering feet
At that Monastic Mound to meet?
—Where slopes the green sward to the west,
We sat upon the tomb where rest
My kindred's bones,—conversing late
Of Man's mysterious mortal state.
'Twas summer eve, serene and still;
The broad moon rose behind the hill,
Blending her soft and soothing ray
With the last gleam of closing day:
Amid the circling woods alone
Was heard the stockdove's plaintive moan,
And streamlet's murmur gliding by;
All else was calm in earth and sky.
The scene was such as fancy paints
For visit of departed saints—
And sure if that sublime controul
Which thrills the deep chords of the soul—
If tears of joy 'midst grief—could prove
The ministry of sainted love—
Our hearts in that blest hour might dare
To own some heavenly presence there!
When some strange sympathetic power
Once led from far our wandering feet
At that Monastic Mound to meet?
129
We sat upon the tomb where rest
My kindred's bones,—conversing late
Of Man's mysterious mortal state.
'Twas summer eve, serene and still;
The broad moon rose behind the hill,
Blending her soft and soothing ray
With the last gleam of closing day:
Amid the circling woods alone
Was heard the stockdove's plaintive moan,
And streamlet's murmur gliding by;
All else was calm in earth and sky.
The scene was such as fancy paints
For visit of departed saints—
And sure if that sublime controul
Which thrills the deep chords of the soul—
If tears of joy 'midst grief—could prove
The ministry of sainted love—
Our hearts in that blest hour might dare
To own some heavenly presence there!
Yes still, dear Friend! (although it seem
To worldly minds a childish dream)
When life is o'er—I love to think
There still may last some mystic link
Between the Living and the Dead,—
Some beam from better regions shed
To lighten with celestial glow
The pilgrim's darkling path below:
Or, if 'tis but a vain belief,
Framed by the phantasies of grief,
A loftier solace is not vain—
Death parts us but to meet again!
To worldly minds a childish dream)
When life is o'er—I love to think
There still may last some mystic link
Between the Living and the Dead,—
Some beam from better regions shed
To lighten with celestial glow
The pilgrim's darkling path below:
Or, if 'tis but a vain belief,
Framed by the phantasies of grief,
A loftier solace is not vain—
Death parts us but to meet again!
Ah, while amid the world's wild strife
We yet may trace that sweeter life,
Now fading like a lovely dream,—
Why cannot Memory too redeem
The feelings pure, the thoughts sublime,
That sanctified our early prime?—
Alas! like hues of breaking day
The soul's young visions pass away;
And elder Fancy scarce may dare
To image aught again so fair—
As when that Mother's warblings wild
Had soothed to rest her sickly child,
And o'er my couch I dreamt there hung
Celestial forms, with seraph tongue
Who told of purer happier spheres,
Exempt from pain, unstained with tears!
Or, waking lone at midnight deep,
When heaven's bright host their vigils keep,
I viewed with meek mysterious dread
The moon-beam through the lattice shed—
Deeming 'twas God's eternal Eye,
Bent down to bless us from on high!
We yet may trace that sweeter life,
130
Why cannot Memory too redeem
The feelings pure, the thoughts sublime,
That sanctified our early prime?—
Alas! like hues of breaking day
The soul's young visions pass away;
And elder Fancy scarce may dare
To image aught again so fair—
As when that Mother's warblings wild
Had soothed to rest her sickly child,
And o'er my couch I dreamt there hung
Celestial forms, with seraph tongue
Who told of purer happier spheres,
Exempt from pain, unstained with tears!
Or, waking lone at midnight deep,
When heaven's bright host their vigils keep,
I viewed with meek mysterious dread
The moon-beam through the lattice shed—
Deeming 'twas God's eternal Eye,
Bent down to bless us from on high!
And when that gentlest human Friend
No more her anxious eye could bend
On one by young affliction prest
More close to her maternal breast,
I deemed she still beheld afar
My sorrows from some peaceful star,—
In slumber heard her faintly speak,
And felt her kiss upon my cheek.
And oft, when through the solemn wood
My steps the schoolway path pursued,
I paused beneath its quiet shade
To view the spot where she was laid,
And pray, like hers, my life might be
From all ungentle passions free,—
It seemed as if I inly felt
That still her presence round me dwelt,
And awed me with a holy dread,
Lest I should sin and grieve the dead.
No more her anxious eye could bend
On one by young affliction prest
More close to her maternal breast,
I deemed she still beheld afar
My sorrows from some peaceful star,—
In slumber heard her faintly speak,
And felt her kiss upon my cheek.
And oft, when through the solemn wood
My steps the schoolway path pursued,
I paused beneath its quiet shade
To view the spot where she was laid,
And pray, like hers, my life might be
From all ungentle passions free,—
131
That still her presence round me dwelt,
And awed me with a holy dread,
Lest I should sin and grieve the dead.
O sainted Spirit!—(if thy care
An earthly wanderer yet may share!)
Still in celestial dreams return
To bid faith's failing embers burn—
While yet unquenched the smoking brand
By worldly passion's wasting hand!
Oh still,—although around my breast
The snaky coils of care are prest,—
Let fond remembrance oft restore
Each long-lost friend endeared of yore,
And picture o'er the scenes where first
My life and loveliest hopes were nurst;
The heaths which once my fathers trod,
Amidst the wild to worship God;
The tales which fired my boyish eye
With patriot feelings proud and high;
The sacred sabbath's mild repose;
The social evening's saintly close,
When ancient Zion's solemn song
Arose the lonely banks among;
The music of the mountain rills;
The moonlight sleeping on the hills;
The Starry Scriptures of the sky,
By God's own finger graved on high
On Heaven's expanded scroll—whose speech
To every tribe doth knowledge teach,
When silent Night unlocks the seals,
And to forgetful Man reveals
The wonders of eternal might
In living lines of glorious light!
An earthly wanderer yet may share!)
Still in celestial dreams return
To bid faith's failing embers burn—
While yet unquenched the smoking brand
By worldly passion's wasting hand!
Oh still,—although around my breast
The snaky coils of care are prest,—
Let fond remembrance oft restore
Each long-lost friend endeared of yore,
And picture o'er the scenes where first
My life and loveliest hopes were nurst;
The heaths which once my fathers trod,
Amidst the wild to worship God;
The tales which fired my boyish eye
With patriot feelings proud and high;
The sacred sabbath's mild repose;
The social evening's saintly close,
When ancient Zion's solemn song
Arose the lonely banks among;
The music of the mountain rills;
The moonlight sleeping on the hills;
The Starry Scriptures of the sky,
By God's own finger graved on high
On Heaven's expanded scroll—whose speech
To every tribe doth knowledge teach,
When silent Night unlocks the seals,
And to forgetful Man reveals
The wonders of eternal might
In living lines of glorious light!
132
Nor yet shall faithful memory fail
To trace the shepherd's homelier tale;
For well I loved each simple strain
Rehearsed by that kind-hearted swain,
Of sports where he a part had borne
In boyhood's blithe and cloudless morn;
Or pious words and spotless worth
Of friends who long have left the earth:
Or legends of the olden times,
And rural jests, and rustic rhymes:
While aye as he the story told
Of Scotland oft betrayed and sold,
With ancient grudge his wrath would glow
Against that “faithless Southron foe!”
To trace the shepherd's homelier tale;
Old John Turnbull, the person alluded to—(for many years my father's shepherd, as his father had been shepherd to my grandfather)—was one of the worthiest, and, in his humble sphere, one of the most generous-hearted men, I ever knew. To the most reverential piety, he also united a rich vein of genuine humour and drollery, combined with a native delicacy of feeling, and regulated by a propriety of demeanour, that might do honour to any station. My old friend, however, was not without some of the hereditary prejudices of his rank and nation. One of his characteristic traits was, a determined detestation of the “Southron” of ancient times, and a sovercign contempt for those of the present; and he always spoke of the Parliamentary Union as the “ruination of Scotland.”
For well I loved each simple strain
Rehearsed by that kind-hearted swain,
Of sports where he a part had borne
In boyhood's blithe and cloudless morn;
Or pious words and spotless worth
Of friends who long have left the earth:
Or legends of the olden times,
And rural jests, and rustic rhymes:
While aye as he the story told
Of Scotland oft betrayed and sold,
With ancient grudge his wrath would glow
Against that “faithless Southron foe!”
Nor shall the enthusiast dreams decay
Which charmed the long and lonely day,
When, wrapt in chequered Border cloak,
On Blaiklaw's ridge I watched the flock,
(What time the harvest toils detain
The Shepherd with the reaper train:)
When, far remote, I loved to lie
And gaze upon the flecker'd sky,
Amid the mountain thyme's perfume,
Where boundless heaths of purple bloom,
Heard but the zephyr's rustling wing
And wild-bee's ceaseless murmuring,
—'Twas there, amid the moorlands wild,
A Fairy found the mountain child,
And oped to its enchanted eyes
Imagination's Paradise.
Which charmed the long and lonely day,
When, wrapt in chequered Border cloak,
On Blaiklaw's ridge I watched the flock,
(What time the harvest toils detain
The Shepherd with the reaper train:)
When, far remote, I loved to lie
And gaze upon the flecker'd sky,
Amid the mountain thyme's perfume,
Where boundless heaths of purple bloom,
Heard but the zephyr's rustling wing
And wild-bee's ceaseless murmuring,
—'Twas there, amid the moorlands wild,
A Fairy found the mountain child,
And oped to its enchanted eyes
Imagination's Paradise.
Even as I muse my bosom burns,
The Past unto my soul returns;
And lovely, in the hues of truth,
Return the Scenes, the Friends of Youth!
I see the dusky track afar,
Where, lighted by the evening star,
I sought that home of early love.
The balmy west-wind stirs the grove,
And waves the blossom'd eglantine
I taught around its porch to twine.
I hear kind voices on the breeze,
From the green bower of cherry-trees.
The sire—the kindred band I see—
They rise with smiles to welcome me!
—Again sweet Fancy's dream is gone,
And 'midst the wild I walk alone!
The Past unto my soul returns;
133
Return the Scenes, the Friends of Youth!
I see the dusky track afar,
Where, lighted by the evening star,
I sought that home of early love.
The balmy west-wind stirs the grove,
And waves the blossom'd eglantine
I taught around its porch to twine.
I hear kind voices on the breeze,
From the green bower of cherry-trees.
The sire—the kindred band I see—
They rise with smiles to welcome me!
—Again sweet Fancy's dream is gone,
And 'midst the wild I walk alone!
Now scattered far the smiling flowers
That grew around these rustic bowers:
Ungentle hearts, and strangers rude,
Have passed along its solitude!
The hearth is cold, the walls are bare,
That heard my grandsire's evening prayer—
Gone even the trees he planted there!
—Yet still, dear Friend, methinks 'twere sweet
To trace once more that loved retreat;
Still, there, where'er my footsteps roam,
‘My heart untravelled' finds a home:
For 'midst these Border Mountains blue,
And Vales receding from the view,
And lonely Lakes and misty Fells,
Some nameless charm for ever dwells,—
Some spirit that again can raise
The visions of Departed Days,
And thoughts unuttered—undefined—
That gleamed across my infant mind!
—O, lovely was the blest controul
Which came like music o'er my soul,
While, there,—a rude untutored boy,
With heart tuned high to Nature's joy,—
Subdued by beauty's winning form,
Or kindling 'midst the mountain Storm,—
Alive to Feeling's gentle smart,
Which wakes but does not wound the heart,—
I dreamt not of the workings deep
Of wilder passions yet asleep!
That grew around these rustic bowers:
Ungentle hearts, and strangers rude,
Have passed along its solitude!
The hearth is cold, the walls are bare,
That heard my grandsire's evening prayer—
Gone even the trees he planted there!
—Yet still, dear Friend, methinks 'twere sweet
To trace once more that loved retreat;
Still, there, where'er my footsteps roam,
‘My heart untravelled' finds a home:
For 'midst these Border Mountains blue,
And Vales receding from the view,
And lonely Lakes and misty Fells,
Some nameless charm for ever dwells,—
Some spirit that again can raise
The visions of Departed Days,
And thoughts unuttered—undefined—
That gleamed across my infant mind!
134
Which came like music o'er my soul,
While, there,—a rude untutored boy,
With heart tuned high to Nature's joy,—
Subdued by beauty's winning form,
Or kindling 'midst the mountain Storm,—
Alive to Feeling's gentle smart,
Which wakes but does not wound the heart,—
I dreamt not of the workings deep
Of wilder passions yet asleep!
Long from those native haunts estranged,
My home but not my heart is changed—
Amid the city's feverish stir
'Tis still a mountain-wanderer!
And though (if bodings be not vain)
Far other roamings yet remain,
In climes where, 'mid the unwonted vales,
No early friend the wanderer hails,
Nor well-known hills arise to bless
His walks of pensive loneliness;
Yet still shall fancy haunt with you
The scenes beloved when life was new,
And oft with tender zeal return,
By yon deserted tomb to mourn;
For, oh, whate'er the lot may be
In Fate's dark book reserved for me,
I feel that nought in later life,—
In Fortune's change, or Passion's strife,
Or proud Ambition's boundless grasp,—
This bosom with a tie can clasp,
So strong—so sacred—as endears
The Scenes and Friends of Early Years!
My home but not my heart is changed—
Amid the city's feverish stir
'Tis still a mountain-wanderer!
At the time these lines were written, in 1811, the Author entertained some thoughts of going abroad, perhaps permanently; but he had not the slightest anticipation of the circumstances which, eight years afterwards, induced him to emigrate with his relatives to South Africa, and so singularly realized the “bodings” he thus expressed.
And though (if bodings be not vain)
Far other roamings yet remain,
In climes where, 'mid the unwonted vales,
No early friend the wanderer hails,
Nor well-known hills arise to bless
His walks of pensive loneliness;
Yet still shall fancy haunt with you
The scenes beloved when life was new,
And oft with tender zeal return,
By yon deserted tomb to mourn;
For, oh, whate'er the lot may be
In Fate's dark book reserved for me,
I feel that nought in later life,—
In Fortune's change, or Passion's strife,
Or proud Ambition's boundless grasp,—
This bosom with a tie can clasp,
So strong—so sacred—as endears
The Scenes and Friends of Early Years!
Edinburgh: August, 1811.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle | |