University of Virginia Library

“Tell me thy wish!”—Though wishes are foolish, yet sometimes a friend may
Speak to a friend the thought, that in the back ground of his fancy
Floats serenely, remote from the urgent spur of the moment.
When my battle is fought—for I would live as a soldier,
Gallantly shaping my life to the type of a noble con-ception,
Fighting with faithless hearts, and brains of no specu-lation,
Meagre formalists, men who swear by statute and parchment,
Clogging with blocks from the past the glorious march of the future:—
But when my Malakoff falls—or I am maimed in the storming—
Then I know the spot, where I would build me a cot-tage,
Neat and trim, with lancet-windows quaint, and a bulging
Bow to the West, a porch to the South with stiff old ivy
Roofed, and flanked on each side by a trellised veran-dah, bound with
Roses and Traveller's Joy. Remote it lies in a mea-dow,
Where the river, the son of the mountain, before with the briny
Billow he mingles, around the base of the wooded enclosure
Rushes with circular sweep, and leaves a plain in the middle.
Silently then he gathers his strength, and sombrely winding
Through a deep, dark chasm, is lost in the eddies of ocean.
Here my cottage shall stand; and here, before my window,
Densely massed shall the sycamore spread its bountiful shadow
Over the daisied green, where the mill-stream winding clearly
Circles me round with peace, and the twin-spired hoary cathedral
Peeps through the trees. Here I, with my wife, my faithful companion,
Lovingly quick to my faults, and jealously keen for my honour,
Wisely would cherish the years that ripen the spirit for glory.
Here, with a bevy of bright-eyed boys—my own or my sister's—
I in the morning will rise, and sow the peas in the garden,
Trim the hedges, or bind the rasps, or dig the potatoes.
Here, in the heat of the day, my leisure shall know me, my study,
Painted with dancing Graces, Mercuries, Pans, and Apollos,
Shelved with books, and piled with papers of youthful remembrance.
O! the luxury then to take my Foulis' Homer,
Gift of Forbes, my friend, and spread before me its ample
Large-typed beautiful page, and spout the wrath of Achilles
Loud with rhythmical chaunt, as often in youthful fervour
I, on the breezy brow of Morven or mighty Muicdhui,
Shouted my Greek to the winds! or, should my humour be thoughtful,
Then in my ear shall sound the melodious wisdom of Plato,
Deep-mouthed, voicing the things that remain, when the pride of the Present
Passes, and God is felt, the centre of deathless Being:
Or, if the comical whim shall tickle my diaphragm, lightly
Thou, Aristophanes then, with lusty humour redundant,
Shaking thy blossoms of wit, like flowers in summer, shalt cheer me.
Thus I'll muse o'er my books, till the slanting beam in the window
Shows the sun half-way from his noon-day height to his setting.
Then my faithful companion, my wife, with loving inquiry,
Taps at my door, and a bevy of bright-eyed boys up-roarious
Rushes behind. Abroad we sally, and carelessly wander
Over the fields, or across the deep stream paddle the wherry:
Many a flower we pluck, and many a fern from the shaded
Root of the old grey crag, and with learned phrase botanical
Daisy and crow-foot baptize, and the crimp-leaved
blue-flowered speedwell;
Stamens and pistils we count, and talk of loves and marriages
Mystical-typed by God in the life of the leafy creation.
Then my faithful companion, my wife, with thoughts of affection,
Thinks of the poor and the sick. We visit the old schoolmaster,
Call on the gardener's widow, and talk of her son, who so bravely
Scaled the heights, and spiked the guns at glorious Alma;
Leave a book for Tommy, the learned son of the ploughman,
Who, his mother hath said, shall mount the pulpit, and, one day,
Stir the hearts of the people, and thunder, as Guthrie thunders.
Thus we roam till the westering sun with lengthening shadow
Falls; and then return to the sound of the gong for dinner.
Now to dinner we go—my dinner shall never be lonely—
Me the minister, clerk of the Church by law established,
Me the Dissenter shall know; one liberal board receives them.
Hock and Claret shall whelm the sectarian hate in their bosoms,
Drowned in mellow delight. Likewise the village physician
I to my table will call, and every man whom the parish
Honours, for virtue, or knowledge, or public spirit reputed.
We with various talk will season the generous flowing
Soul-discumbering wine—the battles of Tory and Whig men,
Church and State, the Russian's wile, and the Prussian's weakness,
Freedom down-trampled in France, and Popery nursled in Oxford:
Science, religion, and art, theology, heresy, schism,
Records of God in the rock, huge antediluvian reptiles,
Mummied in beds of stone, with fishes and crabs gigantic;
Maurice, and Lewis, and Kingsley, Macleod the jocund apostle,
Thackeray, Dickens, and Browning, and Carlyle, king of the Titans;
Hamilton, Hegel, and Kant, the Infinite and the Insoluble,
Harsh-grained bigots at home, and cloud-brained mystics in Deutschland.
Thus shall flow the discourse: the gentlemen then to the parlour
Ripely retire; and there, with the clatter of saucers and tea-cups,
Rattling dice, and thoughtful chess, and whist fourhanded,
Critical talk with the ladies of Tennyson's Idylls and Balder,
Adam Bede, and Miss Muloch, Macaulay, Massey, and Aytoun,
Sermons at home and abroad, the fiery bray of the unkempt
Gospelling Scot, and the smooth-lipped polish of gentleman priests, who
Guide with innocuous grace the Cockney's silken devotions,
Lightly the hour we beguile. Or, if the Squire's son, the lieutenant,
Fresh from India, gaping about for a wife and a fortune,
Deigns to know my roof, then he with the Doctor's daughter
Lightly shall wheel the graceful waltz, or through the mettlesome
Reel shall merrily tramp. Or Mary, the sunny-faced maiden,
Eldest born of the Free Church minister, beautiful Mary,
She at the landlord's call shall warble an old Scotch ballad,
Banks o' Doon, or Auld Langsyne, or Wandering Willie;
Or with a graver Muse shall lift the note of devotion,
Angels bright and fair, thy jubilant pæan, St Asaph,
Luther's hymn, or the prayer that Kœrner prayed in the battle.
Then my faithful companion, my wife, with godly remembrance,
Goes to the minister, clerk to the Church by law established,
Whispers a word, and brings from the shelf the big old Bible.
He unclaspeth the book, and gravely readeth a chapter,
Weighty with wisdom of love, and consolation, and warning.
Then he bendeth his knee, and prays to the mighty Creator;
We with him give thanks to the bountiful Giver of all things,
Gratefully reckon the joys of the day, and with pious assurance
Find in the fruits of the Past the germ that pledges the Future.

Here thou hast it, my friend: the wish of my heart is spoken;
Wish not uttered before, and scarcely thought: for, believe me,
Wishes belong not to man, but what God sends with a manly
Courage to welcome, and firmly to grasp the good of the moment.