The Poetical Remains of the late Dr. John Leyden with Memoirs of his Life, by the Rev. James Morton |
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| I. | PART I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | The Poetical Remains of the late Dr. John Leyden |  |
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I. PART I.
Ben sanno i verdi poggi, e le sonanti
Selve romite, e l' acque
Che son le mie ricchezze inni soavi:
Alor la cetra consacrar mi piacque—
Menzini.
Selve romite, e l' acque
Che son le mie ricchezze inni soavi:
Alor la cetra consacrar mi piacque—
Menzini.
295
Sweet scenes of youth, to faithful memory dear,
Still fondly cherish'd with the sacred tear,
When, in the soften'd light of summer-skies,
Full on my soul life's first illusions rise!
Sweet scenes of youthful bliss, unknown to pain!
I come, to trace your soothing haunts again,
To mark each grace that pleas'd my stripling prime,
By absence hallow'd, and endear'd by time,
To lose amid your winding dells the past:—
Ah! must I think this lingering look the last?
Ye lovely vales, that met my earliest view!
How soft ye smil'd, when Nature's charms were new!
Green was her vesture, glowing, fresh, and warm,
And every opening grace had power to charm;
While as each scene in living lustre rose,
Each young emotion wak'd from soft repose.
Still fondly cherish'd with the sacred tear,
When, in the soften'd light of summer-skies,
Full on my soul life's first illusions rise!
Sweet scenes of youthful bliss, unknown to pain!
I come, to trace your soothing haunts again,
To mark each grace that pleas'd my stripling prime,
By absence hallow'd, and endear'd by time,
To lose amid your winding dells the past:—
Ah! must I think this lingering look the last?
Ye lovely vales, that met my earliest view!
How soft ye smil'd, when Nature's charms were new!
Green was her vesture, glowing, fresh, and warm,
And every opening grace had power to charm;
While as each scene in living lustre rose,
Each young emotion wak'd from soft repose.
296
E'en as I muse, my former life returns,
And youth's first ardour in my bosom burns.
Like music melting in a lover's dream,
I hear the murmuring song of Teviot's stream:
The crisping rays, that on the waters lie,
Depict a paler moon, a fainter sky;
While through inverted alder boughs below
The twinkling stars with greener lustre glow.
And youth's first ardour in my bosom burns.
Like music melting in a lover's dream,
I hear the murmuring song of Teviot's stream:
297
Depict a paler moon, a fainter sky;
While through inverted alder boughs below
The twinkling stars with greener lustre glow.
On these fair banks thine ancient bards no more,
Enchanting stream! their melting numbers pour;
But still their viewless harps, on poplars hung,
Sigh the soft airs they learn'd when time was young:
And those who tread with holy feet the ground,
At lonely midnight, hear their silver sound;
When river breezes wave their dewy wings,
And lightly fan the wild enchanted strings.
Enchanting stream! their melting numbers pour;
But still their viewless harps, on poplars hung,
Sigh the soft airs they learn'd when time was young:
And those who tread with holy feet the ground,
At lonely midnight, hear their silver sound;
When river breezes wave their dewy wings,
And lightly fan the wild enchanted strings.
What earthly hand presumes, aspiring bold,
The airy harp of ancient bards to hold,
With ivy's sacred wreath to crown his head,
And lead the plaintive chorus of the dead—
He round the poplar's base shall nightly strew
The willow's pointed leaves, of pallid blue,
And still restrain the gaze, reverted keen,
When round him deepen sighs from shapes unseen,
And o'er his lonely head, like summer bees,
The leaves self-moving tremble on the trees.
When morn's first rays fall quivering on the strand,
Then is the time to stretch the daring hand,
And snatch it from the bending poplar pale,
The magic harp of ancient Teviotdale.
The airy harp of ancient bards to hold,
298
And lead the plaintive chorus of the dead—
He round the poplar's base shall nightly strew
The willow's pointed leaves, of pallid blue,
And still restrain the gaze, reverted keen,
When round him deepen sighs from shapes unseen,
And o'er his lonely head, like summer bees,
The leaves self-moving tremble on the trees.
When morn's first rays fall quivering on the strand,
Then is the time to stretch the daring hand,
And snatch it from the bending poplar pale,
The magic harp of ancient Teviotdale.
If thou, Aurelia, bless the high design,
And softly smile, that daring hand is mine!
Wild on the breeze the thrilling lyre shall fling
Melodious accents from each elfin string.
Such strains the harp of haunted Merlin threw,
When from his dreams the mountain-sprites withdrew;
While, trembling to the wires that warbled shrill,
His apple-blossoms wav'd along the hill.
Hark! how the mountain-echoes still retain
The memory of the prophet's boding strain!
And softly smile, that daring hand is mine!
Wild on the breeze the thrilling lyre shall fling
Melodious accents from each elfin string.
Such strains the harp of haunted Merlin threw,
When from his dreams the mountain-sprites withdrew;
299
His apple-blossoms wav'd along the hill.
300
The memory of the prophet's boding strain!
“Once more, begirt with many a martial peer,
Victorious Arthur shall his standard rear,
In ancient pomp his mailed bands display;
While nations wondering mark their strange array,
Their proud commanding port, their giant form,
The spirit's stride, that treads the northern storm.
Where fate invites them to the dread repast,
Dark Cheviot's eagles swarm on every blast;
On Camlan bursts the sword's impatient roar;
The war-horse wades with champing hoofs in gore;
The scythed car on grating axle rings;
Broad o'er the field the ravens join their wings;
Above the champions in the fateful hour
Floats the black standard of the evil power.”
Victorious Arthur shall his standard rear,
301
While nations wondering mark their strange array,
Their proud commanding port, their giant form,
The spirit's stride, that treads the northern storm.
Where fate invites them to the dread repast,
Dark Cheviot's eagles swarm on every blast;
On Camlan bursts the sword's impatient roar;
The war-horse wades with champing hoofs in gore;
The scythed car on grating axle rings;
Broad o'er the field the ravens join their wings;
Above the champions in the fateful hour
Floats the black standard of the evil power.”
Though many a wondrous tale of elder time
Shall grace the wild traditionary rhyme,
Yet, not of warring hosts and faulchion-wounds
Again the harp of ancient minstrels sounds:
Be mine to sing the meads, the pensile groves,
And silver streams, which dear Aurelia loves.
Shall grace the wild traditionary rhyme,
Yet, not of warring hosts and faulchion-wounds
Again the harp of ancient minstrels sounds:
Be mine to sing the meads, the pensile groves,
And silver streams, which dear Aurelia loves.
From wilds of tawny heath and mosses dun,
Through winding glens scarce pervious to the sun,
Afraid to glitter in the noon-tide beam,
The Teviot leads her young, sequester'd stream;
Till, far retiring from her native rills,
She leaves the covert of her sheltering hills,
And, gathering wide her waters on their way,
With foamy force emerges into day.
Through winding glens scarce pervious to the sun,
Afraid to glitter in the noon-tide beam,
The Teviot leads her young, sequester'd stream;
Till, far retiring from her native rills,
She leaves the covert of her sheltering hills,
302
With foamy force emerges into day.
Where'er she sparkles o'er her silver sand,
The daisied meads in glowing hues expand;
Blue osiers whiten in their bending rows;
Broad o'er the stream the pendent alder grows;
But, more remote, the spangled fields unfold
Their bosoms, streak'd with vegetative gold;
Gray downs ascending dimple into dales;
The silvery birch hangs o'er the sloping vales;
While, far remote, where flashing torrents shine,
In misty verdure towers the tapering pine,
And dusky heaths in sullen languor lie,
Where Cheviot's ridges swell to meet the sky.
The daisied meads in glowing hues expand;
Blue osiers whiten in their bending rows;
Broad o'er the stream the pendent alder grows;
But, more remote, the spangled fields unfold
Their bosoms, streak'd with vegetative gold;
Gray downs ascending dimple into dales;
The silvery birch hangs o'er the sloping vales;
While, far remote, where flashing torrents shine,
In misty verdure towers the tapering pine,
And dusky heaths in sullen languor lie,
Where Cheviot's ridges swell to meet the sky.
As every prospect opens on my view,
I seem to live departed years anew;
When in these wilds a jocund, sportive child,
Each flower self-sown my heedless hours beguil'd;
The wabret leaf, that by the pathway grew,
The wild-briar rose, of pale and blushful hue,
The thistle's rolling wheel, of silken down,
The blue-bell, or the daisy's pearly crown,
The gaudy butterfly, in wanton round,
That, like a living pea-flower, skimm'd the ground.
I seem to live departed years anew;
When in these wilds a jocund, sportive child,
Each flower self-sown my heedless hours beguil'd;
The wabret leaf, that by the pathway grew,
The wild-briar rose, of pale and blushful hue,
303
The blue-bell, or the daisy's pearly crown,
The gaudy butterfly, in wanton round,
That, like a living pea-flower, skimm'd the ground.
Again I view the cairn, and moss-gray stone,
Where oft at eve I wont to muse alone,
And vex with curious toil mine infant eye,
To count the gems that stud the nightly sky,
Or think, as playful fancy wander'd far,
How sweet it were to dance from star to star!
Where oft at eve I wont to muse alone,
And vex with curious toil mine infant eye,
To count the gems that stud the nightly sky,
Or think, as playful fancy wander'd far,
How sweet it were to dance from star to star!
304
Again I view each rude romantic glade,
Where once with tiny steps my childhood stray'd
To watch the foam-bells of the bubbling brook,
Or mark the motions of the clamorous rook,
Who saw her nest, close thatch'd with ceaseless toil,
At summer-eve become the woodman's spoil.
Where once with tiny steps my childhood stray'd
To watch the foam-bells of the bubbling brook,
Or mark the motions of the clamorous rook,
Who saw her nest, close thatch'd with ceaseless toil,
At summer-eve become the woodman's spoil.
How lightly then I chas'd from flower to flower
The lazy bee, at noon-tide's languid hour,
When, pausing faint beneath the sweltering heat,
The hive could scarce their drowsy hum repeat!
The lazy bee, at noon-tide's languid hour,
When, pausing faint beneath the sweltering heat,
The hive could scarce their drowsy hum repeat!
Nor scenes alone with summer-beauties bright,
But winter's terrors brought a wild delight,
With fringed flakes of snow that idly sail,
And windows tinkling shrill with dancing hail;
While, as the drifting tempest darker blew,
White showers of blossoms seem'd the fields to strew.
But winter's terrors brought a wild delight,
With fringed flakes of snow that idly sail,
And windows tinkling shrill with dancing hail;
While, as the drifting tempest darker blew,
White showers of blossoms seem'd the fields to strew.
Again, beside this silver riv'let's shore,
With green and yellow moss-flowers mottled o'er,
Beneath a shivering canopy reclin'd
Of aspen leaves, that wave without a wind,
I love to lie, when lulling breezes stir
The spiry cones that tremble on the fir,
Or wander mid the dark-green fields of broom,
When peers in scatter'd tufts the yellow bloom,
Or trace the path with tangling furze o'er-run;
When bursting seed-bells crackle in the sun,
And pittering grasshoppers, confus'dly shrill,
Pipe giddily along the glowing hill.
With green and yellow moss-flowers mottled o'er,
Beneath a shivering canopy reclin'd
Of aspen leaves, that wave without a wind,
I love to lie, when lulling breezes stir
The spiry cones that tremble on the fir,
305
When peers in scatter'd tufts the yellow bloom,
Or trace the path with tangling furze o'er-run;
When bursting seed-bells crackle in the sun,
And pittering grasshoppers, confus'dly shrill,
Pipe giddily along the glowing hill.
306
Sweet grasshopper, who lov'st at noon to lie
Serenely in the green-ribb'd clover's eye,
To sun thy filmy wings and emerald vest,
Unseen thy form, and undisturb'd thy rest!
Oft have I listening mus'd the sultry day,
And wonder'd what thy chirping song might say;
When nought was heard along the blossom'd lea,
To join thy music, save the listless bee.
Serenely in the green-ribb'd clover's eye,
To sun thy filmy wings and emerald vest,
Unseen thy form, and undisturb'd thy rest!
Oft have I listening mus'd the sultry day,
And wonder'd what thy chirping song might say;
When nought was heard along the blossom'd lea,
To join thy music, save the listless bee.
Since with weak step I trac'd each rising down,
Nor dream'd of worlds beyond yon mountains brown,
These scenes have ever to my heart been dear;
But still, Aurelia, most, when thou wert near!
Nor dream'd of worlds beyond yon mountains brown,
These scenes have ever to my heart been dear;
But still, Aurelia, most, when thou wert near!
On Eden's banks, in pensive fit reclin'd,
Thy angel-features haunted still my mind;
And oft, when ardent fancy spurn'd control,
The living image rush'd upon my soul,
Fill'd all my heart, and mid the bustling crowd
Bade me forgetful muse or think aloud;
While, as I sigh'd thy favourite scenes to view,
Each lingering hour seemed lengthening as it flew.
As Ovid, banish'd from his favourite fair,
No gentle melting heart his grief to share,
Was wont in plaintive accents to deplore
Campania's scenes, along the Getic shore;
A lifeless waste, unfann'd by vernal breeze,
Where snow-flakes hung like leaves upon the trees:
The fur-clad savage lov'd his aspect mild,
Kind as a father, gentle as a child,
And though they pitied, still they bless'd the doom,
That bade the Getæ hear the songs of Rome.
Thy angel-features haunted still my mind;
And oft, when ardent fancy spurn'd control,
The living image rush'd upon my soul,
Fill'd all my heart, and mid the bustling crowd
Bade me forgetful muse or think aloud;
While, as I sigh'd thy favourite scenes to view,
Each lingering hour seemed lengthening as it flew.
As Ovid, banish'd from his favourite fair,
No gentle melting heart his grief to share,
Was wont in plaintive accents to deplore
Campania's scenes, along the Getic shore;
307
Where snow-flakes hung like leaves upon the trees:
The fur-clad savage lov'd his aspect mild,
Kind as a father, gentle as a child,
308
That bade the Getæ hear the songs of Rome.
Sweet scenes, conjoin'd with all that most endears
The cloudless morning of my tender years!
With fond regret your haunts I wander o'er,
And wondering feel myself the child no more:
Your forms, your sunny tints, are still the same;—
But sad the tear which lost affections claim.
The cloudless morning of my tender years!
With fond regret your haunts I wander o'er,
And wondering feel myself the child no more:
Your forms, your sunny tints, are still the same;—
But sad the tear which lost affections claim.
Aurelia! mark yon silver clouds unroll'd,
Where far in ether hangs each shining fold,
That on the breezy billow idly sleeps,
Or climbs ambitious up the azure steeps!
Their snowy ridges seem to heave and swell
With airy domes, where parted spirits dwell;
Untainted souls, from this terrestrial mould
Who fled, before the priest their names had told.
Where far in ether hangs each shining fold,
That on the breezy billow idly sleeps,
Or climbs ambitious up the azure steeps!
Their snowy ridges seem to heave and swell
With airy domes, where parted spirits dwell;
Untainted souls, from this terrestrial mould
Who fled, before the priest their names had told.
On such an eve as this, so mild and clear,
I follow'd to the grave a sister's bier.
As sad by Teviot I retir'd alone,
The setting sun with silent splendour shone;
Sublime emotions reach'd my purer mind;
The fear of death, the world was left behind.
I saw the thin-spread clouds of summer lie,
Like shadows, on the soft cerulean sky:
As each its silver bosom seem'd to bend,
Rapt fancy heard an angel-voice descend,
Melodious as the strain which floats on high,
To soothe the sleep of blameless infancy;
While, soft and slow, aerial music flow'd,
To hail the parted spirit on its road.
“To realms of purer light,” it seem'd to say,
“Thyself as pure, fair sufferer, come away!
“The moon, whose silver beams are bath'd in dew,
“Sleeps on her mid-way cloud of softest blue;
“Her watery light, that trembles on the tree,
“Shall safely lead thy viewless steps to me.”
As o'er my heart the sweet illusions stole,
A wilder influence charm'd and aw'd my soul;
Each graceful form that vernal nature wore
Rous'd keen sensations never felt before;
The woodland's sombre shade that peasants fear,
The haunted mountain-streams that murmur'd near,
The antique tomb-stone, and the church-yard green,
Seem'd to unite me with the world unseen.
Oft, when the eastern moon rose darkly red,
I heard the viewless paces of the dead,
Heard on the breeze the wandering spirits sigh,
Or airy skirts unseen that rustled by.
The lyre of woe, that oft had sooth'd my pain,
Soon learn'd to breathe a more heroic strain,
And bade the weeping birch her branches wave
In mournful murmurs o'er the warrior's grave.
I follow'd to the grave a sister's bier.
As sad by Teviot I retir'd alone,
The setting sun with silent splendour shone;
Sublime emotions reach'd my purer mind;
The fear of death, the world was left behind.
309
Like shadows, on the soft cerulean sky:
As each its silver bosom seem'd to bend,
Rapt fancy heard an angel-voice descend,
Melodious as the strain which floats on high,
To soothe the sleep of blameless infancy;
While, soft and slow, aerial music flow'd,
To hail the parted spirit on its road.
“To realms of purer light,” it seem'd to say,
“Thyself as pure, fair sufferer, come away!
“The moon, whose silver beams are bath'd in dew,
“Sleeps on her mid-way cloud of softest blue;
“Her watery light, that trembles on the tree,
“Shall safely lead thy viewless steps to me.”
As o'er my heart the sweet illusions stole,
A wilder influence charm'd and aw'd my soul;
Each graceful form that vernal nature wore
Rous'd keen sensations never felt before;
The woodland's sombre shade that peasants fear,
The haunted mountain-streams that murmur'd near,
The antique tomb-stone, and the church-yard green,
Seem'd to unite me with the world unseen.
Oft, when the eastern moon rose darkly red,
I heard the viewless paces of the dead,
Heard on the breeze the wandering spirits sigh,
Or airy skirts unseen that rustled by.
310
Soon learn'd to breathe a more heroic strain,
And bade the weeping birch her branches wave
In mournful murmurs o'er the warrior's grave.
Where rising Teviot joins the Frostylee,
Stands the huge trunk of many a leafless tree.
No verdant wood-bine wreaths their age adorn;
Bare are the boughs, the knarled roots uptorn.
Here shone no sun-beam, fell no summer-dew,
Nor ever grass beneath the branches grew,
Since that bold chief who Henry's power defied,
True to his country, as a traitor died.
Stands the huge trunk of many a leafless tree.
No verdant wood-bine wreaths their age adorn;
Bare are the boughs, the knarled roots uptorn.
Here shone no sun-beam, fell no summer-dew,
Nor ever grass beneath the branches grew,
Since that bold chief who Henry's power defied,
True to his country, as a traitor died.
311
Yon mouldering cairns, by ancient hunters plac'd,
Where blends the meadow with the marshy waste,
Mark where the gallant warriors lie:—but long
Their fame shall flourish in the Scotian song;
The Scotian song, whose deep impulsive tones
Each thrilling fibre, true to passion, owns,
When, soft as gales o'er summer seas that blow,
The plaintive music warbles love-lorn woe,
Or, wild and loud, the fierce exulting strain
Swells its bold notes triumphant o'er the slain.
Where blends the meadow with the marshy waste,
Mark where the gallant warriors lie:—but long
Their fame shall flourish in the Scotian song;
The Scotian song, whose deep impulsive tones
Each thrilling fibre, true to passion, owns,
When, soft as gales o'er summer seas that blow,
The plaintive music warbles love-lorn woe,
Or, wild and loud, the fierce exulting strain
Swells its bold notes triumphant o'er the slain.
Such themes inspire the Border shepherd's tale,
When in the gray thatch sounds the fitful gale,
And constant wheels go round with whirling din,
As by red ember-light the damsels spin:
Each chaunts by turns the song his soul approves,
Or bears the burthen to the maid he loves.
When in the gray thatch sounds the fitful gale,
And constant wheels go round with whirling din,
As by red ember-light the damsels spin:
Each chaunts by turns the song his soul approves,
Or bears the burthen to the maid he loves.
312
Still to the surly strain of martial deeds,
In cadence soft, the dirge of love succeeds,
With tales of ghosts that haunt unhallow'd ground;
While narrowing still the circle closes round,
Till, shrinking pale from nameless shapes of fear,
Each peasant starts his neighbour's voice to hear.
What minstrel wrought these lays of magic power,
A swain once taught me in his summer-bower,
As round his knees in playful age I hung,
And eager listen'd to the lays he sung.
In cadence soft, the dirge of love succeeds,
With tales of ghosts that haunt unhallow'd ground;
While narrowing still the circle closes round,
Till, shrinking pale from nameless shapes of fear,
Each peasant starts his neighbour's voice to hear.
What minstrel wrought these lays of magic power,
A swain once taught me in his summer-bower,
As round his knees in playful age I hung,
And eager listen'd to the lays he sung.
Where Bortha hoarse, that loads the meads with sand,
Rolls her red tide to Teviot's western strand,
Through slaty hills whose sides are shagg'd with thorn,
Where springs in scatter'd tufts the dark-green corn,
Towers wood-girt Harden far above the vale;
And clouds of ravens o'er the turrets sail.
A hardy race, who never shrunk from war,
The Scott, to rival realms a mighty bar,
Here fix'd his mountain-home;—a wide domain,
And rich the soil, had purple heath been grain;
But, what the niggard ground of wealth denied,
From fields more bless'd his fearless arm supplied.
Rolls her red tide to Teviot's western strand,
313
Where springs in scatter'd tufts the dark-green corn,
Towers wood-girt Harden far above the vale;
And clouds of ravens o'er the turrets sail.
A hardy race, who never shrunk from war,
The Scott, to rival realms a mighty bar,
Here fix'd his mountain-home;—a wide domain,
And rich the soil, had purple heath been grain;
But, what the niggard ground of wealth denied,
From fields more bless'd his fearless arm supplied.
The waning harvest-moon shone cold and bright;
The warder's horn was heard at dead of night;
And, as the massy portals wide were flung,
With stamping hoofs the rocky pavement rung.
What fair, half-veil'd, leans from her lattic'd hall,
Where red the wavering gleams of torch-light fall?
'Tis Yarrow's fairest flower, who through the gloom
Looks wistful for her lover's dancing plume.
Amid the piles of spoil that strew'd the ground,
Her ear, all anxious, caught a wailing sound;
With trembling haste the youthful matron flew,
And from the hurried heaps an infant drew:
Scar'd at the light, his little hands he flung
Around her neck, and to her bosom clung;
While beauteous Mary sooth'd in accents mild
His fluttering soul, and clasp'd her foster-child.
Of milder mood the gentle captive grew,
Nor lov'd the scenes that scar'd his infant view.
In vales remote, from camps and castles far,
He shunn'd the fearful shuddering joy of war;
Content the loves of simple swains to sing,
Or wake to fame the harp's heroic string.
The warder's horn was heard at dead of night;
314
With stamping hoofs the rocky pavement rung.
What fair, half-veil'd, leans from her lattic'd hall,
Where red the wavering gleams of torch-light fall?
'Tis Yarrow's fairest flower, who through the gloom
Looks wistful for her lover's dancing plume.
Amid the piles of spoil that strew'd the ground,
Her ear, all anxious, caught a wailing sound;
With trembling haste the youthful matron flew,
And from the hurried heaps an infant drew:
Scar'd at the light, his little hands he flung
Around her neck, and to her bosom clung;
While beauteous Mary sooth'd in accents mild
His fluttering soul, and clasp'd her foster-child.
Of milder mood the gentle captive grew,
Nor lov'd the scenes that scar'd his infant view.
In vales remote, from camps and castles far,
He shunn'd the fearful shuddering joy of war;
Content the loves of simple swains to sing,
Or wake to fame the harp's heroic string.
His are the strains, whose wandering echoes thrill
The shepherd lingering on the twilight hill,
When evening brings the merry folding-hours,
And sun-eyed daisies close their winking flowers.
He liv'd, o'er Yarrow's Flower to shed the tear,
To strew the holly's leaves o'er Harden's bier;
But none was found above the minstrel's tomb,
Emblem of peace, to bid the daisy bloom:
He, nameless as the race from which he sprung,
Sav'd other names, and left his own unsung.
The shepherd lingering on the twilight hill,
When evening brings the merry folding-hours,
And sun-eyed daisies close their winking flowers.
315
To strew the holly's leaves o'er Harden's bier;
But none was found above the minstrel's tomb,
Emblem of peace, to bid the daisy bloom:
He, nameless as the race from which he sprung,
Sav'd other names, and left his own unsung.
Nurs'd in these wilds, a lover of the plains,
I sing, like him, the joys of inland swains,
Who climb their loftiest mountain-peaks, to view
From far the cloud-like waste of ocean blue.
But not, like his, with unperceiv'd decay
My days in fancy's dreams shall melt away;
For soon yon sun, that here so softly gleams,
Shall see me tossing on the ocean-streams.
Yet still 'tis sweet to trace each youthful scene,
And conjure up the days which might have been,
Live o'er the fancied suns which ne'er shall roll,
And woo the charm of song to soothe my soul,
Paint the fair scenes which charm'd when life began,
And in the infant stamp'd the future man.
I sing, like him, the joys of inland swains,
Who climb their loftiest mountain-peaks, to view
From far the cloud-like waste of ocean blue.
But not, like his, with unperceiv'd decay
My days in fancy's dreams shall melt away;
For soon yon sun, that here so softly gleams,
Shall see me tossing on the ocean-streams.
Yet still 'tis sweet to trace each youthful scene,
And conjure up the days which might have been,
Live o'er the fancied suns which ne'er shall roll,
And woo the charm of song to soothe my soul,
Paint the fair scenes which charm'd when life began,
And in the infant stamp'd the future man.
From yon green peak black haunted Slata brings
The gushing torrents of unfathom'd springs:
In a dead lake, that ever seems to freeze,
By sedge inclos'd from every ruffling breeze,
The fountains lie; and shuddering peasants shrink
To plunge the stone within the fearful brink:
For here, 'tis said, the fairy hosts convene,
With noisy talk, and bustling steps unseen;
The hill resounds with strange, unearthly cries;
And moaning voices from the waters rise.
Here oft in sweetest sounds is heard the chime
Of bells unholy from the fairy clime;
The tepid gales, that in these regions blow,
Oft on the brink dissolve the mountain-snow;
Around the deep that seeks the downward sky,
In mazes green the haunted ringlets lie.
Woe to the upland swain who, wandering far,
The circle treads beneath the evening star!
His feet the witch-grass green impels to run
Full on the dark descent he strives to shun;
Till, on the giddy brink, o'erpower'd by charms,
The fairies clasp him in unhallow'd arms,
Doom'd with the crew of restless foot to stray
The earth by night, the nether realms by day;
Till seven long years their dangerous circuit run,
And call the wretch to view this upper sun.
Nor long the time, if village-saws be true,
Since in the deep a hardy peasant threw
A ponderous stone; when, murmuring from below,
With gushing sound he heard the lake o'erflow.
The mighty torrent, foaming down the hills,
Call'd with strong voice on all her subject rills;
Rocks drove on jagged rocks with thundering sound,
And the red waves impatient rent their mound;
On Hawick burst the flood's resistless sway,
Plough'd the pav'd streets, and tore the walls away,
Floated high roofs, from whelming fabricks torn;
While pillar'd arches down the wave were borne.
The gushing torrents of unfathom'd springs:
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By sedge inclos'd from every ruffling breeze,
The fountains lie; and shuddering peasants shrink
To plunge the stone within the fearful brink:
For here, 'tis said, the fairy hosts convene,
With noisy talk, and bustling steps unseen;
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And moaning voices from the waters rise.
Here oft in sweetest sounds is heard the chime
Of bells unholy from the fairy clime;
The tepid gales, that in these regions blow,
Oft on the brink dissolve the mountain-snow;
Around the deep that seeks the downward sky,
In mazes green the haunted ringlets lie.
Woe to the upland swain who, wandering far,
The circle treads beneath the evening star!
His feet the witch-grass green impels to run
Full on the dark descent he strives to shun;
Till, on the giddy brink, o'erpower'd by charms,
The fairies clasp him in unhallow'd arms,
Doom'd with the crew of restless foot to stray
The earth by night, the nether realms by day;
Till seven long years their dangerous circuit run,
And call the wretch to view this upper sun.
Nor long the time, if village-saws be true,
Since in the deep a hardy peasant threw
A ponderous stone; when, murmuring from below,
With gushing sound he heard the lake o'erflow.
The mighty torrent, foaming down the hills,
Call'd with strong voice on all her subject rills;
Rocks drove on jagged rocks with thundering sound,
And the red waves impatient rent their mound;
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Plough'd the pav'd streets, and tore the walls away,
Floated high roofs, from whelming fabricks torn;
While pillar'd arches down the wave were borne.
Boast! Hawick, boast! Thy structures, rear'd in blood,
Shall rise triumphant over flame and flood,
Still doom'd to prosper, since on Flodden's field
Thy sons, a hardy band, unwont to yield,
Fell with their martial king, and (glorious boast!)
Gain'd proud renown where Scotia's fame was lost.
Shall rise triumphant over flame and flood,
Still doom'd to prosper, since on Flodden's field
Thy sons, a hardy band, unwont to yield,
Fell with their martial king, and (glorious boast!)
Gain'd proud renown where Scotia's fame was lost.
Between red ezlar banks, that frightful scowl,
Fring'd with gray hazel, roars the mining Roull;
Where Turnbulls once, a race no power could awe,
Lin'd the rough skirts of stormy Ruberslaw.
Bold was the chief, from whom their line they drew,
Whose nervous arm the furious bison slew;
The bison, fiercest race of Scotia's breed,
Whose bounding course outstripp'd the red deer's speed.
By hunters chaf'd, encircled on the plain,
He frowning shook his yellow lion-mane,
Spurn'd with black hoof in bursting rage the ground,
And fiercely toss'd his moony horns around.
On Scotia's lord he rush'd with lightning speed,
Bent his strong neck, to toss the startled steed;
His arms robust the hardy hunter flung
Around his bending horns, and upward wrung,
With writhing force his neck retorted round,
And roll'd the panting monster on the ground,
Crush'd with enormous strength his bony skull;
And courtiers hail'd the man who turn'd the bull.
Fring'd with gray hazel, roars the mining Roull;
Where Turnbulls once, a race no power could awe,
Lin'd the rough skirts of stormy Ruberslaw.
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Whose nervous arm the furious bison slew;
The bison, fiercest race of Scotia's breed,
Whose bounding course outstripp'd the red deer's speed.
By hunters chaf'd, encircled on the plain,
He frowning shook his yellow lion-mane,
Spurn'd with black hoof in bursting rage the ground,
And fiercely toss'd his moony horns around.
On Scotia's lord he rush'd with lightning speed,
Bent his strong neck, to toss the startled steed;
His arms robust the hardy hunter flung
Around his bending horns, and upward wrung,
With writhing force his neck retorted round,
And roll'd the panting monster on the ground,
Crush'd with enormous strength his bony skull;
And courtiers hail'd the man who turn'd the bull.
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How wild and harsh the moorland music floats,
When clamorous curlews scream with long-drawn notes,
Or, faint and piteous, wailing plovers pipe,
Or, loud and louder still, the soaring snipe!
And here the lonely lapwing whoops along,
That piercing shrieks her still-repeated song,
Flaps her blue wing, displays her pointed crest,
And cowering lures the peasant from her nest.
But if where all her dappled treasure lies
He bend his steps, no more she round him flies;
Forlorn, despairing of a mother's skill,
Silent and sad, she seeks the distant hill.
When clamorous curlews scream with long-drawn notes,
Or, faint and piteous, wailing plovers pipe,
Or, loud and louder still, the soaring snipe!
And here the lonely lapwing whoops along,
That piercing shrieks her still-repeated song,
Flaps her blue wing, displays her pointed crest,
And cowering lures the peasant from her nest.
But if where all her dappled treasure lies
He bend his steps, no more she round him flies;
Forlorn, despairing of a mother's skill,
Silent and sad, she seeks the distant hill.
The tiny heath-flowers now begin to blow;
The russet moor assumes a richer glow;
The powdery bells, that glance in purple bloom,
Fling from their scented cups a sweet perfume;
While from their cells, still moist with morning dew,
The wandering wild bee sips the honied glue:
In wider circle wakes the liquid hum,
And far remote the mingled murmurs come.
The russet moor assumes a richer glow;
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Fling from their scented cups a sweet perfume;
While from their cells, still moist with morning dew,
The wandering wild bee sips the honied glue:
In wider circle wakes the liquid hum,
And far remote the mingled murmurs come.
Where, panting, in his chequer'd plaid involv'd,
At noon the listless shepherd lies dissolv'd,
Mid yellow crow-bells, on the riv'let's banks,
Where knotted rushes twist in matted ranks,
The breeze, that trembles through the whistling bent,
Sings in his placid ear of sweet content,
And wanton blows with eddies whirling weak
His yellow hair across his ruddy cheek.
His is the lulling music of the rills,
Where, drop by drop, the scanty current spills
Its waters o'er the shelves that wind across,
Or filters through the yellow, hairy moss.
'Tis his, recumbent by the well-spring clear,
When leaves are broad, and oats are in the ear,
And marbled clouds contract the arch on high,
To read the changes of the flecker'd sky;
What bodes the fiery drake at sultry noon;
What rains or winds attend the changing moon,
When circles round her disk of yellowish hue
Portentous close, while yet her horns are new;
Or, when the evening sky looks mild and gray,
If crimson tints shall streak the opening day.
Such is the science to the peasant dear,
Which guides his labour through the varied year;
While he, ambitious mid his brother swains
To shine, the pride and wonder of the plains,
Can in the pimpernel's red-tinted flowers,
As close their petals, read the measur'd hours,
Or tell, as short or tall his shadow falls,
How clicks the clock within the manse's walls.
At noon the listless shepherd lies dissolv'd,
Mid yellow crow-bells, on the riv'let's banks,
Where knotted rushes twist in matted ranks,
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Sings in his placid ear of sweet content,
And wanton blows with eddies whirling weak
His yellow hair across his ruddy cheek.
His is the lulling music of the rills,
Where, drop by drop, the scanty current spills
Its waters o'er the shelves that wind across,
Or filters through the yellow, hairy moss.
'Tis his, recumbent by the well-spring clear,
When leaves are broad, and oats are in the ear,
And marbled clouds contract the arch on high,
To read the changes of the flecker'd sky;
What bodes the fiery drake at sultry noon;
What rains or winds attend the changing moon,
When circles round her disk of yellowish hue
Portentous close, while yet her horns are new;
Or, when the evening sky looks mild and gray,
If crimson tints shall streak the opening day.
Such is the science to the peasant dear,
Which guides his labour through the varied year;
While he, ambitious mid his brother swains
To shine, the pride and wonder of the plains,
Can in the pimpernel's red-tinted flowers,
As close their petals, read the measur'd hours,
Or tell, as short or tall his shadow falls,
How clicks the clock within the manse's walls.
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Though with the rose's flaring crimson dye
The heath-flower's modest blossom ne'er can vie,
Nor to the bland caresses of the gale
Of morn, like her, expand the purple veil,
The swain, who mid her fragrance finds repose,
Prefers her tresses to the gaudy rose,
And bids the wild bee, her companion, come
To sooth his slumbers with her airy hum.
The heath-flower's modest blossom ne'er can vie,
Nor to the bland caresses of the gale
Of morn, like her, expand the purple veil,
The swain, who mid her fragrance finds repose,
Prefers her tresses to the gaudy rose,
And bids the wild bee, her companion, come
To sooth his slumbers with her airy hum.
Sweet, modest flower, in lonely deserts dun
Retiring still for converse with the sun,
Whose sweets invite the soaring lark to stoop,
And from thy cells the honied dew-bell scoop,
Though unobtrusive all thy beauties shine,
Yet boast, thou rival of the purpling vine!
For once thy mantling juice was seen to laugh
In pearly cups, which monarchs lov'd to quaff;
And frequent wake the wild inspired lay,
On Teviot's hills, beneath the Pictish sway.
Retiring still for converse with the sun,
Whose sweets invite the soaring lark to stoop,
And from thy cells the honied dew-bell scoop,
Though unobtrusive all thy beauties shine,
Yet boast, thou rival of the purpling vine!
For once thy mantling juice was seen to laugh
In pearly cups, which monarchs lov'd to quaff;
And frequent wake the wild inspired lay,
On Teviot's hills, beneath the Pictish sway.
When clover-fields have lost their tints of green,
And beans are full, and leaves are blanch'd and lean,
And winter's piercing breath prepares to drain
The thin green blood from every poplar's vein,
How grand the scene yon russet down displays,
While far the withering heaths with moor-burn blaze!
The pillar'd smoke ascends with ashen gleam;
Aloft in air the arching flashes stream;
With rushing, crackling noise the flames aspire,
And roll one deluge of devouring fire;
The timid flocks shrink from the smoky heat,
Their pasture leave, and in confusion bleat,
With curious look the flaming billows scan,
As whirling gales the red combustion fan.
And beans are full, and leaves are blanch'd and lean,
And winter's piercing breath prepares to drain
The thin green blood from every poplar's vein,
How grand the scene yon russet down displays,
While far the withering heaths with moor-burn blaze!
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Aloft in air the arching flashes stream;
With rushing, crackling noise the flames aspire,
And roll one deluge of devouring fire;
The timid flocks shrink from the smoky heat,
Their pasture leave, and in confusion bleat,
With curious look the flaming billows scan,
As whirling gales the red combustion fan.
So, when the storms through Indian forests rave,
And bend the pliant canes in curling wave,
Grind their silicious joints with ceaseless ire,
Till bright emerge the ruby seeds of fire,
A brazen light bedims the burning sky,
And shuts each shrinking star's refulgent eye;
The forest roars, where crimson surges play,
And flash through lurid night infernal day;
Floats far and loud the hoarse, discordant yell
Of ravening pards, which harmless crowd the dell
While boa-snakes to wet savannahs trail
Awkward a lingering, lazy length of tail;
The barbarous tiger whets his fangs no more,
To lap with torturing pause his victim's gore;
Curb'd of their rage, hyenas gaunt are tame,
And shrink, begirt with all-devouring flame.
And bend the pliant canes in curling wave,
Grind their silicious joints with ceaseless ire,
Till bright emerge the ruby seeds of fire,
A brazen light bedims the burning sky,
And shuts each shrinking star's refulgent eye;
The forest roars, where crimson surges play,
And flash through lurid night infernal day;
Floats far and loud the hoarse, discordant yell
Of ravening pards, which harmless crowd the dell
While boa-snakes to wet savannahs trail
Awkward a lingering, lazy length of tail;
The barbarous tiger whets his fangs no more,
To lap with torturing pause his victim's gore;
Curb'd of their rage, hyenas gaunt are tame,
And shrink, begirt with all-devouring flame.
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But far remote, ye careful shepherds, lead
Your wanton flocks to pasture on the mead,
While from the flame the bladed grass is young,
Nor crop the slender spikes that scarce have sprung;
Else, your brown heaths to sterile wastes you doom,
While frisking lambs regret the heath-flower's bloom!
And ah! when smiles the day, and fields are fair,
Let the black smoke ne'er clog the burthen'd air!
Or soon, too soon, the transient smile shall fly,
And chilling mildews ripen in the sky,
The heartless flocks shrink shivering from the cold,
Reject the fields, and linger in the fold.
Your wanton flocks to pasture on the mead,
While from the flame the bladed grass is young,
Nor crop the slender spikes that scarce have sprung;
Else, your brown heaths to sterile wastes you doom,
While frisking lambs regret the heath-flower's bloom!
And ah! when smiles the day, and fields are fair,
Let the black smoke ne'er clog the burthen'd air!
Or soon, too soon, the transient smile shall fly,
And chilling mildews ripen in the sky,
The heartless flocks shrink shivering from the cold,
Reject the fields, and linger in the fold.
Lo! in the vales, where wandering riv'lets run,
The fleecy mists shine gilded in the sun,
Spread their loose folds, till now the lagging gale
Unfurls no more its lightly skimming sail,
But through the hoary flakes, that fall like snow,
Gleams in ethereal hue the watery bow.
'Tis ancient Silence, rob'd in thistle-down,
Whose snowy locks its fairy circles crown;
His vesture moves not, as he hovers lone,
While curling fogs compose his airy throne;
Serenely still, self-pois'd, he rests on high,
And soothes each infant breeze that fans the sky.
The mists ascend;—the mountains scarce are free,
Like islands floating in a billowy sea;
While on their chalky summits glimmering dance
The sun's last rays across the gray expanse:
As sink the hills in waves that round them grow,
The hoary surges scale the cliff's tall brow;
The fleecy billows o'er its head are hurl'd,
As ocean once embrac'd the prostrate world.
The fleecy mists shine gilded in the sun,
Spread their loose folds, till now the lagging gale
Unfurls no more its lightly skimming sail,
But through the hoary flakes, that fall like snow,
Gleams in ethereal hue the watery bow.
'Tis ancient Silence, rob'd in thistle-down,
Whose snowy locks its fairy circles crown;
His vesture moves not, as he hovers lone,
While curling fogs compose his airy throne;
Serenely still, self-pois'd, he rests on high,
And soothes each infant breeze that fans the sky.
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Like islands floating in a billowy sea;
While on their chalky summits glimmering dance
The sun's last rays across the gray expanse:
As sink the hills in waves that round them grow,
The hoary surges scale the cliff's tall brow;
The fleecy billows o'er its head are hurl'd,
As ocean once embrac'd the prostrate world.
So, round Caffraria's cape the polar storm
Collects black spiry clouds of dragon form:
Flash livid lightnings o'er the blackening deep,
Whose mountain-waves in silent horror sleep;
The sanguine sun, again emerging bright,
Darts through the clouds long watery lines of light;
The deep, congeal'd to lead, now heaves again,
While foamy surges furrow all the main;
Broad shallows whiten in tremendous row;
Deep gurgling murmurs echo from below;
And o'er each coral reef the billows come and go.
Collects black spiry clouds of dragon form:
Flash livid lightnings o'er the blackening deep,
Whose mountain-waves in silent horror sleep;
The sanguine sun, again emerging bright,
Darts through the clouds long watery lines of light;
The deep, congeal'd to lead, now heaves again,
While foamy surges furrow all the main;
Broad shallows whiten in tremendous row;
Deep gurgling murmurs echo from below;
And o'er each coral reef the billows come and go.
Oft have I wander'd in my vernal years
Where Ruberslaw his misty summit rears,
And, as the fleecy surges clos'd amain,
To gain the top have trac'd that shelving lane,
Where every shallow stripe of level green,
That winding runs the shatter'd crags between,
Is rudely notch'd across the grassy rind
In awkward letters by the rural hind.
When fond and faithful swains assemble gay,
To meet their loves on rural holiday,
The trace of each obscure, decaying name
Of some fond pair records the secret flame.
And here the village-maiden bends her way,
When vows are broke, and fading charms decay,
Sings her soft sorrow to the mountain gale,
And weeps, that love's delusions e'er should fail.
Here too the youthful widow comes, to clear
From weeds a name to fond affection dear:
She pares the sod, with bursting heart, and cries,
“The hand, that trac'd it, in the cold grave lies!”—
Where Ruberslaw his misty summit rears,
And, as the fleecy surges clos'd amain,
To gain the top have trac'd that shelving lane,
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That winding runs the shatter'd crags between,
Is rudely notch'd across the grassy rind
In awkward letters by the rural hind.
When fond and faithful swains assemble gay,
To meet their loves on rural holiday,
The trace of each obscure, decaying name
Of some fond pair records the secret flame.
And here the village-maiden bends her way,
When vows are broke, and fading charms decay,
Sings her soft sorrow to the mountain gale,
And weeps, that love's delusions e'er should fail.
Here too the youthful widow comes, to clear
From weeds a name to fond affection dear:
She pares the sod, with bursting heart, and cries,
“The hand, that trac'd it, in the cold grave lies!”—
Ah! dear Aurelia! when this arm shall guide
Thy twilight steps no more by Teviot's side,
When I to pine in eastern realms have gone,
And years have pass'd, and thou remain'st alone,
Wilt thou, still partial to thy youthful flame,
Regard the turf where first I carv'd thy name,
And think thy wanderer, far beyond the sea,
False to his heart, was ever true to thee?
Why bend, so sad, that kind, regretful view,
As every moment were my last adieu?
Ah! spare that tearful look, 'tis death to see,
Nor break the tortur'd heart that bleeds for thee!
That snowy cheek, that moist and gelid brow,
Those quivering lips, that breathe the unfinish'd vow,
These eyes, that still with dimming tears o'erflow,
Will haunt me, when thou canst not see my woe.
Not yet, with fond but self-accusing pain,
Mine eyes reverted linger o'er the main;
But, sad, as he that dies in early spring,
When flowers begin to blow, and larks to sing,
When nature's joy a moment warms his heart,
And makes it doubly hard with life to part,
I hear the whispers of the dancing gale,
And fearful listen for the flapping sail,
Seek in these natal shades a short relief,
And steal a pleasure from maturing grief.
Thy twilight steps no more by Teviot's side,
When I to pine in eastern realms have gone,
And years have pass'd, and thou remain'st alone,
Wilt thou, still partial to thy youthful flame,
Regard the turf where first I carv'd thy name,
And think thy wanderer, far beyond the sea,
False to his heart, was ever true to thee?
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As every moment were my last adieu?
Ah! spare that tearful look, 'tis death to see,
Nor break the tortur'd heart that bleeds for thee!
That snowy cheek, that moist and gelid brow,
Those quivering lips, that breathe the unfinish'd vow,
These eyes, that still with dimming tears o'erflow,
Will haunt me, when thou canst not see my woe.
Not yet, with fond but self-accusing pain,
Mine eyes reverted linger o'er the main;
But, sad, as he that dies in early spring,
When flowers begin to blow, and larks to sing,
When nature's joy a moment warms his heart,
And makes it doubly hard with life to part,
I hear the whispers of the dancing gale,
And fearful listen for the flapping sail,
Seek in these natal shades a short relief,
And steal a pleasure from maturing grief.
Yes! in these shades, this fond, adoring mind
Had hop'd in thee a dearer self to find,
Still from thy form some lurking grace to glean,
And wonder it so long remain'd unseen;
Hop'd, those seducing graces might impart
Their native sweetness to this sterner heart,
While those dear eyes, in pearly light that shine,
Fond thought! should borrow manlier beams from mine.
Ah! fruitless hope of bliss, that ne'er shall be!
Shall but this lonely heart survive to me?
No! in the temple of my purer mind
Thine imag'd form shall ever live enshrin'd,
And hear the vows, to first affection due,
Still breath'd—for love that ceases ne'er was true.
Had hop'd in thee a dearer self to find,
Still from thy form some lurking grace to glean,
And wonder it so long remain'd unseen;
Hop'd, those seducing graces might impart
Their native sweetness to this sterner heart,
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Fond thought! should borrow manlier beams from mine.
Ah! fruitless hope of bliss, that ne'er shall be!
Shall but this lonely heart survive to me?
No! in the temple of my purer mind
Thine imag'd form shall ever live enshrin'd,
And hear the vows, to first affection due,
Still breath'd—for love that ceases ne'er was true.
| The Poetical Remains of the late Dr. John Leyden | |