Records and Other Poems By the late Robert Leighton |
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THE GORSY GLEN. |
Records and Other Poems | ||
180
THE GORSY GLEN.
Between Loch-Foyle and Greenan's ancient fort,
From Derry's famous walls a little way,
There dreams a gorsy glen, in whose lone heart
I mused a Sabbath day.
From Derry's famous walls a little way,
There dreams a gorsy glen, in whose lone heart
I mused a Sabbath day.
A nameless glen, one mass of yellow gorse,
That hides the sparkle of a trotting burn,
Save where in dimpling pools it stays its force,
Or takes a rocky turn.
That hides the sparkle of a trotting burn,
Save where in dimpling pools it stays its force,
Or takes a rocky turn.
The sandy linnet sang, the tiny wren
Pour'd in the burn its tiny melodies.
The air was honey-laden, and the glen
All murmurous with bees.
Pour'd in the burn its tiny melodies.
The air was honey-laden, and the glen
All murmurous with bees.
A straggling crow, upon its woodward way,
Might start an echo with its rusty croak;
But all around the quiet Sabbath lay,
Hush'd from the week-day yoke.
Might start an echo with its rusty croak;
But all around the quiet Sabbath lay,
Hush'd from the week-day yoke.
Near, yet all hidden from, the ways of men,
No foot into my sanctuary stole;
I wander'd with my shadow in the glen—
The only living soul.
No foot into my sanctuary stole;
I wander'd with my shadow in the glen—
The only living soul.
181
Yet, many more were in the glen, 'twould seem:
I heard, or thought I heard, their whisper'd words,
And knew 'twas not the bees, the babbling stream,
Or carol of the birds.
I heard, or thought I heard, their whisper'd words,
And knew 'twas not the bees, the babbling stream,
Or carol of the birds.
And sometimes through the sunniest gleams of day
There pass'd a light intenser than the gleam—
A living soul without its grosser clay?
Or but my waking dream?
There pass'd a light intenser than the gleam—
A living soul without its grosser clay?
Or but my waking dream?
Who knows? who knows? The dream to-day is found
A verity to-morrow. Things have been
For ever with us in our daily round,
Though now but newly seen.
A verity to-morrow. Things have been
For ever with us in our daily round,
Though now but newly seen.
Ah! could we by a purer life refine
The veil that keeps the inward from our ken,
No lonely fellowship had then been mine
Within the gorsy glen.
The veil that keeps the inward from our ken,
No lonely fellowship had then been mine
Within the gorsy glen.
Records and Other Poems | ||