The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
By mountain sheer, and column tall,
How solemn was that evening fall!
The air was calm, the stars were bright,
The hoar-frost flightered down the night;
But oft the listening groups stood still,
For spirits talked along the hill.
The fairy tribes had gone to won
In southland climes beneath the sun;
By shady woods, and waters sheen,
And vales of everlasting green,
To sing of Scotia's woodlands wild,
Where human face had never smiled.
The ghost had left the haunted yew,
The wayward bogle fled the clough,
The darksome pool of crisp and foam
Was now no more the kelpie's home:
But Polar spirits sure had spread
O'er hills which native fays had fled;
For all along, from cliff and tree,
On Arthur's Hill, and Salisbury,
Came voices floating down the air
From viewless shades that lingered there:
The words were fraught with mystery;
Voices of men they could not be.
Youths turned their faces to the sky,
With beating heart, and bended eye;
Old chieftains walked with hastened tread
Loath that their hearts should bow to dread:
They feared the spirits of the hill
To sinful Scotland boded ill.
How solemn was that evening fall!
The air was calm, the stars were bright,
The hoar-frost flightered down the night;
But oft the listening groups stood still,
For spirits talked along the hill.
The fairy tribes had gone to won
In southland climes beneath the sun;
By shady woods, and waters sheen,
And vales of everlasting green,
To sing of Scotia's woodlands wild,
Where human face had never smiled.
The ghost had left the haunted yew,
The wayward bogle fled the clough,
The darksome pool of crisp and foam
Was now no more the kelpie's home:
But Polar spirits sure had spread
O'er hills which native fays had fled;
37
On Arthur's Hill, and Salisbury,
Came voices floating down the air
From viewless shades that lingered there:
The words were fraught with mystery;
Voices of men they could not be.
Youths turned their faces to the sky,
With beating heart, and bended eye;
Old chieftains walked with hastened tread
Loath that their hearts should bow to dread:
They feared the spirits of the hill
To sinful Scotland boded ill.
The echoes of evening, which are occasioned by the voices or mirth of different parties not aware of each other, have a curious and striking effect. I have known some country people terrified almost out of their senses at hearing voices and laughter among the cliffs, where they knew it impossible for human being to reach. Some of the echoes around Edinburgh are extremely grand; what would they then be were the hills covered with wood? I have witnessed nothing more romantic than from a situation behind the Pleasance, where all the noises of the city are completely hushed, to hear the notes of the drum, trumpet, and bugle, poured from the cliffs of Salisbury, and the viewless cannons thundering from the rock. The effect is truly sublime.
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |