The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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EPISTLE TO MR. ANDREW CLARK. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
EPISTLE TO MR. ANDREW CLARK.
‘A small town in Fifeshire, where our Scots Kings used sometimes to reside.’ On line 49th, ‘Lowmon' Hill,’ he has the following:—A huge mountain that rises near Falkland.
Faulkland, October—
From that same spot where once a palace stood,—
Now hanging drear, in tott'ring fragments rude;
While thro' the roofless walls the weather howls,
The haunt of pigeons and of lonely owls,—
These lines receive—for hark! the lashing rain,
In streaming torrents pours along the plain:
Yet, snugly here I sit, with quiet blest,
While my poor pack sits perching on a chest.
Now hanging drear, in tott'ring fragments rude;
While thro' the roofless walls the weather howls,
The haunt of pigeons and of lonely owls,—
These lines receive—for hark! the lashing rain,
In streaming torrents pours along the plain:
Yet, snugly here I sit, with quiet blest,
While my poor pack sits perching on a chest.
To him whose soul on Fancy's heights ne'er soar'd,
How painful solitude, and how abhorr'd!
Time tardy steals; we curse the lazy sage,
And ling'ring moments lengthen to an age.
How painful solitude, and how abhorr'd!
Time tardy steals; we curse the lazy sage,
And ling'ring moments lengthen to an age.
Not so with him on whom the Muses smile;
Each hour they sweeten, and each care beguile;
Yet scorn to visit, or ev'n once be kind,
While bustling bus'ness jostles through the mind;
But, when retir'd from noise, he lonely roves,
Through flow'ry banks or solitary groves;
Leans on the velvet turf, explores a book,
Or eyes the bubbling of the ceaseless brook;
The Muse descends, and swells his throbbing breast,
To joys, to raptures, ne'er to be exprest.
Each hour they sweeten, and each care beguile;
Yet scorn to visit, or ev'n once be kind,
While bustling bus'ness jostles through the mind;
But, when retir'd from noise, he lonely roves,
Through flow'ry banks or solitary groves;
Leans on the velvet turf, explores a book,
Or eyes the bubbling of the ceaseless brook;
The Muse descends, and swells his throbbing breast,
To joys, to raptures, ne'er to be exprest.
Curst is the wretch whom cruel fate removes
Far from his native, and the few he loves;
Who, ever-pensive, ponders on the past,
And shrinks and trembles at Misfortune's blast;
His is the fate that ev'n infernals share:
Pain, without hope, and mis'ry and despair.
Far from his native, and the few he loves;
Who, ever-pensive, ponders on the past,
And shrinks and trembles at Misfortune's blast;
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Pain, without hope, and mis'ry and despair.
There was a time (no distant date I own)
When such my fate was, and my ev'ry groan:
When struggling hard for base unlasting pelf,
I stabb'd, I tortur'd, and I rack'd myself.
When such my fate was, and my ev'ry groan:
When struggling hard for base unlasting pelf,
I stabb'd, I tortur'd, and I rack'd myself.
And what, I pray, did all these sighs avail,
For ever hapless, and for ever pale?
Inglorious period! Heavens, it fires my soul,
When such reflections through my bosom roll;
To hang the head with sorrow and remorse,
From one poor evil raising thousands worse.
For ever hapless, and for ever pale?
Inglorious period! Heavens, it fires my soul,
When such reflections through my bosom roll;
To hang the head with sorrow and remorse,
From one poor evil raising thousands worse.
That grief involves us in unnumbered ills,
That with our courage, all our success fails,
That Heaven abhors and show'rs with fury dread
Tormenting ills on the repiner's head,
You'll freely own;—but list while I relate
A short adventure of a wretch's fate:
A wretch whom Fortune long has held in pain,
And, whose each hour some black misfortunes stain.
That with our courage, all our success fails,
That Heaven abhors and show'rs with fury dread
Tormenting ills on the repiner's head,
You'll freely own;—but list while I relate
A short adventure of a wretch's fate:
A wretch whom Fortune long has held in pain,
And, whose each hour some black misfortunes stain.
'Twas when the fields were swept of autumn's store,
And growling winds the fading foliage tore,
Behind the Lowmon' hill, the short-liv'd light,
Descending slowly, usher'd in the night:
When from the noisy town, with mournful look,
His lonely way a meagre pedlar took.
Deep were his frequent sighs, careless his pace,
And oft the tear stole down his cheerless face;
Beneath a load of silks and sorrows bent,
Nor knew, nor wish'd to know, the road he went;
Nor car'd the coming night, or stormy air,
For all his soul was welt'ring in despair.
And growling winds the fading foliage tore,
Behind the Lowmon' hill, the short-liv'd light,
Descending slowly, usher'd in the night:
When from the noisy town, with mournful look,
His lonely way a meagre pedlar took.
Deep were his frequent sighs, careless his pace,
And oft the tear stole down his cheerless face;
Beneath a load of silks and sorrows bent,
Nor knew, nor wish'd to know, the road he went;
Nor car'd the coming night, or stormy air,
For all his soul was welt'ring in despair.
Dark fell the night, a grim, increasing gloom,
Dark as the horrors of his fancied doom;
And nought was seen, and nought was heard around,
But lightning's gleams and thunder's roar profound;
Swell'd by the wind that howl'd along the plain,
Fierce rattling hail and unrelenting rain;—
While from dark thickets issued as he past,
Wild groans of branches bending from the blast.—
Deep sunk his steps beneath the pressing load,
As down the rough declivity he trod,
And gain'd the unknown vale; there, all distrest,
Prone on the road himself he cursing cast.
And while the north in ceaseless rigour blew,
And lightning mingling with the tempest flew,
Amid the dismal gloom he raging spurn'd
His miry load, and thus his mis'ry mourn'd:
‘O mighty Heavens! and am I forced to bear
The scourge of fate, eternally severe?
On me alone shall all thy fury roar?
Shall this determin'd vengeance ne'er be o'er?
Wretch that I am! while ev'ry village hind,
Sits in soft peace or downy sleep reclin'd,
Here, hopeless here, in grim despair I lie,
Lash'd by the fierce, the growling midnight sky;
Far from the reach of any human aid,
Here, sunk in clay, my shivering limbs are laid;
And here my cares for ever will I close,
This night shall finish my long train of woes;
And some lone trav'ller, struck with dread remorse,
Start at the sight of my pale stiffen'd cor'se.’
So said, he stretch'd him in the plashy clay,
Clos'd his fix'd eyes, and bade adieu to day.
Dark as the horrors of his fancied doom;
And nought was seen, and nought was heard around,
But lightning's gleams and thunder's roar profound;
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Fierce rattling hail and unrelenting rain;—
While from dark thickets issued as he past,
Wild groans of branches bending from the blast.—
Deep sunk his steps beneath the pressing load,
As down the rough declivity he trod,
And gain'd the unknown vale; there, all distrest,
Prone on the road himself he cursing cast.
And while the north in ceaseless rigour blew,
And lightning mingling with the tempest flew,
Amid the dismal gloom he raging spurn'd
His miry load, and thus his mis'ry mourn'd:
‘O mighty Heavens! and am I forced to bear
The scourge of fate, eternally severe?
On me alone shall all thy fury roar?
Shall this determin'd vengeance ne'er be o'er?
Wretch that I am! while ev'ry village hind,
Sits in soft peace or downy sleep reclin'd,
Here, hopeless here, in grim despair I lie,
Lash'd by the fierce, the growling midnight sky;
Far from the reach of any human aid,
Here, sunk in clay, my shivering limbs are laid;
And here my cares for ever will I close,
This night shall finish my long train of woes;
And some lone trav'ller, struck with dread remorse,
Start at the sight of my pale stiffen'd cor'se.’
So said, he stretch'd him in the plashy clay,
Clos'd his fix'd eyes, and bade adieu to day.
‘And dy'd he?’ No! Fate curs'd him still with breath,
And ev'n withheld that gloomy blessing, death.
He groan'd, and thrice, in agonizing strife,
Unlock'd his eyes, but found he still had life.
Meantime along the road, in swift approach,
Sudden advanc'd a furious rattling coach:
The neighing steeds before the lashing whip,
Loud clattering, flew adown the rapid steep:
Our hero heard, and starting all aghast,
Aside, himself and trailing budget cast,
While harsh, the huge machine shot loud re-thundering past.
And ev'n withheld that gloomy blessing, death.
He groan'd, and thrice, in agonizing strife,
Unlock'd his eyes, but found he still had life.
Meantime along the road, in swift approach,
Sudden advanc'd a furious rattling coach:
The neighing steeds before the lashing whip,
Loud clattering, flew adown the rapid steep:
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Aside, himself and trailing budget cast,
While harsh, the huge machine shot loud re-thundering past.
Then raising up his load, in sullen state,
Resolved no more to curse resisting Fate;
A distant light appear'd from some lone cot,
And thither joy'd, his way he plodding sought;
Was kindly welcom'd to their lonely fare,
Hung o'er the hearth, and talk'd away his care.
Resolved no more to curse resisting Fate;
A distant light appear'd from some lone cot,
And thither joy'd, his way he plodding sought;
Was kindly welcom'd to their lonely fare,
Hung o'er the hearth, and talk'd away his care.
From this, my friend, one maxim you may glean,
Ne'er of misfortunes grudgingly complain;
Boldly to struggle, shows a courage bright,
For none but cowards sink beneath the weight;
And those who gain fame, fortune, or the fair,
Rise o'er despondence, and contemn despair.
Ne'er of misfortunes grudgingly complain;
Boldly to struggle, shows a courage bright,
For none but cowards sink beneath the weight;
And those who gain fame, fortune, or the fair,
Rise o'er despondence, and contemn despair.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |