The Poetical Works of David Gray A New and Enlarged Edition; Edited by Henry Glassford Bell |
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 | Miscellaneous Poems. |
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 | The Poetical Works of David Gray |  |
97
Miscellaneous Poems.
99
A Winter Ramble.
John Frost, old Nature's jeweller, had beautified the leas,
And the lustre of his fret-work was twinkling on the trees,
As we ramble o'er the meadows in a meditative ease.
And the lustre of his fret-work was twinkling on the trees,
As we ramble o'er the meadows in a meditative ease.
We had left the town behind us for a roaming holiday,
Beneath an arc of gloom, all dark and indistinct it lay,
And the fog was wreathed about it like a robe of iron-gray.
Beneath an arc of gloom, all dark and indistinct it lay,
100
But a carpeting of leaflets, and a canopy of blue,
And the mystery of ether as the warming sunshine grew,
Sent a mellow thrill of happiness our eager spirits through.
And the mystery of ether as the warming sunshine grew,
Sent a mellow thrill of happiness our eager spirits through.
And over lanes, where Winter bluff had shook his hoary beard,
Where in the naked hedgerows the broodless nests appear'd,
And the brown leaves of the beech-tree were with silver gloss veneer'd.
Where in the naked hedgerows the broodless nests appear'd,
And the brown leaves of the beech-tree were with silver gloss veneer'd.
We wandered and we pondered till half the morn was spent,
And the red orb through the tangled boughs his cunning vigour sent,
And the valley mists all melted at his glance omnipotent.
And the red orb through the tangled boughs his cunning vigour sent,
101
Dim on a sloping hill-side, clothed in a misty pall,
Stands a turret grey and hoary, where the ancient ivies crawl,
Their Arab arms round casement, sill, and door, and mould'ring wall.
Stands a turret grey and hoary, where the ancient ivies crawl,
Their Arab arms round casement, sill, and door, and mould'ring wall.
And there we halted half-an-hour within a roofless hall,
'Neath a bower of wildest ivy hanging downwards from the wall,
Bearing in its grand luxuriance a flower funereal.
'Neath a bower of wildest ivy hanging downwards from the wall,
Bearing in its grand luxuriance a flower funereal.
There we talked of the gay plumes erst bent to pass the lintel old,
The maidens that were moved to smile at gallant wooers bold,
The jovial nights of brave carouse, the wine-cups manifold.
The maidens that were moved to smile at gallant wooers bold,
102
And all the faded glories of the mediæval time,
When the age was in its manhood, and the land was in its prime,
And manly deeds were chanted in a bold heroic rhyme.
When the age was in its manhood, and the land was in its prime,
And manly deeds were chanted in a bold heroic rhyme.
Then, plucking each a sprig, bedecked with simple yellow flower,
We scrambled sadly downwards from our old enchanted bower,
And the glory of the sunshine fell upon us like a shower.
We scrambled sadly downwards from our old enchanted bower,
And the glory of the sunshine fell upon us like a shower.
Once more beneath the concave of a clear effulgent sky,
Where flocks of cawing rooks to the mansion wavered by—
A mansion standing coldly 'mid a windy rookery,
Where flocks of cawing rooks to the mansion wavered by—
A mansion standing coldly 'mid a windy rookery,
103
And over breezy mountains, where the poacher, with his gun,
Stood lonely as a boulder-stone 'tween earth and shining sun,
We wandered and we pondered till the winter day was done.
Stood lonely as a boulder-stone 'tween earth and shining sun,
We wandered and we pondered till the winter day was done.
104
The Home-Comer.
Oh, many a leaf will fall to-night,
As she wanders through the wood!
And many an angry gust will break
The dreary solitude.
I wonder if she's past the bridge,
Where Luggie moans beneath;
While rain-drops clash in slanted lines
On rivulet and heath.
Disease hath laid his palsied palm
Upon my aching brow;
The headlong blood of twenty-one
Is thin and sluggish now.
'Tis nearly ten! A fearful night,
Without a single star
To light the shadow on her soul
With sparkle from afar:
The moon is canopied with clouds,
And her burden it is sore;—
What would wee Jackie do, if he
Should never see her more?
Aye, light the lamp, and hang it up
At the window fair and free;
'Twill be a beacon on the hill
To let your mother see.
And trim it well, my little Ann,
For the night is wet and cold,
And you know the weary, winding way
Across the miry wold.
All drenched will be her simple gown,
And the wet will reach her skin:
I wish that I could wander down,
And the red quarry win—
To take the burden from her back,
And place it upon mine;
With words of kind condolence,
To bid her not repine.
You have a kindly mother, dears,
As ever bore a child,
And heaven knows I love her well
In passion undefiled.
Ah me! I never thought that she
Would brave a night like this,
While I sat weaving by the fire
A web of phantasies.
How the winds beat this home of ours
With arrow-falls of rain;
This lonely home upon the hill
They beat with might and main.
And 'mid the tempest one lone heart
Anticipates the glow,
Whence, all her weary journey done,
Shall happy welcome flow.
'Tis after ten! Oh, were she here,
Young man altho' I be,
I could fall down upon her neck,
And weep right gushingly!
I have not loved her half enough,
The dear old toiling one,
The silent watcher by my bed,
In shadow or in sun.
As she wanders through the wood!
And many an angry gust will break
The dreary solitude.
I wonder if she's past the bridge,
Where Luggie moans beneath;
While rain-drops clash in slanted lines
On rivulet and heath.
Disease hath laid his palsied palm
Upon my aching brow;
105
Is thin and sluggish now.
'Tis nearly ten! A fearful night,
Without a single star
To light the shadow on her soul
With sparkle from afar:
The moon is canopied with clouds,
And her burden it is sore;—
What would wee Jackie do, if he
Should never see her more?
Aye, light the lamp, and hang it up
At the window fair and free;
'Twill be a beacon on the hill
To let your mother see.
And trim it well, my little Ann,
For the night is wet and cold,
And you know the weary, winding way
Across the miry wold.
All drenched will be her simple gown,
106
I wish that I could wander down,
And the red quarry win—
To take the burden from her back,
And place it upon mine;
With words of kind condolence,
To bid her not repine.
You have a kindly mother, dears,
As ever bore a child,
And heaven knows I love her well
In passion undefiled.
Ah me! I never thought that she
Would brave a night like this,
While I sat weaving by the fire
A web of phantasies.
How the winds beat this home of ours
With arrow-falls of rain;
This lonely home upon the hill
They beat with might and main.
107
Anticipates the glow,
Whence, all her weary journey done,
Shall happy welcome flow.
'Tis after ten! Oh, were she here,
Young man altho' I be,
I could fall down upon her neck,
And weep right gushingly!
I have not loved her half enough,
The dear old toiling one,
The silent watcher by my bed,
In shadow or in sun.
108
My Brown Little Brother of Three.
“Happy child!
Thou art so exquisitely wild,
I think of thee with many tears,
For what may be thy lot in future years.”
Wordsworth.
Thou art so exquisitely wild,
I think of thee with many tears,
For what may be thy lot in future years.”
Wordsworth.
The goldening peach on the orchard wall,
Soft feeding in the sun,
Hath never so downy and rosy a cheek
As this laughing little one.
The brook that murmurs and dimples alone
Through glen, and grove, and lea,
Hath never a life so merry and true
As my brown little brother of three.
109
In my mother's garden green,
A-peering at this, and a-cheering at that,
The funniest ever was seen;—
Now throwing himself in his mother's lap,
With his cheek upon her breast,
He tells his wonderful travels, forsooth!
And chatters himself to rest.
And what may become of that brother of mine,
Asleep in his mother's bosom?
Will the wee rosy bud of his being, at last
Into a wild flower blossom?
Will the hopes that are deepening as silent and fair
As the azure about his eye,
Be told in glory and motherly pride,
Or answered with a sigh?
Let the curtain rest: for, alas! 'tis told
That Mercy's hand benign
Hath woven and spun the gossamer thread
110
Then dream, dearest Jackie! thy sinless dream,
And waken as blythe and as free;
There's many a change in twenty long years,
My brown little brother of three.
111
The “Auld Aisle”—a Burying-Ground.
This is my last and farewell place on earth,
In this unlevel square of soft green-sward.
I love it well. Beneath no trailing vine,
No prairie grass, no moaning yew tree's shade,
Within no hollow hard sarcophagus,
No barrëd tomb, I hope I e'er shall lie;
But, happed with daisy-mingled grass, where oft,
On Sabbath eve, when everything is still,
And every little glen within itself
Is heard to chaunt its masses o'er the sun,
Already shrouded with his blood-stained robes,
Some mindful ones will drop a ready tear
To nurture a white daisy, and will breathe
A gushing prayer of sighs to him below.
I shall not feel their footsteps over me;
I shall not hear their long-known voices speak;
For I'll be dead. Oh! dead! and yet why weep?
Oh! earthly hearts are weak to think of death!
And 'tis a cutting thought to see our hopes
All shivered like a bunch of autumn leaves,
And sunset games, and love—delightful love—
All buried in a grave. Yet it must come.
In this unlevel square of soft green-sward.
I love it well. Beneath no trailing vine,
No prairie grass, no moaning yew tree's shade,
Within no hollow hard sarcophagus,
No barrëd tomb, I hope I e'er shall lie;
But, happed with daisy-mingled grass, where oft,
On Sabbath eve, when everything is still,
And every little glen within itself
Is heard to chaunt its masses o'er the sun,
112
Some mindful ones will drop a ready tear
To nurture a white daisy, and will breathe
A gushing prayer of sighs to him below.
I shall not feel their footsteps over me;
I shall not hear their long-known voices speak;
For I'll be dead. Oh! dead! and yet why weep?
Oh! earthly hearts are weak to think of death!
And 'tis a cutting thought to see our hopes
All shivered like a bunch of autumn leaves,
And sunset games, and love—delightful love—
All buried in a grave. Yet it must come.
The wreck of centuries is buried here;
The very monuments are hoar with age;
The empty tower that sentinels them all
Wails when the gusts wild wander o'er the earth,
And creaks the rusty gate with careless Time.
Methinks I see the silent funeral
Wend slowly up this hill with soulless load.
Backward swings sullen the disusëd gate,
And quiet, with measured steps, they enter here,
And cross the moundy sward, amongst the stones,
To where the red clay gapes. How mournfully
Are the last rites paid to a fleshly frame!
Behold the old man with the sunken eyes
And broken heart. This was his eldest-born.
A black-eyed boy he was, and in his youth
He was his joy and hope. And of the gazed
Into his laughing face, and dreamed of times
When in his youthful strength he would him shield,
And help him to the stone before the door
In summer time, when streamlets murmured clear.
So he grew up, but scorned the homely ways
Of the grey place of his nativity.
He saw the sun rise from behind the hills,
His well-thumbed book firm clasped in his young hand.
He saw it sink within the breezy glen,
And all the birds shrink from its burning face
To shade in nests, his book firm clasped in hand.
But most he pondered over nature's book—
The bubbled rill and the green-bladed corn,
The lowly wild-flowers and the leafy trees
Alive with music. His father wondered strange,
And prouder grew of his bold quiet son,
Who spoke without restraint or lovely eye
Unto God's minister. And he would tell
At other fire-sides of his wondrous ways,
The oft-trimmed lamp when others were indrawn;
Nor did he check the working of the mind
And wearing of the flesh. He knew no harm.
So time grew older still, and he went off,
With paler face and heavier looks, to where
The sons of learning prosecute their toils.
The very monuments are hoar with age;
The empty tower that sentinels them all
Wails when the gusts wild wander o'er the earth,
And creaks the rusty gate with careless Time.
113
Wend slowly up this hill with soulless load.
Backward swings sullen the disusëd gate,
And quiet, with measured steps, they enter here,
And cross the moundy sward, amongst the stones,
To where the red clay gapes. How mournfully
Are the last rites paid to a fleshly frame!
Behold the old man with the sunken eyes
And broken heart. This was his eldest-born.
A black-eyed boy he was, and in his youth
He was his joy and hope. And of the gazed
Into his laughing face, and dreamed of times
When in his youthful strength he would him shield,
And help him to the stone before the door
In summer time, when streamlets murmured clear.
So he grew up, but scorned the homely ways
Of the grey place of his nativity.
He saw the sun rise from behind the hills,
His well-thumbed book firm clasped in his young hand.
114
And all the birds shrink from its burning face
To shade in nests, his book firm clasped in hand.
But most he pondered over nature's book—
The bubbled rill and the green-bladed corn,
The lowly wild-flowers and the leafy trees
Alive with music. His father wondered strange,
And prouder grew of his bold quiet son,
Who spoke without restraint or lovely eye
Unto God's minister. And he would tell
At other fire-sides of his wondrous ways,
The oft-trimmed lamp when others were indrawn;
Nor did he check the working of the mind
And wearing of the flesh. He knew no harm.
So time grew older still, and he went off,
With paler face and heavier looks, to where
The sons of learning prosecute their toils.
But here he pined like a transplanted flower
Borne from its native soil. No grass was here,
Where he might lie, and watch the mighty clouds
All floating in the blue. No lark was here,
In love with angels, but the place was lone
And dark and cold. No milkmaid's song was here.
Hushed when he passed upon the mountain side,
And anxious eye that gazed till he was gone.
And 'mid the throng of battling human kind,
No simple eye nor horny hand sought his,
Or voice, with homely accents, spoke relief.
All was unknown, unheeded, but his books,
Which were his very self, his only friend.
115
Where he might lie, and watch the mighty clouds
All floating in the blue. No lark was here,
In love with angels, but the place was lone
And dark and cold. No milkmaid's song was here.
Hushed when he passed upon the mountain side,
And anxious eye that gazed till he was gone.
And 'mid the throng of battling human kind,
No simple eye nor horny hand sought his,
Or voice, with homely accents, spoke relief.
All was unknown, unheeded, but his books,
Which were his very self, his only friend.
And rich he was in lore, and strong in hope,
But heaven was panting for an inmate more:
In heaven his place was vacant; as at home.
And time grew older still, and he came home
To see his father, but he ne'er went back.
His body could not hold his restless soul,
That longed, with eagle strength, to pierce the clouds,
And so it burst this yielding bond on earth,
Already, by a lengthened struggle, weak.
His father saw him die. He never left
His bedside; but with eyes that seemed as glazed,
For ever staring at the sharpened face,
He stood and stood and wept not. In that time
His son saw heaven and chided all delay.
His father knew not of the words of blame
That blest his dying breath. He seized the clay,
And clutched it desperately unto his breast.
The arms fell down, nor gave returning press.
And that crush broke the doting father's heart.
This is the grave beside that white gravestone:
Hold back the nettles while I read its lay:—
But heaven was panting for an inmate more:
In heaven his place was vacant; as at home.
And time grew older still, and he came home
To see his father, but he ne'er went back.
His body could not hold his restless soul,
116
And so it burst this yielding bond on earth,
Already, by a lengthened struggle, weak.
His father saw him die. He never left
His bedside; but with eyes that seemed as glazed,
For ever staring at the sharpened face,
He stood and stood and wept not. In that time
His son saw heaven and chided all delay.
His father knew not of the words of blame
That blest his dying breath. He seized the clay,
And clutched it desperately unto his breast.
The arms fell down, nor gave returning press.
And that crush broke the doting father's heart.
This is the grave beside that white gravestone:
Hold back the nettles while I read its lay:—
Epitaph.
Beneath me lies the rotting faded maskOf a young mind that studied heaven well;
117
But loved hope's shadow and fair virtue's dell.
He died while on the road to yonder sky,
And every one that wanders careless hee,
Tread soft, and hark! Is not time hurrying by?
Begone and pray; the Day of Judgment's near!
I have seen children playing in this place,
Have heard the voice of psalms sound plaintive here,
And sighs commingle with these strains of love,
For memory is dewy with salt tears.
Have heard the voice of psalms sound plaintive here,
And sighs commingle with these strains of love,
For memory is dewy with salt tears.
Yet some lie here unknown to all. They came
Parentless, and they died and buried were
By careless hands, that threw the wormy clods
All hastily upon the coffin lid
And then went home. Perhaps some empty chair,
Like to a last year's nest, still waits for them.
Perhaps a nightly prayer still ascends
Among the breathings of a family home,
To hasten their return. Let us away
And gather stones and place them at their heads.
Parentless, and they died and buried were
By careless hands, that threw the wormy clods
All hastily upon the coffin lid
And then went home. Perhaps some empty chair,
Like to a last year's nest, still waits for them.
Perhaps a nightly prayer still ascends
118
To hasten their return. Let us away
And gather stones and place them at their heads.
Could all the tales that wait around the graves,
Like volumes of wet sighs, be garnered up:
How hollow would each swelling heap resound.
Like volumes of wet sighs, be garnered up:
How hollow would each swelling heap resound.
Here one who died in mirth, and while the laugh,
The merry laugh of joy did paint his face,
Death frowned, and smote the smiling victim dead.
The merry laugh of joy did paint his face,
Death frowned, and smote the smiling victim dead.
Here one who wept to see the flushing sun
Glide reddening from his window bars, and set
To rise again, and dry the silent dew
From his damp grave.
Glide reddening from his window bars, and set
To rise again, and dry the silent dew
From his damp grave.
Here one who lingered long,
And every morn the fields missed knots of flowers
Borne to his bedside. And his eyes grew wild
When the sun's withering gaze stared in upon them,
And he would press them to his fluttering heart,
And face the mighty orb, defiant-like,
As if to hurl it from the empty sky,
For daring thus to blight his darling flowers.
Poor fellow, he was mad.
And every morn the fields missed knots of flowers
119
When the sun's withering gaze stared in upon them,
And he would press them to his fluttering heart,
And face the mighty orb, defiant-like,
As if to hurl it from the empty sky,
For daring thus to blight his darling flowers.
Poor fellow, he was mad.
May God forbid
That clownish foot should crush the gentle clay,
Or break the daisy stalks or primrose buds,
That bloom beside the low white marble stone
In yon lone spot.
That clownish foot should crush the gentle clay,
Or break the daisy stalks or primrose buds,
That bloom beside the low white marble stone
In yon lone spot.
120
To Jeanette.
“I did hear you talk
Far above singing; after you were gone,
I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched
What stirred it so! Alas! I found it love.”
Far above singing; after you were gone,
I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched
What stirred it so! Alas! I found it love.”
I've sung of flowers in loving way,
And pluck'd them too for half a day,
And into posies wrought them, till
Orion glared above the hill:
But never, never saw I one
As fair as thee beneath the sun,
And never, never shall I know
A lovelier where'er I go.
Yet 'tis not for thy beauty, dear
Jeanette, nor yet the sunny cheer
About thy face, I love thee so!
But something of thy soul doth flow
Into my heart, and I am wild
With tender passion as a child.
And pluck'd them too for half a day,
And into posies wrought them, till
Orion glared above the hill:
But never, never saw I one
As fair as thee beneath the sun,
And never, never shall I know
A lovelier where'er I go.
121
Jeanette, nor yet the sunny cheer
About thy face, I love thee so!
But something of thy soul doth flow
Into my heart, and I am wild
With tender passion as a child.
I write thy name, and kiss it, dear
Jeanette, in most impulsive fear!
I whisper it into my heart,
And then its music makes me start
In sudden gladness. I am fain
To let the echo die again!
Thy image groweth out of air
Until, entranced, I pause and stare
Into thy dear ideal eyes—
The shadow of God's paradise.
Jeanette, in most impulsive fear!
I whisper it into my heart,
And then its music makes me start
In sudden gladness. I am fain
To let the echo die again!
Thy image groweth out of air
Until, entranced, I pause and stare
Into thy dear ideal eyes—
The shadow of God's paradise.
I am in love with thee, thou dear
Jeanette, and keep my spirit clear
For thy embrace. It cannot be
That thou wilt keep aloof from me
Like that immortal Florentine
Whom Tasso lov'd. O I would pine
Into a pale accusing dream
To haunt thy pillow, and would seem
So fond and sad, thy heart would fret
For its unkindness, good Jeanette!
122
For thy embrace. It cannot be
That thou wilt keep aloof from me
Like that immortal Florentine
Whom Tasso lov'd. O I would pine
Into a pale accusing dream
To haunt thy pillow, and would seem
So fond and sad, thy heart would fret
For its unkindness, good Jeanette!
O many a long glad summer day
I laughed at love, and deemed his sway
The tinkle of an idle tongue,
A fancy only to be sung.
But thou all-beautiful! hast more
Of this, the thrilling passion—love—
In one soft tress of plaited gold,
Than blessed Petrarch could unfold.
I love thee, dear Jeanette! I love
Thee, O how dearly! Far above
All singing is my love for thee,
Thou paradise of ecstasy!
Make me immortal with a kiss
Of earnest pressure, and all bliss
Is mine for ever, ever! Dear
Jeanette, beloved, adored in fear!
I laughed at love, and deemed his sway
The tinkle of an idle tongue,
A fancy only to be sung.
But thou all-beautiful! hast more
Of this, the thrilling passion—love—
In one soft tress of plaited gold,
Than blessed Petrarch could unfold.
123
Thee, O how dearly! Far above
All singing is my love for thee,
Thou paradise of ecstasy!
Make me immortal with a kiss
Of earnest pressure, and all bliss
Is mine for ever, ever! Dear
Jeanette, beloved, adored in fear!
124
The Poet and his friend.
I spent a day—the landmark of a life—
With one, a hero in the realms of rhyme:
Ardent, yet calm—in human wisdoms rife,
And burning to be something in his time.
Through autumn foliage by a river side,
Through glen of ivied trees and hazel dell,
Each heart by its own sunshine glorified,
We wandered wildly wise; till it befel,
Beneath a faded elm, we came upon a well.
With one, a hero in the realms of rhyme:
Ardent, yet calm—in human wisdoms rife,
And burning to be something in his time.
Through autumn foliage by a river side,
Through glen of ivied trees and hazel dell,
Each heart by its own sunshine glorified,
We wandered wildly wise; till it befel,
Beneath a faded elm, we came upon a well.
125
And, sitting by the still translucent water,
In pleasaunce sweet we quaffed the liquid cold;
Lo! as we drank, there passed a fairer daughter
Of Beauty than Fidessa. Then the old—
Yet never old, immortal song of glory,
Breathing of summer bower and emerald lea,
And fountain bubbling coldly—Spenser's story
Thrilled all our brains to living ecstasy:
Such power had maiden floating onward maidenly.
In pleasaunce sweet we quaffed the liquid cold;
Lo! as we drank, there passed a fairer daughter
Of Beauty than Fidessa. Then the old—
Yet never old, immortal song of glory,
Breathing of summer bower and emerald lea,
And fountain bubbling coldly—Spenser's story
Thrilled all our brains to living ecstasy:
Such power had maiden floating onward maidenly.
And pondered we, above that placid wave,
How we were thrown upon a colder day;
Yet, by the sword of Arthur! quite as brave,
As wondrous willing for the haughty fray
As Arthegal and Guyon. So we rose
And joined our hands in fervent heat, and swore
By old Renown's endeavours, and by those
Who battled well and won, to dream no more,
But through a sea of fears to struggle for the shore.
How we were thrown upon a colder day;
Yet, by the sword of Arthur! quite as brave,
As wondrous willing for the haughty fray
As Arthegal and Guyon. So we rose
And joined our hands in fervent heat, and swore
By old Renown's endeavours, and by those
Who battled well and won, to dream no more,
But through a sea of fears to struggle for the shore.
126
I think no good of him who takes his ease,
As pigeon-livered in the human game
As Braggadocio: on the tranquil seas
All ships sail nobly; but whoe'er is tame
To face the waves when fringed with windy spray,
Is but a coward. Let him live, then rot!
No man shall speak of him, no pilgrim lay
A twist of wild-flowers on the common spot
That marks his meagre dust—the poltroon is forgot.
As pigeon-livered in the human game
As Braggadocio: on the tranquil seas
All ships sail nobly; but whoe'er is tame
To face the waves when fringed with windy spray,
Is but a coward. Let him live, then rot!
No man shall speak of him, no pilgrim lay
A twist of wild-flowers on the common spot
That marks his meagre dust—the poltroon is forgot.
But, good friend! we shall fight. Even he who fails
In a great cause is noble. Time will show
The best and worst of it; and while it hails
Some worthy Song-kings of the long-ago,
Perhaps our names will echo with the rest,
And in no feebleness. Meantime, oh fight!
In the thick hurry of the battle press'd,
Clothed on with resolution, the soul's might—
Be Hector or Achilles!—God defend the right!
In a great cause is noble. Time will show
The best and worst of it; and while it hails
Some worthy Song-kings of the long-ago,
Perhaps our names will echo with the rest,
And in no feebleness. Meantime, oh fight!
In the thick hurry of the battle press'd,
Clothed on with resolution, the soul's might—
Be Hector or Achilles!—God defend the right!
127
The Two Streams.
O cool the summer woodsOf dear Gartshore, where bloom
Soft clouds of white anemones
Among their own perfume.
And clear the little brooklet,
Singing an endless lay,
Winding its nameless waters
Close by the white highway.
And here in sweet sensation,
And soul-uneasy swoon,
128
Hour of a summer noon.
The cushats crooned around me
Their murmuring amorous song;
And in a brooding drowsiness,
The echoes swooned along;
Till all the sweet sensations
Grew into utter pain,
And I was fain to wander
All sadly home again.
There have been brotherhoods in song,
And human friendships true;
There have been lovers unto death,
Yes, and right many too.
But never in the march of time,
And ne'er in mortal knowing,
From history or nobler rhyme,
Hath there been such constant flowing:
One from mountains far away,
129
Flowing, flowing evermore
For a delicate combining.
If upon a summer's day,
When the air is blue and bracing,
You for Merkland take your way,
Sweet uneasy fancies chasing;
You may see the famous grove—
If not famous, then most surely
Ripe for fame, which is but love—
Where they mingle most demurely.
Not in song and babbling play
Which no poet could unravel;
But in tender simple way,
On a bed of golden gravel.
Where I sit I see them now,—
Bothlin with her endless winding
From a mountain's purple brow,
Sacred contemplation finding;
130
Gleaming greenly 'neath the holly:
Youth, she says, is often blest
With a touch of melancholy.
Luggie from the orient fields
Wiser is, yet hath a beauty,
Which the snowy conscience yields
To the softened face of duty.
All she does bespeaks a grace,
Yet the grace hath that of sadness
We behold in many a face,
Where we had expected gladness.
But when Bothlin meets her there,
See the change to sudden glory!
Surely such another pair
Never met in classic story.
I could sing for half a day,
And my spirit never weary
Fashioning the vernal lay
131
But some night in leafy June,
You the place yourself may see;
When the light is in the moon,
Like the passion that's in me.
132
Evening.
The evening now is still and calm,As if sad Eloïsa's soul
Had breathed a spiritual balm
Throughout the softened whole.
Within the azure of the sky
There shineth not a single star;
But in a soft serenity
The Crescent cometh from afar.
In darker lines the firs that shade
The house of Merkland round and round,
133
No liquid notes resound:
I heard the birds this live-long day,
In sweet unwrinkled blending,
As if this merry month of May
Should never have an ending.
O could I utter thoughts that rise,
O could I sing the tender
Softness of the summer skies,
In all their virgin splendour!
O crescent Moon, like pearlëd bark
To ferry souls to glory;
O silent deepening of the dark
O'er vale and promontory!
Alas, that I should live, and be
A churl in soul, while slowly
God makes the solemn eve, and breathes
A calm thro' hearts unholy!
134
The Love-Tryst.
Seven sycamores of wondrous fairness, smooth,
And mealy green of trunk, and murmurous
In multitudinous sun-twinkling leaves,
This valley grace. Three fairer than the rest,
Which in the silent worship of my heart
I fondly call the brothers of Bridgend,
O'er cottage floors when doors are wide for heat
And often on the face of cradled child,
Throw dusky shadows. And when lenient winds
Blow motion, the cool shadows flicker, and play
Upon the floors, and glimpse the countenance
Of the sweet baby, till the mother laughs,
And bending downward, kisses. But of all
The trees that ever tufted hill or vale,
That ever took the breeze or sheltered nest,
Or rung with flowing melody of birds,
The strangest and the dearest, best and first,
Waves audibly upon a windy hill
Above the Luggie. In the front of Spring,
When the first crocus gleams among the grass,
One half shines out full-leaved, the other bare:
And when the Autumn violet hath lost
Its fragrance, and the meadow-hay is mown,
One half shines out full-leaved, the other bare.
There are two trees, whose marriageable boughs
Twine, each with each, and throw a common shade,
A chestnut and an elm. The former opes
Its oily buds whene'er the teeming south
Breathes life and warm intenerating balm,
But fades in early Autumn; while supreme
In vigorous development, the elm
Full-foliaged glimmers till October's end.
At the twin roots and facing the rich west
A summer seat is rustically carved,
A sylvan shelter from the mid-day sun:
But nor in mid-day, nor when decent eve
Gather her purples have I rested there;
But when thro' crisp and fleecy clouds the moon
O'er the soft orient sheds a milder dawn,
Then tripping up the dewy lea, with step
Light as an antelope, a maiden came,
And all her radiance in my bosom laid;
And on this seat, while high among the leaves
Rain murmured, and the glory of the moon
Was dimmed, I whispered all my passion-tale.
Ah me, ah me! her silken hair down-slid,
Her smooth comb dropt among the grass, and both
Stooped searching, and her burning cheek met mine:
And starting suddenly upward, with her face
Rosed to the beating temples, meek she gazed,
Half sad, and the blue languish of her eyes
Drooped tearful. And in madness and delight,
I with my left arm zoned her little waist,
And with my right hand smoothed the silken hair
From her fair brow, snow-cold; and, by the doves
That bill and coo in Venus' pearly car!
There was a touch of lips. Then creeping close
Into my bosom like a little thing
That was confused, she cradled pantingly.
Thus, while the rain was murmuring overhead,
And the out-passioned moon thro' vaporous gloom
Dipt queenly, whispered I my perilous tale.
Ah me, ah me! a tender answer came;
For with her softling finger-tips she touched
My hand, warm laid upon her heart, and pressed
A meek approval with averted face.
O poet-maker, darling love, sweet love,
Awakener of manhood, and the life
Of life. But let me not like talking fool
Prate all thy virgin whiteness, all thy sweet
Deliciousness, for thou art living yet!
And as the rose that opens to the sun
Its downy leaves, scents sweetest at the core,
So all thy loveliness is but the robe
That clothes a maiden chastity of soul.
And mealy green of trunk, and murmurous
In multitudinous sun-twinkling leaves,
This valley grace. Three fairer than the rest,
Which in the silent worship of my heart
I fondly call the brothers of Bridgend,
O'er cottage floors when doors are wide for heat
And often on the face of cradled child,
Throw dusky shadows. And when lenient winds
Blow motion, the cool shadows flicker, and play
Upon the floors, and glimpse the countenance
135
And bending downward, kisses. But of all
The trees that ever tufted hill or vale,
That ever took the breeze or sheltered nest,
Or rung with flowing melody of birds,
The strangest and the dearest, best and first,
Waves audibly upon a windy hill
Above the Luggie. In the front of Spring,
When the first crocus gleams among the grass,
One half shines out full-leaved, the other bare:
And when the Autumn violet hath lost
Its fragrance, and the meadow-hay is mown,
One half shines out full-leaved, the other bare.
There are two trees, whose marriageable boughs
Twine, each with each, and throw a common shade,
A chestnut and an elm. The former opes
Its oily buds whene'er the teeming south
Breathes life and warm intenerating balm,
But fades in early Autumn; while supreme
136
Full-foliaged glimmers till October's end.
At the twin roots and facing the rich west
A summer seat is rustically carved,
A sylvan shelter from the mid-day sun:
But nor in mid-day, nor when decent eve
Gather her purples have I rested there;
But when thro' crisp and fleecy clouds the moon
O'er the soft orient sheds a milder dawn,
Then tripping up the dewy lea, with step
Light as an antelope, a maiden came,
And all her radiance in my bosom laid;
And on this seat, while high among the leaves
Rain murmured, and the glory of the moon
Was dimmed, I whispered all my passion-tale.
Ah me, ah me! her silken hair down-slid,
Her smooth comb dropt among the grass, and both
Stooped searching, and her burning cheek met mine:
And starting suddenly upward, with her face
137
Half sad, and the blue languish of her eyes
Drooped tearful. And in madness and delight,
I with my left arm zoned her little waist,
And with my right hand smoothed the silken hair
From her fair brow, snow-cold; and, by the doves
That bill and coo in Venus' pearly car!
There was a touch of lips. Then creeping close
Into my bosom like a little thing
That was confused, she cradled pantingly.
Thus, while the rain was murmuring overhead,
And the out-passioned moon thro' vaporous gloom
Dipt queenly, whispered I my perilous tale.
Ah me, ah me! a tender answer came;
For with her softling finger-tips she touched
My hand, warm laid upon her heart, and pressed
A meek approval with averted face.
O poet-maker, darling love, sweet love,
Awakener of manhood, and the life
138
Prate all thy virgin whiteness, all thy sweet
Deliciousness, for thou art living yet!
And as the rose that opens to the sun
Its downy leaves, scents sweetest at the core,
So all thy loveliness is but the robe
That clothes a maiden chastity of soul.
O hasten, hasten down your azure road,
And darken all the golden zones of heaven,
Bright Sun, for I am weary for my love.
And darken all the golden zones of heaven,
Bright Sun, for I am weary for my love.
139
An Epistle to a friend.
Ah well-a-day, for human plans,
And Fancy's bright creations,
With all the purple-wingéd brood
Of young imaginations!
I've tried, this weary winter's day,
All poignant cares to banish,
By quaffing goblets, rosy-brimm'd,
Of dear poetic Rhenish.
And Fancy's bright creations,
With all the purple-wingéd brood
Of young imaginations!
I've tried, this weary winter's day,
All poignant cares to banish,
By quaffing goblets, rosy-brimm'd,
Of dear poetic Rhenish.
Not all the sweets of Castaly—
That river Heliconian,
Adorn'd with swans of queenly snow,
Of ancient brood Strymonian;
Not all the maiden Muses nine,
With tresses loosely flowing,
Could magnetise a single line,
Or set my quill a-going;
That river Heliconian,
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Of ancient brood Strymonian;
Not all the maiden Muses nine,
With tresses loosely flowing,
Could magnetise a single line,
Or set my quill a-going;
Until I thought of thee, dear friend—
Best loved, though long unheeded;
Then forth the virgin pages came,
And quick my fingers speeded.
This very hour I'll make amends,
This lonely hour quiescent,
When all the stars are in the blue,
'Mid lustre irridescent.
Best loved, though long unheeded;
Then forth the virgin pages came,
And quick my fingers speeded.
This very hour I'll make amends,
This lonely hour quiescent,
When all the stars are in the blue,
'Mid lustre irridescent.
And, from the slopes I know right well,
All shagg'd with bending thistle,
The homeless wind comes with a swell,
And enters with a whistle;
Till brightlier glows the cosy fire,
And cheerier my bosom,
In thinking on the shivering woods,
And vales without a blossom.
All shagg'd with bending thistle,
The homeless wind comes with a swell,
141
Till brightlier glows the cosy fire,
And cheerier my bosom,
In thinking on the shivering woods,
And vales without a blossom.
You know the Luggie, natal stream!—
On earth to us none dearer—
Where Lady Luna, mirror'd, burns,
With all her handmaids near her.
The time may come when haughty Fame
With laurel shall console us;
Then we shall halo it with song
Till it outflow Pactolus!
On earth to us none dearer—
Where Lady Luna, mirror'd, burns,
With all her handmaids near her.
The time may come when haughty Fame
With laurel shall console us;
Then we shall halo it with song
Till it outflow Pactolus!
The woods, the vales, the hawthorn dales,
The hoary hamlet Caurnie
Shall be of goodlier report
Than genius-hallowed Ferney.
And though I speak like boaster vain,
I speak not without thinking;
Already on thy noble brow
I see a chaplet twinkling!
The hoary hamlet Caurnie
Shall be of goodlier report
Than genius-hallowed Ferney.
142
I speak not without thinking;
Already on thy noble brow
I see a chaplet twinkling!
Heaven knows! amid the march of Time
I am a simple dreamer;
Can see more in the patient moon—
Yon radiant crescent-gleamer—
Than all the banner'd pomp of war,
Or progress politician;
Than all the mockeries of rank,
And haughtiness patrician.
I am a simple dreamer;
Can see more in the patient moon—
Yon radiant crescent-gleamer—
Than all the banner'd pomp of war,
Or progress politician;
Than all the mockeries of rank,
And haughtiness patrician.
No golden key, however bright,
Can pass the fragrant portal
Of Fame's grand temple-dome, or make
A simpleton immortal.
Then what is wealth to our desire?
(A burning tear-drop pays us)
A rushlight to the morning star,
To Homer but a Croesus.
Can pass the fragrant portal
Of Fame's grand temple-dome, or make
A simpleton immortal.
Then what is wealth to our desire?
143
A rushlight to the morning star,
To Homer but a Croesus.
Then, Willie, though a careless dog,
In brotherhood excuse me,
Nor with neglect, and haughty look,
Most wantonly abuse me.
I've suffer'd much and suffer'd long,
Dear heart! since last we ponder'd
On gentle love, within that hall
Where ancient ivies wander'd.
In brotherhood excuse me,
Nor with neglect, and haughty look,
Most wantonly abuse me.
I've suffer'd much and suffer'd long,
Dear heart! since last we ponder'd
On gentle love, within that hall
Where ancient ivies wander'd.
Nor think my love one jot the less—
Than love I sought in passion—
Because I thus have treated thee
In unpoetic fashion.
Let this suffice for evermore:
I plead a self-conviction,
And thy frank spirit never shall
Increase my sad affliction.
Than love I sought in passion—
Because I thus have treated thee
In unpoetic fashion.
Let this suffice for evermore:
I plead a self-conviction,
144
Increase my sad affliction.
Then sure I'll see thee yet again,
Before another morrow
Steals up the east—shall see thee, friend!
In a delightful sorrow.
With silent gratitude, I speak
A blessing on our meeting,
And may the light of friendship touch
Our spirits at the greeting!
Before another morrow
Steals up the east—shall see thee, friend!
In a delightful sorrow.
With silent gratitude, I speak
A blessing on our meeting,
And may the light of friendship touch
Our spirits at the greeting!
145
A Vision of Venice.
Behold! a waking vision crowns my soul
With beatific radiance, and the light
Of shining hope;—a golden-memoried dream
That clings unto my youth, as clung the strange
Leonine phantom to that mystic man,
Lean Paracelsus. It has grown with me
Like destiny, or that which seems to be
My destiny, ambition: and its glow
Inflames my fancy, as if some clear star
Had burst in silvery light within my brain.
From the smooth hyaline of that far sea
The pictured Adriatic rises, fair
As dream, a kingly-built and tower'd town;
Column and arch and architrave instinct
With delicatest beauty; overwrought
With tracery of interlacèd leaves
For ever blooming on white marble, hush'd
In everlasting summer, windless, cold:
The city of the Doges!
With beatific radiance, and the light
Of shining hope;—a golden-memoried dream
That clings unto my youth, as clung the strange
Leonine phantom to that mystic man,
Lean Paracelsus. It has grown with me
Like destiny, or that which seems to be
My destiny, ambition: and its glow
Inflames my fancy, as if some clear star
Had burst in silvery light within my brain.
From the smooth hyaline of that far sea
146
As dream, a kingly-built and tower'd town;
Column and arch and architrave instinct
With delicatest beauty; overwrought
With tracery of interlacèd leaves
For ever blooming on white marble, hush'd
In everlasting summer, windless, cold:
The city of the Doges!
From the calm
Transparent waters float some thrilling sounds
Of Amphionic music, and the words
Are Tasso's, where he passions for his love,
That lady Florentine so lily-smooth,
Clothed on with haughtiness!
Transparent waters float some thrilling sounds
Of Amphionic music, and the words
Are Tasso's, where he passions for his love,
That lady Florentine so lily-smooth,
Clothed on with haughtiness!
At the black stair
Of palace rising shadowy from the wave,
Two singing gondolieri wait a freight
Of loveliness. A tremulous woman, robed
In dazzling satin, and whose dimpled arms,
And milky heaving breasts of living snow
Shine through their veil diaphanous, floats down
From the wide portal; and the ivory prow
Of the soft-cushion'd gondola (as she
Steps lightly from the marble to her place)
Dips, rises, dips again; then through the blue
Swift glides into the sunset.
Of palace rising shadowy from the wave,
Two singing gondolieri wait a freight
147
In dazzling satin, and whose dimpled arms,
And milky heaving breasts of living snow
Shine through their veil diaphanous, floats down
From the wide portal; and the ivory prow
Of the soft-cushion'd gondola (as she
Steps lightly from the marble to her place)
Dips, rises, dips again; then through the blue
Swift glides into the sunset.
Oh, the glow
Of that rich sunset dims whate'er I see
In this my own dear valley! O'er the hills—
Those craggy Euganean hills, whose peaks
Wedge the clear crystalline—a blazonry
Of clouds pavilion'd, folded, interwound
Inextricably, load the breezeless west
With awe and glory. The effulgence gleams
Upon a vision'd Belmont, home of her
Who loved as Shakespeare's women do; and gleams
Upon those walls wherein Othello's spear
Stabb'd clinging innocence; where that poor wife,
The love-Cassandra Belvidera, gave
Her soul in martyrdom to love and woe.
Of that rich sunset dims whate'er I see
In this my own dear valley! O'er the hills—
Those craggy Euganean hills, whose peaks
Wedge the clear crystalline—a blazonry
Of clouds pavilion'd, folded, interwound
Inextricably, load the breezeless west
With awe and glory. The effulgence gleams
Upon a vision'd Belmont, home of her
Who loved as Shakespeare's women do; and gleams
148
Stabb'd clinging innocence; where that poor wife,
The love-Cassandra Belvidera, gave
Her soul in martyrdom to love and woe.
And shall I never that far town behold,
Crested with sparkling columns, fiery towers,
Praxitelean masonry?—behold
Venice, the mart of nations, ere I die?
By Heaven! her common merchants princes were
Unto the continents; her traffickers
The honourable of the earth! She stood
A crownèd city, and the fawning sea
Licked her white feet; and the eternal sun
Kissed with departing beam her brow of snow!
Crested with sparkling columns, fiery towers,
Praxitelean masonry?—behold
Venice, the mart of nations, ere I die?
By Heaven! her common merchants princes were
Unto the continents; her traffickers
The honourable of the earth! She stood
A crownèd city, and the fawning sea
Licked her white feet; and the eternal sun
Kissed with departing beam her brow of snow!
Woe to this Venice, with her crown of pride!
The Lady of the kingdoms, the perfection
Of beauty, and the joy of the whole earth!
Through her pavilions shall the crannying winds
Whistle, and all her borders in the sea
Crumble their Parian wonder. Woe to her,
Whose glorious beauty is a fading flower!
Her sober-suited nightingales, with notes
Of smooth liquidity and softened stops,
Solace the brakes; and 'mid her ancient streets
Tawny, the gleaming and harmonious sea
Makes silvery melody of bygone days.
O white Enchantment! Ocean-spouse of old!
When thy high battlements and bulging domes,
By sunset purpled, trembled in the wave!
Now o'er thy towers the Lord hath spread his hand,
And as a cottage shalt thou be removed;
Like Nineveh, or cloudy Babylon!
The Lady of the kingdoms, the perfection
Of beauty, and the joy of the whole earth!
149
Whistle, and all her borders in the sea
Crumble their Parian wonder. Woe to her,
Whose glorious beauty is a fading flower!
Her sober-suited nightingales, with notes
Of smooth liquidity and softened stops,
Solace the brakes; and 'mid her ancient streets
Tawny, the gleaming and harmonious sea
Makes silvery melody of bygone days.
O white Enchantment! Ocean-spouse of old!
When thy high battlements and bulging domes,
By sunset purpled, trembled in the wave!
Now o'er thy towers the Lord hath spread his hand,
And as a cottage shalt thou be removed;
Like Nineveh, or cloudy Babylon!
150
The Anemone.
I have wandered far to-day,
In a pleased unquiet way;
Over hill and songful hollow,
Vernal byeways, fresh and fair,
Did I simple fancies follow;
Till upon a hill-side bare,
Suddenly I chanced to see
A little white anemone.
In a pleased unquiet way;
Over hill and songful hollow,
Vernal byeways, fresh and fair,
Did I simple fancies follow;
Till upon a hill-side bare,
Suddenly I chanced to see
A little white anemone.
Beneath a clump of furze it grew;
And never mortal eye did view
Its rathe and slender beauty, till
I saw it in no mocking mood;
For with its sweetness did it fill
To me the ample solitude.
A fond remembrance made me see
Strange light in the anemone.
And never mortal eye did view
151
I saw it in no mocking mood;
For with its sweetness did it fill
To me the ample solitude.
A fond remembrance made me see
Strange light in the anemone.
One April day when I was seven,
Beneath the clear and deepening heaven,
My father, God preserve him! went
With me a Scottish mile and more;
And in a playful merriment
He deck'd my bonnet o'er and o'er—
To fling a sunshine on his ease—
With tenderest anemones.
Beneath the clear and deepening heaven,
My father, God preserve him! went
With me a Scottish mile and more;
And in a playful merriment
He deck'd my bonnet o'er and o'er—
To fling a sunshine on his ease—
With tenderest anemones.
Now, gentle reader, as I live,
This snowy little bloom did give
My being most endearing throes.
I saw my father in his prime;
But youth it comes, and youth it goes,
And he has spent his blithest time:
Yet dearer grown thro' all to me,
And dearer the anemone.
This snowy little bloom did give
My being most endearing throes.
152
But youth it comes, and youth it goes,
And he has spent his blithest time:
Yet dearer grown thro' all to me,
And dearer the anemone.
So with the spirit of a sage
I pluck'd it from its hermitage,
And placed it 'tween the sacred leaves
Of Agnes' Eve at that rare part
Where she her fragrant robe unweaves,
And with a gently beating heart,
In troubled bliss and balmy woe,
Lies down to dream of Porphyro.
I pluck'd it from its hermitage,
And placed it 'tween the sacred leaves
Of Agnes' Eve at that rare part
Where she her fragrant robe unweaves,
And with a gently beating heart,
In troubled bliss and balmy woe,
Lies down to dream of Porphyro.
Let others sing of that and this,
In war and science find their bliss;
Vainly they seek and will not find
The subtle lore that nature brings
Unto the reverential mind,
The pathos worn by common things,
By every flower that lights the lea,
And by the pale anemone.
In war and science find their bliss;
Vainly they seek and will not find
The subtle lore that nature brings
153
The pathos worn by common things,
By every flower that lights the lea,
And by the pale anemone.
154
The Yellowhammer.
In fairy glen of Woodilee,
One sunny summer morning,
I plucked a little birchen tree,
The spongy moss adorning;
And bearing it delighted home,
I planted it in garden loam,
Where, perfecting all duty,
It flowered in tassel'd beauty.
One sunny summer morning,
I plucked a little birchen tree,
The spongy moss adorning;
And bearing it delighted home,
I planted it in garden loam,
Where, perfecting all duty,
It flowered in tassel'd beauty.
When delicate April in each dell
Was silently completing
Her ministry in bud and bell,
To grace the summer's meeting;
My birchen tree of glossy rind
Determined not to be behind;
So with a subtle power
The buds began to flower.
Was silently completing
155
To grace the summer's meeting;
My birchen tree of glossy rind
Determined not to be behind;
So with a subtle power
The buds began to flower.
And I could watch from out my house
The twigs with leaflets thicken;
From glossy rind to twining boughs
The milky sap 'gan quicken.
And when the fragrant form was green
No fairer tree was to be seen,
All Gartshore woods adorning,
Where doves are always mourning.
The twigs with leaflets thicken;
From glossy rind to twining boughs
The milky sap 'gan quicken.
And when the fragrant form was green
No fairer tree was to be seen,
All Gartshore woods adorning,
Where doves are always mourning.
But never dove with liquid wing,
Or neck of changeful gleaming,
Came near my garden tree to sing
Or croodle out its meaning.
But this sweet day, an hour ago,
A yellowhammer clear and low,
In love and tender pity
Thrilled out his dainty ditty.
Or neck of changeful gleaming,
Came near my garden tree to sing
156
But this sweet day, an hour ago,
A yellowhammer clear and low,
In love and tender pity
Thrilled out his dainty ditty.
And I was pleased, as you may think,
And blessed the little singer:
`O fly for your mate to Luggie brink,
Dear little bird! and bring her;
And build your nest among the boughs,
A sweet and cosy little house
Where ye may well content ye,
Since true love is so plenty.
And blessed the little singer:
`O fly for your mate to Luggie brink,
Dear little bird! and bring her;
And build your nest among the boughs,
A sweet and cosy little house
Where ye may well content ye,
Since true love is so plenty.
And when she sits upon her nest,
Here are cool shades to shroud her.'
At this the singer sang his best,
O louder yet, and louder;
Until I shouted in my glee,
His song had so enchanted me.
No nightingale could pant on
In joy so wise and wanton.
Here are cool shades to shroud her.'
At this the singer sang his best,
O louder yet, and louder;
157
His song had so enchanted me.
No nightingale could pant on
In joy so wise and wanton.
But at my careless noise he flew,
And if he chance to bring her
A happy bride the summer thro'
'Mong birchen boughs to linger,
I'll sing to you in numbers high
A summer song that shall not die,
But keep in memory clearly
The bird I love so dearly.
And if he chance to bring her
A happy bride the summer thro'
'Mong birchen boughs to linger,
I'll sing to you in numbers high
A summer song that shall not die,
But keep in memory clearly
The bird I love so dearly.
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The Cuckoo.
Last night a vision was dispelled,
Which I can never dream again;
A wonder from the earth has gone,
A passion from my brain.
I saw upon a budding ash
A cuckoo, and she blithely sung
To all the valleys round about,
While on a branch she swung.
Cuckoo, cuckoo! I looked around,
And like a dream fulfilled,
A slender bird of modest brown,
My sight with wonder thrilled.
I looked again and yet again;
My eyes, thought I, do sure deceive me,
But when belief made doubting vain,
Alas, the sight did grieve me.
For twice to-day I heard the cry,
The hollow cry of melting love;
And twice a tear bedimmed my eye—
I saw the singer in the grove,
I saw him pipe his eager tone,
Like any other common bird,
And, as I live, the sovereign cry
Was not the one I always heard.
Which I can never dream again;
A wonder from the earth has gone,
A passion from my brain.
I saw upon a budding ash
A cuckoo, and she blithely sung
To all the valleys round about,
While on a branch she swung.
Cuckoo, cuckoo! I looked around,
And like a dream fulfilled,
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My sight with wonder thrilled.
I looked again and yet again;
My eyes, thought I, do sure deceive me,
But when belief made doubting vain,
Alas, the sight did grieve me.
For twice to-day I heard the cry,
The hollow cry of melting love;
And twice a tear bedimmed my eye—
I saw the singer in the grove,
I saw him pipe his eager tone,
Like any other common bird,
And, as I live, the sovereign cry
Was not the one I always heard.
O why within that lusty wood
Did I the fairy sight behold?
O why within that solitude
Was I thus blindly overbold?
My heart, forgive me! for indeed
I cannot speak my thrilling pain:
The wonder vanished from the earth,
The passion from my brain.
Did I the fairy sight behold?
O why within that solitude
Was I thus blindly overbold?
160
I cannot speak my thrilling pain:
The wonder vanished from the earth,
The passion from my brain.
161
Fame.
A Fragment.
O glorious Fame! next grandest word to God,Father of all things beautiful and grand,
Of all the thoughts ideal and sublime
That grace the annals of our literature.
Thou stirrer of the heart to noble deeds!
Thou powerful antidote to cringing fear
Of battle, rolling 'mid the billowy smoke
That wreaths its curls blue over flood and field!
In the cold, creaking garret, or beside
The entrance to a theatre, or where
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Or where the dew-bent daisy droops to kiss
The dark grey eggs of lark, companion sweet!
There thou dost lift their souls above this world,
And teachest them in language fair and wild,
To ope their hearts in strains of poesy.
Ah, noble Fame! how deeply I adore
Thy altar, smelling sweet with fond applause!
Sages may shun, philosophers may scorn;
But, ah! to a young heart, how glorious
The thought that he, by well-earned merit, shall
Be spoken of, yea praised, 'neath the roof-tree
Of peasant, or beneath the monarch's dome!
That learned men will wonder, and in joy
Will lift their hands and shake astonished heads;
That by the fireside, while the flick'ring lamp
Doth send its shadow-forming light athwart.
The genius young shall read, and read, and read
Until the warning bell strike one short hour,
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Dream of the happy-gifted one that wrote it;
That maidens, high in rank and fair in form,
Shall speak to one another of that man
Who, bathing in the pure Castalian fount,
Arose, and from his form with pearlets clad
Shook off the diamonds in bright profusion,
That, while the clouds do tell their pattering beads,
And through the forest roars the wailing wind
Sporting with the brown leaves that wheel aloft,
A joyous family, seated by a fire
That roars in laughter at the storm without,
Talked of the poet—
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Honeysuckle.
Stop! taste the balmy essence of this flower,That fondly twines about the dark-green fir;
The air is sweet, and, like a mild-eyed saint,
It liveth doing good. The balmy gale
Far wafts its odours to the lowly door
Of yon small cot thatched with the dying heath,
And the old dame doth bless the laden wind.
I do not think that e'er a tender eye
Looked on thee but with love,—that e'er a tongue
Spoke of thee but with blessings and with praise.
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And send their white shoots through the brown rough bark,
So true, so fond and frail-like that when one
Looks on thee, his mind's eye sees round God's throne
White spirits breathing hymns and fed with love.
Ye sweet, sweet flowers! ye must have mutual love,
For when one stalk, with its own beauty, droops,
With oily leaves and breathing blossoms heavy,
The others haste their sister to upraise,
And, winding round it with affection's grasp,
Lift it from off the earth's dark dreaded breast.
How many nosegays have I often culled
Of thee, fair guiltless thief, for even thy name
Tells how thou sucklest nature's honeyed sweets,
And leav'st her less wherewith to bless the rest.
Thou art not very beauteous; many flowers,
With high-fringed crests and gaudy-spotted leaves,
166
That blesseth ether with more fragrant smell?
'Tis ever thus. Furred robes and shining silks
Oft hide a poppy's smell—a dastard mind;
And homely garments oft adorn a breast
That heaves at pity's tale and tale of wrong,
And, known by none, yet is a friend to all.
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Where the Lilies used to Spring.
When the place was green with the shaky grass,
And the windy trees were high;
When the leaflets told each other tales,
And the stars were in the sky;
When the silent crows hid their ebon beaks
Beneath their ruffled wing—
Then the fairies watered the glancing spot
Where the lilies used to spring!
And the windy trees were high;
When the leaflets told each other tales,
And the stars were in the sky;
When the silent crows hid their ebon beaks
Beneath their ruffled wing—
Then the fairies watered the glancing spot
Where the lilies used to spring!
When the sun is high in the summer sky,
And the lake is deep with clouds;
When gadflies bite the prancing kine,
And light the lark enshrouds—
Then the butterfly, like a feather dropped
From the tip of an angel's wing,
Floats wavering on to the glancing spot
Where the lilies used to spring!
And the lake is deep with clouds;
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And light the lark enshrouds—
Then the butterfly, like a feather dropped
From the tip of an angel's wing,
Floats wavering on to the glancing spot
Where the lilies used to spring!
When the wheat is shorn and the burns run brown,
And the moon shines clear at night;
When wains are heaped with rustling corn,
And the swallows take their flight;
When the trees begin to cast their leaves,
And the birds, new-feathered, sing—
Then comes the bee to the glancing spot
Where the lilies used to spring!
And the moon shines clear at night;
When wains are heaped with rustling corn,
And the swallows take their flight;
When the trees begin to cast their leaves,
And the birds, new-feathered, sing—
Then comes the bee to the glancing spot
Where the lilies used to spring!
When the sky is grey and the trees are bare,
And the grass is long and brown,
And black moss clothes the soft damp thatch,
And the rain comes weary down,
And countless droplets on the pond
Their widening orbits ring—
Then bleak and cold is the silent spot
Where the lilies used to spring!
And the grass is long and brown,
And black moss clothes the soft damp thatch,
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And countless droplets on the pond
Their widening orbits ring—
Then bleak and cold is the silent spot
Where the lilies used to spring!
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Snow.
Flowers upon the summer lea,
Daisies, kingcups, pale primroses—
These are sung from sea to sea,
As many a darling rhyme discloses.
Tangled wood and hawthorn dale
In many a songful snatch prevail;
But never yet, as well I mind,
In all their verses can I find
A simple tune, with quiet flow,
To match the falling of the snow.
O weary passed each winter day,
And windily howled each winter night;
O miry grew each village way,
And mists enfolded every height;
And ever on the window pane
A froward gust blew down with rain,
And day by day in tawny brown
The Luggie stream came heaving down:—
I could have fallen asleep and dreamed
Until again spring sunshine gleamed.
Daisies, kingcups, pale primroses—
These are sung from sea to sea,
As many a darling rhyme discloses.
Tangled wood and hawthorn dale
In many a songful snatch prevail;
But never yet, as well I mind,
In all their verses can I find
A simple tune, with quiet flow,
To match the falling of the snow.
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And windily howled each winter night;
O miry grew each village way,
And mists enfolded every height;
And ever on the window pane
A froward gust blew down with rain,
And day by day in tawny brown
The Luggie stream came heaving down:—
I could have fallen asleep and dreamed
Until again spring sunshine gleamed.
And what! said I, is this the mode
That Winter kings it now-a-days?
The Robin keeps its own abode,
And pipes his independent lays.
I've seen the day on Merkland hill,
That snow has fallen with a will,
Even in November! Now, alas;
The whole year round we see the grass:—
Ah, winter now may come and go
Without a single fall of snow.
That Winter kings it now-a-days?
The Robin keeps its own abode,
And pipes his independent lays.
I've seen the day on Merkland hill,
That snow has fallen with a will,
Even in November! Now, alas;
The whole year round we see the grass:—
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Without a single fall of snow.
It was the latest day but one
Of winter, as I questioned thus;
And sooth! an angry mood was on,
As at a thing most scandalous;—
When lo! some hailstones on the pane
With sudden tinkle rang amain,
Till in an ecstasy of joy
I clapp'd and shouted like a boy—
Oh, rain may come and rain may go,
But what can match the falling snow!
Of winter, as I questioned thus;
And sooth! an angry mood was on,
As at a thing most scandalous;—
When lo! some hailstones on the pane
With sudden tinkle rang amain,
Till in an ecstasy of joy
I clapp'd and shouted like a boy—
Oh, rain may come and rain may go,
But what can match the falling snow!
It draped the naked sycamore
On Foordcroft hill, above the well;
The elms of Rosebank o'er and o'er
Were silvered richly as it fell.
The distant Campsie peaks were lost,
And farthest Criftin with his host
Of gloomy pine-trees disappeared,
Nor even a lonely ridge upreared.—
Oh, rain may come and rain may go,
But what can match the falling snow!
On Foordcroft hill, above the well;
The elms of Rosebank o'er and o'er
Were silvered richly as it fell.
The distant Campsie peaks were lost,
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Of gloomy pine-trees disappeared,
Nor even a lonely ridge upreared.—
Oh, rain may come and rain may go,
But what can match the falling snow!
Afar upon the Solsgirth moor,
Each heather sprig of withered brown
Is fringed with thread of silver pure
As slow the soft flakes waver down;
And on Glenconner's lonely path,
And Gartshore's still and open strath,
It falleth, quiet as the birth
Of morning o'er the quickening earth.—
Oh, rain may come and rain may go,
But what can match the falling snow!
Each heather sprig of withered brown
Is fringed with thread of silver pure
As slow the soft flakes waver down;
And on Glenconner's lonely path,
And Gartshore's still and open strath,
It falleth, quiet as the birth
Of morning o'er the quickening earth.—
Oh, rain may come and rain may go,
But what can match the falling snow!
And all around our Merkland home
Is laid a sheet of virgin lawn;
On fairer, softer, ne'er did roam
The nimble Oread or Faun.
There is a wonder in the air,
A living beauty everywhere;
As if the whole had ne'er been planned,
But touched by Merlin's famous wand,
Suddenly woke beneath his hand
To potent bliss in fairy show—
A mighty ravishment of snow!
Is laid a sheet of virgin lawn;
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The nimble Oread or Faun.
There is a wonder in the air,
A living beauty everywhere;
As if the whole had ne'er been planned,
But touched by Merlin's famous wand,
Suddenly woke beneath his hand
To potent bliss in fairy show—
A mighty ravishment of snow!
175
October.
Sweet Muse and well-beloved, with my decline
Declining, like a rose crushed unawares,
Having too early knowledge of decay,
Too subtle pleasure to behold the tree
Shed its thin foliage on the sluggish stream,—
What a sweet subject for thy silver sounds!
Declining, like a rose crushed unawares,
Having too early knowledge of decay,
Too subtle pleasure to behold the tree
Shed its thin foliage on the sluggish stream,—
What a sweet subject for thy silver sounds!
O for a quill pluck'd from the soaring wing
Of an archangel, dipped in holy dew,
To catch thy latest looks, thou loveliest
October, o'er the many-coloured woods!
October! vastlier disconsolate
Than Saturn guiding melancholy spheres,
Through ante-mundane silence and ripe death.
Ere the last stack is housed, and woods are bare,
And the vermilion fruitage of the brier
Is soaked in mist, or shrivelled up with frost;
Ere warm Spring nests are coldly to be seen
Tenantless, but for rain and the cold snow,
While yet there is a loveliness abroad,—
The frail and indescribable loveliness
Of a fair form Life with reluctance leaves,
Being there only powerful,—while the earth
Wears sackcloth in her great prophetic grief:—
Of an archangel, dipped in holy dew,
To catch thy latest looks, thou loveliest
October, o'er the many-coloured woods!
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Than Saturn guiding melancholy spheres,
Through ante-mundane silence and ripe death.
Ere the last stack is housed, and woods are bare,
And the vermilion fruitage of the brier
Is soaked in mist, or shrivelled up with frost;
Ere warm Spring nests are coldly to be seen
Tenantless, but for rain and the cold snow,
While yet there is a loveliness abroad,—
The frail and indescribable loveliness
Of a fair form Life with reluctance leaves,
Being there only powerful,—while the earth
Wears sackcloth in her great prophetic grief:—
Then the reflective melancholy soul,—
Aimlessly wandering with slow falling foot
The heath'ry solitude, in hope to assuage
The cunning humour of his malady,—
Loses his painful bitterness, and feels
His own specific sorrows one by one
Taken up in the huge dolour of all things.
Aimlessly wandering with slow falling foot
The heath'ry solitude, in hope to assuage
The cunning humour of his malady,—
Loses his painful bitterness, and feels
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Taken up in the huge dolour of all things.
O the sweet melancholy of the time
When gently, ere the heart appeals, the year
Shines in the fatal beauty of decay!
When the sun sinks enlarged on Carronben,
Nakedly visible without a cloud,
And faintly from the faint eternal blue
(That dim, sweet harebell-colour) comes the star
Which evening wears;—when Luggie flows in mist,
And in the cottage windows one by one,
With sudden twinkle household lamps are lit,
What noiseless falling of the faded leaf!
When gently, ere the heart appeals, the year
Shines in the fatal beauty of decay!
When the sun sinks enlarged on Carronben,
Nakedly visible without a cloud,
And faintly from the faint eternal blue
(That dim, sweet harebell-colour) comes the star
Which evening wears;—when Luggie flows in mist,
And in the cottage windows one by one,
With sudden twinkle household lamps are lit,
What noiseless falling of the faded leaf!
Sweet on a blossoming summer's afternoon,
When Fancy plays the wizard in the brain,
Idly to saunter thro'a lusty wood!
But sweeter far—by how much sweeter, God
Alone hath knowledge—in a pensive mood,
Outstretched on green moss-velvet floss'd with thyme,
To watch the fall o' the leaf before the moon
Shines out in sweet completion circular.
For when the sunset hath withdrawn its gold
And tawny glimmering, like the surcease
Of rich, low melody, erst inaudible streams
Find voices in their still unwearied flow;
And winds that have been much above the moors
And mountains, have a deadly feel of cold,
Forespeaking clear blue dawns and frosty chill.
When Fancy plays the wizard in the brain,
Idly to saunter thro'a lusty wood!
But sweeter far—by how much sweeter, God
178
Outstretched on green moss-velvet floss'd with thyme,
To watch the fall o' the leaf before the moon
Shines out in sweet completion circular.
For when the sunset hath withdrawn its gold
And tawny glimmering, like the surcease
Of rich, low melody, erst inaudible streams
Find voices in their still unwearied flow;
And winds that have been much above the moors
And mountains, have a deadly feel of cold,
Forespeaking clear blue dawns and frosty chill.
179
The Roman Dyke.
Ah! frail memorial of a thousand years!
Thou seem'st a stranger in a foreign land:
No pitying hand thy fragments, fall'n, uprears,
But useless, graceless, thou art left to stand.
And yet, across this foggy, rain-slash'd wall,
The savage tatoo'd Caledonians slew,
With gory club, the high-nosed Romans, who
With joy retreated at Antonius' call.
That stone which now I touch has handled been
By brawny Romans, who, in Latin talked
Of their fantastic foes, as, oft-times seen,
With sacred tramp of liberty they stalked.
And have they e'er been slaves? that dyke shall tell:
The Romans, Saxons, Southrons, Swedes, they've braved,
And, like proud eagles, scorned to be enslaved;
As freemen now they stand—as freemen then they fell.
On that side scorn the paths of slavery;
Here—kiss the hallowed dust of Liberty!
Thou seem'st a stranger in a foreign land:
No pitying hand thy fragments, fall'n, uprears,
But useless, graceless, thou art left to stand.
And yet, across this foggy, rain-slash'd wall,
The savage tatoo'd Caledonians slew,
With gory club, the high-nosed Romans, who
With joy retreated at Antonius' call.
That stone which now I touch has handled been
By brawny Romans, who, in Latin talked
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With sacred tramp of liberty they stalked.
And have they e'er been slaves? that dyke shall tell:
The Romans, Saxons, Southrons, Swedes, they've braved,
And, like proud eagles, scorned to be enslaved;
As freemen now they stand—as freemen then they fell.
On that side scorn the paths of slavery;
Here—kiss the hallowed dust of Liberty!
| The Poetical Works of David Gray | |