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145

SYLVÆ

147

THE GENIUS OF THE GLEN.

(A Ballad of the Sunless Summer.)

It was the glen so dear to us,
And on the eve of May,
Yet ne'er a leaf was on the buss
Or blossom on the spray.
The sky aboon was grey and still
—Oh, something was to blame!
And immelodious flowed the rill
That gives the glen its name.
Grey were the dripping craigs wi' fogg,
The ferns were red and sere,
Dowie the day, as days that dog
The wa-gaun o' the year.
148

And but ae gowan in a nook
Had daured to ope its ee;
And, wae was I! it seemed to look
Reproachfully on me.
And mair than wae, amazed was I
A flower o' gentle fame
Should lay its woodlan' shyness by
And bid me bide a blame.
The linties on the scroggy brae,
They hadna heart to sing;
In undertones they seemed to say
“Ye've robbed us o' the spring!”
And wae and mair bewildered yet
I waited for their sang:
Puir things! I only heard them fret
That winter days were lang.
The faded firs and larches tall
On me looked darkly down,
149

They wagged their heads together all,
And met me with a frown.
I turned me from the steep glen-side
To glancing linn and pool:
The naiad down the water wide
Fled with a sound of dule!
Oh, doubly dowie noo the glen,
And drearer yet the sky,
And sad the winds that noo and then
Complaining passed me by.
For I was mingled wi' the cause
That wrought the season wrong,
Had somehow meddled wi' the laws
That lead the months along;
Had stolen the sunshine from the air,
The greenery from the glen,
Had killed the querulous wren wi' care,
And made the merle a wren.
150

O' whatna man could that be true?
—Surely he'd spare, I cried,
The glen in which he came to woo,
In which he won his bride.
I carved her name upon an oak
Last August, and since then
Although Glen Farg to ither folk,
To me 'tis Annet's glen.
And Scotland in its hundred nooks
Nae brawer glen can show,
Nor yet amang her hundred brooks
A burn sae dear I know.
And wae am I, and sad indeed,
Sae fair a glen should grieve
And wear the weary winter weed
Sae late as summer eve.
—Wi' that the day grew dim as e'en,
A glamour owre me fell,
151

And weird and foreign grew the scene,
And far away as well.
And first a thin forwandered wind,
As of a voice that grieves
Gaed up the glen, and left behind
A rustling of red leaves.
And next a hush fell on the glen;
Nor move nor breathe could I;
The hush sank into deeps, and then
I heard a long-drawn sigh.
Then, from the shadow of a lirk
That cleaves the grey glen wall
A reverend figure from the birk
Rose like a tower, and tall.
His face was dusky red as leaves
That burn with autumn fire:
Such tint the cedar-bough receives
When summer suns retire.
152

Brown beechen leaves that once were green
Composed his coat of mail,
And round his long white beard was seen
A fringe of lichens pale.
And if the centuries had enlaced
His cheek with many a line,
There was a vigorous freedom graced
And made his look divine.
Upon his brow there sat awry
A crown of faded fern,
And troubled was his coal-black eye,
And grave his look, and stern!
And full on me he fixed his glance
—Oh, but his glance was keen!
Like shimmer of a flying lance
It dazzled baith my een!
“I am the Genius of the Glen,”
He thus the silence brake,
153

“And thou—! Among the sons of men
A falser never spake!
“Last August to this glen you brought
A blithesome maid, and true;
And when my fairest bower you sought,
I welcomed both of you!
“I housed you in my fairest bower
—True love is all so rare;
It was a joy I feel this hour
To see so kind a pair.
“And all my nymphs and naiads took
A peep at where you lay,
Then hastening back to brake and brook,
Talked of you all the day.
“So glad were they, so pleased was I;
And when you vowed to bring
The maiden with the sunbright eye
This way again in spring,
154

“I vowed that spring might come or stay,
But as for mine and me,
Our glen and we would not be gay
Till she should come to see!
“And birds are mute, and flowers have slept,
And trees delayed to leave;
And sadly we our vows have kept
Till summer's very eve.
“And here on summer's eve art thou,
The falsest among men,
Who darest with a broken vow
To enter Annet's glen!”
His voice was stern, and anger blazed
In baith his coal-black een:
“And this,” he cried, with arm upraised,
“Our welcome would have been!”
A flash—a rush of opening leaves,
A mist of emerald light,
155

And green with yellow interweaves
A vision of delight!
A million myriad leaves and flowers,
Where flowers and leaves were none;
And where but late were sunless bowers,
New gilded by the sun.
The sunshine on the soft green leaf
Flowed down from broad blue skies:
—Oh me! it was a dear relief
To rest the weary eyes.
And merle and throstle sat or flew,
And whistled loud and sang;
And more and more their gladness grew,
Till all the valley rang.
And down the glen the water ran,
With pleasure plashing cool;
And roses blushed, and lilies wan
Grew pale by every pool.
156

The flaunting woodbine o'er the rocks
Held out its honeyed horn;
The belted bees flew past in flocks
And incensed with the morn.
The broom was fringed with golden flame,
And through the woodland wide
A wind that wandered without aim
Grew sad for joy, and sighed.
Dear Lord! it was a pleasant sight
To see but in a dream—
The green leaves, and the holy light,
And the clear, flowing stream.
Sure Eden glimpses yet are got,
And Eden memories ours,
While summer's golden glance is shot
Through woodbine-birken bowers!
But now the whole air seemed to dance,
The glen went whirling round,
157

And falling in a slumbrous trance
I lay along the ground.
How long in this deep sleep I lay
I have not to declare,
But when I woke the sky was grey,
The birks and larches bare;
The maniac wind, that takes no care
Whether 'tis glad or grieves,
Was scattering in the beamless air
Handfuls of autumn leaves.
30th April 1879.
158

THE MEET AT MIDNIGHT.

31st December 1879.
They are mustering to-night on the ocean
Their legions in mighty force,
Their banners in wild commotion,
Their trumpets braying hoarse.
The billows are scourged into madness
By the stroke of their giant wings,
And the hollow vault that holds the stars
Booms, and bellows, and rings!
Would you know why all this gathering
Of winds at the midnight hour?
—I will tell you anon, but you must know
First of their mighty power.
159

They have come from the south, and the eastward,
And the fierce north blasts are there;
And shoulder to shoulder with rumpled wings,
They press till they fill the air!
For miles and for miles of the ocean,
Shoulder to shoulder they lie,
And the long strong sweep of their flanking wings
Strikes from sea to sky.
You might trace the track they have come by
By lighthouses down thrown,
And towns with steeples and churches
And the sea with wrecks o'erstrewn.
And their squadroned strength is greater
Than ever yet shook the earth,
When she shakes with the mighty anguish
Of an earthquake at the birth.
160

But now they are all in motion,
And with one continuous shout
They sweep in a hurricane up Strathbraan,
And blow the Old Year out!
For the burden of sin on the Old Year's back
As he sways and staggers along,
Is as big as the huge earth-globe itself,
And needs a wind so strong.
Blow, winds from the German Ocean,
This burden from the earth!—
Sweet rest be yours and the weary world's
In the hush of the Young Year's birth!
161

SIMMER LOST:

A SIGH FOR SANDIE IN NEW ZEALAND.

Hoo sweet were simmer i' the woods,
Or doon the burnie clear,
—In a' her haunts, in a' her moods,—
If, Sandie, you were here.
Then doobly graun the wastlin braes
Wad glow at gloamin-tide,
An' redder wad the mornin' rays
Rin up the plantin-side.
An' bonnier owre the loch wad creep
The dimplin' waves sae sma',
An' wins less wantonlie wad sweep
The young green leaves awa'.
162

And I should look wi' clearer een
Aboot me an' before,
An' cease to think o' simmers, been
To be again no more.
It's simmer yet, an' yet a'most
I mourn the simmer gane,
An' feel as if its joys were lost
Lavisht on me mylane.
163

A GIFT FOR A BRIDE.

A gift for my bride on her birthday!
—But what shall the souvenir be?
What best of all gifts of the earth may
Remind her of me?
A ring for her delicate finger,
To pinch it a little all day?
A song in her heart that will linger
When I am away?
A chain for her neck, with a locket?
A book that her mind will engage,
And will easily go in her pocket?
A bird in a cage?
164

A volume of manuscript verses?
A flower in porcelain that blows?
A phial of scent that disperses
The attar of rose?
The frond of a fern, or a feather,
Among her fair tresses to twine?
A sprig, for her breast, of white heather,
Or pale jessamine?
A thimble? a bangle? a bonnet?
A pencil? a portrait of me?
A bracelet with AEI upon it?
A crooked bawbee?
Now which of them all shall I send her?
Indeed I might send her them all,
“With care,” “Carriage paid,” “Special tender,”
—And think it too small.
165

Suppose I just send her a letter
And sign it in silver “Your Own”?
—Bah! either I'll manage it better,
Or leave it alone!
That notion is too mediocre:
—Come, Fancy! there's something amiss!
—I have it! As I am a smoker,
I'll send her a kiss!
But how to transmit it! . . . What fairy,
Or seraph, or sylph of the air
Will come in my present quandary
My offering to bear?
I'll cleanse my mustache of tobacco,
And wait for a wind from the south
To take the dear trifle, per Bacco!
Direct from my mouth.
166

Receive it, ye breezes! And lest ye
Should lose it, or make a misdeal,
Take ten or twelve more to attest the
Devotion I feel!
Your flight is up over yon mountain
That looks o'er Strathearn to Strathtay,
Then down by the clear caller fountain;
—At Craigie you stay.
And there, to the mirthfullest lady
That ever was sad in the sun,
Deliver your trust; but be ready
To go when it's done!
—And how will ye know when ye've found her?
—Her gait, and the grace of her glance,
The beauty that brightens around her,
Will tell you at once!
167

She's true, and she's kind, and she's clever,
And pensive, and not very tall
—As high as my heart is, however—
And modest withal.
And so, unannounced, you'll enfold her;
And, ere from your wings she can slip,
You'll softly pay down, while you hold her,
My tax on her lip.
168

THE CAMP ON THE OCHILS.

“Et propinquá luce fulsere signa: . . . et Romanis redit animus: . . . et fuit atrox in ipsis portarum angustiis proelium, donec pulsi hostes.”—Taciti Agricola, xxvi.

The gold has paled to silver on the height,
The gull belated to the lake has flown;
Why sits young Andro in the house to-night
While Cæsar hunts in the old camp alone?
The goodman's cutting clover in the field,
Young Phemie o'er the meadow calls the cow:
They've all a task but Cæsar—idle chield!
Cæsar stands whining on the whinny knowe.
How would his ears go up, his eyes grow clear,
The white star on his tail be whisked about,
169

If only Andro's bonnet should appear
Above the dike, followed by Andro's shout!
What fun you'd see in the old camp! What bounds
O'er burrowy mound and boulder, furze and heath!
Andro would beat—Cæsar would watch the grounds,
His pink tongue palpitating o'er his teeth!
Where lingers Andro?—Harvesting the light
For one red page beside the kitchen flame:
A different Roman is the spell to-night,
And Tacitus, not Cæsar, is the name!
The page is open where Agricola's camp
One daybreak, eighteen centuries ago,
Sprang to a man from earth-bed cold and damp
At the wild slogan of the Celtic foe.
170

The battle's in the gateways, hand to hand;
The sword of Caius rings on Colin's mace;
The eagles flash—who can their glance withstand?
On them! They yield—the rout becomes a race!
How strange it seems,—the ruined camp without,
With peaceful rabbits hopping to and fro;
Within, the schoolboy glorying in the rout
Of his forefathers there so long ago!
171

ADVENTUS VERIS.

Spring came to-day! and glad were we
As very children in our glee.
The sun shone forth with blinding flame,
And from the west a soft wind came:
The west! Nay, sister, rather say
It blew from boyhood's happy day!
It brought with it the village old
Wherein was passed our age of gold,
And I, a happy-hearted scholar
With jacket short and broad white collar,
Frisked with my classmates in the street:
—Ay me! how fast the seasons fleet!
Spring came to-day! Our minstrel, mute
No longer, tuned and tried his flute;
172

Puss in the window-corner heard,
Looked cageward, closed her eyes, and purred;
And outside in the open air
Sparrows shot whirring here and there;
And one old ragged meagre rook
Who, feeling beauish, rashly took
A sunward voyage, venturing high
Was buffeted about the sky.
Spring came to-day: she called us out
With a right cheery country shout.
We spied her through the blackthorn hedge,
We saw her in the lakeside sedge,
We traced her footsteps o'er the hill,
We chased her down the rippling rill,
We lost her in a miry lane,
But in Craiglockhart copse again
We sought the merry gipsy, chiding,
And caught her in a hollow hiding.
Spring came to-day: the hawthorn buds,
The crystal of the Pentland floods,
173

The sword-like sedges by the lake,
The red-tipt branches in the brake,
The thin clean braird of new-year's grass,
Gowans that open as you pass
—Their wide-awake fresh fearless eyes
Glowering surprised at your surprise—
And balmy airs, and skies of blue
Convince you that the news is true.
We tarried as the sun went down
On yon high hill besouth the town,
But fairest view, of all we spied,
The gardened homes of Morningside.
The ploughman half a field away
Rested his horses on the brae,
Leaned o'er his plough, and on the air
Came pattle-raspings of the share;
Then overglanced the furrows drawn
By his stout greys and him since dawn,
Took snuff, clicked with his cheek and tongue,
Shook the plough-line and snooved along!
174

How sweet it was to see a star
Born in the heavenly blue afar!
To mark the slowly waning light,
The coy approach of veilèd Night;
To see domestic lights appear
In villa windows far and near;
And hear upon our homeward way
The children singing at their play,
Their fresh young voices rising sweet
Out of the dim suburban street!
Spring came to-day: let's dedicate
The evening hours to celebrate
Her joyous advent, sister mine!
—And first, a glass of generous wine;
Then fruit; and strew the room with flowers
To dull the footfall of the hours;
And you will sing when I am mute,
And I will choose a tale to suit
The sweet occasion—What You Will
Or As You Like It: Shakespeare still
175

For every season has a say
A mood for every man;
And so we'll mark Spring came To-day
As well as ever we can!

THE LAD OF BENARTY.

Happy the man wha belangs to nae party,
But sits in his ain hoose an' looks at Benarty.

On the dome of the Lomond I lie
With my head on a bed of red heather;
I see but the clouds and the sky,
But whether above me, or whether
Below me, I care not a fly
Or a feather!
176

Far down in the town there's a din
Where the blues are abused by the yellows,
For the yellows are likely to win
And the blues are resentful and jealous;
—I laugh in my sleeve and my skin
At the fellows!
And happy the chappie, say I,
Who sails in the tail of no party:
He laughs as he looks to the sky
With a laugh that is low down and hearty;
Or he sits in his house with his eye
On Benarty!
177

PINES AND BOULDER.

“The whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain.”

These gloomy pines upon the heath,
That in the sunlight sigh—
Their secret they will not bequeath,
Nor will it with them die.
The cold stone they moan around
Crusted with lichen grey—
It will not waken from its swound
Till peals the Judgment-day!
A horror of the midnight dark
Sleeps in that slumbering stone!
A shower of blood-drops on their bark
Has made these pine-trees moan!
178

THE TWO FLOWERS.

“Learn by a mortal longing to ascend
Towards a higher love.”

There's a cleft high up on the bare hillside
That looks like a fairy bower;
The prospect is fair and far and wide,
And the fairy is a flower.
—Why do you nod, little one, up there
At your watch-tower window so high?—
I like to feel the caressing air,
And I love to be near the sky!
There's a mossy cell in a sunken vale
In the depths of a forest dim
Where a tiny flower is hiding pale,
Her eyes with tears o'erswim.
—Why do you shrink, little one, down there
In your sunless nunnerie?—
I fear he will kiss me, the wandering air,
And the big sky frightens me!
179

IN THE KNOCK-WOOD.

Come up and hear the pine-trees sigh!
Come up within their shade, and lie
And let the peace which they impart
Sink soothingly within your heart.
The sigh they send from every leaf
Breathes resignation and relief;
If there's a sadness in the tone,
You put it there yourself alone!
Each in its own allotted place
Lifts as it were to Heaven its face,
The while it stretches out the hand
Of friendship to the forest band.
180

Here are no jarrings and no jeers,
No fevered haste, no vexing fears,
No envious wish that will not wait,
No jealous blasphemy of Fate.
There's pathos in the patient air
With which their annual wrong they bear,
—Forgetful of the winter's blast
And glad the summer's come at last.
A placid pensiveness pervades
The mighty mountain-forest shades,
—A pensiveness that has no fear,
No shame, of past or future year.
Come, plunge you in their solitude;
The bath will prove a double good
—A Styx for strength, for sinful pain
A Lethe to the sleepless brain.
181

THE LIGHT ON THE HILLSIDE.

“You see it gleaming far up the height,
Yon little square patch of warm red light?
—It's a far way up, but it's full in my sight,
And I lodge within its warmth to-night.
Around it the mists of the mountain are curled,
Above it the Night like a flag is unfurled,
But it shines like Milton's pendent World
With the bluster of Chaos against it hurled!
It's only a simple shepherd's cot;
But there isn't in all the earth a spot
Where half so hearty a welcome is got,
—And that's the charm of home, is it not?
182

Within, my father is dozing through tire,
My mother is plying the twinkling wire,
Between them stands in front of the fire
A chair that encloses my heart's desire.
Its back ascends an enormous height,
Its arms stretch outward to left and right,
And it's clothed from top to bottom quite
In a clean chintz wrapper of blue and white.
But many wet bushes the winds will toss
Against my cheek; and one long moss,
And braes and brooks, I must climb and cross,
Ere I cover the miles between it and Kinross.
—Good night, fellow-student! Good night, good night!
A couple of hours will see me all right:
Think of me then in my chair on the height,
Think of me then—and you'll envy me quite!”
183

How strangely his voice at parting thrilled!
—Well, the night wore by, and the storm was stilled,
And morning dawned; but the Fates had willed
That chair on the mountain should never be filled!

HEIGH-HO! THE WIND AND THE RAIN!

Day had come without dawning,
The street was deserted and still,
At the mill-door the miller stood yawning
With his back to the hum of the mill.
We drove past the mill with a clatter,
And out on the wind-swept plain,
And then down came, whole water,
In gleaming sheets the rain.
184

The road struck up the mountains
Suddenly ere we wist,
We heard the gushing of fountains
And the wail of mews in the mist.
At times through the grey fog stealing
Swept columns of ghostly pines,
Behind us they seemed to be wheeling
And forming in squares and lines.
And once far up at a turning
Where a loch feeds a hundred rills,
We were ushered without warning
Into a conclave of hills.
Like hooded monks before us
They loomed through mist and rain:
The swirling mists closed o'er us
And they were lost again.
Splish! splash! on the flat of the mountain
Stumbles our jaded beast;
185

The jolts are past all counting,
And the rain has never ceased!
For dull monotonous mileage
The hills in a mist have the palm:
—I wish I were back in the village,
Or sound asleep where I am.

YE FATE OF YE BOOK.

I wrote a book; and, what was worse,
I wrote the whole of it in verse.
Then upspoke an evil elf
—“Be a credit to yourself!”
So I printed it, and sent it forth
West, and east, and south, and north.
Just as it left my hand I woke,
And the elfin spell that bound me broke;
186

And I wished as I saw it o'erfly the land
That I had it back again in my hand;
But the elf laughed loud with malicious glee
—“It may not be, and it may not be!
The cage is empty, the bird is free!”—
And his mocking came back on the winds to me.
Then came forth the critic men
With sharp nose and sharper pen;
They flung their long fingers into the sky
And caught the book as it fluttered by;
And it shook like the wings of a captured bird,
And then, like a dead thing, hung; nor stirred
As they bore it off with a strange dark smile.
But my heart was beating fast all the while.
From the free fresh air to a sunless gloom
They hurried it into a secret room:
The door swung back with a boding boom,
“And here,” they said, “we will write your doom.”
187

They pierced and probed it with their pens,
Examined it with a powerful lens,
And up and down they viewed and reviewed,
Till the good was bad and the bad was good,
Till white was black, and B was A;
—But they used my book in a frightful way;
For its wings they broke and its back they bent,
And rumpled its feathers to their hearts' content.
They then sat down at two long tables,
Dipt into ink, and wrote out labels;
The while, most piteous to be seen,
My book lay ruined and wrecked between,
And meekly bore the dissecting glances
That stung my heart like a shower of lances.
At last one rose at the right-hand table
And read aloud from the written label—
“Though he may not have an eagle's pinion,
Yet the upper air is his dominion.”
188

“And so say I, and I've written it so,”
Said Number Two; “he has wings of snow;
My judgment is that a swan is he.”
“A swan!” from the left hissed Number Three,
“A swan!—I've a different tale to tell:
He's a gosling; I know the bird right well!”
Said a Fourth, with a head like a downy owl,
“It's a very ordinary barn-door fowl:
A useful creature, no doubt, in its place;
But a cackler! Dixi—that is, it's the case!”
“I agree so far with Number Four,”
Said Number Five, “as the barn-door:
But I made an inspection nice and narrow
And I pledge my ears the bird's a sparrow!
—And where's the critic will gainsay
That pledge of mine goes a good long way?”
Out to the centre stalked Number Six:
“Your various verdicts I must mix;
189

He's a bird has caught the various tone
Of other birds, but has none of his own.
It's a great pity, too, for he imitates well;
But all that he has he got outside his shell
—You know what I mean—he belongs to the breed
That pick up their song as they pick up their seed.
—I may add in your ear, but don't let it be known,
He has plagiarised from a bird of my own!”
“Yah! yah!” they all yelled, “it's a very good lark
That bird of your own: you were best keep it dark!”
Uprose Number Seven. He, staggering, rose;
And I will not do more than refer to his nose:
“My masters”—he spoke rather thick—“are you blind?
I've examined him—hic!—and what do I find?
190

—He has wings that will soar with the best we have had;
But I hate him for all: at his best he is bad!”
Upspoke Number Eight, while he tore what he wrote,—
“I think him a bird of original note,
But I cannot be sure; so let's damn him as dunce;
He ought to come out more decided at once.
If he isn't a dunce I'm a Dutchman? So be it!
If he is—you will own I'm sagacious to see it!”
Scarce two agreed, till they fell on a plan
Which seemed to please them every man—
At least the hubbub ceased: they took
And hung their verdicts round my book
Like flags of all nations on a wreck,
Or labels on a phial's neck
Which each describes the draught to be
Sherry, laudanum, cold beef-tea.
191

They dragged it then to the door of their den
And gave it to the air again.
And away like a guilty thing it flew,
That thinks it a crime to live, to you;
And you took off the labels and stroked its wing,
And my poor book looked like another thing.
And now it was plain they all had erred
In naming it that and the other bird,
For it grew in the keep of those I love
A homely plain domestic dove.
192

THE FIFTEENTH OF AUGUST.

Now, while above heaven's windows dim and darken,
And shadows shoot and grow,
And the wild peaks of rocky Thelemarken
Blacken the evening glow,—
My thoughts come back from roaming o'er far places,
Like sea-birds to their isle;
And here in Norway bonnie Scottish faces
Look through the gloom, and smile.
I know them all: it is a birthday meeting,
And she, the birthday Queen,
Looks round as she receives each kindly greeting
For one, who is not seen.
193

There's mirth, and music, and the chink of glasses,
Laughter, and lights, and flowers;
—And so they pelt with roses, as he passes,
Time, and his train of hours.
The lights are out at last, the guests departed,
Yet, lingering near the gate,
There's one, I know, is listening gentle-hearted,
Although the night be late.
She feels almost a lover's kind caresses,
Hears his approaching feet:
—'Tis but the night wind in her wavy tresses,
Or blowing down the street.
Retire, sweet lass! in vain you look and hearken
For steps that are not near;
His path is through the wilds of Thelemarken,
Whose voice you think you hear.
194

The vision fades—fade all the much-loved faces,
Fade Perth, Kinnoull, and Tay;
And unfamiliar outlines fill their places
And gloom athwart my way.
I hear but in the wood the torrent calling
In tones that come and go,
I feel but from the feels a silence falling
Into the vand below.
And now above heaven's windows fairly darken,
And earth is black and drear:
—And what do I afar in Thelemarken
From all my heart holds dear?
195

WORKING AND IDLING.

While some attempt the task on stirks,
And some on mules or asses,
The man, that best could do it, shirks
The gallop up Parnassus.
His Pegasus unsaddled feeds
Beside him in a hollow,
Close by the rocky path that leads
Up to thy heights, Apollo!
And idling in the shade he lurks,
While they tug at their bridles;
They well may call their efforts Works;
And what are his but Idyls?
196

BLOOMTIME: A SONG.

My life is in its bloomtime,
And faded sisters say—
“We've all our summer sometime,
She need not look so gay.”
But oh! the wild young fellows,
They compliment one so!
And then, to have them jealous
—It's more than praise, you know!
197

A DITHYRAMB.

I.

Lift up your voices in fraternal chorus,
All ye who share
The joyous spirit of the poet,
Wheresoe'er
In the four corners of the earth ye dwell!
—Lift up your voices! Tell
Its owners earth is fair!
Sing! Shout aloud, and show it!
Sing! for the earth is fair!
The same blue heaven is bending o'er us,
The same green earth extends before us,
And heaven is kind and earth is fair
—But mankind do not know it!
Lift up your voices
198

Till the world rejoices
And knows that earth is fair!

II.

What though we stand in sundered lands
And sing in several voices?
The brotherhood has many bands,
But with one heart rejoices.

III.

From the same Father-God we came,
To the same Father-God we go;
Our hopes above are all the same,
—The same our griefs below,
Our sadness!

IV.

Sing! till the night of sorrow
Is frightened from the land!
Give into every hand
The torch of gladness!
199

—Gladness is a flame
Increasing if you lend or if you borrow—
And cry aloud! proclaim
At midnight everywhere
Good morrow! and good morrow!
Till timorous souls leap from their hidings
And know that earth is fair!—
Lift up your voices
Till the world rejoices!
Sing! till the surging air
Beats on the battlements of heaven the tidings
That man rejoices for the earth is fair!
200

COMPOSING A SONNET.

I

Composing a sonnet
'S like kindling a fire:
Heap largely upon it
—The spark will expire!

II

Your very best “chance” is
To coax it with rhyme,
Then try it with fancies
—A touch at a time.

III

Now lay the lines lightly,
Keep blowing between,
And soon it will brightly
Seize all the fourteen!
201

DAVID.

He sits above the mists of Time,
Above the poet throng;
He sits on morning heights sublime
The king of choral song.
All lesser bards on lower heights
Fall at his feet their lyres,
Unknown to them his high delights
—Unfelt his far desires!
They sing of mortal grief and mirth
In measures sweet to hear:
His song ambitious spurning earth
Makes for Jehovah's ear!
202

He soars unmated and alone
Into eternal day,
The angel-host around the throne
Clear for his wing a way!
The Sons of Morning left behind
Cease after him to sing,
Not theirs that fervour of the mind
That fury of the wing!
The burning offering of his praise
To heaven himself bears he,
And with impetuous ardour lays
Even on Jehovah's knee!
No seraph's fear his soul can tame,
Nor cherub overawed;
To him with first and foremost claim
Jehovah is a God!
203

The universe through all its bounds
Is but a means of praise,
An orchestra of many sounds
Concerting with his lays!
Hark, how to his conducting rod
He calls creation's train
To hymn the praises of his God,
And swell his choral strain!

PSALM CXLVIII.

Praise we the Lord! Begin, ye matchless creatures,
The first-born of His might,
Circling His glory till your young-God features
Absorb the eternal Light!
Take up the song, ye Seraphim! Prolong,
Ye Cherubim, the pæan!
Drown with His praise, ye meaner angel-throng,
The echoing Empyrean!
204

Praise Him, thou vast of space, that, like an ocean,
The eternal heavens between
And the mysterious maze of starry motion,
Stretchest afar serene!
Praise Him, ye Powers, that occupy with light
Creation's outer porches,
Fronting the chaos of primeval Night
With the eternal torches!
Praise Him, thou Sun, that from the flames of Morning
Upleapest crowned with light!
Praise Him, thou Moon, retiring and returning
To shepherdess the night!
Praise Him, ye wanderers of the Milky Way!
Ye whispering Constellations!
Ye Comets! and ye Meteor Stars that stray
To unknown destinations!
205

Awake, thou Earth! and wake thy slumbering legions,
And shout aloud, and show
The challenge of the Everlasting Regions
Is answered from below!
Praise Him, ye Winds, that sweep the deep sublime!
Ye lower Seas and Surges!
Praise Him, ye Thunders of the torrid clime!
Praise Him, ye Polar Scourges!
Praise Him, ye Clouds, ye stately sailing Fountains!
Ye Cataracts and ye Rills!
Ye floating Icebergs and ye burning Mountains!
Ye Deserts and ye Hills!
Praise Him, ye Earthquakes, from your secret mines!
Ye rushing Avalanches!
Praise Him, ye congregated Palms, ye Pines!
—Forests with all your branches!
206

Praise Him, ye Camels and ye Flocks domestic,
That whiten the green plain!
Praise Him, thou Terror of the Woods, majestic
With turbulence of mane!
Praise Him, ye Herds upon a thousand hills!
Ye Colts, without a rider,
That drink the freedom of the desert rills,
Praise Him, the All-provider!
Praise Him, thou Eagle, from thy pinions flinging
A twilight o'er the sea!
Praise Him, ye Doves! Praise Him, ye Swallows, winging
O'er isles and oceans free!
Praise Him, ye Sons of Eve, of all estates,
Kindreds, and tongues, and nations!
Praise Him, ye Kings, ye sceptred Potentates!
Ye Priests, with heart oblations!
207

Praise Him on chord, and reed, and with your voices,
All peoples, maids, and men!
Praise Him together, while the heaven rejoices
Answering the earth again!
Praise Him alone, for He alone is great
Beyond all mark and measure;
And we are but His handiwork, who wait
Well pleased upon His pleasure!
208

OUR MARY: HER FATE.

This was Mary twenty years ago—
Mary then was four from twenty,
Mary then was gimp and genty,
Mary then had beaux a-plenty,
Rosy cheeks and brow of snow;
Like a fairy
Was our Mary
Twenty years ago.
This was Mary nineteen years ago—
Mary then was meek and modest,
Neatly ankled, shapely bodiced,
By the village poets goddessed,
209

Classed with Dame Demeter's Oe;
Like an airy
Sylph was Mary
Nineteen years ago.
This was Mary eighteen years ago—
Mary properly deported,
Chastely with her sisters sported,
Would not kiss though she was courted,
Coaxed by many a downy beau;
Wise and wary
Was our Mary
Eighteen years ago.
This was Mary seventeen years ago—
When the lads their longing uttered
Nothing in her bosom fluttered,
And she neither stayed nor stuttered
When she simply said them No!
—Feeling nary
Had our Mary
Seventeen years ago!
210

This was Mary sixteen years ago—
When the men their custom carried
Off to other marts, and married,
Though it tested those that tarried,
Mary her ain gate would go;
Veer nor vary
Would our Mary
Sixteen years ago.
This was Mary fifteen years ago—
It was at a Christmas party
That the spinsters at écarté
Leapt up, startled by a hearty
Smack beneath the misletoe;
“Did he?—dare he?”
“Yes!” said Mary
Fifteen years ago!
211

RETURN TO EDINBURGH AFTER THE HOLIDAYS.

An' noo, fareweel to hills an' braes,
To wuds an' watters broon!
We've pairtit wi' the holidays
—They're aff! they're fairly flewn!
An' we, wi' torn an' suddled claes,
An' tired fra cuit to croon,
Wi' scartit hauns an' blistered taes,
Are hirplin' back to toon!
Like laddies, ill for an excuse
For havin' played the tru'n,
We're comin' in a kind o' daze,
An' dummies every loon!
The ne'er a lauch hae we to raise
To hud oor hearts aboon;
—E'enoo we'd raither dee nor praise
Oor ain pedantic Toon!
212

SONNETS

219

APRIL.

Yonder comes April, on her lip a smile
And in her eye a tear! She has the look
Of one whose face is as an open book
Yet thinks her harmless secret safe the while.
Her half-aversion is a childish wile
To win a welcome from you; in the nook
Of the sweet eye a tear has just forsook
Lurks a blue ring that would a saint beguile!
—How shall we welcome her? Why, as a child
Returning from a ramble, half afraid
Her absence may have vexed her mother mild,
While through the pathless woods alone she strayed;
And waiting till her father once has smiled
And spread his arms and called his little maid.
220

NIGHT.

Night lifts her shadowy arms above the earth,
And breathes a benediction o'er the town;
And eyes are closed, and aching heads go down,
And silence sits by the forsaken hearth.
And now in dreams to pale neglected Worth
Come recognition and a cool green crown,
And these have friends for every waking frown
And those for every misery now have mirth.
O blessèd sleep! that like a curtain nightly
Drops on this tragi-comedy of man.
And blessèd, too, ye heaven-sent dreams, that rightly
Transform the piece to the original plan.
But best the buskined close—however lightly
Hope slipped the sock on when the play began!
221

A BACK-LYING FARM.

I.

[A back-lying farm but lately taken in;
Forlorn hill-slopes and grey, without a tree;
And at their base a waste of stony lea
Through which there creeps, too small to make a din,
Even where it slides over a rocky linn,
A stream, unvisited of bird or bee,
Its flowerless banks a bare sad sight to see.
All round, with ceaseless plaint, though spent and thin,
Like a lost child far-wandered from its home,
A querulous wind all day doth coldly roam.
Yet here, with sweet calm face, tending a cow,
Upon a rock a girl bareheaded sat
Singing unheard, while with unlifted brow
She twined the long wan grasses in her hat.]
222

II.

So sat the maiden: to the outward eye
The flower-like genius of a flowerless waste,
Dropped from the hand of Providence in haste
And left neglected here to wane and die.
—And yet, who knows what youthful fancies, ay,
What heavenly visitants descending graced
That lonely life, and with bright dreams displaced
The cloudy terrors of the natural sky?
Heaven lies about us in our infancy,
And heaven is not a thing of sight or sense;
Here on this desolate flower-forsaken lea
It opens to the eyes of innocence:
There is an Eden for us all, till we
Let in a devil who straightway drives us thence.
 

The first part of this sonnet, which has already appeared in the author's earlier volume of poems, is here reproduced as an introduction to its second part.

223

“THY WILL BE DONE.”

A Painting by Sir Noel Paton.

I.—THE PAINTING.

“No earthly beauty shines in him,
To draw the carnal eye.”

'Twas in the painter's choice: he might have framed
A figure more commanding, and a face
Earthlier fairer and of finer grace,
And none that loves the Saviour would have blamed.
But wiser he: so should a form that aimed
At drawing all men to him take a place
No ways superior to the common race,
In proof he was not of their state ashamed.
And so—no hero, cased as if in mail
With adventitious halo of romance;
224

No strong-built athlete, never known to ail,
Proud of his strength, defiant in his glance;
But looking as if liable to fail,
With nothing to commend him or enhance.

II.—TO THE PAINTER.

Creator of The Christ! when first I stood
Before thy handiwork, and overawed
Beheld the mystery of the Son of God
Sinless yet suffering in the midnight wood,
Suffering, and yet to suffering quite subdued,
How could I think of thee? how could I laud
The power that pained me so? or how applaud
In presence of that brow with blood bedewed?
And yet I owe a dearer debt to thee
Than I have paid to any: there will rise
Within my memory Paul; yet even he,
The great Apostle, failed to realise
225

As thou hast done, for thou hast made me see
The Christ in Scotland with my actual eyes!
Great Painter! unto thee the awful dower
Of genius has been given to dare and do,—
To image Deity in pain, pursue
The image into act, hour after hour,
And bid it live! I tremble for the power,
God-lent and (surely for great ends) to few,
That thus creates the agony anew
Which God hid in Gethsemanë's dark bower!
—For they will come, the idle and the rude,
And these will praise thy skill, and those will blame;
And some, indulgent of a prying mood,
Will stand and stare, departing as they came;
And thou wilt seem, thy work misunderstood,
In these to put the Lord to open shame!
226

TENANTLESS.

A level waste, where sheep are starving drear,
And lapwings breed, and sapless windle-straws,
Weakly submissive to the gusty flaws,
For ever round the waste forlornly veer,—
In midst whereof, most desolate, appear
Four grey walls round an empty house: you pause
As you pass by, and ask what fool he was
That built, and brought his household darlings, here?
No pathway through the waste leads to the door
That fronts the snow-cold hills; the lake between,
When, as to-day, a north wind's blowing keen,
Sends to the very doorstep, cold and hoar,
Patches of flying foam:—a dreary scene!
Thank heaven! to be lived in by child no more!
227

ON GRANTON PIER.

Well, this is what I saw on Granton pier:
In front, the Firth!—“Oh, that is nothing new!”
Ay, but you never saw a bonnier blue
Than its glad waters wore; the day was clear,
And—you may laugh—to me they seemed to rear
Their waves in actual joy! Now, this is true—
One of the waves took wings, became a mew,
And sunward rose upon a new career!
Across the Firth I saw the coast of Fife
With here a cliff and there a nestling town;
And here and there the hillsides showed the strife
Of April green contesting winter brown;
And eastward far the horizon's edge was rife
With clean white sails that rose and sank adown.
228

ON LOMOND HILL.

The top at last! . . . All hail, celestial blue!
Mother of Freedom, where the winds are nurst
And the clouds fly, and sunbeams through them burst,
Gilding this old earth till it shines anew!
From thy broad bosom also drops the dew
As duly on the grass as at the first
Ere storms were known, and the green earth was curst,
And Man from Nature within walls withdrew.
—Yonder, far o'er the Firth, what smoky blot
Stains the pure ether? Ah! I know it: there
The Town-Witch, crooning o'er her seething-pot,
Compounds and brews for man infernal fare!
Thee and thy stews, black Witch! from this high spot
I solemnly for one whole week forswear!
229

TWO SONNETS IN DEFENCE OF SONG.

I. MORNING.

Loose beechen leaves above me; over which,
The cupola of heaven—so still and bright,
With the sun dreaming in a far high niche,
You think it never can again be night.
Nature at rest. The only sounds that reach
The listening ear are Labour's, and are light—
Rustlings among the oats, the reaper's speech,
And the mill-hum of a small town in sight.
Afield and in the factory they work,
Those at the loom, and these among the corn;
While I, the only idler, seem to shirk
The duty laid on every one that's born,
And, lapt in leaves, among the beeches lurk,
A spy upon my fellows all the morn.
230

II. EVENING.

But evening comes: the sounds of Labour cease,
And weary workers from their toil return;
Domestic lights in cottage windows burn,
And sundered families unite in peace.
Now what shall smooth with gentle hand the crease
Of furrowed brow and ruffled heart outworn,
Strengthen for the recurring toils of morn,
And wrap the spirit in the robes of peace?
—Song! which the poet, idling, as ye said,
Gathered fresh-fallen from the morning skies.
Song! which he wove, and dipped in rainbow dyes
When ye cried Out upon him, Lazyhead!
Song! that both feeds and clothes, and far outvies
Your factory fabrics and your oaten bread!
231

BERRY-HILL.

We stand upon the Ochils in the air
Of a September eve; great fleecy clouds,
Like sheep new-washen, circle earth in crowds,
But all the cupola is blue and bare.
Here, on the right, our Lomond towers; and there,
Far to the west, from a pale smoke that shrouds
Its base, Ben Lomond; and the heaven is bowed
Serenely o'er us, resting on the pair.—
It is a dutiful delight to flee
At times the sorcery of the sordid town,
To shake the mind from all vexations free,
To know on hill-tops Heaven without frown,
And feel like children looking up to see
Their parents at a window smiling down!
232

A HUMOUR OF THE LINKS.

He drops in dapper dress upon the ground,—
White cuffs, and sleeve-links glancing in the sun,
—A demd fine morning!—this at half-past one,—
And with three caddies enters on a round.
He hits the turf; the ball with oblique bound
Flees to the onlookers, who duck and run,
And running fall, and falling yell What fun!
While he calls Fore!—and wonders when 'tis found.
Six balls he loses, breaks three clubs, a cleek,
And, putting, makes an unexpected drive
Which lames a boy and cuts a golfer's cheek,
And so ends round the first at half-past five—
Seven holes in ninety strokes!—I would not seek
To wrong a living man: the man's alive!
233

LOCHLEVEN IN NOVEMBER.

Morning succeeded morning o'er the Lake
All through the spring, and never once a pair
Came quite the same, and yet the Lake was fair
And kept the lengthening charm without a break.
And surely now (thought I) no power will take
Her beauty from the Naiad; none will dare
To give the honour to the earth or air,
But all will praise it for her own dear sake.
—Well, one November morning, dazed and deaved
With the dull round of the professional wheel,
I left the city, and stole unperceived
Upon my Naiad ere the morning meal:
She looked up hastily, surprised and grieved,
Like a proud beauty caught in deshabille!
234

THE LAWN-ADONIS.

Lawn-tennis and the Ladies—give him these:
Misses, with rosebud mouths, and creamy cheeks
Spread thinly with a smile that lasts for weeks:
And leave the silken Sybarite to his ease.
No other paradise so well could please,
No other paradise the spaniel seeks;
That smirk of well-fed satisfaction speaks
A life content with what it sucks and sees.
—You sneer, Major! The sneer upon your lip'll
Only bring pouts, my gallant god of war!
What! to his ruby mouth deny the nipple,
And smirch his pearls with porter and cigar,
To whom the smell of small beer's a strong tipple
And Polson's paste a food too solid far?
235

[A great man dies, or whom the world calls great]

“Nec vixit male, qui natus moriensque fefellit.”
—Horace, Epist. xvii.

A great man dies, or whom the world calls great
—And, I've observed, the world will scarce allow
One leaf of laurel to your living brow
Though it grows lavish when you lie in state:
This for your comfort,—well, he's dead! and, straight,
A kite sits on the shroud; but whence or how
The carrion came you cannot guess; and now
It claims with yellow beak and claw its bait.
Faugh! 'Tis enough to make the dead upstart,
To be so near a living grave, and smell it!
Happy the man who takes the final dart
And drops among the grass with none to tell it,
Who quietly through life has done his part,
And, to quote Horace, moriens fefellit!
236

OLD AGE—THE WRESTLER.

Seems but as yesterday that I was young,
Inhaled the fever of the war of life,
Made eager preparations for the strife,
And with the joy of a strong gymnast flung
My soul into the contest: swayed and swung
This way and that I reeled; yet joys were rife,—
Home, and the smile of friends, the love of wife,
And Hopes that flew above my head and sung.
But, as I wrestled, woe, alas! my pride
Of youthful strength received a fall from One
Who came upon me with a hasty stride
And threw me heavily: broken, undone,
I rose and to a corner limped aside,
And lo, far down the west had sunk my sun!
237

WINTER'S PALE MARTYR.

Here, in the social city, by the hearth,
This winter midnight, in an easy-chair,
While the flames bicker on the bars, and flare,
And a wild east wind blowing up the Firth
Shouts down the chimney in its boisterous mirth,
Put on your hat and face me if you dare—
I think me of a hillside lone and bare
Far up among the Ochil Hills of Perth.
How piteously it waited for the spring
With a cold snow-drop sickening in its hand!
How patiently it waited for the wing,
That never came, of summer in the land!
And now it stands in snow-shirt shivering,
Winter's pale martyr, meekly at command!
238

“A BARBARY HEN.”

[_]

See Shakespeare's As You Like It.

Whither have fled his gamesomeness and glee,
His rosy gills, his laughter, and his jinks,
The sparkle of his eyes between the winks,
And all the merriment we used to see?
There is not now a duller man than he:
At festive times he sits alone and thinks,
Drains glass on glass, and still the more he drinks
The less inclined to smile he seems to be.
And now, what power in what fell hour did snatch
The mirth we may not hope to see again?
—They say it went for money in a match
That gave him with the gold a Barbary Hen!
—Proves the old proverb, Tom! the maddest bach-
Elors make still the saddest married men!
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