Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

These from the marshes and meadows,
And those from the marge of the main,
And some from the waste
Gathered in haste,
And a few from a garden old
Pilfered with pain:
And many were culled when the shadows
Came shuddering down on the plain,
And a few when the morning outroll'd
His banner and blazon of gold,
But most in the mist and the rain.

II

Bluebell and wildrose and heather,
A lonely exotic or two,
And grasses and weeds
Nobody heeds,
With forget-me-nots, once so brave,
Pallid of hue:

So crushed in a handful together
And stained with the soil where they grew,
That I hardly have courage to crave
—But yet they are all that I have!
You'll take them?—I pluckt them for you.

III

Splendid I know are the garlands
That others more tastefully twine,
As bids for a name
Sacred to Fame,
To be hung in the sounding dome
Own'd by the Nine:
And I who have been to the far lands,
The lands of the myrtle and vine,
In the gardens of Greece and of Rome,
And dreamed through our gardens at home,
Am bold to present you with mine.

September 1878.

SONNETS.

IDLENESS.

And slow and slower still, day after day,
Come the sad Hours, with beauteous upturned eyes
Gleaming with hopes I may not realise,
And seeming in their earnestness to say
Entreatingly—O send us not away
All empty-handed as we came! Arise,
Give us at least some promise we shall prize,
To be fulfilled, though after long delay.—
And I, although I weep to see them pass
With lingering pace and disappointed look,
Am lifeless as a statue bound with brass,
And listless as an open loose-leaved book
Turned by the wind; yea, passive as the grass,
Weak as the wavelet of a summer brook.

THE HOURS.

I saw once in my dreams a Dreamer sit
With half-shut eyes upon a bank of flowers
Bedropt with pearl and gold, the various dowers
Of all the Graces; and with hands fast knit
In long array I saw a vision flit—
A glorious sisterhood, stately as towers—
Before the Dreamer: And these were the Hours.
And as they passed the bank each knelt on it
And bowed her head upon the Dreamer's knees:
And some he crowned awry with chaplets, green
And fresh with flowers, to which clung feeding bees;
Or careless necklaced some with pearly sheen
Or gold; but mostly in material ease
He sat, and let the Angels pass unseen.

CHANGE.

In the grey skies the sun is growing cold,
And all the beauty of the air is gone;
The fays have left their bowers; the flowers alone—
Sweet summer things which never can grow old—
Are bright, but meaningless; the ring of gold
No longer crowns the kingcup, for the wealth
Of all the fields is ravished; and the stealth
Of lovers' glances into violets' eyes
For meanings which these eyes no longer hold
Is sadly unavailing. But, O change
Saddest of all! the hearts I wont to prize
As nearest to my own are cold and strange,
And I am strange to them; and, when we meet,
Our words are commonplace, and few, and fleet.

HOPE.

O bright-eyed Hope, that still look'st back on me,
And beckon'st with thy hand, seeming to say—
“Leave caring for these baubles of To-Day;
Lift up thy heavy lids; look on and see
The glory waiting in the far To-Be,
Before whose beams thy present joys shall show
As shows the wan moon in the morning-glow,
And all thy troubles like the night-fog flee!”
How light at times my labours seem when I
Look up to wipe my brow, and see thee there
O'erwatching all my toil with constant eye,
Lustrous, and oh! above all fancy fair!
And yet the fear—that sometime thou shalt fly
And leave me to the blankness of despair!

FANCY.

Thou sluggard body, that must sit on shore
While sleepless Fancy ranges space at will—
Now shooting boldly o'er the billowy hoar
That bounds the isle; now to some distant hill
Voyaging lightly with mercurial ease
Through the wide hyaline; anon in caves
Deep underground, whose black-arched vastnesses
Ring to the roar of subterranean waves,
Wandering and all but lost: What is thy claim,
Thou sluggard body, to companionship
With this ethereal essence, living flame,
Which cannot yet with perfect freedom slip
Its loose mysterious leash? What mystic spell
Hath pent within thy trunk this Ariel?

MORNING ON MORVEN.

We stood on Morven ere the morning broke:
Night lingered on the hills; a single star
Sent tremulously down on Lochnagar
A smile that wandered o'er his misty cloak
And touched his heart at last: sullen he woke
And bared his bosom, seamed with rent and scar—
The silent wounds of many a Winter's war.
The mist rolled upwards: Sudden a mountain oak,
That in its sunless hollow near us grew,
Through all its leaves shook in the morning air;
The mist still rose, the Dee rolled into view;
The mist still rose, and then, a vision rare
As the first rays of morning smote it through,
And ringed with gold old Morven's forehead bare!

FRIENDSHIP.

O give me speech! companionship I ask
With my own kind: my soul is sick of books,
And longs with passionate longing for the looks
Of living men. Thou flat, insipid flask!
Thou dead man's soul! Thou book! Thou calf-skin mask!
I loathe thee! Lo! abroad the reaping-hooks,
From the high hill-brow to the confluent brooks,
Are cireling in the harvest: Happy task!
Thine, happy peasant! is the healthful breeze,
The beams that call the red blood to the cheek,
The hunger which the plainest meals appease,
And thine, O bliss! companions that can speak:
To me—close chambers, where at noon I freeze,
And musty tomes from dumb-day'd week to week.

NORTHERN STUDENT.

I'm weary of the thing, if this be life—
To dose and prose, companion of the clock,
Bound to my room as seaweed to the rock,
And maddened by a garrulous old wife!
O for the noise, the bustle, and the strife,
And the glad smell of brine down at the dock;
The launch, and the brave timbers that will mock
A winter's voyage with storm and whirlwind rife!
This, this were life, to mount the swelling wave,
And steer the stout ship through the opposing blast,
And, even in dreams, to hear the tempest rave
And the great league-long tides go groaning past,
Till soft winds waft, and smoother waters lave
The good ship, and she gains the port at last!

ABOVE THE STARS.

To my sad soul the balm of sleep was sent,
Grateful as falling rain when dry winds parch
The withered tassels of the drooping larch;
And through my dream voices inviting went—
“Come, range with us the higher firmament:
For it is high and of exalted arch,
And suns unwearied round horizons march
To which thy compass narrows to a tent.”
And in my dream methought my soul was blown,
By wind of wings behind it and around,
To a most distant sky o'er-arching ground,
If ground it might be called, with stars bestrewn!
And all my human cares and fears were drowned
In a vast sea of harmony round me thrown!

IN IMITATION OF “THE ‘NAME UNKNOWN,’”

By Campbell—After Klopstock.

Where is the Wizard that will tell me true,
Of all the beauteous female forms I meet,
In green suburban walk or crowded street,
While I the daily rounds of life pursue,
Which of them all shall journey with me through
The coming years, a helpmate kind and meet:
Where wons she now? or whither point her feet?
And whether tend they to or from my view?
What is she doing now? But is she nigh?
Or in what Eden do her steps delay?
Or have I missed her in the crowd?—O why
Should cruel fate thus with blind lovers play?
Perhaps she's in an early grave, and I
But follow vainly searching all the way.

A BACK-LYING FARM.

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.

“TO-MORROW AND TO-MORROW AND TO-MORROW.”

My youthtime past, Life's joyous season o'er,
The April of our years, when buds half-blown
Of golden promise, seedlings too, thick sown,
Delight the soul a rich uncounted store,
Which future suns in splendour shall restore—
Poor creditor! Autumn perhaps will moan
Most inconsolably from stone to stone
Over a field that prematurely bore
A harvestry of buds reaped by the wind
That never came to fruitage! I remember
The very day when to my youthful mind
A low-born thought that counselled ease did clamber
And drugged my energies: I woke to find
The dark winds and the cold snows of December.

EPICUREAN.

“Gather we in, our wishes are complete,
This room our temple, and this board our shrine:
See where his godship, laughing from the wine.
Flings to each devotee a welcome sweet,
And waves him to a rose-encircled seat!
No boding suppliants we, pale-faced that pine
Beneath an angry tyrant: we recline
Around our blushing god, companions meet!
Ha! what is that? Whence came the sprig of yew
Among our roses? Who has stilled the lyre?”
The lamps are out, or shed a ghastly blue,
The palsied revellers with black lips retire,
Crash goes the lattice! There the lightning flew!
And hark! the deafening thunder's awful ire!

AMBITION: IN “ERCLES' VEIN.”

Pooh! stay me not! What though—or gem, or pearl?
Let the red gold to silver blanch! What reck?
Shall Plutus lure my heart? Shall Venus' neck
Entice my arm to twine? Neæra's curl
With silken chain bind me, a soulless churl?
Shall Bacchus have me at his drunken beck
Io to shout, and with vine-fronds to deck
Myself a fool, and life a tipsy whirl?
Perish th' ignoble thought! Why stay me? See!
Yonder! 'Tis she! She calls me—let me go!
She is my gem, my gold—my crown is she,
Aye flashing in mine eye misering the glow!
She is my love, my mistress! I am he
That, drunk with love, adores her! On! Io!

YOUTH.

Thus end the Moorish annals: “On the hill
The poor king paused, and turned a mournful gaze
Backward o'er green Granáda to the blaze
Of the red-towered Alhambra; then a thrill
Of sudden anguish wrung his soul, until
Relief came in a rush—a tearful haze
Blinded his view; and to unhonoured days
With one deep sigh departed Boäbdil.”
Unhappy Prince! Methinks I pity thee,
For that thy fate prefigures forth my own:
Here, from the specular mount of Memory,
I gaze across my Youth, so quickly flown,
Bidding its joys and hopes eternally
A long adieu, and heaving many a moan.

LOVE.

Bright in the dim horizon of the years
Hung the unsettled Light that leads to Fame:
Smit with the beckoning witchery of its flame
I followed on girt round with hopes and fears
That sometimes smiled but oftener, drowned in tears,
Made the dark march a sad one: sudden there came
Between my vision and the wandering aim
A glorious form that claimed the long arrears
Of my be-wasted youth, and fixed my eye:
I gazed adoring—nor devoid of pain
Lest the angelic visitant should fly,
But, as she lingered on, Surely, thought I,
Surely the primal sentence was in vain;
Only stay thou, and Eden blooms again!

TWO SONNETS.

I. SLEEP.

And now 'tis Night, and with oblivious plume
Sleep fans the eyelids of the sons of care,
And souls to their mysterious haunts repair
Where the dim dreamland spreads its warping gloom.
O sweet and soft the glories that illume
The land of dreams, and multiform as fair,
Brighter than gorgeous tissues of the loom,
Or sunset splendours of the waking air!
The worldling and his brother of the soil,
This one his toilsome, that his tedious day,
His suit the lawyer, and the smith his toil,
His rags the beggar, and the child its play—
Each his peculiar care forgets a while,
And all, sweet Sleep, under thy peaceful sway.

II. DEATH.

But if thou findest eyes that will not close,—
Eyes that through suffering wet or, in despair
Guarding a secret which they cannot share,
Tearless refuse the respite of repose—
Not thine, sweet Sleep, to end the sufferer's woes;
Believe not thou canst dissipate a care
So dark; thy blandishments forbear;
There is a grief that no cessation knows.
Yet, ere thou goëst, hear the sufferer crave
One boon of thee, and oh! thou need'st not fear
To kill a sorrow where thou canst not save,
However dark the sad request appear—
Call thy more pallid brother of the grave,
He only is the true physician here.

THE KNIFEGRINDER.

I met a Knifegrinder, a glorious fellow,
Upon the dusty highway, and I stood
And saw him push his one-wheeled thing of wood
Before him lustily, and heard him bellow
With a strong voice, whole-lung'd and loud and mellow,
For work with a becoming hardihood:
His cheek was brown, by many a summer hued,
And his rough foxy beard was fring'd with yellow.
And, if you will believe me, as I gazed
'Twas with both praise and envy: here methought
Is happiness on no foundation raised
External to the mind, but safely wrought
In self; and then the manliness I praised
With which he met the meanness of his lot.

FAITH.

With the dim brooding of a painless woe
Sent from afar, I knew not how nor why,
My soul was dark beneath so bright a sky
The light seemed from beyond the sun to flow:
Onward I went in gloom with all this glow
Falling about me, when a joyful cry
Escaped my lips, as, twinkling swiftly by,
A thousand doves flew up with wings of snow.
That instant I was glad: the gloom gave way,
And left th' horizon of my spirit clear;
And from behind I heard the rustling play
Of winging hopes and memories drawing near—
There was not one of all the memories gray,
And with the hopes there did not blend a fear.

IN THE SHADOWS.

I

And now I am alone: the city's hum
Is far behind me, and at rest I dwell
Beyond the maddening circle of her spell,
Whither her lynx-eyed envies may not come,
Nor the vain roll of her distracting drum.
O Mother Nature, mercifully dumb,
How doth thy countenance all care dispel,
Breathing a peace upon the inward hell!
Here at thy knees, where in the wayward time
Of reckless infancy I ran and played,
Here at thy knees I mourn my wasted prime,
That far from thee in quest of trifles strayed;
And thou with mute eyes overlook'st my crime,
With thy maternal arms around me laid!

II

As wandering bird to its forsaken nest,
After long buffetings amid the rain,
Comes home with weary wings fatigued in vain
When Evening's peace soothes the yet weeping west:
Or as the dove, with strange adventurous breast,
Chose the wide horrors of the margeless main
Only with mournful note to seek again
The sheltering ark, a late-returning guest:
So I, repentant, to the shadows flee
From the fierce light that tempted me to roam,
Happy in this, that there is left to me
The sweet obscure security of home,
Doubly endeared in that it was despised,
And in the light of contrast doubly prized.

III

The voiceless benediction of a peace
That tarries with me from this very hour
Falls on my brain, as falls the windless shower
On summer plants that droop at day's decease,
Instilling strength and promising increase
To the renewal of the fading dower
The Morning gave: And if the lust of power
Once—to what issue boots not—swayed my life,
Here its command and my allegiance cease!
To you, ye sons of Anak, vainly brave,
I leave the plaudits of the conquered slave
And the unenvied honours of the strife;
For what is all that glory ever gave?
Glitter and sound, and mostly o'er a grave!

“OCTOBER WINDS.”

October winds are hungering o'er the hill
In a vain search for summer joys that flee
The approaching day of desolated tree
And vanished flower and unmelodious rill;
And yet a parting beauty lingers still
Of Autumn's own, which were not sad to see
But for bare fields and flower-forsaken lea
And wan loose leaves that all the valley fill.
For I have found, when summer days were dead,
In a sad glen of whisper'd memories full,
Autumn rejoicing in the berries red
Of a gay rowan by a Highland pool,
Amid the signs of sorrow Nature shed
When Summer's love for her began to cool.

BEAUTY.

It is not in the air that Beauty dwells;
Nor do you steal upon her in her dreams
In the far glens; among the lonely streams
She is not now, pursuing water-bells;
Her feet are not among the pearly shells
Of some fair islet that we do not know,
Severed from sister archipelago,
And sitting in the sea that round it swells
Gently in the broad belt of calms. But where
From human eyes a noble soul looks forth
On Nature with the freedom of an heir—
Greedy, perhaps, but grateful for his share—
Beauty arising sings: She is the birth
Of the sweet sympathy of man with earth.

A RETROSPECT.

Now what this pebbly strip of Kentish coast
And the lone sweep of this blue curling bay
Has waked my fancy to I cannot say,
That most is busy when I idle most,
But backward through the years she seems to post;
She seems in running to devour the way,
And I, dull laggard, follow as I may,
Till at the last she stops: And lo! a host
Of whitening sails, far as the eye can reach,
Advancing from the sky-line more and more!
‘These are the men that bring your Shakespeare speech!’
I look again, and, closer than before,
Lo! Hengist's galley cabled to the beach,
And Horsa's sailors pulling for the shore.

ARCADIA.

A glorious day among the Ochil hills!
Blue April skies above; and all about
Green primrose banks that slope to where the trout
In silver glance athwart the gleaming rills,
And wagtails bob, and ouzels wet their bills;
And linnets in the heather in and out
Weaving sweet music; and the shepherd's shout;
And the fine fragrance which the birk distils:
Arcadia! and ten hours of it! But stay,
There was no clock in Arden; let me see;
Suppose we borrow Milton's words, and say—
From morn till dewy eve. And who were we?
Why, Jack and I. Angling: we ‘whipt’ all day.
Well, I got none, but Jack was good for three!

MICHAEL BRUCE:

A Poem in Sonnets.

The children of one king one rank retain;
And he that is the youngest, in his plays
Is none the less a prince with him who sways
A sceptre in the father-king's domain
Apportioned to his years: So I were fain,
Out of my love for one of gentle ways
And golden promise of his youth, to raise
The whole poetic choir of every strain
To one great level; and, that I may guard
A life so gentle from debate, and shun
Conflicting with the critic's nice award,
I will prevent idle comparison
By naming in one breath England's great bard,
Milton, and Bruce, Apollo's uncrowned son.

II

Milton and Michael Bruce: Not thine the blame,
Sweet minor poet of my native shire,
If thus the mighty master of the lyre
And thou be linked together, name to name.
Yet now, however wide the master's fame
Burn in our English heavens, a living fire,
While thy small taper threatens to expire,
I soberly must think your meeds the same.
'Tis true thy genius crept in narrow groove,
While his soared sunward beyond common ken;
But as the power of mighty poets move
Only the mighty, so thy simple pen
Belike as great an influence doth prove
Upon the simple lives of common men.

III

'Twas his to cheer the leaders of the throng
That moves between the moaning of two seas
Darkling—between the two eternities—
With the high hopes of his unclouded song.
Of light he sang, and rolled its beams along
The skies of human life: the vales and leas
Catch not the rays that strike the hills and trees;
And Milton's strength was only for the strong.—
But thou wert in the crowd, and stooped thy brow,
Lambent with Heaven's own light, among the low,
And sang sweet hymns to cheer the passing Now,
And raised sweet hopes of a bright morning glow;
And ever, amidst thy singing, thou wouldst bow
Thy head to hide the tears that would down-flow.

IV

If, where thou sitt'st in juster state than here,
With scarce a bud of all thy springtime blown,
Thy friends could claim for thee, till thou wert gone
And they were free to think thee Milton's peer,
And fain to find for thee some idle sphere
Waiting thy tardy coronation on
The lofty splendours of its empty throne
To burst forth singing on a new career,—
If, where thou sitt'st inheriting the glow
Of full-orbed glory, thou hast thought of earth,
Thy gentle spirit must be pleased to know
That in the pastoral hamlet of thy birth,
While stranger generations come and go,
Thy cherished hymns are heard by many a hearth.

V

The pale-faced weaver, pensive at his loom,
Flinging the idle shuttle day by day,—
Cheered by the solace of thy gospel lay,
Escapes the thraldom of his narrow doom.
And I have heard sweet voices in the broom
Of orphan girl or boy, on upland brae
Tending the cow, or tedding of the hay,
Singing of glad reunions at the tomb
In solemn hymns of thine; and I have thought
Their hopes the braver for their faith in thee;
For thou wert one of them: thy parents wrought
At wheel and loom beneath yon old rooftree;
And thou, like them, wert in thy boyhood taught
On these same hills to earn thy infant fee.

VI

Thou art a living presence in the streets
Of the small town, familiar on the tongue
Of every villager, and ever young;
So that the pilgrim to these lone retreats
Marvels to find in every one he meets
That kindly memory, of affection sprung,
Which, more than panegyric said or sung,
Time and the grave of their grim functions cheats.
But when the blissful Sabbath days bestow
Their weekly balm on jaded heart and limb,
And temporal cares the burdened heart forego,
And Heaven appears less distant and less dim,
Is heard thy voice plaintive o'er human woe,
Or jubilant in the grand millennial hymn.

ON THE DECADENCE OF THE SCOTS LANGUAGE, MANNERS, AND CUSTOMS.

They're wearin' by, the guid auld times
O' Scottish rants and hamet rhymes,
In ilka biggin' said or sung
In the familiar mither tongue,
When lads and lasses were convenin'
Roun' the wide ingle at the e'enin'.

They're wearin' by, the guid auld days
O' simple faith an' honest phrase
Atween the maister an' the man
In ilka corner o' the lan',
When faithfu' service was a pleasour,
An' faithfu' servants were a treasour.

They're wearin' by, the guid auld lives
O' leal an' thrifty men an' wives;
They're wearin' oot, the guid auld creeds
That met a simple people's needs;

The auld Scots character an' laws
That made oor kintra what it was—
Esteemed at hame, envied abroad,
Honoured o' man an' loved o' God;
Oor nationality, oor name,
Oor patriotic love for hame—
I 'maist could greet; I can but sigh—
They're wearin' oot, they're a' gaun by!

The gude auld honest mither tongue!
They kent nae ither, auld or young;
The cottar spak' it in his yaird,
An' on his rigs the gawcie laird.

Weel could it a' oor wants express,
Weel could it ban, weel could it bless;
Wi' a' oor feelin's 'twas acquent,
Had words for pleasour an' complent;
Was sweet to hear in sacred psalm
In simmer Sabbath mornin's calm;
An' at the family exerceese,
When auld gudemau, on bended knees,
Wrastled as Jacob did langsyne
For favours temporal an' divine,

Hoo did its fervent accents roll
The load o' sin frae aff the soul!
Nae fine affeckit foreign soun',
Wi' frequent flexions up an' down,
But a straucht-for'at free-born speech,
A manly tongue to learn or teach,
Whaur ilka say was to the point,
An' ilka word in ilka joint
Gruppit the sense it carried wi' 't,
An' stappit aff wi' decent speed—
An' ilka letter gat its due
The first page o' the Cairitch thro',
An' ne'er a lisp was tolerated,
An' “lock” for “loch” like Sawtan hated,
An' aye the “r,” tho' crank awee,
Gaed birlin' aff the mooth-ruif free.

It was as yauld an' bauld a tongue
As roun' the wa's o' Babel rung,
An' better rung, for plank or plaister;
Nae doot its author was a maister—
At least a foresman—owre the people,
The masons at the muckle steeple,
An' swuir at lairge, an' dang'd and deyvled,
That awfu' oor the tongues were reyvled!

An' it had words were a' its ain;
A gowlock was a gowlock thain;
A soughin' wind amang the trees
Was bonnier than a gentle breeze;
The shut o' day was aye the gloamin',
An' daunder was the word for roamin',
An' true was leal, an' loss was tyne,
An' long ago was auld langsyne.

Ye've heard, when May was new begun,
Amangs' the gress a peepin' wun'
That shook the blades an' swith awa'!
As saft a breath as bairn could blaw;
Belyve it creepit owre the lee,
An' up an' sang upon the tree
A strain sae plaintive that to hear it
Ye thocht some disembodied speerit,
Frae heaven forwander't far its lane,
Was greetin' to win back again.

Anon it loupit to the wud,
An', like a wulbeast nane can hud,
Seiz'd on the patient pines an' tare
An' whirl'd their branches high in air,
An' raged an' roared fra' glade to glen

Till the haill wud, fra' en' to en',
Thro' a' its caves an' corners rung,
An' to the tempest rock'd an' swung:—
The cattle, moaning, fled the bield,
Th' umbrageous wud was wont to yield.

As wide could range the auld Scots tongue;
'Twas meet alike for auld an' young,
For jest an' earnest, joy an' wae,
For cursin' an' caressin' tae.

'Twas gentlier at a hushaba
Than a wud-muffled waterfa',
Or cushats wi' their downie croon
Heard through a gowden afternoon,
Or streams that rin wi' liquid lapse,
Or wun's among the pine-tree taps.

'Twas sweet at a' times i' the mooth
O' woman moved wi' meltin' ruth;
But oh! when first love was her care,
'Twas bonnie far beyond compare.

'Twas mair sonorous than the Latin,
Cam' heavier on the hide o' Satan,

When frae his Ebal o' a poopit
The minister grew hearse an' roopit,
An' bann'd wi' energetic jaw
The author o' the primal fa'.
But if the poopit's sacred clangour
Was something aw'some in its anger,
Gude keep my Southlan' freen's fra' hearin'
A rouch red-headed Scotsman swearin'!

But wha would hae audacity
To question its capacity?

The mither croon'd by cradle side,
Young Jockie woo'd his blushin' bride,
The bargain at the fair was driven,
The solemn prayer was wing'd to heaven,
The deein' faither made his will,
In gude braid Scots:

—A language still!
It lives in Freedom-Barbour's lines,
In bauld Dunbar it brichtly shines,
On Lyndsay's page like licht it streams,
In Border scraps it fitful gleams,
An' like the shimmerin' spunkie strays
By Ettrick banks an' Yarrow braes.

It lives for aye in Allan's play,
In Coila's sangs, the Shepherd's lay,
The bird-like lilts fra' Paisley side,
The Wizart's tales that flew sae wide,
Forbye the vast an' various lore
O' later ballants by the score:
The gude auld Scots!—a language still,
Let fortune vary as she will.
Though banish'd from oor College ha's,
It frames the siccar auld Scots laws;
Though from the lips, of speech the portal,
It lives in Literature immortal.

But oh, alas! the waefu' change,
The customs new, the fashions strange,
Sin' the auld patriarchal days
O' sober thocht an' simple phrase!

In thae auld days a heaven o' calm
Hung owre the kintra like a balm
That still'd the fractious fretfu' blude,
An' made a tranquil neighbourhude.
Ilk townie was a human fauld;
The young grew up amang the auld,
An' learnt their ways, an' settled down

Contentit i' their native town.
The sergeant, whiles, sae brave an' braw,
Wad wile a flichty chiel' awa',
An' noo an' thain some book-lear'd birkie
Wad tak' a hankerin' for a kirkie;
But few they were to cities ran;
The village was a family than,
Where ilka housie was a hame,
An' ilka bairnie kent by name.

Nor think it was a humdrum life,
A lang-continued labour'd strife,
Withouten stop frae Yule to Yule
For the bare wants o' milk an' meal.
Ilk cottar had his ain bit land
He labour'd wi' an eident hand,
Afore the meikle farms came in,
Like Pharaoh's cattle lank an' thin,
An' swallow'd up—it's e'en a sair joke—
The bien bit crofties o' the puir folk.
Oh, wae the day the puir man tint it,
His cot an' pendicle ahint it!
Tho' short his boonds, an' small his gain,
A bit o' Scotland was his ain.

What better guard or guarantee
O' patriot love or loyaltie,
Amang the common kintra cless—
The kintra's mainstey in distress—
What stauncher safeguard could ye get
Than the auld crofter system yet?

That neuk o' Scotland's auld gray plaid
Was his—his shelter an' his shade;
An' jealous was he of his corner,
Quick to resent the scoff of scorner,
An' ready for his richt to stand
As ony lordling in the land.

Nae tourin' schemes o' foreign gain
Ayont the wide Atlantic main,
Nae sinfu' thochts o' wild ambition
Garr'd him despise his low condition;
His twa-'ree acres delv'd an' plantit,
He whistled, and was weel-contentit.

An' then the simple plays an' ploys,
The healthfu' games an' hamely joys—
A present pleasour to the mind,
That left nae efter-sting behind.

The time were surely idly spent
To speak o' preachin's fra' the tent,
O' kirns an' foys an' penny-waddin's,
An' back-en' midnicht masqueraddin's;
An' Hallowe'en sae blythe an' merry,
An' the daft days o' Janiwary;
An' pranks an' plays at Beltantide,
An' mony frolics mair beside.

And auld-warld cracks an' eldritch stories
O' wizart caves an' haunted corries;
An' eerie tales o' water-witches,
That to the foord decoyed puir wretches;
An' lang accounts o' doughty deeds,
By heroes wroucht in warrior weeds
For puir auld Scotland's honoured sake
In days when Freedom was at stake.
Then chiefly in the lang forenicht
Was tauld the tale o' Wallace wicht,
Hoo like a lion roused he rose,
An' rush'd on his insulting foes;
Before his glance like deer they fled—
Behind him lay a line of dead—
Till, breathless from the chase at length,

He sought the woods to gather strength,
Whence, issuing ever and again,
He bled an' battled to the en'.
An' here the tale would tak' a turn
To Robert Bruce o' Bannockburn;
How through the lang eventfu' strife,
Ere glory crooned his later life,
He rather chose the woods an' caves
Wi' freedom an' his band o' braves
Than sit upon a silken seat,
An' wear a crown at Edward's feet.

Or aiblins that daft lassie, Sang,
Would slip unseen amang the thrang
O' lads an' lasses busy jokin'
Roun' the wide ingle at the rokin'.
Tho' snaw-white was the robe she wore,
An' strung wi' gold the harp she bore,
She mair than tholed the reek an' coom—
The auld clay biggin' was her hame!
She micht hae sat in city ha's,
An' listened to refined applause;
But dearer to her heart the cot,
The kintra, an' the puir man's lot.

She sang to children o' the soil
The dignity of honest toil,
The independence o' the mind,
An' better days for a' mankind.

She sang o' love and youthfu' joys,
O' friendship's frank an' social noise,
An' toasted in her moods o' glee
Scotland wi' a' the honours three.

She sang auld Scotland's broomy knowes,
Her tourin' hills where heather grows,
Her scroggy glens to memory dear,
Her burnies wimplin' thro' them clear.

She flang owre cairn o' mountain stane
Familiar wi' the midnicht's maen,
Owre moory monumental fiel',
Owre river wi' its ruin'd peel,
A beauty mair than sun could gi'e,
Or blue-bells noddin' bonnilie.

The glamour o' the vanish'd past
On bare forsaken scenes she cast,—
The licht o' lang-descendit suns,
The wail o' lang-exhaustit wun's,

The shouts o' heroes in the dust,
The gleam o' glaives noo red wi' rust.

At ither times, late i' the gloamin',
When wun's aroon' the wa's were roamin'—
Like warl'y cares aroond a mind
To heaven's high will serene resigned—
While slept the heavy-laboured young,
And owre the fire the auld folk hung,
A holy radiance would illume
The cottage wi' a gowden bloom,
And i' the midst would seem to stand
Wi' peacefu' olive in her hand,
A matron of supernal air—
Religion was the name she bare.

Nae mere emotional face had she,
But a clear intellectual e'e,
From whilk the Truth, as from a dookit
Or open lattice-window, lookit.

Her lips, o' gracefu' curve divine,
Had that placidity of line
Whose sweet severity alway
Repels the rude and awes the gay.

Hie was her broo an' fair to see—
A temple of serenitie,
On whilk a glance how short soe'er
Dispell'd the momentary fear,
An' gave the heart a lively sense
Of lasting peace an' confidence.

She spake wi' calmness o' the grave
As of an entrance-gate that gave,
Withouten tax of man or toll,
Admission to the ransom'd soul—
Admission purchased wi' a price,
To the fair fields of paradise.

Her teachings nourished hopes sublime
Beyond the dreams of earth or time;
Before their brilliance paled away
Sceptres an' swords of widest sway,
The flashing crown, the purpled robe,
The glory of a conquer'd globe.

Nor less the splendour of a name
Hailed by a wondering world's acclaim,
For triumphs nobler than the sword's,
Achieved by noiseless thochts an' words

In the much wider world of mind,
Unenvied fell their hopes behind.

The boast of rank, the pride of state,
The airs and orders of the great;
The curtain'd cushion'd coach an' bed,
The prancing steeds, the banners spread;
The flash, the glitter, an' the glare,
The bress, the gless, the trumpet blare—
What were they but a toom pretence,
The fleeting shapes an' shows of sense?

Not more enduring by a day
Than the puir cottar's hodden gray,
His staff, his bannet, an' his plaid,
The sweaty emblems of his trade,
His horny luif, his thristly soil,
His back sair bent wi' lifelong toil,
His bitter cares, his vexin' crosses,
His disappointments, pains, an' losses.

Wi' a' their prizes, a' their pains,
Their petty losses, paltry gains,
Th' allotted threescore years an' ten—
What were they after a' to men

Whase view of human life was less
A tent life in a wilderness
Than a short passage owre a muir
To mansions waitin' them secure?

Present abasement they could bide,
Sustained by an immortal pride;
For were they not the absent heirs
Of heaven, predestinated theirs?—
The exiled children journeyin' hame
Of a great Prince of powerfu' name?
Yea, were they not upon the road
Princes and priests disguised of God?

The present age, I maun alloo,
Is wide an' cultured in its view,
Keen to spy oot, an' quick to damn
The hoar hypocrisy an' sham
That in the silent growth o' years
Covers wi' superstitious fears
Forms that express the noblest truth
That ever cam' fra' human mouth,—
As ye have seen the lichen hide
The ootlines o' the sculptor's pride.

But, oh! I canna but lament
The slackenin' o' a' restraint
Halesome to social life; but chief
The rootin' up o' a' belief
In life on earth to heaven translated,
In God, and man as God-created;
Nor least that reverential tone
Of oor grave elders changed or gone.

Others there are, but these the chief—
License, irreverence, unbelief—
Evils that follow in the train
Of forms exposed and held as vain,
Tho' cherished long, to suit the gentry
Of this omniscient nineteen cent'ry.

In thae auld days noo on the wing,
In thae auld ways I've tried to sing,
Thus were the youth o' Scotland reared,
An' Scotland's ancient name revered.

Dear were her mountains, knocks, an' knowes,
Her fells an' forests, haughs an' howes—
Not for their natural beauty only,

Or grandeur, lofty, grim, an' lonely,
But for they were an heritage
Bequeathed intact from age to age
By men wha bocht them wi' their blude,
An' battled for them rude by rude.

Thus were those feelings kept alive
That still for independence strive
Against a power that would control
Freedom o' body, mind, or soul.

Thus, too, the passion was begot
That Scotsman feels for brither Scot
When they amang the frem'd forgaither,
Tho' perfect strangers to ilk ither;
For they were rear'd on common fare,
An' breathed the same wild mountain air,
Their hearts wi' mutual memories glowed,
Their blude wi' kindred instincts flowed,
Their sympathies in common ran,
Their likes an' dislikes were at wan.

But wae befa' the weary toun!
It brought the sad reverse aroun',

An' lowsed the tender social ties
In whilk a nation's vigour lies.
It like a black-wambed speeder flang
Its telegraphic wires alang
The fields where rural industry,
Maist like an unambitious bee
Contentit wi' a modest spoil,
Had humm'd sae happy at its toil.

It laid its lines o' iron doun,
An' sallied forth wi' clatterin' soun',
Wi' puff an' snort an' startlin' shriek,
Envelop'd in a cludd o' smeek—
To scare the little folks awa',
To bleck wi' coom the greenwud shaw,
To fill the youthfu' peasant breast
Wi' discontentment and unrest,
An' drag sweet Innocence within
The city's whirlin' gulf o' sin.

A panic owre the kintra spread,
To towns the simple peasants sped,
Where, disappointed in their dreams,
They listened to the wildest schemes,

An' crossed the ocean faem to find
Nae hame like what they left behind.

O then was heard by foreign streams
The exile's wail owre vanished dreams;
An' nichtly to their dashing wave
Perhaps some banish'd bard would rave—
The blindin' saut tear in his e'e—
O' bonnie Doon or banks o' Dee.

The lesser venturesome that steyed,
Gaed wanderin' thro' the kintra wide—
Here for a year, an' there for twa,
Where flittin' fortune seem'd to ca.'

O thou accursed lust o' gain,
For whilk we madly strive an' strain,
What offerings on thine altar laid,
What sacrifices maun be made!

And a' for what? It's no' in gear—
It's no' in cent. per cent. per year—
It's no' in gowd although we hed it—
The wise can see't, the rich hae said it—

It's no' in mountain heaps o' wealth
To purchase happiness an' health!

But what avails this lang oration,
This pleadin' an' expostulation?
Oh, Ichabod!—The better plan
Were just to end as I began—
To note the waefu' change, an' cry
The guid auld times are a' gaun by!

THE SPECTRE OF THE AMAZON.

I've been a traveller in my time:
And aince in a far foreign clime,
Where rows the Amazon sublime
Through mony a grand Savannah,
I spied the knuckles o' a hand
Projectin' fra' the seaside sand;—
Thinks I, the banes have aince been awn'd
By some puir quadrumana.

Ye see, the region roun' was rife
Wi' a' the forms o' puggy life:
It's fa'en, quo' I, in battle strife,
Or died for want o' pheesic;
Or aiblins he had built a raft—
An ape the neebors counted daft—
Syne ventured seaward in his craft,
An' fa'en owreboard when sea-sick!

Or, maybe, crost in love, a' hope
Gaed fra' him; he begoud to mope

Becam' a monkey misanthrope,
An' lived an' died a hermit.
Nae doot the cratur's howf was near,
Where he would sit the lee-lang year,
An' row the saut melodious tear,
—As human poets term it.

Howe'er it happened nane can tell;
But here at last the puggy fell,
Wi' tranquil sob or frantic yell,
Beside the lanely ocean:
An' now, said I—when back I sprang,
As, glowerin' doun, I saw them gang,
Five fleshless fingers, workin' thrang
Wi' ane uncanny motion!

There was a drappie in my e'e,
Or aiblins twa—I winna lee;
But, sirs, it sobered me awee,
This ghaistly sicht an' eerie.
The lang-hour'd tropic day was dune,
There was a far-awa' dim mune,
An' clouds were driftin' wild abune,
An' win's were whistlin' dreary.

I set my staff, an' glowerin' stude:—
Five fingers void o' flesh an' blude;
Five rattlin' banes! an' how they gaed!
Lang yellow spangs, an' ghastly!
I glowered again wi' steadier view:
Less quick the pulseless fingers flew,
The joints gaed slower yet, an' grew
As stiff as iron lastly.

I didna mair than weet my teeth,
Pu'd doun my bannet, drew my breath,
Syne to mysel' I swuir an aith
To shak' hands wi' the ferlie.
Sae doun my loof I rax'd fu' bauld,
An' seized the banes: my bluid ran cauld—
The fingers roun' my fingers fauld,
An' hud the grip richt sairly!

I swat wi' terror an' affricht,
An' tugg'd an' pu'd wi' a' my micht,
Till, fra' the sand, an awesome sicht
Rase up in roosty armour!
The figure sich'd an' ga'e a grane,
But as it let my hand alane—

“I doot ye've wauken'd fully sune,”
Quo' I, “my sprichtly charmer!”

It rax'd an' gaunted, rubbed its e'en,
Or rather where they aince had been;
At length quo' I, “My waukrife frien',
Ye're mine by richt o' captur'.”
The strange thocht through my noddle ran
That in a painted caravan
I'd mak' a fortune wi' the man,
An' raise in Fife a raptur'.

Wi' that he raised his helm awee,
An' there, abune his richt e'ebree,
There was a clour richt sair to see
Deep in his skull indented;
His hand gaed roun' the place an' roun',
Like ane just waukenin' fra' a stoun';
Quo' I, “My man, a crackit croon
'S the best nichtcap invented!

But, noo ye've waukened fra' your snooze,
Come, lowse your pack, an' gie's your news—
Hoo cam' ye by your iron trews?”
And oot I pu'd my bottle.

It tried to speak: wae's me! the soun'
Cam' fra' the cratur's wame far doun;
“Na, na!” quo' I, “the drink's no' brewn
Would moistify that throttle!”

He stacher'd to the ocean bank,
At ilka stap the mail played clank
Against his ribs, and doun ilk flank
The pourin' sand ran rattlin'.
Wi' mony a pech upon a stane
He sat him doun, an' graned a grane:
“Ye've sleepit lang,” I spak' again,
“In that nichtgoon o' yetlin!”

Sudden he spak'—“Three hundred years.”
Quo' I, “It's no' a bairn 'at speirs;
An' then, ye ken the gate o' leers.
Come, come! nae tricks on travellers!”
“Three hundred years,” he spak' again
In sic a sad dooms-earnest strain,—
“Weel, weel!” quo' I, “gif ye'se be plain,
We'se no' be carpin' cavillers.”

“Hearken!” quo' he—his voice was hale—
“And see thou tell some priest my tale.”

“I will,” quo' I, “withooten fail,
I'll tak' it tae the Session.”
“Too long unshriven have I lain
Beside the lone oblivious main,
And if I now renew my pain,
It is to make confession!

I was among that daring band
That left the conquered Inca's land,
And marched beneath the proud command
Of the great chief Gonzalo:
Stranger, if ever human head
Alive deserved a crown, or dead
Was worthier of the glory shed
Round heroes by the halo,

It was, it is Gonzalo's brow!
And here my treason I avow—
I broke to him my knightly vow,
And leagued with Orell(a
)na!
I was with that disloyal crew
The first this river-sea to view,
Down whose fleet stream our pinnace flew
Through Selva and Savanna.

One New Year's morning from Quito,
Three hundred years and more ago,
We started for the hills of snow,
The steep untrodden Andes;
Three hundred gentlemen of Spain,
All clad in mail, were in our train;
Caciques and Incas mixed amain
With cavaliers and grandees.

Strange rumours of a realm of gold
Blew o'er those mountains high and cold,
Whispering of marvels manifold
Beyond the far Nevada;
So forth with adios unsaid,
And scarce a preparation made,
We leapt one morning from our bed
To search for El Dorado!

We scaled those peaks, untrod before,
Where whirlwinds round volcanoes roar,
And icicles, descending frore,
Defend the embattled ridges.
We had no lack of hardihood,
Yet if our hearts were unsubdued

It was with shattered ranks we stood
Upon the loftieȝt ledges.

One treacherous bridge of frozen snow
Concealed an awful chasm below—
Down through the wreath we saw them go,
The foremost of our heroes!
But who shall count the many lost
From famine and the piercing frost?
Rare battening had the condor host
That flapped and revelled near us!

To torrid heat from Arctic snow
We stept into a clime below,
Where Summer in perpetual glow
Keeps Eden in the valley:
Fair on the meadows shone the flowers,
And fruited hung the forest bowers,
But all was lonely, all was ours,
Llano and woodland alley!

Through unsown fields of flowering rice,
Through groves of cinnamon and spice,
We hurried from this Paradise,—
Our own without resistance.

'Twas empire that we sought, renown,
The glory of a fallen town,
Some Cuzco to be beaten down,
And hiding in the distance!

At last we struck the mighty stream
Whose belt of shining waters gleams
From Andes to the far extreme
Of the remotest ocean!
Along its level marshy banks
Our muster-roll had many blanks;
Nor fever only thinned our ranks,
But hunger's slow corrosion.

Now came our sorrows thick and fast:
First menaced by the distant blast,
The dreaded deluge broke at last,
And poured for months, nor failed us.
With ague-fits of cold and hot,
Continual dampness, sweats, what not,
Our clothes—our very skins did rot,
And sleepless thoughts assailed us.

'Twas then a hostile tribe appeared;
'Twas little for their darts we feared,

Though with the cobra's poison smeared,
But for their lying story:
They told us of a realm beyond
Their marshy tract of bog and pond,
By some great borla'd pagan own'd
In solitary glory.

It lured us onwards to our fate,—
Nay, on we rushed with hopes elate;
We built a brig—we could not wait
To journey on together.
Strange sight it was to see a mast
Rising amid that forest vast,
And Spaniards toiling in the blast
And naked to the weather!

On palm and pine our axes rung,
Our forge-fire o'er the waters flung
The red reflection of its tongue,
While groaned the labouring bellows.
And foremost at the work was he,
Our gallant captain, felling tree,

Or lifting timber knee to knee
Beside his meanest fellows.

Dear was that river ship to all,
For, though but slimly built and small,
She carried in her wooden wall
The hopes our breast inspiring;
Besides that, in our want extreme,
Our linen caulked her every seam,
And every bolt gave out the gleam
Of gold among the iron!

But fifty of us leapt on board,
All well-approved with spear and sword,
And each man pledged his knightly word
In fealty to Gonzalo.
'Tis to the everlasting shame
And ignominy of our name
We broke that oath: No after fame
Our perjury could hallow!

As swept our pinnace down the tide,
‘A quick return!’ our comrades cried;
‘Good luck the little bark betide!
Good fortune!’ cried Pizarro.

We left them wasting on the shore,—
Our comrades, whom we saw no more,—
And onward swift as bird we bore,
Or unreturning arrow.

One only of our faithless crew,
Of all the fifty, one was true;
Him on an islet-rock we threw,
The brave young Hernan Sanchez.
Then, whither the swift current led,
For weeks without a pause we sped;
The heavens swept westward o'er our head,
Past whirled the forest branches;

Till on the far horizon's verge
One morn we saw the sun emerge
From the salt ocean's restless surge,
And knew our course was ended.
And here, where sea and stream unite,
I perished in an Indian fight,
And to the caves of endless night
My guilty soul descended.

Yet still, each night till cock-crow freed,
Hither I post with anxious speed

If by best chance some one will heed
And hear my sad confession.
Stranger, three hundred years and more
My ghost has walked this lonely shore,
A dreary weird!—now haply o'er
If good my intercession.

I charge thee to convey my tale
With all the speed of horse or sail
To Mother Church: And if thou fail—!”
The curse remained unspoken.
But sic a lowe glared in his een
As ne'er in human head was seen;—
It's no a chancy thing, my frien',
This supernat'ral trokin'!

I doot I maun ha'e swarfed awa';
But what's the strangest thing o' a',
Neist mornin' ghaist nor banes I saw,
But just an empty bottle!
I took the story to a priest,
A Popish loon; but at the least
My saul was fra' its voo released.
An' noo ye ha'e the total!

The ‘borla’ was the imperial crown worn by the chief Inca.

TAMMAS WILSON;

OR THE FORTUNES OF A SCOTTISH PLOUGHMAN.

Tam Wilson was a pleughman bred,
But had a saul aboon his tredd.

Nae harum-scarum chiel' was he
To birl awa' his dear-won fee
On yill or sweeties or sic trash,
To ha'e a name and mak' a clash
For a fine free-and-easy mind:
—Tam was to better things inclin'd.

Tam kent a bank—nae wild-thyme brae
Where dads o' sunlicht glint an' gae—
But a bare shop where siller's lent
To multiplie at three per cent.
'Twas here he pat whate'er he earned;
And then he turned his lug and learned,
Where'er he gaed, the saws o' sense
That taught him hoo to guide his pence.

He saw at markets and at fairs
Hoo fowk laid oot an' sauld their wares;
He studied weel the wheedlin' airt
That garr'd the sumph wi's siller pairt,
Yet think himself a clever chiel'
To skin the chapman aff sae weel.
An' ae wise maxim first owre a'
He gathered in fra' what he saw—
The adage, never faithless found,
That gars the penny herd the pound.

Tam, like the brethren o' his station,
Had unco little education;
But i' the lang fore-winter-nicht
He edged his kist in by the licht,
An' while his neebor loons were snorin',
Or owre some new brent ballant roarin',
Or, maybe, if the nicht was fine,
Awa' to tryst some gigglin' qwine,
He took his bannet aff his pow,
An' down he sat beside the lowe,
An' swat an' gied his brains a rackin',
Addin', dividin', and subtrackin':
Straucht through the Gray his way he urged,

Nae coont he missed, nae answer forged,
Simple an' compound, big an' wee,
To Practice an' the Rules o' Three:
Some say he mastered Tare-an'-Tret,
Tho' sair it garr'd him fume an' fret.

At ither times he gat his bottle—
Whusky! it never wat his throttle!
'Twas Peerie's ink, a better liquor;
He seized his pen, an' grupp'd it sicker,
Row'd up his sleeve-bands no' to blot,
An', restin' on his elbuck, wrote.
An' if the letters werena braw,
An' sometimes lowse an' sair athraw,
His thochts were aye wi' skill conneckit,
An' aye wi' taste his words seleckit!

Noo, lad, I'll lay a croon-piece wager
Ye think Tam ettled at a gauger.
Oh, man! but ye're a grovellin' wicht!
Tam's fancy had a higher flicht;
In fact, he didna clearly see
Where it wad licht: but bide awee;
An', i' the mids' o' the meantime, ken ye

Tam thocht the best perch to ascen' fra'
A pedlar's pack—a rowin' stane
That gaithers moss, the only ane!

His measures were matured completely,
An' a' his plans laid sae discreetly,
That when, ae term-day i' the Fa'
Tam quat the pleugh for guid an' a',
He had nae mair ado but tak'
A muckle bundle on his back,
Weel stored wi' ribban's, knives, an' rings,
Wi' claith, an' capes, an' orra things—
Tak' oot the license, twa pound odd,
Cut a stoot rung, an' to the road!

Noo, in his new-adopted life,
Wi' change o' scene an' fowk sae rife,
Sae weel contrived for interviews
An' wrestlin's wi' the rural muse,
Tam micht hae faither'd mony a sang
To cheer him as he jogg'd alang.

But Tammy's saul was sae intent,
Sae eident aye on business bent,

A corner o't he couldna spare
For lichter matter than his ware:
The muse was ither than a true ane,
An' rhymin' raither waur than pleughin'.

Yet sometimes, as he stoopt to drink
By some clear upland burnie's brink,
The gowan, wi' its sil'er rim,
Or primrose wad look up at him,
An' by their sweet suggestive hues
Wad set Tam's fancy on the muse,
An' glitter thro' his day-dream doverin's
Like sil'er sixpences an' sovereigns!

Lang, lang, an' mony a mile he trudged,
An' some, ye needna doot, he grudged,—
For Fortune's but a fickle jaud,
An' e'en her best is mix'd wi' bad;
But, guid or bad, or baith thegither,
Tam took his customers wi' his weather.
In winter's mirk, an' simmer's sun,
Familiar wi' the varyin' wun',
Fra' hoose to hoose he made his ca's,
Displayed his pack, an' gaed his wa's;

Contented, if when gloamin' gray
Shut in anither gowden day,
His hogger had a mellower chime
To shaw he had “improved” the time.

When mony a day had come an' gane,
An' mony a pack an' pair o' shoon,
An' mony a groat—na! that's a bam!
The bawbees biket when they cam'—
At last, in a sma' country toun,
Tam laid his hazel ellwand doun,
An', strong wi' speculative hope,
Open'd a haberdasher's shop!

I tellna here hoo sair he strove,
An' tackled to his wark, an' throve:
Tam aye had guidwill to his wark—
Bear witness mony a sweaty sark!—
Baith wi' the flail an' at the pleugh,
An' warstlin' wi' his pack, an' noo
Ahint the coonter, rack'd in mind
At aince to cleed an' fleece mankind.

Aneuch that Fortune's wayward ba',
That rows obedient to nae law,

Play'd gently in to Tammy's feet:
—Tam cuist the coat an' gae't a heat;
Doun the lang years he sent it spinnin',
An' followed hard an' het wi' rinnin'!

When thrice the sun had wheel'd his roun',
A farmer enter'd this same toun,
As blithe a carle as ever stappit—
Tho' simmer, in a grey plaid happit—
Twal miles, a weary foot, frae hame,
An' Willie Gowanlock his name.

Up thro' the middle o' the street
He paced wi' patriarchal feet,
Took up his station at the Cross,
Syne glowered aboot him at a loss.
His faithfu' collie, dune wi' daffin',
Stood heedless o' the toon-tykes' yaffin',
An' lookit in his maister's face
As if his inmost wish to trace.
At last, a muckle painted sign,
Wi' gowden letters glitterin' fine,
Tane Willie's wuld an' wanderin' e'e:
He stood an' spelt, an' thocht awee.

“What's this?” quo' Will; “my e'esicht's failin',
But isna that Castmetalpailin'?
An'—Lord, forgie's for a' oor ills dune!—
What's that below't but Tammas Wilson?
The verra man, I'll tak' my aith;
But, Lord, he deals in daft-like graith!”

Three staps brocht Willie to the place,
An' there was Tammy's weel-kent face.
Tammy, wi' smile an' smirk sae ready,
Was shawin' gum-flooers to a leddy,
An' twa wee spunkie prentice loons
Were measurin' claith an' brushin' goons.

“Tammas! your hand; I'm glad to see ye;
Haith, lad, but things are prosperin' wi' ye!
Ye'll mind o' me, an' Ruth, my dochter?
It's juist gey far, or I'd hae brocht her.
Hoot, fye! Ye mind she used to squeeze
Your pouches fu' o' cakes an' cheese
What time ye ran the packman's tether;
I used to think ye fain o' ither.”

Tam raised his e'eglass, glowered, an' spak'—

“I dout, my man, there's some mistak';
I dinna ken ye! George, the door!
John, dinna mak' sae muckle stour!—
Weel, madam, what's your further orders?
See, here's some braw new soo-back borders,
Their like for cheapness near nor far is,
They cam' yestreen direct from Paris—
The newest shape, the best design,
Baith stuff an' trimmin' superfine!”

Weel was it said, the haly saw,
Pride gangs afore an awfu' fa'!
To shaw a customer gudewill
Tam wrote his name across a bill;
The scoundrel ran, an' Tammy brak',
Paid aucht i' pound, an' took a pack!

An' noo, owre hill an' muir again,
Thro' lanely shaw an' rocky glen,
Owre bog an' slap an' dyke an' stile
He travell'd mony an anxious mile:
His weel-kent face aince mair was seen
At fair an' dance on village green.
Nae birth was near but Tammy kent it,

An' wakes an' waddin's he frequentit;
Black-wavin' crapes an' ghostly weepers,
Tap-knots an' snoods an' dancin' cheepers,
Razors an' hones for gay young shavers,
An' Sabbath scarfs an' marriage favours—
In short, whatever ane could lack
Bude first to come fra' Tammy's pack:
Sae quick his wares flew roond aboot him,
Hoo had the kintra dune withoot him?

Ae snawy nicht in winter time—
Sae dark ye couldna see a styme—
Tammy, returnin' fra' a toor,
Ventured a short-cut owre a moor.
Aroond him howled the eerie blast,
The snaw was driftin' fierce an' fast;
Tam pu'd the bannet owre his lug,
An' gied his belt anither tug,
An', ruminatin' owre his lot,
Calmly pursued his ain jog-trot;
Till, swith! a whin-stump catch'd his cuit,
An' owre he fell like ony peat!
The witch-wind screamed wi' eldritch laughter,
An' doun the snaw-ghaists danced the dafter!

Up gat puir Tammy, sair benighted;
The heavy fa' had dung him doited:
Up Tammy gat—puir luckless fallow!
His scattered senses widna rally.
A' roond he glower'd, but glower'd in vain—
The mirk was solid as a stane.
He siched as if his heart wad brak',
Then graipit till he fand his pack,
Then fand his legs—nae banes were broken—
An' spak' (the words aloud were spoken):—
“There was an auld sang nearhan' endit;
But, lad, we're livin' an' we'll mend it—
Drive on, ye jaud, an' be mair tenty!”

But whatna road, where roads were plenty?
He stude, the centre o' the compass,
An' hearkened to the windy rumpus
A' roond the moor's mysterious border,
An' guessed an' glowered, but naething furder
The gate he wished—hoo could he find it?
The gate he cam'—he didna mind it!

The sweat stude cauld on Tammy's broo—
“Lord save's or here's the end o't noo

Twa minutes syne I kent it brawly,
An' noo—Lord pity a poor fallow!”

Lauch an: devoutly Tammy prayed,
An' shortly cam' the timely aid.
Twal random staps he hadna gane,
An' just twal resolutions tane,
When, as he turned a distant knowe,
Laich on his left he spied a lowe.

Straight to the licht his path he steered,
Its lively ee the darkness cheered;
He lost it in a treeless glen,
But up the bank he saw't again
Streamin' far oot into the nicht—
A social, soul-enlivenin' licht;
At ilka stap a Scots ell nearer,
Broader at ilka stap an' clearer,
Till, owre a cheese-stane nearhan' stumblin',
Tammy was at a door-sneck fumblin'.

The door flew open wi' a bang!
The lassie stoppit in her sang,
The collie started wi' a fluity,

An' barkit like a very fury:
The auld man at the fireside pechan,
An' stitchin' at an auld tow brechan,
Threw up his hands aboon his pow,
An' sat an' naething said but “Vow!”

Tammy appeared—a ghaistly sicht!
He glowered to left, he glowered to richt;
Familiar was the scene throughout,
But yet he couldna mak' it oot,
Till through his saul there flashed the truth—
“It's Willie Gowanlock an' Ruth,
An' this is Heath'ryleys, an' there—
That's Ringwood birsin' up his hair.”

Auld Willie like a statue sat,
An' glower'd, but said ne this nor that.
“Willie,” quo' Tam, “ye ken me fine—
O, Willie, man, for auld langsyne!
I tried the muir, but gaed clean wild—
An' hoo it blaws!—just hearken till'd!”

Oot spak' the lass—“It's Tammas, faither;
Bid him inowre—it's awfu' weather.”

He raised the brechan to his e'e—
“I ken nae Tammas—wha are ye?
I doot, my man, there's some mistak';
I dinna ken ye—shaw yer back!”

The lassie ran an' barred the door:
“A bonnie thing to say, I'm sure!
Wasna the lamp expressly lichtit
To cheer the traveller dark-benichted,
An' on the window bunker set
To guide puir wanderers to our yett?”

Ruth spak' wi' kindlin' e'e and cheek,
An' trimmed wi' care the rashy wick;
Then to the floor returnin' back,
She eased puir Tammy o' his pack;
His coat wi' her ain hand she shook,
An' led him to the ingle nook.

Auld Willie started to his fit—
“Tammas, the play's played oot—we're quit!
See, there's my loof; it's frankly gi'en;
Ye're welcome, as ye've ever been.
Ruth, bring a riddlefu' o' peats.

Tammas, draw in an' heat your cuits.
The peat-reek, lassie?—that's weel-mindit—
Ahint John Fla'el ye'll aiblins find it.”

Nae house was spent a happier nicht in;
The hours flew owre their heads like lichtnin';
The auld guidman was fu' o' jokin',
An' Ruth, though bendin' owre a stockin,'
In kirtle jimp an' shapely boddice
To Tammy's e'en showed like a goddess.

Ye lee, ye rhymin' bardies a'
Wha say when leaves begin to fa',
An' norlan' win's blaw cauld an' dry,
An' swallows gather i' the sky,
The naked laddie greetin' rins
Soothward awa', where sunny win's,
Wi' lang, lang saft an' silken hair,
An' blue, blue e'en that ken nae care,
Wait on the purple hills to meet
An' welcome his far-travell'd feet.

Good faith! Ye've something yet to learn:
He's no' a feckless lassie-bairn!

The lang black winter thro' he tarries,
The hardy wean! an' shoots his arrows
Wi' quicker han', an' keener aim—
The loonie's nearer to his game:
He's left the shaw, the glen, the ley;
He's come wi' Robin a' the wey
To barns an' stackyards, doors an' windows;
An' weel he kens it's no' the Indies
That ane may scaithless want the breek,
An' sae he seeks the chimla-cheek;
An' there he sits an' trims his bow,
Lauchs till himsel', an' nods his pow,
An' chuckles like a wee red etyn,
“Ho! Ho! the famous winter shootin'!”

Tammy he shot, an' shot again,—
His heart was prinklin' wi' the pain!

Upon the wa', aboon the press,
There hung a fairy keekin'-gless;
Twa peacock feathers, droopin' lang,
Fra' the twa tapmost corners sprang,
An' at the foot, in kintra fashion,
Hung a wee red three-cornered cushion:

Not redder was that cushion-cover
Than was the heart of our true lover,
Nor mair preen-holed than Tammy's heart
By Cupid's fleet an' frequent dart!

Strange are the vagaries o' drink;
But stranger yet than ane can think
The varied changes love can work:
It drave Tam regular to the kirk,
It drave him to the Book o' Truth,
It drave him to the Tale o' Ruth.

It nearhan' drave him to the Muse,
But he'd the firmness to refuse
To listen to her bursts o' sang
That floated on the air alang,
An' garr'd his nerves, against his will,
Wi' a lang unkent sweetness thrill—
For, sprung o' Covenantin' blude,
He dooted if she cam' o' gude!

But, crush its utterance as he micht,
The feeling struggled to the licht—
A holy poetry that flings
Its arms roond a' created things.

As for a taste,—when Spring cam' on,
An' gowans thro' the black yird shone,
An' sweet primroses starr'd the mould
(They were a fairer sicht than gold),
The love, deep-planted in his breast,
Bloomed in a bookay on his vest.

Whate'er o' beauty Tammy saw
Cheerin' the gloom o' glen or shaw,
It gat the witcherie o' its grace,
In Tammy's fancy, fra' a face
Where Beauty's sel', embracin' Truth,
Was shinin' in the eyes o' Ruth.

Sair a' that Winter did he toil;
An' when the gowk brocht in April—
For ne'er a lassie yet consentit
To a May marriage but repentit—
He ceased the pedlar's wanderin' life,
An' he an' Ruth were man an' wife.

Ten years o' sober married bliss,
Ten years o' weel-deserv'd success,
And in the canty burrowstoun,

Where cautiously he settled doun,
Wha was sae mensefu' or sae douce,
Had roucher board or brawer hoose?
Whase wife was less to gossip gi'en?
Whase bairns wi' redder cheeks were seen?
Whase servant lass was better guidit?
Wha ampler for the puir providit?
Whase name was named wi' mair respect?
What Bailie spak' to mair effect?
Wha bore the Sacramental cup
Wi' cleaner heart or holier grup
Than Tammas Wilson? Wha wad dreamt o't?—
A pleughman aince, an' not ashamed o't!

THE FLOWER OF AIRLIE.

When daisies in the desert start
To welcome back the Spring,
And hopes that haunt the youthful heart
For very gladness sing,
There came to Airlie's castle old
A maid of beauty rare,
No sweeter flower the woods unfold
Woo'd the dim April air.

O hazelly glen, or leafy grove,
Or blooming river shore,—
Whatever haunt the Muses love
This maiden flower that bore,—
The day that took this flower from thee,
It was a doleful morn;
The sweet birds sang on every tree
“Oh! Maggie, yet return!”

Now were that bonnie flow'ret mine
To shelter and to tend,

Though every hope in quick decline
Should now and here have end,
How lightly would I let them go
For one so dear and fair!
How lightly feel the weightiest woe
With Maggie for my care!

RAB, THE SCOTTISH PLOUGHMAN.

Anacreon's flute with fitful swell
Can still our cares beguile,
And sweetly Sappho's moaning shell
Sobs round her sea-born isle;
The lyric notes, how neat they fa'
When plays the dapper Roman,
But the blithe whistle dings them a'
Of Rab, the Scottish ploughman.

A simple pipe! but in his hand
Mair potent in its power
Than e'er was eastern genie's wand
Within a Persian bower.
Around the peasant's lowly lot
It threw a noble halo,
And lighted up the ploughman's cot
With more than Summer's yellow.

It cheered the stey an' stourie road
With bursts o' sudden sang,

Till Labour, bowed beneath his load,
Looked up and trudged alang.
Sweet airs a' round the mountains hung,
And floated through the valleys,
And youth grew daft and age grew young
In cottage and in palace.

No finer music yet was heard,
Wedded to sweeter line,
Since new-made Eve on Eden's sward
To Adam sang langsyne;
Or since were dreamed the airs sublime
By the sweet Swan of Avon,
That flooded all the enchanted clime
Where Prospero found a haven.

He sang the native worth of mind,
The freedom of the soul,
And love's and friendship's joys refined,
And mankind's glorious goal.
What wonder if he moved the heart
With but a simple solo?—
He played wi' sae divine an art,
Our Scottish-born Apollo!

THE MENSTRIL: A BALLAD.

He sat upon the auld stane brig,
And, vow! he was the queerest fig
That ever mortal sang or saw;
His cloak was of the faded green,
His hair hung scattered owre his e'en,
And on his pipe he loud did blaw.

But oh! his pipin' wha could praise?
Sic music at his touch arase
Bot ear it left ye nocht ava!
It was his soul the menstril sent,
Sad-sounding through his instrument,
His simple pipe sae round and sma'.

Four-and-twenty gentlemen
Came riding doun the dowie glen,
As mony ladies fair and braw;
And aye as they came near and near,
With bridles jingling sweet to hear,
He louder on his pipe did blaw.

100

And this was Aither o' the Birk
Was riding to Saint Mary's kirk
To gie his dochter dear awa';
And he was gay, if she was sad,
And they for very mirth were mad,
Tho' she was mute amang them a'!

“O, what is this, my sister dear,
That glitters on your gluve sae clear,
An' seemed that fra' your chin did fa'?”
“O, Willie, that's a diamond free
That our step-minnie gae to me
When first she cam' amang us a'.”

“Now, sister Ann, it's a' a lee,—
Step-minnie ne'er was kind to thee,
An' see! the diamond's row'd awa'!”
“O, Willie, haud ye leal an' true,
It's but a drap o' mornin' dew
I kepit in the birken shaw!”

“O, what is this, my dochter dear,
That gars ye weep the bitter tear,
And ride sae sweir amang us a'?”

101

“O, faither dear, I 'maist could greet,
He plays sae sad, he plays sae sweet,
The menstril on his pipe sae sma'.”

He played sae low, he piped sae schrill,
The trees were charmed, the winds were still,
The laverocks fra' the lift did fa';
Sic glamourie was in his e'en,
Sic wizardrie in his playin',
he wiled the maiden's heart awa'!

“Now cease, thou menstril, cease to 'plain,
There is nae pleasour in thy strain,
Thou silly menstril, haste awa'!”
“Ride on, ride on, my faither dear,
And let me o' his piping hear,
Sae sweet he on his pipe does blaw!”

He raised the bannet aff his bree,—
O, vow! but he was bauld and slee;—
And loot his faded mantle fa';
Sae licht he to the saddle sprang,
Sae fondly to his waist she clang,
'Twas head aboot, and swith awa'!

102

Now shines the merry morning licht,—
But stars maun twinkle thro' the nicht
Ere brave Sir William bridle draw!
But haud thee up, thou gallant steed,
And shaw the utmost o' thy speed,
And thou wilt bear them safe awa'!

103

A BALLAD.

The August sun was shining hie,
The black broom-pods were crackin',
The kye were tiggin' owre the lea,
Or couching in the bracken;
The wee bit barefit laddie-herd
Was whippin' at the burn,—
But ne'er a silver trootie stirr'd
Or gae its tail a turn.

“Now tell me, bonnie boy, tell me true,
Wha lives in yonder dwellin'?”
“O, that's the farm o' Breezyview,
And yon is bonnie Ellen,
The maister's only dochter dear,
Moving amang the trees,
For while I mind the cattle here
She tends the flowers and bees.”

“Good news like thine, my little lad,
Should be with gold rewarded,

104

For thou hast killed the fear I had
That half my steps retarded.”
He turned him round, and leapt the stile,
Moved briskly up the brae;
The loonie gaping glowered the while,
But hadna thanks to say.

A wanderin' life, as ye might guess,
Was on his broo imprented,
And lang wi' foreign suns his face
Had closely been acquented.
A diamond ring, a gowden chain,
And als' a grizzled beard,
Shewed what fra' time had been his gain,
And what he weel had spar'd.

Noo Ellen in her garden-place,
A honeysuckle guidin'
Wi' genty hand and queenly grace,
Surpasses my descrivin'.
And owre the bower, aboon the yett,
Twa een are lookin' on;
And never een wi' tear-drops wet
For sweeter reason shone.

105

“'Tis she! The very face appears,
The form sae gimp and genty;
The maid I left o' twenty years
Is still a maid o' twenty!”
A bird flew oot was shelterin' near,
She turned her head and gaz'd;
With “Ellen Douglas” in her ear
The maiden stood amaz'd.

She loot the shears from one hand slide,
The wild-spray from the other,
And running from the garden cried—
“He names my sainted mother!”—
Alas! for him who hopes to find,
After a far sojourn,
The joys he left sae lang behind
Awaiting his return!

106

MAY MORNING: A BALLAD.

Lord William rose ere mornin' licht
Had dimmed the mornin' star,
And belted on his gude sword bricht,
And seized a gay guitar;
And doun the stairs went hurrying fast
And o'er the sounding hall;
The huge wall-mirror, as he pass'd,
His form reflected all.
A sidelong look he cast, and frown'd,
“I am a lover grim;”
And ill a face in battle brown'd
Suits with the silken trim.

“Is that your voice, my noble lord,—
Is that your foot I hear?
And fare ye forth to fight with sword,
Or chase the peaceful deer?”
“Now close thine ee, my little page,
And sleep till it be day,

107

The chase shall then thy powers engage
Till falls the gloamin gray.”

He wandered till his castle tower
Sank down in greenwood shaw,
But when he came to Margret's bower
An evil sicht he saw.
Beneath her lattice on the string
A gay gallánt did play,
And sweet it was to hear him sing
“Now is the month of May.”

“What dost thou here, thou maiden youth,
In the chill morning air?
Or art thou of the sunny south
A vagabond trouvère?”
“Thy words are scornful, haughty lord;
But here I make avow,
And I will keep it with my sword,
I am as good as thou.”
“Now, by my beard, it makes me blush
To hear thy braggart tale:
And wilt thou on the falcon rush,
Thou silly nightingale?”

108

“Thy lands are spacious, and above
All blame thy name in war;
But I in youth-time and in love
Am rich and happier far;
And for my treasure I will fight
As bold as thou for thine;
And here I bid thee turn, proud knight,
For Margret's care is mine.”
“'Tis false, 'tis false, thou lying knave!
Thy words are madness now:
A warrior's daughter never gave
Her hand to such as thou.
Near where I stand, but yesternight
Did Margret's lips declare
I was her own free-chosen knight,—
And mine is Margret's care.”
“Have done, have done, the morning sun
Will soon surprise us here;
There but remains, now all is done,
Manhood and metal clear.
So step we out to yon green sward,—
Lord William, art thou fey?”
“What squire art thou who wears a sword
Belted the wrongward way?”

109

The youth looked down, and faltering blushed,
And half-inclined to flee:
That instant all the orient flushed,
And yellowed all the lea.
Lord William gazed with clearer eyes,
And backward stept a pace:
—'Twas Margret's self in masking guise
That flew to his embrace!

110

A DOG-DAY'S PETITION.

Fortune, ye jade! it's shame an' sin
To pen your puir petitioner in
Amang Auld Reekie's dust an' din
Thae sultry simmer hoors,
When Fasney's wimplin' waters rin
Sae cool amang the moors.

O, that your Blindness pity took,—
Would ope your bandaged een, an' look
Where fish-like gaspin' by a brook
Amang the channel dry,
Or wrigglin' on a ruthless hook,
Wriggle in anguish I!

A big black oven seems the toun,—
Het flags below, red sun aboon,—
An', birstlin' like a joint in June
Afore the dog-day fire,
I'm rinnin' doun to creesh my shoon;
I'm taperin' like a spire.

111

I'm sick o' city soonds an' sichts,
O' feverish days an' sleepless nichts,
O' like-conditioned neebor-wichts,
O' auld St Giles's chime:
—The moors and burns would put's to richts
Within a fortnicht's time.

To turn the ledger I begin,—
St Vitus' dance the figures spin,
While fancy and remembrance rin
Where Fasney, ripplin' clear,
Gars glancin' stream an' roarin' linn
Mak' music to the ear.

Ahint a heathery knowe I steal
An' drap the flee! O joy! to feel
A lusty thumper whirl your reel
An' rin oot half your line!
O joy! to see him i' the creel
His yellow length recline!

Nae angler's near; the stream's your ain;
Arrange your tackle, an' to't again!
Nor scorn to list the lintie's strain,

112

The curlew's risin' clang;
An', happy mortal! coont it gain
Catch ye the gowkoo's sang.

—Fortune, ye limmer! ance for a'
Upon my knees again I fa',—
Na! dinna stap your lug, an' thraw,—
Grant me twa short ooks' grace:
Ye see I'm pinin' fast awa'
Afore your very face.

I'm dwindled doun to skin an' bane,
Dry as a speldrin or a spune,
A walkin' noonday skeleton,
Nae shadow followin' after;
I'm wanin' like the wanin' mune,
I'm i' my hin'most quarter!

An' sune to be a bluidless ghost
Gaun daunderin' doun the gloom, an' lost;
Nae “whippin'” by Cocytus' coast,
Nae gulps o' sweet hill air,
Nae troot the black-waved waters boast,
Nae Fasney ripples there!

113

—I'am aff! Fareweel the dusty dask,
Fareweel the tiresome inky task!
Fortune, your leave I dinna ask,—
Gude troth, I'm far owre nice!
I go on Fasney's banks to bask,—
It's medical advice!

114

THE MOUNTAIN MAID.

Where a moor for miles extending
Tires the westward straining eye,
And the northern bens ascending
Darken and divide the sky,
Where the stormcloud, ever wheeling,
Flings on Earth a tortured shade—
Happy in a humble shieling
Lived the dark-eyed Mountain Maid.

Here, 'mid scenes of naked grandeur,
Day dawned on her infant view,
Here her childhood wont to wander,
Here to girlhood glad she grew.
Moving shadows, laughing water,
Wind and flowers,—with these she played;
And Omniscient Nature taught her,—
Taught the lonely Mountain Maid.

Close with Nature converse holding,
Wondering Fear at first she knew;

117

Till from Fear to Faith unfolding
Wondering Love within her grew.
Then the tender gospel story
Revelation's roll display'd,
And an absent heir of glory
Was the lowly Mountain Maid.

Dwelling with her widowed father,
He a gloomy mountaineer,
Was not she an angel rather
Come his silent life to cheer?
—For, as Horeb, seared and roughened,
Moses' voice in floods obey'd,
So the dark man's heart was softened
By the gentle Mountain Maid.

This her simple mission ended,
Soon she sought her native skies;
Straight to Heaven her soul ascended,
Sinless as a seraph's eyes.
Six short months of holy sorrow
She was from his sight convey'd,
When the everlasting morrow
Gave him back his Mountain Maid.

118

I have seen the roofless dwelling
On the lonely wind-swept moor,
I have heard the shepherd telling
Of her earthly lot obscure;
And her name and age surviving
On the graveyard stone survey'd,
And have thought it worth the striving
To be like the Mountain Maid.

119

HESPERUS.

The sun has sunk within the western glow,
The flush is fading from the evening sky,
A single star sits on the welkin's brow—
'Tis Hesperus looks down with golden eye.
Now sleeps the lark that in its evening flight
Dropt wild melodious notes from rosy skies;
One wakeful voice alone wails through the night—
It is the homeless wind that raves and sighs.

Roam, restless thing, around the dusky hill
Where bird and beast are slumbering, flower and tree;
No evening hour that bids the world be still
Comes motherly to calm and comfort thee.
Even such am I, that find no rest at all,
From home and fireside comforts wandered far,
Whose only joy is, when the shadows fall,
To gaze regretful on yon western star.

120

HEART-SORROW.

O roaming wind that never rests,
How weird thy wailings be!
How deep from out thy heaving breasts
Of wave thy sobs, O sea!
O heart, that ever like the wind
Rests not, and like the sea
Groans forth what may not be confin'd,
How strange thy sorrows be!

The speargrass by the lakeside lone,
And on the hill the pine,
In sunlight sigh, in moonlight moan,
A grief that echoes mine.
What mystic woes of higher birth
With human woes entwine,
As with the sorrow-sentient earth,
O Heart, commingle thine?

121

CHAUCER.

O sunny-hearted Chaucer! thou
The old bard with the youthful brow,—
Thy country sadly needs thee now!

Of a long thousand years the half
Have journey'd by on pilgrim staff
Since last she heard thy merry laugh.

Few pleasant bards like thee had they,
Those pilgrim years, to keep them gay
And journey with them on their way.

We miss thy unaffected speech,
Thy ringing laugh, thy tales that reach
With readiest road the heart of each.

But most we miss thy generous tone,
That said to each “Possess thy own,
But be content with it alone.”

122

That said to youth “Enjoy thy prime,
And taste the gladness of the time;
—Sour looks and sadness are a crime.”

But now—the sentimental tale,
The puling song, the hymn for sale,
And borrowed form and phrase prevail.

For girls our modern poet writes,
For teapot squires, and carpet knights,
And dolls, and drawing-room delights.

He simpers, but he cannot laugh;
His talk you understand but half;
He views far off the vile riff-raff.

—O human-hearted Chaucer! thou
The old bard with the youthful brow,—
Thy England sadly needs thee now!

As with the motley pilgrim show
Thou unaffectedly didst go
One April morning long ago,

123

So with the common English throng
Abode, a cherished guest, thy song,
And journeyed with their lives along.

Methinks I see thee at the age
Thou made that famous pilgrimage:—
A little past Life's middle stage;

A shapely form, and firm of joint,
Portly withal and in good point;
A face with cheerfulness anoint;

Whose eyes at sixty through the haze,
Which sad experience still doth raise,
Shine clear as in thy early days;

Atop whose beard of flaxen glow
Two pleasant lips smile evermo',
Like sunbeams where white roses blow.

But vain, alas! the filial care
To limn thine image on the air
Unless thy spirit, too, be there

124

If, happy spirit! to thine ear
The human language still is dear
Which from thy lips came erst so clear,

To some one in these days impart
The gentle secret of thy art
Which takes unstorm'd the stubborn heart.

Give him the freshness of the spring
To clothe with leaves the stoniest thing
And in the thorniest hedge to sing;

To sympathise with the young breast,—
With all that causes it unrest,
And all that makes it purely blest.

And give him of thy gladsome mood
To seek, and see, and sing of good
With a becoming hardihood;

—For there is none so reprobate,
So lost to self, so cursed of fate,
As wholly to deserve our hate;—

125

Of happiness to see no dearth,
But far more matter for our mirth
Than for our grief, broadcast o'er earth.

Give him thy kindliness of soul
To see a beauty in the whole
Whose parts to narrow views are foul;

—Thy kindliness and courage both:
To shed on shams the light of truth,
But not to butcher without ruth.

126

A FRAGMENT.

I.

The rosy evening of a day in May
Shedding its coloured lights upon a bay
That sleeps beneath green banks. The winds at rest.
Low o'er the waters, winging to the west,
A seabird, with its plumage full display'd,
Whiter than sea-foam.

Standing in the shade
Of an old cedar on the seabank high
A youth, gazing around with thoughtful eye:
A pleasant face,—that would be joyous wholly
But for a trace of pensive melancholy.
Listen! He speaks:

“Fair, fair, O very fair,
The summer beauty of the evening air,
Brooding o'er plains, and hills, and tranquil streams,

127

And seas, and windless capes! O Heaven, meseems
This Earth were yet an Eden if the smoke
And roar of cities never rose or broke
On eye or ear, and men like brethren dwelt
In the green wilderness, and never felt
The fiendish lust for gold: yond' gleaming cloud,
That seems a turban'd head devoutly bow'd,
Filling the western sky, and that one star
In deepest ether sunk serenely far
Are wealth enough!

O some bright angel, come!
I will not start, or swoon, or straight be dumb
By thy mysterious presence overpowered,
For sure this Earth by beauty overbowered
Was meant for forms angelic!

Say if e'er
The first man God made saw a scene more fair
Bending o'er Eden! Did his being thrill
With pleasure such as mine?—yet haunted still
By thoughtful pain that in a little while,
Though other joys may follow, this will smile
No more at all!—

128

Poor mortal! this fair scene
That runs thee back to the primeval green
Of new-made Eden; this, which thou dost prize
As Heaven itself,—it passes from thine eyes;
Is made and unmade; lavish'd but not for thee;
Cast like unfingered gold into the sea!

'Twas some black angel's whisper. I will change,
Will look to heaven and it will vanish!

Strange!
The scene is as before; but I remain,
My pleasure dash'd with recollective pain
That Time is toying with me: in my sadness
He brings me face to face with scenes of gladness:
They glad me, and they go; and grief again
Is my unasked companion: joy and pain
Thus hurry me through life,—the slaves of Time
And my refined tormentors. But sublime
Rise, rise, my soul, superior to thy fate
In a calm proud indifference!

It wears late!
The sun has set. The clouds are settling down

129

On the stern hill-brow, like an iron frown.
The air is colourless: th' o'erarching heaven
Is like a prison-vault, gray and uneven:
The land lies soulless—'tis the brutish Earth,
That is enclad with Spring and knows no mirth,
And stripped again and cares not, and so yearly:
And the vast sea is water,—water merely!”

II.

An Autumn night. The winds are whistling shrill:
The long-haired pinetrees half way up the hill
Fling their dishevelled tresses to the gale,
And fill with sighing all the hollow vale.
Clouds through the sky careering. Wild unrest
Except among the stars. A night unblest.
Deep in a sunken valley by a brook
That hurries guiltily from human look
From hemlock-darkened bank to caverned stone,
A shapeless figure in the shadows lone
Reclining: to himself he speaks in tones
Of bitter anguish, broke by frequent moans:—

“I loved. No mother ever loved her child
Half so devotedly. 'Twill drive me wild,—
One glance into the past, the silent land

130

Where all my hopes lie dead. What shadowy hand
Thus tempts me to my ruin? Do not ope
The door of that dead-room! Without or hope
Of what's to come or memory of the past,
Here let me lie a clod,—such as at last
I must be. What is life to me that I
Should thus desire it if I have to die,
Or anyone, or anything I love?
The winds around me, and the stars above,
Scream on, shine on, and mock me! Is there one
That knows what sorrow is? Do I alone
Rave discontented?—Yet the nations toil
And sweat, and work, and walk the Earth awhile,
Then drop into the wormy cell beneath,
And murmur not,—and ere they drop bequeath
Their sweaty-handled tools and thistly soil
To those they love; and they, too, sweat and toil!
Why do they build? Is there a structure stands?
They seem like children raising on the sands
Castles of sand in hearing of the wave,
Yet, unlike children, hope their towers will brave,
Though former wrecks are round them scattered wide,
Time's more relentless and almighty tide!”

131

ANTI-STUDIOUS.

“Home-keeping youths have ever homely wits.”

No! not for me the narrow hearth
With studious chair beside it;
But I will round the rolling earth,
And help, who knows? to guide it.

The freedom of the winds be mine,
The privilege of changing;
From where hot Indian summer's shine
To polar rigours ranging.

I've no ambition among books;
I hate the silent creeping
From line to line with blear-eyed looks
While wiser folks are sleeping.

The wisdom of the shelves I own:
'Twere folly to dispute it;
But much of it is musty grown,
And much of it diluted

132

By men who mix and mix again
And will not let you taste it
Till of the virtue naught remain
And all the flavour's wasted.

Even though in treasured books it lay
Like hivëd honey glowing,
Mine be the brighter task to stray
Where opening buds are blowing;

To sip it from the breezy bell
And from the dewy chalice,
To sport o'er mountain, moor, and fell,
And revel in the valleys.

The proper glory of the chase
Is galloping enraptured
With freedom beating on one's face,
—Not the poor quarry captured.

Pursuit—Possession, choose—refuse:
The last would not content me,
And I would rather searching lose
Than sleeping have it sent me.

133

So I will up, and give the slip
To library and college,
And listen to the living lip
For wisdom and for knowledge;

And view the spacious changeful play
Of human life enacted,
And fling those views of it away
That come through books refracted;

And gauge the secret springs profound
That moving underlie it;
And learn the use of wisdom found—
The wisdom to apply it.

Then farewell book, and narrow hearth,
And midnight lamp beside it;
I'm off to round the rolling earth,
And help mayhap to guide it!

134

BY LOCHLEVEN.

I lie within the old pineshade beside the mimic main,
And all day long the laughing sound of the lake is in my brain,
But in the gusts that come, and go, and leave the pinetrees sleeping,
I hear the tones of something sad amid the sunshine weeping.

Between me and Benarty slopes the sparkling waters lie,
Bright as the sheeny sun above, blue as the bending sky,
But near the willows now and then I spy a shadow sailing,
And hear the tones of something sad amid the sunshine wailing.

The cushat in the cool recess intones his croodendoo,
The snow-white seagull in the sun is sporting in my view,
But in the segs along the lake, like sounds for ever dying,
I hear the tones of something sad amid the sunshine sighing.

I hear the cheerful twitter of the songbird in its nest,
And hither and yon'the hum of bees in summer's bounty blest,

135

But in the knot-grass at my feet, too plain for misbelieving,
I hear the tones of something sad amid the sunshine grieving.

The dimpling of the limpid lake into unnumbered smiles,
The grandeur of the solemn hills, the glory of the isles,—
O, Earth were paradise at times but that from lea and loaning
There come the tones of something sad amid the sunshine moaning.

Now who will tell me what it is that, when I would be glad,
Comes stealing through the summer air and makes my spirit sad,
And why, ere Autumn winds are out and Autumn suns are failing,
I hear the tones of something sad amid the sunshine wailing?

136

BOAT SONG: “UP WITH THE SAIL.”

Up with the sail to the freshening gale
And let our bark go free,
Away, away from th' embracing bay
To the ever-opening sea.

O joy to hear the whistling wind
And feel old Ocean heave!
The cares we had on the land behind
With the land behind we leave.

The sea-fowls float by our bounding boat,
And the circling dolphins play;
But fleet is the speed of our wingëd steed
Away o'er the waves and away!

We leave the sun in his sinking car
On the western weather-gleam,
And away by the twinkling light of stars
To welcome his rising beam.

137

The petrels poise on our bending mast,
Or scream thro' the mists of the night,
And the wild sea-surges to the blast
Fling out their sea-manes white.

But our bark rides out the stormy night,
For a tight little craft is she;
And away she flies like a sea bird bright
That wings to the morning free!

138

WINDS OF APRIL.

Blow, winds of April, over the Sea,
The world is wide and your wings are free!
No towering Alp on the bulging Earth
Can break the leap of your bounding mirth;
No isle lies hid in the ocean vast
Where ye may not fold your wings at last;
Then up and away in your dauntless pride,
Your wings are free and the world is wide!

Blow, winds of April, over the lea,
The world is fair and your wings are free!
There lurks no flower in the prairie grass
That ye may not kiss as ye onward pass;
No mountain pine that ye may not shake,
No palm-tree lone by its inland lake;
Then up and off and away with care,
Your wings are free and the world is fair!

Blow, winds of April, the winds for me,
The world is ours and our wings are free!

139

The lordly dome and the fenced estate,
The palaced park of the rich and great,
The castled lands of a hundred kings,—
We pass them by on triumphant wings;
We o'erlook them all from our skiey bow'rs,
Our wings are free and the world is ours!

140

AN ANCIENT CITY.

An ancient city I beheld:
Oh, call it not a dream of eld—
It was when Time was young,
And bluer o'er the infant Earth
Heaven hung!
The sadness was in me—the mirth
In thee had unprophetic birth
And unpolluted sprung,
For thou wert young, young!

Matrons of large voluptuous glance
And virgins nodding in the dance
In a continuous stream—
Virgins in their own tresses veil'd;
And the gleam
Of golden cymbals high upheld
By snowy arms that swung and swell'd
Like lilies in a stream
When winds disturb their dream.

141

In vain the antique music play'd,
In vain the cymbals flash'd and sway'd,
In vain on stop and string
The taper fingers rose and fell!
Who could bring
Music from a tongueless bell?
And yet of music did they tell
By motion and by swing;—
Voiceless, thou did sing!

But if of sinful joy the sound
A holy silence lapp'd it round:
To me it seemed a time
With the large liberty endow'd
Of the prime,
When larger pleasures were allow'd
And nobler sacrifices vow'd;
But thou wert grown sublime
In loveliness and crime!

Thou like a sacrifice wert led,
With fatal finery garlanded,
To thy eternal woe!

142

Thy beauty was a curse; sublime
On thy brow
Glitter'd the leprosy of crime,
The boasted glory of thy prime,
And now thou liest low
In the Dead Sea flow!

143

A FAREWELL (Byronic).

I've looked my last upon your face,
And spoke my last adieu;
My heart is cold to other love
That burned with love to you.

To you the dawn of a new life
And a new love begun,
—To me the gathering clouds of night
And a descending sun.

Yet not to me the kindly fates
Have doomed a starless woe,—
The cherished memory of the past
Goes with me where I go.

I see a sweet pale pensive face
With lustrous eyes of blue
Set in a cloud of hair from which
A hidden sun looks through;

146

A shelter from the shower,
A shade from summer beams:
O the happy gleams
Of hopes therein in quiet,
Whose loss I can but sigh at!
O the pleasant dreams!

What man was yet contented
Tho' Fortune on him smiled?
And who has not repented
He left his native wild?
O the pleasures mild,
The simple hopes I builded,
The love my life that gilded,
Whenas I was a child!

For I have lost a treasure
In the vanished time
When living was a pleasure
And discontent a crime.
O the happy prime
Of life and love together
And sweet-aired April weather
And thoughts that rose in rhyme.

147

A REAL QUEEN.

Thou art so graceful in thy mien, so gracious in thy gaze,
Thou art to me a real queen born out of queenly days.
Surely a diadem has crowned a less imperial brow,
And vassals true have thronged around a queen less fair than thou.
I never see thy deep blue eyes, thy wealth of golden hair,
Th' unconscious pride thy look implies, and thy still stately air,
But still the dream my fancy fills that surely thou must be
A daughter of the Norlan hills, a princess of the Sea.
How bold these clear blue eyes had gleamed beneath a bellying sail,
These flowing locks how brightly streamed on a dark northsea gale!
And all the charms that round thee cling, at once so fair and free,
Sure Danish scald had joyed to sing upon the billowy sea!
And men of valorous Viking blood and simple speech and true

148

Had dared for them the mountain flood and stemmed the Malstrom, too!
By right of beauty thou hadst reigned—a claim we honour still—
Perchance of blood, that all unstained may yet thy being fill.
Lady! whatever be thy lot, thy lineage or degree,
In castle-hall or humble cot, thou art not mean to me;
For thou in gesture, form, and face art one of Nature's queens,
Fit to adorn with easy grace the proudest palace scenes,
And equal fit in paths obscure and rural shades to shine
A queen among the lowly poor whose fortunes measure thine.
Tho' ne'er in golden chair enthroned in regal pomp and ease,
Yet many mute eyes must have owned thy sway in words like these,—
Fair stranger-queen, to thee we bow, our hearts confess thy sway,
The tribute of pure thoughts we vow to pay thee from this day.

149

ANCIENT MEXICO.

Her day of glory past unsung,
She sleeps in evening's fading glow,
With bands of shadow o'er her flung—
The sunbeams slant on Mexico.

Around her tower the solemn hills,
Her lakes reposing far below;
Deep silence all her borders fills—
The sunbeams slant on Mexico.

The busy tides of Aztec life
Have ebbed, no more again to flow;
'Tis o'er, the fever of the strife—
The sunbeams slant on Mexico.

Her dark mysterious worship past,
Her teöcallis lying low,
Oblivion's night uprising fast,—
The sunbeams slant on Mexico.

150

No longer thro' her noonday streets
Pass priestly pomp and regal show,
But shadow lengthening shadow meets—
The sunbeams slant on Mexico.

No fleet canoes adorn her lakes,
Nor garden-islands floating slow;
Nor song nor oar their silence breaks—
The sunbeams slant on Mexico.

Her plumy robe and crown of gold
Are gone to alien and to foe;
The glory of her past uproll'd—
The sunbeams slant on Mexico.

Her nerveless arm hath lost the skill
To wield the axe, the lance to throw;
The warrior pulse for ever still—
The sunbeams slant on Mexico.

She sits beside her inland sea
A queenly widow in her woe,
For only memories hath she—
The sun hath set on Mexico.

151

PAT OF TRALEE: Irish Song.

I.

I'm alone and awake, too, wid no one to spake to,
The loneliest bhoy in the vale of Tralee,
For to-noight is the parthy, and Mrs M`Carthy
Has ax'd all the neighbours but me,
But me,
She has ax'd the whole county but me.

II.

Shure I wouldn't be afther env'ying the laughther,
The music so fine and the dancing so free,
The fun and flirtation, and swate botheration,—
But Kathleen has gone widout me,
Widout me,
She has gone to the ball widout me.

III.

I know that she's dancing, her bright eyes are glancing
Wid aqual proportions of mischief and glee;

152

And every bhoy present,—he thinks, moighty pleasant,
“Shure Kathleen's the Colleen for me,
For me,—
I am sartin she's smiling for me.”

IV.

Be this and be that now, as shure as I'm Pat now,
I've sat here from tin till a quarther to three,—
I've sat widout winking quite spacheless but thinking
If Kathleen is caring for me,
For me,
Whether Kathleen is caring for me.

V.

Me poipe it is broken,—and, be that same token,
So, too, is me heart if ye only could see,
For there's Tim and there's Barney, and och! wid their blarney,
They'll steal away Kathleen from me,
From me,
They will steal the swate creathure from me.

VI.

Arrah! now for a shindy!—I'd jump thro' a windy,
Knock down a polaceman, or pull up a tree,

153

But och! wirristhrue now! what good would it do now
But froighten me darlint from me,
From me,
It would froighten me darlint from me!

VII.

Hear now to her warning, the ould clock! of morning;
Jump into bed, Pat, that's the best jump, says she;
—A dacent ould clock tho' the truth must be spoke, too,
'Tis sildom at noight we agree,
We agree,
It's but sildom at noight we agree.

154

ECHOES.

“It is late, so late, and the lights are out
In the castle overhead,
And the only sounds that move about
Are the wind and the warder's tread.
It is late, my son, and you do not sleep,
But wearily sit and sigh:
Now tell me the vexing thoughts that keep
Sweet slumber from your eye.”

“They will not lie: they fill my soul:
They murmur ever deep:
The echoes, my mother, they rise and roll;
They will not let me sleep.
O the weary sound, with its ebbless flow!
The dead are beyond its reach:
See where they sleep in the churchyard low
Like shells on a sea-beat beach!
They hear it not: nor sigh nor moan
Escapes their narrow bed,

155

But each is dreamless as the stone
That presses on his head.
—O I am envious of your mounds
And of your slumbers deep,
For ye do not hear the maddening sounds
That will not let me sleep!”

“Now doubly cold is the wind to me,
And sadder yet its sigh!
And I could weep, my son, with thee,
But the springs of my grief are dry.
It was years ago, on a night like this,
And thou wert but unborn,
I wept and prayed, but all amiss,
Till breaking of the morn.
For the angry winds were all abroad
And thy father on the sea:
—His ship never more the waters rode
And never home came he.
And the selfsame wind that would not hear
The prayers of a tender wife
Now fills a mother's heart with fear
And sickens me of life.—

156

But do not talk of death, my son,
And do not heed the wind
That quickens the sad thoughts which run
Destructive o'er thy mind.”

“It is not the wail of the wind, mother,
Nor ocean's stormy roll:
They enter not by outward ear
The sounds that fill my soul.
Music to me were the wildest roar
Of wind and water blent
Could it drown the sounds that evermore
My tortured soul torment.
Yet they are sweet,—they won me first
By the witchery of their tone,
And ere ever I knew to a charm accurst
Had the mystic music grown.
'Tis the clamorous Voice of the Past I hear,
The Sounds of a World gone by,—
The noble speech, and the poem clear,
And the deed divinely high.
All down the ante-rooms of Time
They stream and gather and roll;

157

And with hopes to which I may never climb
Their echoes vex my soul.
I know that a music of my own
Their terror-tones might lay,
But what can I, with the wish alone
To do or sing or say?”

158

LAST LOOK OF SCOTLAND:

A Song.

I.

I stand on the deck and gaze over the blue,
And thy hills, bonnie Scotland, are yet in my view,
They are bright in the rays of the slow-setting sun,
And the glow of the amethyst robes them each one;
Enraptured I look till the vision is past,
And Heaven only knows if this look is my last.

II.

My last it may be, but it fades not away,
Immortal as memory it knows no decay;
It is thus from the dear land since I maun depart,
O 'tis thus I would carry its print on my heart,
With the peace which a sweet Scottish gloamin instils,
And the glow of a sunset spread over the hills!

III.

In the wilds of the West there's a splendour, they say,
And beside it the glories of Scotland look gray;

159

But of this I am sure, when its brightness I view,
My mind will be turning, old Scotland, to you;
My thoughts will be flying unfettered and free
To a dear little island far over the Sea!

160

CATULLUS TO LESBIA (Ode V.)

Let us live as lives the dove,
Let us live, and let us love.
Count the counsels of the old
As but Abyssinian gold!
With their frigid looks austere,
And their rigid laws severe,
They would banish us in haste
From the joys they cannot taste.
Be their saws behind us flung!
Life is lovely to the young;
Love is odious to the old,
From their envious reach outroll'd.

Tho' the sun each night expires,
Morning renovates its fires;
But when our brief day is o'er
Youth refills our veins no more,
And the long dim night of age
Passes as a sleeping stage.

161

Give me quick a thousand kisses,
And a hundred more such blisses;
Add a thousand to the score
And a second hundred more!
Come, a thousand yet again,
And another ten times ten!
Then, when many thousands past,
We take breath to count at last,
Let us purposely confound them
With a sweet confusion round them,
Lest some cynic, lurking near us
With an evil ear, o'erhear us
And our future bliss destroy,
Envious of our counted joy;
Or, if we must know th' amount,
Let us make a fresh account.

162

THE MARRIAGE OF PELEUS:

A Lay of Ancient Greece.

What time the bold idea fired the youth of ancient Greece
To go to distant Colchis and seize the Golden Fleece,
They turned their eyes to Pelion, on whose high ridges stood
A forest of the virgin pine in stately sisterhood.

Then axe in hand they scaled the slopes to where the pinetrees grew,
And quick and thick around their strokes the chips of firwood flew,
Till they had hewn of timber a rich and ample store,
And dragged the daughters of the hill down to the sounding shore;
And there they wrought with silent zeal as if they all were dumb,
Till they had framed the famous ship that first on ocean swum.

163

The Goddess of the Helmet and of the Brandished Steel,—
She taught them first to fix the mast and form the curving keel;
Not for ignoble trade, be sure, but for all-glorious war
Was fashioned with Minerva's aid the first great Ocean Car!

Now sprang each rower to his bench and bent a lusty oar,
While seaward with adventurous leap the Argo shot from shore;
The ship unerring from the launch that churned the seas to foam
Swung round to East at once, as if far Colchis were her home!

The hills of Greece were still in view, and daylight still was clear
When sea-nymphs rising from the deep, a wondrous sight, appear;
A wondrous sight to the bold youths as ever met their view,
Nor to the nymphs less wonderful this marvel strange and new.

Their snow-white breasts, amid the whirl and foam of waters vext,

164

Surround the ship, a circle fair, for that day and the next,
Till Peleus, smit with Thetis' charms, the loveliest of the train,
A mortal her immortal loved, and was beloved again!

But this was in the glorious burst and golden dawn of Time,
When manly grace and mortal strength were in their vigorous prime,
When men were rivals of the gods, nor with them vainly strove,
That Thetis gave to Peleus the hand she kept from Jove;
Nor did the match to Tethys beneath her daughter seem,
And the great God forbade it not that guides the oceanstream!

And now drew nigh the nuptial day when from the salt-sea foam
Peleus should lead his Nereid bride to his Thessalian home,
And all the youth of Thessaly with offerings in their hand
Came forth in holiday attire to welcome them to land,—
From farm and village far remote, from islets sundered wide,—
To greet to land Prince Peleus, and his fair Ocean Bride.

165

The men of Scyros left their tools among the marble blocks,
Through Tempë's valley bleating roamed the undistinguished flocks,
Larissa from her southern gate sent forth a joyous throng,
And gay from castled Cronon the people trooped along!

On topmost Ossa you might stand and view the country round,—
You might not spy in any field a tiller of the ground:
The bondaged ox, with traces swinging loosely from his flanks,
Stood aimless in the shallow stream, or lowing on the banks;
The mattock's clang was silent among the copper mines,
The sunlight streamed through lonely groves and solitary vines;
The plough was in mid-furrow left, the share was red with rust,—
That day the careless sons of toil forsook their ancient trust.

But if the farms were lonely, the vineyards dull that day,
What shouts arose, what laughing rang along the public way
Where dalesman met with mountaineer, and maiden of the town

166

Beheld with curious eye askance her sister of the down;
And all on far-converging paths looked forth with joyful eye
To where Pharsala's lordly towers salute the purple sky!

167

THE OLD ROMAN GALLEY.

[_]

(After Catullus.)

Yon Galley dreaming on the bay
With scarcely heaving prow—
She was the fleetest in her day,
Tho' somewhat crippled now.

In vain her rivals crowded sail
And toiled with furious oar;
Her only rival was the gale,
Her only stop the shore.

She dreaded not the rocks that gird
The restless Hadrian seas,
And threaded, lightly as a bird,
The mazy Cyclades.

She held her own with Rhodian craft,
Good sailers every one;
At Thrace's scowling horrors laughed,
And thro' Propontis spun;

168

Then from the Passage of the Ox,
Like arrow quivering free,
Shot from between the Clashing Rocks
Into the Pontic Sea!

The Pontic!—on whose banks a wood,
Erst with her sister trees,
Fast anchored in the rock she stood
And wrestled with the breeze.

For on the steep Cytorian Hills
Her sapling years were spent,
And seaward with the rushing rills
Her infant wishes went;

Till from Cytorus' groves of box
And piny summits free,
Launched smoothly from Amastrian stocks,
She sought at length the Sea.

Since then on many a lengthened course,
By many a savage shore,
When waves ran high and winds blew hoarse,
Her master safe she bore.

169

She dared the storm with open sail
When others hugged the bay,
And swift, when sank th' exhausted gale,
Sped on her oary way.

No demon of the deep she feared,
Nor danger of the shore,—
Past Scylla's rocks unscathed she steered
And braved Charybdis' roar.

Such life was hers:
But now begin
The days when she must pray
The aid of Castor and his Twin,
Whom winds and waves obey.

170

THE COLD LIGHT OF STARS.

“There is no light in Earth or Heaven
But the cold light of stars.”

No! tell me not that Nature grieves for human care and pain,
That aught but poor Humanity lifts up its voice to 'plain.
Man, in his misery blinded, thinks for him the sad wind sighs,
That sea and forest with him in his sorrow sympathise;
In stormy skies he sees a gloom congenial to his mind,
And deems the stars with pitying look beam love upon his kind.

There's grandeur in the heavenly host, but 'tis a fearful sight,
Encompassing with silent siege the Earth thro' all the night;
The glare of Mars bursts from their eyes, but ne'er a glance of love,
As they pursue with measured pace their marshalled marcl above.
So round the pitiless Hebrews went, with ordered ranks and calm,

171

The fair but fated city that was shaded by the palm.
Yon very star at last may reach its torch of scathing fire,
To blaze destruction round the globe, a red funereal pyre!

Years piled on years, a pyramid no finite mind can scale,
Have mounted high since finished were their order and their tale;
Yet there they march as calm and cold in their primeval sheen
For all the sin and misery their tearless orbs have seen!

Silent and bright as when their light first clove chaotic gloom,
Silent and bright as on the night they first saw Eden's bloom;
And bright when blasted was that bloom for evermore to be,
And silent when unthinking Eve plundered the deadly tree!
Silent when Abel shrieking fell beneath the club of Cain,
Silent when Adam's soul gave forth its sorrow for the slain;
Undimmed when Adam's eyes were wet and Eve's with grief ran o'er,
And bright, tho' hope withdrew its rays from Cain for evermore!

172

And so all down the centuries with steady stoic stare,
When tyranny usurped the Earth and battle rent the air;
When empires rose and empires fell, and famine filled the land,
And pestilence and pain and death colleagued—a ghastly band;
When floods did overwhelm the Earth, and Earth herself devour,
With hasty and unnatural man, her children of an hour;
When storm and hail and solid fire, laden with death, were hurled,
And all Pandora's fancied ills let loose on this poor world,
Till now it rolls a lazar-house of woes and wounds and sighs;
—But think not, bending from the blue, that those are mourners' eyes!

Unsympathetic Souls of Night! ye arm our hearts with might,
But we catch no pity in your pomp, no love see in your light;
So roll ye on in unconcern above this scene of woe,
And smile in mockery on the taint your robes may never know!

173

LOCHLEVEN CASTLE.

The Lake was singing round the Isle,
In freedom leapt and laughed each wave,
While mourned the captive Queen the while,
And all her hours to grieving gave.

Blither round the Tower the bright sea-mew
With pinion spread and joyous din
In wide aërial freedom flew
While she a prisoner pined within.

The wind, the free unfettered wind,
Piped merrily as it passed her cell,
Mocking the Lady there confined,
In gloomy donjon doomed to dwell.

From out the grated window she,
Leaning against the rusty bars,
The bonnie buds of Spring could see,
And view the gladness of the stars;

174

And mark the green leaves of the grove
Clapping and whispering in their glee;
And bear the laverock hymn its love
In trills of heavenly melodie.

So days of sparkling joy went by,
And nights of soft and beauteous gloom;
And dim grew Mary's star-bright eye,
And paled, as blossoms pale, her bloom.

The country basked in Summer's smile
When, wet with tears and girt with steel,
Came Mary to this lonely isle
A faction's fury doomed to feel.

And Summer rained from cloudless skies
Her music and her roses down;
And Autumn, gorgeous in his dyes,
Strode sober through his harvests brown;

And Winter to the Lomonds came,
Ghost-like, and left; and Spring awoke,
And Earth burst out in flowery flame,
And music from the woodlands broke.

175

And Life had charms for Mary still,
And love, a fountain sealed before,
Flowed in her heart, a wasteful rill
Kings might have sipped,—and sighed for more.

The memories of former years,
A beauteous Vision, o'er her mind
Like sunshine flashed, but fringed with tears,
And leaving deepest night behind.

And thus beneath Despair's black wing
She sat in silence and in grief,
Till Hope broke forth, as breaks in Spring
From the dead branch the living leaf.

Yet, yet the future might atone
For all the errors of the past—
Her actions, all too much unknown,
In clearer, truer light be cast.

Her labours for the common weal
Each grateful lip might yet confess
—Then, ch! what misery to feel
A captive's utter powerlessness

176

While thus, with changeful smile and tear,
Despair and Hope alternate rose,
With none around to help or cheer
She told the Evening Wind her woes:—

“O sunset in the glowing West!
Glorious for every eye but mine!
To me thou warnest Summer's haste,—
Another priceless day's decline!

O moments unenjoyed by me,—
O hours of gold, slow-slipping by!
A string of radiant pearls are ye,
A lone unnecklaced Queen am I!

The lowliest-born in all my land
Holds the dear boon denied to me,
And, poor and 'pressed, may yet command
The one best blessing—libertie!

The village maiden meets her swain
At evening on the quiet lea:
One heart, one thought unites them twain,—
But is there heart has thought of me?

177

Why was my every action seen
With coldness or suspicion still?
Or wherefore was I crowned a Queen
To govern by another's will?

I loved my people and my land,
Dear to this heart as aught of Earth;
For here my sires long held command,
And here my mother gave me birth.

And thou, O cruel brother mine!
What did I to deserve thy hate?
On thee I bade fair fortune shine,
And lifted thee to high estate.

Yet thou didst league with lawless men,
And coldly unconcerned hast stood,
While they compelled th' ignoble pen
With oath profane and violence rude.

Reft of my freedom and my fame,
Reft of my kingdom and my crown,
I yet unanswered urge the claim
Of mother yearning for her son.

178

Were mine the convent's calm retreat,
Its holy pastimes and its prayers,
Nothing again should tempt my feet
To leave it for a crown of cares!”

Her sorrows caught an idling page;
And, when she ceased, he sighed, “Ah me!
The linnet in its sunless cage
'Plains not more sweetly to be free.

If none will try the dangerous task
To free our Lady, then will I;
And for the hazard I will ask
A passing love-blink of her eye!”

He told the Lady his design,
The crimson colouring all his cheek;
She smiled—to him approving sign—
But hope so faint forbade to speak.

The Master o'er his cups delayed
At evening in the Castle-hall:
Beside him on the board were laid
The keys that kept a Queen in thrall.

179

The youth remarked the Master's ease,
And thought upon the hapless Queen:
He dropt his 'kerchief on the keys,
And with the prize escaped unseen.

The door is wide! the prisoner free!
Misplaced were thanks with danger nigh;
“Lady, there's life and libertie
Lost in the time we talk: O, fly!”

They lock the gate, and to the shore
Hurry with noiseless footfall down,
Enter the boat, and bend the oar,
And westering stretch them to'ard the town,

Kinross! amid a green retreat
Sleeping in moonbeams bathed, and dew,
Where sworn their rightful Queen to meet
Brave hearts and arms were waiting true.

Out from the frowning shade they sweep;
The waters plash, though skimmed with care;
When, hark! from out th' awakened keep
A shot rings on the startled air.

180

From the dear mark the ball flies wide;
Hope yet gives strength; the oars dip fast;
By royal hand an oar is plied;
The keys into the Lake are cast.

The skiff skims lightly o'er the Lake,
The bending rowers work with zeal:
Sudden! swift and resounding break
The red gleam and the rattling peal!

The wild gull starts with 'wildered screech:
But safe beneath the moon's sweet smile
They row, beyond the cannon's reach,
Relaxing from the useless toil.

A silver shield, the round moon shed
Its guiding radiance o'er the Queen,
And every wavelet bowed its head,
And smooth the waters stretched serene.

Then, Willie Douglas, did thy breast
Receive a bright abiding joy
When the fair Queen her debt confest,
And bent on thee a grateful eye!

181

And now with nervous stroke they near,
And throbbing heart, th' approaching land;
And now the friendly hail they hear,
And now the keel grates on the sand.

Upon a green round-rising mound
She stood—still by the peasant shewn
Within Lethangie's favoured bound;
And still as “Mary's Knowe” 'tis known.

The loyal lords with Hamilton
There bade her welcome to the shore;
They knelt and kissed her hand each one,
And new and firm allegiance swore.

They set her on a fleet-limbed steed,
And gathered round her in a band;
Then south away they spurred with speed,
Resolved with her to fall or stand.

1868.

182

PAT-LUCK.

The monk had a greedy ee,
The monk wanted siller,
The monk cam' to see
Auld Widow Miller.

In a wee theekit hoose
Auld Widow Miller sat,
Ne'er a cricket half sae croose,
Scrapin' her parritch-pat.

Great faith in haly men,
Great faith had she;
That's a pat amon' ten,
That pat, quo' he.

Puir auld Widow Miller
What will she dae?
No a plack left o' siller,
The pat gane tae!

183

Hame ran the greedy freer,
Girnin' as he gaed;
Wha like, ye needna speer,—
The pat on his head.

Loupin' a wide ditch
Him an' hame atween,
Down wi' a hasty pitch
The pat's owre his een!

Up again it winna come
Rug he ne'er sae sair,
And the mannie's far fra hame,
Beast nor body near.

Noo a roar an' noo a race,—
Gloamin' i' the sky!
Here and there in desert place
Rase the lanely cry!

Thro' a kintra town he rins,
Bellowin' like a bull;
Haste ye! hoose ye! waukrife weans,
Sandie's oot, an' wul'!

184

Auld wifie at the door,—
Yer apron owre yer een!
—Shuh!—He's by like stour,
Hardlins seen!

Noo everybody's hearkenin',
An' ilka winker's wide;
—Eh! but i' the darkenin'
The horns winna hide!

Burn-the-win', neist mornin',
Was lyin' whaur he fell;
He aimed a clink at Hornie
That sair mischiev'd himsel'.

A pat he dang to shairds
An' hammer heft baith;
The bits, ye'll see them in his yaird
A witness o' the truth!

The monk has a sair head,
His chafts winna chow;
On beef an' greens he winna feed
He's made a Lenten vow!

185

NOS MUTAMUR!

[_]

(Spoken by an Old Boy of Sixty.)

Is this the house? Ay, there's the well-known sign,
The Bunch of Grapes, still hanging o'er the door.
I gaze around,—the change maybe is mine,
But all is small and dingier than of yore.

The same black-coated waiters whisk about,
But where is Tom, the prince of waiting men?
Methinks I hear old Tom's commanding shout—
“Way for the gentlemen of Number Ten!”

“Here, waiter! shew me into Number Ten!”
“No Number Ten, sir! That's the coffee-room.
Some wine, sir?” “No! some honest beer;” and then—
“No Number Ten,” and settle into gloom.

The coffee-room is empty, and I sit
And sip the beer in memory of old times.

186

How flat it tastes without the joyous wit
That spiced our undergraduate pantomimes!

I stretch my hand across the vanish'd years,—
Full forty! Ay, the world is growing old!
I blow aside the mists, and there appears
Faintly at last our crew of six all told!

Six honest, simple, healthy country lads
Met by chance-medley in the college town,—
Six hale, hilarious, hearty undergrads
Without a thought of riches or renown.

To live and laugh, to have the self-same cause
Of joy and laughter, mutually shared,
And do at times a little reading was
All we desired and all we ever cared!

I see them as they sit—how strange it is!
Among the rest I seem to see myself!
There's Charlie with that comic face of his,—
Poor Charlie! first to lie upon the shelf!

187

The world was happier with poor Charlie in it:
With what an air as Chairman Charlie spoke—
“I call upon the Clerk to read the minute
That fines you six pence for that barbarous joke!”

And Sandy: he's a reverend Doctor now
With ritualistic leanings, and a wife
That wrinkled into horn poor Sandy's brow,
And now he advocates a single life.

And the two Toms: the one has disappeared,
And dead or living, none can truly say;
The other for a rich old widow steered,
And married wealth, and is no longer gay.

And then there's Archy: Archy drove the car
That brought me from the railway station here;
And I—well, I've been travelling wide and far
In search of happiness for forty year.

Alas! the search has only made me sad,
And gathered round my life a mournful haze;
O for one night of all the nights we had
Here in the dear old distant College days!

188

Well, and cui bono? could I call them back,—
Unless, indeed, the days when called would stay.—
“Waiter, some port!”—I'm out of sorts.—“The sack—
You rogue, there's lime in't: take it all away!”

And, here!—well, never mind the change—d'ye still
Have now and then a students' gathering here?”
—“Lor' bless you, sir! That's them a-ringing! Bill!
There's Number Nine a-calling for more beer!”

189

TOUJOURS GAI.

While sunbeams on the mountain play,
And fairies haunt the glen,
Romance shall o'er my mind have sway,
And I will to my latest day
Be happiest of men.

The sweet religion of my life,
Which all my thoughts shall sway,
Shall be to shun the envious strife,
To march to tabor and to fife,
And ever to be gay.

The hills of Earth are green and high,
And lift their heads to heaven;
And why with drooping head should I
Sink down into the dust and sigh,
To whom the Earth was given?

190

They're mine! the cheerful poet cried,
Creation's heir am I,—
The hills, the rills that down them glide,
The stars that in the sunshine hide,
The sunshine and the sky;

The apple-blossoms of the spring,
The clusters, of the vine,
The gladsome voice of those who sing,
The joy of every living thing:
And what was his is mine!

Sing, joyous birds! your mirth is mine:
Blow, winds! o'er shore and sea,
And let your visits be a sign
Both sides the great globe-girdling line
That mankind should be free.

Alas! the little birds that sing,
The flowers that bloom so gay
Will in the snow lie withering,
And those will fold their shivering wing
And dumbly pine away!

191

And yet the brave philosophy
Of life is theirs to sing,
And flaunt it in the suns of May,
Ere comes to them the evil day
Which is our second Spring.

192

IO, BACCHE!

Come, a brimmer ere we rise!
We have toasted love and beauty,
Sung the brave and praised the wise,—
There is yet a parting duty;—
Higher yet your glasses raise!
This is to our monarch's praise!—
Thou, of all our joys the giver,
Rosy Bacchus! reign for ever!

Now the god is in our veins,
How he sets the blood careering!
How he pulsates through the brains,
Mind-ennobling, spirit-cheering!
Every hope our hearts can know
Widens in his warming glow!—
Thou of every joy the giver,
Rosy Bacchus! reign for ever!

193

Wealth may vanish, beauty fades,
Woman's plighted love may fail us;
While we see them pass as shades
Yet despair can ne'er assail us!
There's a pleasure more divine,
Never failing in the wine!—
Thou, of all our joys the giver,
Rosy Bacchus! reign for ever!

194

STELLA:

A Song.

I.

Whatever sorrow cloud my lot,
On distant day or near,
The darkness shall dismay me not
—I have no cause to fear.
No gloom upon my soul can light
If Stella's face I see,
O my heart and all the heavens are bright
When Stella shines on me!

II.

The world is full of noisy strife
And selfish tumult all,
And into every ordered life
Some jarring notes will fall;
But all the discord of the fray
In vain invades my ear,
O my heart and all the world is gay
When Stella's voice I hear!

195

III.

The beauty of the summer air
Is round about her thrown,
The music of the woodlands fair
Is in her every tone.
She speaks, she smiles, and fear and care
Like mists of morning flee;
O Heaven is bright and Earth is fair,
And Stella smiles on me!

196

FROM CHAOS TO COSMOS

[_]

(Suggested by Krummacher's Six Days.)

I.

Swathes of solid darkness shrouded
Chaos on a world destroy'd;
God, the quickening Spirit, brooded
O'er the lifeless formless void.
Hark! the lone creative word
Startles darkness from his sleep;
Light, attendant on her Lord,
Glimmers on the frozen deep.
Darkness from his station hurl'd,
Lo, revealed a ruined world!

II.

Vapours from the waste ascending
Dim the rays that bade them rise,
And, close round the surface bending,
Seek not yet the vacant skies.

197

Hark! the Voice again commands:
Breathes the all-essential air,
Heaven his widening wings expands,
They the buoyant clouds upbear.
Rushing now from pole to pole
Tempests roar and billows roll!

III.

Now the loud-usurping ocean
Tramples on the subject-shore;
Sudden shrinks his swelling motion
Backward with retreating roar.
Hark! the Voice assigns his bed
And confines his restless reign;
Earth uplifts her dripping head,
Moist emerging from the main.
Lo, what greenness girds the sea,
Waving field, and fruitful tree!

IV.

Light not yet revealed her fountain,
White-wing'd herald, wander'd far;
Night, lone on her dusky mountain,

198

Heard not yet the quiring star!
Hark! again the Word of might!
—Kindling 'neath its Maker's eye,
Circling grandly into sight,
Lo! where morning scales the sky!
Day revolves to whence he rose,—
Lo! all ether throbs and glows!

V.

And the sea its stores provided,
And the groves as gardens grew,
But no fin the wave divided,
And the sky no tenant knew.
Hark! the Word:—The waters teem,
Life upleaps, a various throng;
Plumes athwart the sunshine gleam,
And the woods resound with song!
Fish and fowl in sea and sky
Play and pipe and multiply!

VI.

As the glorious consummation
Of creative power draws nigh,

199

Angels from their shining station
Bend on earth a wondering eye.
Lo! while myriads round him spring
From the opening cells of earth,
Man appears, creation's king,
Godlike from his humble birth!
Then the empyréan rang
And the Sons of Morning sang!

1870.

Finis.