 | Poems And Songs |  |
102
EPISTLE TO R. W.
Dear Richard,—
Birds the woodland throng,
And fill their buddy realms with song;
The lilac and the thorn
Prepare to load their boughs with flowers;
And soon will come the dewy hours
Of summer eve or morn.
Spring-time is written on the brow
Of woodland, holm, and hill;
And Nature registers a vow
Again our barns to fill.
While proudly and loudly
Larks trill their lays divine,
I cheery, though weary,
Sit humbly crooning mine.
Birds the woodland throng,
And fill their buddy realms with song;
The lilac and the thorn
Prepare to load their boughs with flowers;
And soon will come the dewy hours
Of summer eve or morn.
Spring-time is written on the brow
Of woodland, holm, and hill;
And Nature registers a vow
Again our barns to fill.
While proudly and loudly
Larks trill their lays divine,
I cheery, though weary,
Sit humbly crooning mine.
103
Here, by my “Little Dublin”
hearth,
Whare aiblins ne'er a muse gave birth
To ought resembling verse,
Old memories crowd around me fast—
A panorama of the past—
Too varied to rehearse.
Youth's dream, the stern realities
Of life, before me pass;
Their mingled hues of grief and bliss
I see as in a glass.
There shines still—divine still—
That faculty of youth,
Of dreaming, and deeming
Each dream a waking truth.
Whare aiblins ne'er a muse gave birth
To ought resembling verse,
Old memories crowd around me fast—
A panorama of the past—
Too varied to rehearse.
Youth's dream, the stern realities
Of life, before me pass;
Their mingled hues of grief and bliss
I see as in a glass.
There shines still—divine still—
That faculty of youth,
Of dreaming, and deeming
Each dream a waking truth.
Ah, Richard! they are glorious things,
Those flights which airy Fancy wings
Away from earthly real;
And yielding, in her aimless flight,
A sweet experience ever bright,
And truthful, though ideal.
By toils which, during slumbers short,
Are by us nightly shared,
Our minds for toils of sterner sort
Are tutored and prepared.
Thus much still, that's rich still,
The philosophic mind—
Nay, mine e'en, or thine e'en—
From airy dreams may find.
Those flights which airy Fancy wings
Away from earthly real;
And yielding, in her aimless flight,
A sweet experience ever bright,
And truthful, though ideal.
104
Are by us nightly shared,
Our minds for toils of sterner sort
Are tutored and prepared.
Thus much still, that's rich still,
The philosophic mind—
Nay, mine e'en, or thine e'en—
From airy dreams may find.
Yon plodding wretch whom Fate appears
To loathe, around whose snail-paced years
Throng woes of every kind—
How could he his existence keep
Were all the phantasies of sleep
Forbidden to his mind?
I often think, and long have thought,
Though not perhaps in rhyme,
That when I sleep and dream of nought,
'Tis but a waste of time;
But dreaming, and seeming
To roam abroad at noon,
I deem it, esteem it,
A great and priceless boon.
To loathe, around whose snail-paced years
Throng woes of every kind—
How could he his existence keep
Were all the phantasies of sleep
Forbidden to his mind?
I often think, and long have thought,
Though not perhaps in rhyme,
That when I sleep and dream of nought,
'Tis but a waste of time;
But dreaming, and seeming
To roam abroad at noon,
I deem it, esteem it,
A great and priceless boon.
105
Who has not felt of pride a touch,
When, rising on a morning such
As this was, calm and bright,
The memory of the struggle, vast
But glorious, of the night bypast,
Came slowly into light?
The dream-giant fought with in the night
With manly daring may
Be met and conquered 'mid the light
And hum of busy day.
This tells us, compels us,
To own that dreams are given
As teachers and preachers—
And (shall we say?) by Heaven.
When, rising on a morning such
As this was, calm and bright,
The memory of the struggle, vast
But glorious, of the night bypast,
Came slowly into light?
The dream-giant fought with in the night
With manly daring may
Be met and conquered 'mid the light
And hum of busy day.
This tells us, compels us,
To own that dreams are given
As teachers and preachers—
And (shall we say?) by Heaven.
Some, if they meet with visions bright
Amid the watches of the night,
In which they're Fortune's pride,
Will rise depressed and sad at morn,
As if hard Fate its sharpest thorn
Had planted in their side.
Then wrapt in Superstition's mirk—
Their mental vision bleared—
Their own infatuations work
The ruin which they feared.
If, gearless and cheerless,
At length we them behold,
They, moaning and groaning,
Tell how it was foretold.
Amid the watches of the night,
In which they're Fortune's pride,
Will rise depressed and sad at morn,
As if hard Fate its sharpest thorn
Had planted in their side.
106
Their mental vision bleared—
Their own infatuations work
The ruin which they feared.
If, gearless and cheerless,
At length we them behold,
They, moaning and groaning,
Tell how it was foretold.
My tried and worthy friend, not thus,
When blest with happy dreams, let us,
Respecting spae-folks' laws,
Unlucky things prognosticate,
And torture for ourselves create,
Like fools, without a cause.
Were life a circlet all of joy,
Perhaps we could afford
The thousand pleasures to destroy
With which our dreams are stored;
But seeing our being
Is not one round of bliss,
Why should we so rudely
Turn joy to wretchedness?
When blest with happy dreams, let us,
Respecting spae-folks' laws,
Unlucky things prognosticate,
And torture for ourselves create,
Like fools, without a cause.
Were life a circlet all of joy,
Perhaps we could afford
The thousand pleasures to destroy
With which our dreams are stored;
But seeing our being
Is not one round of bliss,
Why should we so rudely
Turn joy to wretchedness?
107
How fresh last night the mountain air
I breathèd in my dream! how fair
The golden haze of morn,
The broomy cliff on which I stood,
Where floated from the glistening wood
The perfume of the thorn!
A zone of mist hung round the “Ben,”
The loch gleamed at its base;
The flock-bleat, wafted o'er the glen,
Came from the distant braes.
How blithely, how lithely
The heathery hills I clomb,
Far wandering, meandering,
From my tired limbs at home!
I breathèd in my dream! how fair
The golden haze of morn,
The broomy cliff on which I stood,
Where floated from the glistening wood
The perfume of the thorn!
A zone of mist hung round the “Ben,”
The loch gleamed at its base;
The flock-bleat, wafted o'er the glen,
Came from the distant braes.
How blithely, how lithely
The heathery hills I clomb,
Far wandering, meandering,
From my tired limbs at home!
Dear, dear to all such dreams must be;
But unto such as thee and me,
To whom it is denied
For days to see the light of heaven,
They seem a special blessing given;
Let's hug the thought with pride,
And trust that in the week-long night,
That else might cheerless be,
The flowers and almost endless light
Of summer we shall see.
Thus, ambling and gamboling,
In joy shall pass our days,
Aye gleaming and streaming
With bright borealian rays.
But unto such as thee and me,
To whom it is denied
For days to see the light of heaven,
They seem a special blessing given;
Let's hug the thought with pride,
108
That else might cheerless be,
The flowers and almost endless light
Of summer we shall see.
Thus, ambling and gamboling,
In joy shall pass our days,
Aye gleaming and streaming
With bright borealian rays.
No more of dreams, but let us look
Back to the old secluded nook
Where stands the square green tower,
That seems between the smooth green hill
And its rough wooded neighbour still
A castle in a bower,
The Broompark well in loveliness
Still dressed as 'twas of yore,
Whose stream in summer ne'er was less,
In winter never more.
I see them—I'm wi' them;
Each old familiar thorn
Seems blooming, perfuming
The sober Sabbath morn.
Back to the old secluded nook
Where stands the square green tower,
That seems between the smooth green hill
And its rough wooded neighbour still
A castle in a bower,
The Broompark well in loveliness
Still dressed as 'twas of yore,
Whose stream in summer ne'er was less,
In winter never more.
I see them—I'm wi' them;
Each old familiar thorn
Seems blooming, perfuming
The sober Sabbath morn.
109
My earliest home. The Muir—the Cart—
That still a soothing charm impart
When that way turns my thought.
The brambly woods around the “Munt,”
Whare “Tillie” oft in mimic hunt
We chased, and sometimes caught;
The “Park” where flew the bounding ball
Amid the merry din—
Our youth's companions one and all
My memory reckons in.
Where are they, how fare they,
The friends we laughed with then?—
All dead now, or spread now,
Far from the dear old glen.
That still a soothing charm impart
When that way turns my thought.
The brambly woods around the “Munt,”
Whare “Tillie” oft in mimic hunt
We chased, and sometimes caught;
The “Park” where flew the bounding ball
Amid the merry din—
Our youth's companions one and all
My memory reckons in.
Where are they, how fare they,
The friends we laughed with then?—
All dead now, or spread now,
Far from the dear old glen.
Perhaps a remnant of us yet
May in our boyhood's haunts be met,
Old men and women all;
Our children yet athwart the muir
May drive, far bounding through the air
The nacket or the ball.
O'er field and fence I see them spring
As if they ne'er wad tire,
Each healthful son inheriting
The freedom of his sire:—
It may be, and sae we
Will give the fancy scope,
But treasure with pleasure
The sweetness of that hope.
May in our boyhood's haunts be met,
Old men and women all;
Our children yet athwart the muir
May drive, far bounding through the air
The nacket or the ball.
110
As if they ne'er wad tire,
Each healthful son inheriting
The freedom of his sire:—
It may be, and sae we
Will give the fancy scope,
But treasure with pleasure
The sweetness of that hope.
I've done; but ere I drop my pen
A fore-han' welcome let me sen'
To our “Wee Dublin” hearth.
Although we hae a lodger noo,
Our house will never be sae fou
That ye shall want a berth.
If a' that famed Australia's worth
Were given me to wair,
There's not another man on earth
With whom I'd readier share.
Here's to ye! Lang wi' ye
May health and thrift abide,
Attending your wending
Athwart the world sae wide.
A fore-han' welcome let me sen'
To our “Wee Dublin” hearth.
Although we hae a lodger noo,
Our house will never be sae fou
That ye shall want a berth.
If a' that famed Australia's worth
Were given me to wair,
There's not another man on earth
With whom I'd readier share.
Here's to ye! Lang wi' ye
May health and thrift abide,
Attending your wending
Athwart the world sae wide.
| Poems And Songs | |