The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan In Two Volumes. With a Portrait |
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| North Coast, and other Poems.
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| II. |
 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
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North Coast, and other Poems.
(1867–68.)
MEG BLANE.
I. Storm.
‘Lord, hearken to me!
Save all poor souls at sea!
Thy breath is on their cheeks,—
Their cheeks are wan wi' fear;
Nae man speaks,
For wha could hear?
The wild white water screams,
The wind cries loud;
The fireflaught gleams
On tattered sail and shroud!
Under the red mast-light
The hissing surges slip;
Thick reeks the storm o' night
Round him that steers the ship,—
And his een are blind,
And he kens not where they run.
Lord, be kind!
Whistle back Thy wind,
For the sake of Christ Thy Son!’
Save all poor souls at sea!
Thy breath is on their cheeks,—
Their cheeks are wan wi' fear;
Nae man speaks,
For wha could hear?
The wild white water screams,
The wind cries loud;
The fireflaught gleams
On tattered sail and shroud!
Under the red mast-light
The hissing surges slip;
Thick reeks the storm o' night
Round him that steers the ship,—
And his een are blind,
And he kens not where they run.
Lord, be kind!
Whistle back Thy wind,
For the sake of Christ Thy Son!’
. . . And as she prayed she knelt not on her knee,
But, standing on the threshold, looked to Sea,
Where all was blackness and a watery roar,
Save when the dead light, flickering far away,
Flash'd on the line of foam upon the shore,
And showed the ribs of reef and surging bay!
There was no sign of life across the dark,
No piteous light from fishing-boat or bark,
Albeit for such she hush'd her heart to pray.
With tattered plaid wrapt tight around her form,
She stood a space, spat on by wind and rain,
Then, sighing deep, and turning from the Storm,
She crept into her lonely hut again.
But, standing on the threshold, looked to Sea,
Where all was blackness and a watery roar,
Save when the dead light, flickering far away,
Flash'd on the line of foam upon the shore,
And showed the ribs of reef and surging bay!
There was no sign of life across the dark,
No piteous light from fishing-boat or bark,
Albeit for such she hush'd her heart to pray.
With tattered plaid wrapt tight around her form,
She stood a space, spat on by wind and rain,
Then, sighing deep, and turning from the Storm,
She crept into her lonely hut again.
'Twas but a wooden hut under the height,
Shielded in the black shadow of the crag:
One blow of such a wind as blew that night
Could rend so rude a dwelling like a rag.
There, gathering in the crannies overhead,
Down fell the spouting rain heavy as lead,—
So that the old roof and the rafters thin
Dript desolately, looking on the surf,
While blacker rain-drops down the walls of turf
Splash'd momently on the mud-floor within.
There, swinging from the beam, an earthen lamp
Waved to the wind and glimmered in the damp,
And shining in the chamber's wretchedness,
Illumed the household things of the poor place,
And flicker'd faintly on the woman's face
Sooted with rain, and on her dripping dress.
A miserable den wherein to dwell,
And yet she loved it well.
Shielded in the black shadow of the crag:
One blow of such a wind as blew that night
Could rend so rude a dwelling like a rag.
There, gathering in the crannies overhead,
Down fell the spouting rain heavy as lead,—
So that the old roof and the rafters thin
Dript desolately, looking on the surf,
While blacker rain-drops down the walls of turf
Splash'd momently on the mud-floor within.
There, swinging from the beam, an earthen lamp
Waved to the wind and glimmered in the damp,
And shining in the chamber's wretchedness,
Illumed the household things of the poor place,
And flicker'd faintly on the woman's face
Sooted with rain, and on her dripping dress.
A miserable den wherein to dwell,
And yet she loved it well.
‘O Mither, are ye there?’
A deep voice filled the dark; she thrill'd to hear;
With hard hand she pushed back her wild wet hair,
And kissed him. ‘Whisht, my bairn, for Mither's near.’
Then on the shuttle bed a figure thin
Sat rubbing sleepy eyes:
A bearded man, with heavy hanging chin,
And on his face a light not over-wise.
‘Water!’ he said; and deep his thirst was quelled
Out of the broken pitcher she upheld,
And yawning sleepily, he gazed around,
And stretched his limbs again, and soon slept sound.
Stooping, she smooth'd his pillow 'neath his head,
Still looking down with eyes liquid and mild,
And while she gazed, softly he slumberëd,
That bearded man, her child.
And a child's dreams were his; for as he lay,
He uttered happy cries as if at play,
And his strong hand was lifted up on high
As if to catch the bird or butterfly;
And often to his bearded lips there came
That lonely woman's name;
And though the wrath of Ocean roared so near,
That one sweet word
Was all the woman heard,
And all she cared to hear.
A deep voice filled the dark; she thrill'd to hear;
With hard hand she pushed back her wild wet hair,
And kissed him. ‘Whisht, my bairn, for Mither's near.’
Then on the shuttle bed a figure thin
Sat rubbing sleepy eyes:
A bearded man, with heavy hanging chin,
And on his face a light not over-wise.
‘Water!’ he said; and deep his thirst was quelled
Out of the broken pitcher she upheld,
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And stretched his limbs again, and soon slept sound.
Stooping, she smooth'd his pillow 'neath his head,
Still looking down with eyes liquid and mild,
And while she gazed, softly he slumberëd,
That bearded man, her child.
And a child's dreams were his; for as he lay,
He uttered happy cries as if at play,
And his strong hand was lifted up on high
As if to catch the bird or butterfly;
And often to his bearded lips there came
That lonely woman's name;
And though the wrath of Ocean roared so near,
That one sweet word
Was all the woman heard,
And all she cared to hear.
Not old in years, though youth had passed away,
And the thin hair was tinged with silver gray,
Close to the noontide of the day of life,
She stood, calm featured like a wedded wife;
And yet no wedded wife was she, but one
Whose foot had left the pathways of the just,
Yet meekly, since her penance had been done,
Her soft eyes sought men's faces, not the dust.
Her tearful days were over: she had found
Firm footing, work to do upon the ground;
The Elements had welded her at length
To their own truth and strength.
And the thin hair was tinged with silver gray,
Close to the noontide of the day of life,
She stood, calm featured like a wedded wife;
And yet no wedded wife was she, but one
Whose foot had left the pathways of the just,
Yet meekly, since her penance had been done,
Her soft eyes sought men's faces, not the dust.
Her tearful days were over: she had found
Firm footing, work to do upon the ground;
The Elements had welded her at length
To their own truth and strength.
This woman was no slight and tear-strung thing,
Whose easy sighs fall soft on suffering,
But one in whom no stranger's eyes would seek
For pity mild and meek.
Man's height was hers—man's strength and will thereto,
Her shoulders broad, her step man-like and long;
'Mong fishermen she dwelt, a rude, rough crew,
And more than one had found her hand was strong.
And yet her face was gentle, though the sun
Had made it dark and dun;
Her silver-threaded hair
Was combed behind her ears with cleanly care;
And she had eyes liquid and sorrow-fraught,
And round her mouth were delicate lines, that told
She was a woman sweet with her own thought,
Though built upon a large, heroic mould.
Whose easy sighs fall soft on suffering,
But one in whom no stranger's eyes would seek
For pity mild and meek.
Man's height was hers—man's strength and will thereto,
Her shoulders broad, her step man-like and long;
'Mong fishermen she dwelt, a rude, rough crew,
And more than one had found her hand was strong.
And yet her face was gentle, though the sun
Had made it dark and dun;
Her silver-threaded hair
Was combed behind her ears with cleanly care;
And she had eyes liquid and sorrow-fraught,
And round her mouth were delicate lines, that told
She was a woman sweet with her own thought,
Though built upon a large, heroic mould.
Who did not know Meg Blane?
What hearth but heard the deeds that Meg had done?
What fisher of the main
But knew her, and her little-witted son?
For in the wildest waves of that wild coast
Her black boat hover'd and her net was tost,
And lonely in the watery solitude
The son and mother fished for daily food.
When on calm nights the herring hosts went by,
Her frail boat followed the red smacks from shore
And steering in the stern the man would lie
While Meg was hoisting sail or plying oar;
Till, a black speck against the morning sky,
The boat came homeward, with its silver store.
And Meg was cunning in the ways of things,
Watching what every changing lineament
Of wind and sky and cloud and water meant,
Knowing how Nature threatens ere she springs.
She knew the clouds as shepherds know their sheep,
To eyes unskilled alike, yet different each;
She knew the wondrous voices of the Deep;
The tones of sea-birds were to her a speech.
Much faith was hers in God, who was her guide;
Courage was hers such as God gives to few,
For she could face His terrors fearless-eyed,
Yet keep the still sane woman's nature true.
Lives had she snatched out of the waste by night,
When wintry winds were blowing;
To sick-beds sad her presence carried light,
When (like a thin sail lessening out of sight)
Some rude, rough life to the unknown Gulf was going;
For men who scorned a feeble woman's wail
Would heark to one so strong and brave as she,
Whose face had braved the lightning and the gale,
And ne'er grown pale,
Before the shrill threat of the murderous Sea.
What hearth but heard the deeds that Meg had done?
What fisher of the main
But knew her, and her little-witted son?
For in the wildest waves of that wild coast
Her black boat hover'd and her net was tost,
And lonely in the watery solitude
The son and mother fished for daily food.
When on calm nights the herring hosts went by,
Her frail boat followed the red smacks from shore
And steering in the stern the man would lie
While Meg was hoisting sail or plying oar;
Till, a black speck against the morning sky,
The boat came homeward, with its silver store.
And Meg was cunning in the ways of things,
Watching what every changing lineament
Of wind and sky and cloud and water meant,
Knowing how Nature threatens ere she springs.
She knew the clouds as shepherds know their sheep,
To eyes unskilled alike, yet different each;
She knew the wondrous voices of the Deep;
The tones of sea-birds were to her a speech.
Much faith was hers in God, who was her guide;
Courage was hers such as God gives to few,
209
Yet keep the still sane woman's nature true.
Lives had she snatched out of the waste by night,
When wintry winds were blowing;
To sick-beds sad her presence carried light,
When (like a thin sail lessening out of sight)
Some rude, rough life to the unknown Gulf was going;
For men who scorned a feeble woman's wail
Would heark to one so strong and brave as she,
Whose face had braved the lightning and the gale,
And ne'er grown pale,
Before the shrill threat of the murderous Sea.
Yet often, as she lay a-sleeping there,
This woman started up and blush'd in shame,
Stretching out arm embracing the thin air,
Naming an unknown name;
There was a hearkening hunger in her face
If sudden footsteps sounded on her ear;
And when strange seamen came unto the place
She read their faces in a wretched fear;
And finding not the object of her quest,
Her hand she held hard on her heaving breast,
And wore a white look, and drew feeble breath,
Like one that hungereth.
This woman started up and blush'd in shame,
Stretching out arm embracing the thin air,
Naming an unknown name;
There was a hearkening hunger in her face
If sudden footsteps sounded on her ear;
And when strange seamen came unto the place
She read their faces in a wretched fear;
And finding not the object of her quest,
Her hand she held hard on her heaving breast,
And wore a white look, and drew feeble breath,
Like one that hungereth.
It was a night of summer, yet the wind
Had wafted from God's wastes the rainclouds dank,
Blown out Heaven's thousand eyes and left it blind,
Though now and then the Moon gleamed moist behind
The rack, till, smitten by the drift, she sank.
But the Deep roared;
Sucked to the black clouds, spumed the foam-fleck'd main,
While lightning rent the storm-rack like a sword,
And earthward rolled the gray smoke of the Rain.
Had wafted from God's wastes the rainclouds dank,
Blown out Heaven's thousand eyes and left it blind,
Though now and then the Moon gleamed moist behind
The rack, till, smitten by the drift, she sank.
But the Deep roared;
Sucked to the black clouds, spumed the foam-fleck'd main,
While lightning rent the storm-rack like a sword,
And earthward rolled the gray smoke of the Rain.
'Tis late, and yet the woman doth not rest,
But sitteth with chin drooping on her breast:
Weary she is, yet will not take repose;
Tired are her eyes, and yet they cannot close;
She rocketh to and fro upon her chair,
And stareth at the air!
But sitteth with chin drooping on her breast:
Weary she is, yet will not take repose;
Tired are her eyes, and yet they cannot close;
She rocketh to and fro upon her chair,
And stareth at the air!
Far, far away her thoughts were travelling:
They could not rest—they wandered far and fleet,
As the storm-petrels o'er the waters wing,
And cannot find a place to rest their feet;
And in her ear a thin voice murmurëd,
‘If he be dead—be dead!’
Then, even then, the woman's face went white
And awful, and her eyes were fixed in fear,
For suddenly all the wild screams of night
Were hushed: the Wind lay down; and she could hear
Strange voices gather round her in the gloom,
Sounds of invisible feet across the room,
And after that the rustle of a shroud,
And then a creaking door,
And last the coronach, full shrill and loud,
Of women clapping hands and weeping sore.
They could not rest—they wandered far and fleet,
As the storm-petrels o'er the waters wing,
And cannot find a place to rest their feet;
And in her ear a thin voice murmurëd,
‘If he be dead—be dead!’
Then, even then, the woman's face went white
And awful, and her eyes were fixed in fear,
For suddenly all the wild screams of night
Were hushed: the Wind lay down; and she could hear
Strange voices gather round her in the gloom,
Sounds of invisible feet across the room,
And after that the rustle of a shroud,
And then a creaking door,
And last the coronach, full shrill and loud,
Of women clapping hands and weeping sore.
Now Meg knew well that ill was close at hand,
On water or on land,
Because the Glamour touched her lids like breath,
And scorch'd her heart: but in a waking swoon,
Quiet she stayed,—not stirring,—cold as death,
And felt those voices croon;
Then suddenly she heard a human shout,
The hurried falling of a foot without,
Then a hoarse voice—a knocking at the door—
‘Meg, Meg! A Ship ashore!’
Now mark the woman! She hath risen her height,
Her dripping plaid is wrapt around her tight,
Tight clenchëd in her palm her fingers are
Her eye is steadfast as a fixëd star.
One look upon her child—he sleepeth on—
One step unto the door, and she is gone:
Barefooted out into the dark she fares,
And comes where, rubbing eyelids thick with sleep,
The half-clad fishers mingle oaths and prayers,
And look upon the Deep.
On water or on land,
Because the Glamour touched her lids like breath,
And scorch'd her heart: but in a waking swoon,
Quiet she stayed,—not stirring,—cold as death,
And felt those voices croon;
Then suddenly she heard a human shout,
The hurried falling of a foot without,
Then a hoarse voice—a knocking at the door—
‘Meg, Meg! A Ship ashore!’
210
Her dripping plaid is wrapt around her tight,
Tight clenchëd in her palm her fingers are
Her eye is steadfast as a fixëd star.
One look upon her child—he sleepeth on—
One step unto the door, and she is gone:
Barefooted out into the dark she fares,
And comes where, rubbing eyelids thick with sleep,
The half-clad fishers mingle oaths and prayers,
And look upon the Deep.
. . . Black was the oozy lift,
Black was the sea and land;
Hither and thither, thick with foam and drift,
Did the deep Waters shift,
Swinging with iron clash on stone and sand.
Faintlier the heavy Rain was falling,
Faintlier, faintlier the Wind was calling,
With hollower echoes up the drifting dark!
While the swift rockets shooting through the night
Flash'd past the foam-flecked reef with phantom light,
And showed the piteous outline of the bark,
Rising and falling like a living thing,
Shuddering, shivering,
While, howling beastlike, the white breakers there
Spat blindness in the dank eyes of despair.
Then one cried, ‘She has sunk!’—and on the shore
Men shook, and on the heights the women cried;
But, lo! the outline of the bark once more!
While flashing faint the blue light rose and died.
Ah, God, put out Thy hand! all for the sake
Of little ones, and weary hearts that wake
Be gentle! chain the fierce waves with a chain!
Let the gaunt seaman's little boys and girls
Sit on his knee and play with his black curls
Yet once again!
And breathe the frail lad safely through the foam
Back to the hungry mother in her home!
And spare the bad man with the frenzied eye;
Kiss him, for Christ's sake, bid Thy Death go by—
He hath no heart to die!
Black was the sea and land;
Hither and thither, thick with foam and drift,
Did the deep Waters shift,
Swinging with iron clash on stone and sand.
Faintlier the heavy Rain was falling,
Faintlier, faintlier the Wind was calling,
With hollower echoes up the drifting dark!
While the swift rockets shooting through the night
Flash'd past the foam-flecked reef with phantom light,
And showed the piteous outline of the bark,
Rising and falling like a living thing,
Shuddering, shivering,
While, howling beastlike, the white breakers there
Spat blindness in the dank eyes of despair.
Then one cried, ‘She has sunk!’—and on the shore
Men shook, and on the heights the women cried;
But, lo! the outline of the bark once more!
While flashing faint the blue light rose and died.
Ah, God, put out Thy hand! all for the sake
Of little ones, and weary hearts that wake
Be gentle! chain the fierce waves with a chain!
Let the gaunt seaman's little boys and girls
Sit on his knee and play with his black curls
Yet once again!
And breathe the frail lad safely through the foam
Back to the hungry mother in her home!
And spare the bad man with the frenzied eye;
Kiss him, for Christ's sake, bid Thy Death go by—
He hath no heart to die!
Now faintlier blew the wind, the thin rain ceased,
The thick cloud cleared like smoke from off the strand,
For, lo! a bright blue glimmer in the East,—
God putting out His hand!
And overhead the rack grew thinner too,
And through the smoky gorge
The Wind drave past the stars, and faint they flew
Like sparks blown from a forge!
And now the thousand foam-flames o' the Sea
Hither and thither flashing visibly;
And gray lights hither and thither came and fled,
Like dim shapes searching for the drownëd dead;
And where these shapes most thickly glimmer'd by,
Out on the cruel reef the black hulk lay,
And cast, against the kindling eastern sky,
Its shape gigantic on the shrouding spray.
The thick cloud cleared like smoke from off the strand,
For, lo! a bright blue glimmer in the East,—
God putting out His hand!
And overhead the rack grew thinner too,
And through the smoky gorge
The Wind drave past the stars, and faint they flew
Like sparks blown from a forge!
And now the thousand foam-flames o' the Sea
Hither and thither flashing visibly;
And gray lights hither and thither came and fled,
Like dim shapes searching for the drownëd dead;
And where these shapes most thickly glimmer'd by,
Out on the cruel reef the black hulk lay,
And cast, against the kindling eastern sky,
Its shape gigantic on the shrouding spray.
Silent upon the shore, the fishers fed
Their eyes on horror, waiting for the close,
When in the midst of them a shrill voice rose:
‘The boat! the boat!’ it said.
Like creatures startled from a trance, they turned
To her who spake; tall in the midst stood she,
With arms uplifted, and with eyes that yearned
Out on the murmuring Sea.
Some, shrugging shoulders, homeward turned their eyes,
And others answered back in brutal speech;
But some, strong-hearted, uttering shouts and cries,
Followed the fearless woman up the beach.
A rush to seaward—black confusion—then
A struggle with the surf upon the strand—
'Mid shrieks of women, cries of desperate men,
The long oars smite, the black boat springs from land!
Around the thick spray flies;
The waves roll on and seem to overwhelm.
With blowing hair and onward-gazing eyes
The woman stands erect, and grips the helm. . . .
Their eyes on horror, waiting for the close,
When in the midst of them a shrill voice rose:
‘The boat! the boat!’ it said.
Like creatures startled from a trance, they turned
To her who spake; tall in the midst stood she,
With arms uplifted, and with eyes that yearned
Out on the murmuring Sea.
Some, shrugging shoulders, homeward turned their eyes,
And others answered back in brutal speech;
211
Followed the fearless woman up the beach.
A rush to seaward—black confusion—then
A struggle with the surf upon the strand—
'Mid shrieks of women, cries of desperate men,
The long oars smite, the black boat springs from land!
Around the thick spray flies;
The waves roll on and seem to overwhelm.
With blowing hair and onward-gazing eyes
The woman stands erect, and grips the helm. . . .
Now fearless heart, Meg Blane, or all must die!
Let not the skill'd hand thwart the steadfast eye
The crested wave comes near,—crag-like it towers
Above you, scattering round its chilly showers:
One flutter of the hand, and all is done!
Now steel thy heart, thou woman-hearted one!
Softly the good helm guides;
Round to the liquid ridge the boat leaps light,—
Hidden an instant,—on the foaming height,
Dripping and quivering like a bird, it rides.
Athwart the ragged rift the Moon looms pale,
Driven before the gale,
And making silvern shadows with her breath,
Where on the sighing Sea it shimmereth;
And, lo! the light illumes the reef; 'tis shed
Full on the wreck, as the dark boat draws nigh.
A crash!—the wreck upon the reef is fled;
A scream!—and all is still beneath the sky,
Save the wild waters as they whirl and cry.
Let not the skill'd hand thwart the steadfast eye
The crested wave comes near,—crag-like it towers
Above you, scattering round its chilly showers:
One flutter of the hand, and all is done!
Now steel thy heart, thou woman-hearted one!
Softly the good helm guides;
Round to the liquid ridge the boat leaps light,—
Hidden an instant,—on the foaming height,
Dripping and quivering like a bird, it rides.
Athwart the ragged rift the Moon looms pale,
Driven before the gale,
And making silvern shadows with her breath,
Where on the sighing Sea it shimmereth;
And, lo! the light illumes the reef; 'tis shed
Full on the wreck, as the dark boat draws nigh.
A crash!—the wreck upon the reef is fled;
A scream!—and all is still beneath the sky,
Save the wild waters as they whirl and cry.
II. Dead Calm.
Dawn; and the Deep was still. From the bright strand,
Meg, shading eyes against the morning sun,
Gazed seaward. After trouble, there was peace.
Meg, shading eyes against the morning sun,
Gazed seaward. After trouble, there was peace.
Smooth, many-coloured as a ring-dove's neck
Stretch'd the still Sea, and on its eastern rim
The dewy light, with liquid yellow beams,
Gleamed like a sapphire. Overhead, soft airs
To feathery cirrus flecked the lightening blue,
Beneath, the Deep's own breathing made a breeze;
And up the weedy beach the blue waves crept,
Falling in one thin line of cream-white foam.
Stretch'd the still Sea, and on its eastern rim
The dewy light, with liquid yellow beams,
Gleamed like a sapphire. Overhead, soft airs
To feathery cirrus flecked the lightening blue,
Beneath, the Deep's own breathing made a breeze;
And up the weedy beach the blue waves crept,
Falling in one thin line of cream-white foam.
Seaward the woman gazed, with keen eye fixed
On a dark shape that floated on the calm,
Drifting as seaweed; still and black it lay,—
The outline of a lifeless human shape:
And yet it was no drownëd mariner,
For she who looked was smiling, and her face
Looked merry; still more merry when a boat,
With pale and timorous fishermen, drew nigh;
And as the fearful boatmen paused and gazed,
A boat's length distant, leaning on their oars,
The shape took life—dash'd up a dripping head,
Screaming—flung up its limbs with flash of foam,
And, with a shrill and spirit-thrilling cry,
Dived headlong, as a monster of the main
Plunges deep down when startled on its couch
Of glassy waters. 'Twas the woman's child,
The witless water-haunter—Angus Blane.
On a dark shape that floated on the calm,
Drifting as seaweed; still and black it lay,—
The outline of a lifeless human shape:
And yet it was no drownëd mariner,
For she who looked was smiling, and her face
Looked merry; still more merry when a boat,
With pale and timorous fishermen, drew nigh;
And as the fearful boatmen paused and gazed,
A boat's length distant, leaning on their oars,
The shape took life—dash'd up a dripping head,
Screaming—flung up its limbs with flash of foam,
And, with a shrill and spirit-thrilling cry,
Dived headlong, as a monster of the main
Plunges deep down when startled on its couch
Of glassy waters. 'Twas the woman's child,
The witless water-haunter—Angus Blane.
For Angus Blane, not fearful as the wise
Are fearful, loved the Ocean like a thing
Born amid algæ of the slimy ooze.
A child, he sported on its sands, and crept
Splashing with little feet amid the foam;
And when his limbs were stronger, and he reached
A young man's stature, the great Gulf had grown
Fair and familiar as his mother's face.
Far out he swam, on windless summer days,
Floating like fabled mermen far from land,
Plunging away from startled fishermen
With eldrich cry and wild phantasmic glare,
And in the untrodden halls below the sea
Awaking wondrous echoes that had slept
Since first the briny Spirit stirred and breathed.
On nights of summer in the gleaming bay
He glistened like a sea-snake in the moon,
Splashing with trail of glistening phosphorfire,
And laughing shrill till echo answer'd him,
And the pale helmsman on the passing boat,
Thinking some Demon of the waters cried,
Shivered and prayed. His playmates were the waves,
The sea his playground. On his ears were sounds
Sweeter than human voices. On his sense,
Though sadden'd with his silent life, there stole
A motion and a murmur that at times
Brake through his lips, informing witless words
With strange sea-music. In his infancy,
Children had mocked him: he had shunned their sports,
And haunted lonely places, nurturing
The bright, fierce, animal splendour of a soul
That ne'er was clouded by the mental mists
That darken oft the dreams of wiser men.
Only in winter seasons he was sad;
For then the loving Spirit of the Deep
Repulsed him, and its smile was mild no more;
And on the strand he wandered; from dark caves
Gazed at the Tempest; and from day to day
Moaned to his mother for the happy time
When swifts are sailing on the wind o' the South,
And summer smiles afar off through the rain,
Bringing her golden circlet to the Sea.
Are fearful, loved the Ocean like a thing
212
A child, he sported on its sands, and crept
Splashing with little feet amid the foam;
And when his limbs were stronger, and he reached
A young man's stature, the great Gulf had grown
Fair and familiar as his mother's face.
Far out he swam, on windless summer days,
Floating like fabled mermen far from land,
Plunging away from startled fishermen
With eldrich cry and wild phantasmic glare,
And in the untrodden halls below the sea
Awaking wondrous echoes that had slept
Since first the briny Spirit stirred and breathed.
On nights of summer in the gleaming bay
He glistened like a sea-snake in the moon,
Splashing with trail of glistening phosphorfire,
And laughing shrill till echo answer'd him,
And the pale helmsman on the passing boat,
Thinking some Demon of the waters cried,
Shivered and prayed. His playmates were the waves,
The sea his playground. On his ears were sounds
Sweeter than human voices. On his sense,
Though sadden'd with his silent life, there stole
A motion and a murmur that at times
Brake through his lips, informing witless words
With strange sea-music. In his infancy,
Children had mocked him: he had shunned their sports,
And haunted lonely places, nurturing
The bright, fierce, animal splendour of a soul
That ne'er was clouded by the mental mists
That darken oft the dreams of wiser men.
Only in winter seasons he was sad;
For then the loving Spirit of the Deep
Repulsed him, and its smile was mild no more;
And on the strand he wandered; from dark caves
Gazed at the Tempest; and from day to day
Moaned to his mother for the happy time
When swifts are sailing on the wind o' the South,
And summer smiles afar off through the rain,
Bringing her golden circlet to the Sea.
And as the deepening of strange melody,
Caught from the unknown shores beyond the seas,
Was the outspreading of his life to her
Who bare him; yea, at times, the woman's womb
Seemed laden with the load of him unborn,
So close his being clave unto her flesh,
So link'd was his strange spirit with her own.
The faint forebodings of her heart, when first
She saw the mind-mists in his infant eyes,
And knew him witless, turned as years wore on
Into more spiritual, less selfish love
Than common mothers feel; and he had power
To make her nature deeper, more alive
Unto the supernatural feet that walk
Our dark and troubled waters. Thence was born
Much of her strength upon the Sea, her trust
In the Sea's Master! thence, moreover, grew
Her faith in visions, warnings, fantasies,
Such as came ever thronging on her heart
When most her eyes looked inward—to the place
Fraught with her secret sorrow.
Caught from the unknown shores beyond the seas,
Was the outspreading of his life to her
Who bare him; yea, at times, the woman's womb
Seemed laden with the load of him unborn,
So close his being clave unto her flesh,
So link'd was his strange spirit with her own.
The faint forebodings of her heart, when first
She saw the mind-mists in his infant eyes,
And knew him witless, turned as years wore on
Into more spiritual, less selfish love
Than common mothers feel; and he had power
To make her nature deeper, more alive
Unto the supernatural feet that walk
Our dark and troubled waters. Thence was born
Much of her strength upon the Sea, her trust
In the Sea's Master! thence, moreover, grew
Her faith in visions, warnings, fantasies,
Such as came ever thronging on her heart
When most her eyes looked inward—to the place
Fraught with her secret sorrow.
As she gazed,
Smiling, the bearded face of Angus rose
Nearer to shore, and panting in the sun,
Smiled at the fishers. Then the woman turned,
And took, with man-like step and slow, a path
That, creeping through the shadows of the cliffs,
Wound to the clachan. In the clear, bright dawn
Lay Thornock glittering, while, thin and blue,
Curl'd peat-smoke from the line of fisher-huts
That parted the high shingle from the land,
The tide was low: amid the tangled weeds
The many-coloured rocks and sparkling pools,
Went stooping men and women, seeking spoil,
Treasure or drift-wood floating from the wreck;
Beyond, some stood in fish-boats, peering down,
Seeking the drownëd dead; and, near at hand,
So near, a tall man might have waded thither
With a dry beard, the weedy reef loom'd red,
And there the white-fowl ever and anon
Rose like a flash of foam, whirl'd in the air,
And, screaming, settled. But not thitherward
Now look'd Meg Blane. Along the huts she went—
Among the rainy pools where played and cried
Brown and barefooted bairns—among the nets
Stretch'd steaming in the sun—until she reached
The cottage she was seeking. At the door,
Smoking his pipe, a grizzly Fisher sat,
Looking to sea. With him she spake awhile,
Then, with a troubled look, entered the hut,
And sought the inner chamber.
Smiling, the bearded face of Angus rose
Nearer to shore, and panting in the sun,
Smiled at the fishers. Then the woman turned,
And took, with man-like step and slow, a path
That, creeping through the shadows of the cliffs,
Wound to the clachan. In the clear, bright dawn
Lay Thornock glittering, while, thin and blue,
Curl'd peat-smoke from the line of fisher-huts
That parted the high shingle from the land,
213
The many-coloured rocks and sparkling pools,
Went stooping men and women, seeking spoil,
Treasure or drift-wood floating from the wreck;
Beyond, some stood in fish-boats, peering down,
Seeking the drownëd dead; and, near at hand,
So near, a tall man might have waded thither
With a dry beard, the weedy reef loom'd red,
And there the white-fowl ever and anon
Rose like a flash of foam, whirl'd in the air,
And, screaming, settled. But not thitherward
Now look'd Meg Blane. Along the huts she went—
Among the rainy pools where played and cried
Brown and barefooted bairns—among the nets
Stretch'd steaming in the sun—until she reached
The cottage she was seeking. At the door,
Smoking his pipe, a grizzly Fisher sat,
Looking to sea. With him she spake awhile,
Then, with a troubled look, entered the hut,
And sought the inner chamber.
Faint and pale
Light glimmer'd through a loop-hole in the wall,
A deep white streak across the sand-strewn floor,
All else in shadow; and the room was still,
Save for a heavy breathing, as of one
In quiet sleep. Within the wall's recess,
On the rude bed of straw the sleeper lay,
His head upon his arm, the sickly light
Touching his upturn'd face; while Meg drew near,
And gazed upon him with a stranger's eyes,
Quiet and pitying. Though his sleep was sound,
His dreams were troubled. Throwing up his arms,
He seemed to beckon, muttering; then his teeth
Clench'd tight, a dark frown wrinkled on his brow,
And still he lay like one awaiting doom;
But suddenly, in agony supreme,
He breathed like one who struggles, sinks, and drowns;
Strangling, with wavering arms and quivering limbs,
And screaming in his throat, he fought for life;
Till, half-awakening with the agony,
His glazëd eyes he opened, glaring round,
While Meg drew shivering back into the shade;
Again, with deeper breath, as if relieved,
He dropp'd his bearded face upon his arm,
And dream'd again.
Light glimmer'd through a loop-hole in the wall,
A deep white streak across the sand-strewn floor,
All else in shadow; and the room was still,
Save for a heavy breathing, as of one
In quiet sleep. Within the wall's recess,
On the rude bed of straw the sleeper lay,
His head upon his arm, the sickly light
Touching his upturn'd face; while Meg drew near,
And gazed upon him with a stranger's eyes,
Quiet and pitying. Though his sleep was sound,
His dreams were troubled. Throwing up his arms,
He seemed to beckon, muttering; then his teeth
Clench'd tight, a dark frown wrinkled on his brow,
And still he lay like one awaiting doom;
But suddenly, in agony supreme,
He breathed like one who struggles, sinks, and drowns;
Strangling, with wavering arms and quivering limbs,
And screaming in his throat, he fought for life;
Till, half-awakening with the agony,
His glazëd eyes he opened, glaring round,
While Meg drew shivering back into the shade;
Again, with deeper breath, as if relieved,
He dropp'd his bearded face upon his arm,
And dream'd again.
Then Meg stole stilly forth,
And in the outer chamber found a lamp,
And lit the same in silence, and returned
On tiptoe to the sleeper. As she went,
White as a murdered woman's grew her face,
Her teeth were clench'd together; and her eyes
With ring on ring of widening wonder glared
In fever'd fascination upon him
Who slumbered. Closer still she crept,
Holding the lamp aloft, until his breath
Was hot upon her cheek,—so gaunt, so white,
It seemed her time was come. Yet in her look
Was famine. As one famish'd looks on food
After long agony, and thinks it dream,
She gazed and gazed, nor stirred, nor breathed, nor lived,
Save in her spirit's hunger flashing forth
Out of her face; till suddenly the man,
Half-opening his eyes, reached out his arms
And gript her, crying, ‘Silence! pray to God!
She's sinking!’ then, with shrill and awful groan,
Awakened.
And in the outer chamber found a lamp,
And lit the same in silence, and returned
On tiptoe to the sleeper. As she went,
White as a murdered woman's grew her face,
Her teeth were clench'd together; and her eyes
With ring on ring of widening wonder glared
In fever'd fascination upon him
Who slumbered. Closer still she crept,
Holding the lamp aloft, until his breath
Was hot upon her cheek,—so gaunt, so white,
It seemed her time was come. Yet in her look
Was famine. As one famish'd looks on food
After long agony, and thinks it dream,
She gazed and gazed, nor stirred, nor breathed, nor lived,
Save in her spirit's hunger flashing forth
Out of her face; till suddenly the man,
Half-opening his eyes, reached out his arms
And gript her, crying, ‘Silence! pray to God!
She's sinking!’ then, with shrill and awful groan,
Awakened.
And the woman would have fled,
Had he not gript her. In her face he gazed,
Thrusting one hand into his silvered hair,
Seeking to gather close his scattered thoughts,
And his eye brightened, and he murmured low,
‘Where am I? Dead or living? Ah, I live!
The ship? the ship?’ Meg answered not, but shrank
Into the shadow; till she saw the mists
Pass from his bearded face and leave it clear,
And heard his voice grow calmer, measured now
By tranquil heart-beats. Then he asked again,
‘The ship? How many live of those aboard?’
And when she answered he alone was saved,
He groaned; but with a sailor's fearless look,
‘Thank God for that!’ he said; ‘and yet He might
Have spared a better man. Where am I, friend?’
‘On the north coast,’ said Meg, ‘upon the shore
At Thornock.’
Had he not gript her. In her face he gazed,
214
Seeking to gather close his scattered thoughts,
And his eye brightened, and he murmured low,
‘Where am I? Dead or living? Ah, I live!
The ship? the ship?’ Meg answered not, but shrank
Into the shadow; till she saw the mists
Pass from his bearded face and leave it clear,
And heard his voice grow calmer, measured now
By tranquil heart-beats. Then he asked again,
‘The ship? How many live of those aboard?’
And when she answered he alone was saved,
He groaned; but with a sailor's fearless look,
‘Thank God for that!’ he said; ‘and yet He might
Have spared a better man. Where am I, friend?’
‘On the north coast,’ said Meg, ‘upon the shore
At Thornock.’
Could the seaman, while she spake,
Have marked the lurid light on that pale face,
All else,—the Storm, the terrible fight for life,—
Had been forgotten; but his wearied eye
Saw dimly. Grasping still her quivering wrist,
He question'd on; and, summoning strength of heart,
In her rude speech she told him of the storm:
How from the reef the rending Ship had rolled
As aid drew nigh; how, hovering near its tomb,
The fishers from the whirling waters dragged
Two drownëd seamen, and himself, a corpse
In seeming; how by calm and tender care,
They wound his thin and bloody thread of life
Out of the slowly-loosening hands of Death.
Have marked the lurid light on that pale face,
All else,—the Storm, the terrible fight for life,—
Had been forgotten; but his wearied eye
Saw dimly. Grasping still her quivering wrist,
He question'd on; and, summoning strength of heart,
In her rude speech she told him of the storm:
How from the reef the rending Ship had rolled
As aid drew nigh; how, hovering near its tomb,
The fishers from the whirling waters dragged
Two drownëd seamen, and himself, a corpse
In seeming; how by calm and tender care,
They wound his thin and bloody thread of life
Out of the slowly-loosening hands of Death.
III. A Troubled Deep.
Then, with strange trouble in her eyes, Meg Blane
Stole swiftly back unto her hut again,
Like one that flyeth from some fearful thing;
Then sat and made a darkness, covering
Her face with apron old, thinking apart;
And yet she scarce could think, for ache of heart,
But saw dead women and dead men go by,
And felt the wind, and heard the waters cry,
And on the waters, as they washed to shore,
Saw one Face float alone and glimmer hoar
Through the green darkness of the breaking brine.
Stole swiftly back unto her hut again,
Like one that flyeth from some fearful thing;
Then sat and made a darkness, covering
Her face with apron old, thinking apart;
And yet she scarce could think, for ache of heart,
But saw dead women and dead men go by,
And felt the wind, and heard the waters cry,
And on the waters, as they washed to shore,
Saw one Face float alone and glimmer hoar
Through the green darkness of the breaking brine.
And Meg was troubled deep, nor could divine
The wherefore of her trouble, since 'twas clear
The face long wearied for at last was near,
Since all her waiting on was at an end.
Ay, Meg was dull, and could not comprehend
How God put out His breath that day, and blew
Her lover to her feet before she knew,
Yet misted the dull future from her sight;
Wherefore she stared stark down on her delight
As on a dead face washing in from sea.
But when she understood full certainly
The thing had come according to her prayer,
Her strength came back upon her unaware,
And she thank'd God, albeit the pleasure seemed
Less absolute a bliss than she had dreamed
When it was a sweet trouble far away;
For she was conscious how her hair was gray,
Her features worn, her flesh's freshness gone,
Through toiling in the sun and waiting on;
And quietly she murmur'd, weeping not,
‘Perchance—for men forget—he hath forgot!’
The wherefore of her trouble, since 'twas clear
The face long wearied for at last was near,
Since all her waiting on was at an end.
Ay, Meg was dull, and could not comprehend
How God put out His breath that day, and blew
Her lover to her feet before she knew,
Yet misted the dull future from her sight;
Wherefore she stared stark down on her delight
As on a dead face washing in from sea.
But when she understood full certainly
The thing had come according to her prayer,
Her strength came back upon her unaware,
And she thank'd God, albeit the pleasure seemed
Less absolute a bliss than she had dreamed
When it was a sweet trouble far away;
For she was conscious how her hair was gray,
Her features worn, her flesh's freshness gone,
Through toiling in the sun and waiting on;
And quietly she murmur'd, weeping not,
‘Perchance—for men forget—he hath forgot!’
And two long days she was too dazed and weak
To step across the sands to him, and speak;
But on the third day, pale with her intent,
She took the great hand of her son, and went,
Not heeding while the little-witted one,
Mouth'd at the sea and muttered in the sun,
And firmly stepping on along the shore,
She saw, afar off at the cottage door,
The figure of her shipwrecked mariner;
When, deeply troubled by a nameless fear,
She lingered, and she lingered, pale and wan.
To step across the sands to him, and speak;
215
She took the great hand of her son, and went,
Not heeding while the little-witted one,
Mouth'd at the sea and muttered in the sun,
And firmly stepping on along the shore,
She saw, afar off at the cottage door,
The figure of her shipwrecked mariner;
When, deeply troubled by a nameless fear,
She lingered, and she lingered, pale and wan.
Then, coming near, she noted how the man
Sat sickly, holding out his arm to please
A fisher child he held between his knees,
Whose eyes looked on the mighty arm and bare,
Where ships, strange faces, anchors, pictured were,
Prick'd blue into the skin with many a stain;
And, sharply marking the man's face, Meg Blane
Was cheered and holpen, and she trembled less,
Thinking, ‘His heart is full of kindliness.’
And, feeling that the thing if to be done
Must be done straight, she hastened with her son,
And, though she saw the man's shape growing dim,
Came up with sickly smile and spake to him,
Pausing not, though she scarce could hear or see—
‘Has Angus Macintyre forgotten me?’
And added quickly, ‘I am Maggie Blane!’
Sat sickly, holding out his arm to please
A fisher child he held between his knees,
Whose eyes looked on the mighty arm and bare,
Where ships, strange faces, anchors, pictured were,
Prick'd blue into the skin with many a stain;
And, sharply marking the man's face, Meg Blane
Was cheered and holpen, and she trembled less,
Thinking, ‘His heart is full of kindliness.’
And, feeling that the thing if to be done
Must be done straight, she hastened with her son,
And, though she saw the man's shape growing dim,
Came up with sickly smile and spake to him,
Pausing not, though she scarce could hear or see—
‘Has Angus Macintyre forgotten me?’
And added quickly, ‘I am Maggie Blane!’
Whereat the man was smit by sudden pain
And wonder—yea, the words he heard her speak
Were like a jet of fire upon his cheek;
And, rising up erect, ‘Meg Blane!’ he cried,
And, white and chilly, thrust the bairn aside,
And peered upon the woman all amazed,
While, pressing hard upon her heart, she gazed
Blankly at the dim mist she knew was he.
And wonder—yea, the words he heard her speak
Were like a jet of fire upon his cheek;
And, rising up erect, ‘Meg Blane!’ he cried,
And, white and chilly, thrust the bairn aside,
And peered upon the woman all amazed,
While, pressing hard upon her heart, she gazed
Blankly at the dim mist she knew was he.
For a short space both stood confusedly,
In silence; but the man was first to gain
Calmness to think and power to speak again;
And, though his lips were bloodless and prest tight,
Into his eyes he forced a feeble light,
Taking her shivering hand, naming her name
In forced kind tones, yet with a secret shame;—
Nor sought to greet her more with touch or kiss.
But she, who had waited on so long for this,
Feeling her hand between his fingers rest,
Could bear no more, but fell upon his breast,
Sobbing and moaning like a little bairn.
In silence; but the man was first to gain
Calmness to think and power to speak again;
And, though his lips were bloodless and prest tight,
Into his eyes he forced a feeble light,
Taking her shivering hand, naming her name
In forced kind tones, yet with a secret shame;—
Nor sought to greet her more with touch or kiss.
But she, who had waited on so long for this,
Feeling her hand between his fingers rest,
Could bear no more, but fell upon his breast,
Sobbing and moaning like a little bairn.
Then, with her wild arms round him, he looked stern,
With an unwelcome burden ill at ease,
While her full heart flowed out in words like these—
‘At last! at last! O Angus, let me greet!
God's good! I ever hoped that we would meet!
Lang, lang hae I been waiting by the Sea,
Waiting and waiting, praying on my knee;
And God said I should look again on you,
And, though I scarce believed, God's word comes true,
And He hath put an end to my distress!’—
E'en as she spoke, her son plucked at her dress,
Made fierce grimaces at the man, and tried
To draw her from the breast whereon she cried;
But looking up, she pointed to her child,
And look'd into her lover's eyes, and smiled.
‘God help him, Angus! 'Tis the Bairn!’ she said;—
Nor noted how the man grew shamed and red,
With child and mother ill at ease and wroth,
And wishing he were many a mile from both.
With an unwelcome burden ill at ease,
While her full heart flowed out in words like these—
‘At last! at last! O Angus, let me greet!
God's good! I ever hoped that we would meet!
Lang, lang hae I been waiting by the Sea,
Waiting and waiting, praying on my knee;
And God said I should look again on you,
And, though I scarce believed, God's word comes true,
And He hath put an end to my distress!’—
E'en as she spoke, her son plucked at her dress,
Made fierce grimaces at the man, and tried
To draw her from the breast whereon she cried;
But looking up, she pointed to her child,
And look'd into her lover's eyes, and smiled.
‘God help him, Angus! 'Tis the Bairn!’ she said;—
Nor noted how the man grew shamed and red,
With child and mother ill at ease and wroth,
And wishing he were many a mile from both.
For now Meg's heart was wandering far away,
And to her soul it seemed but yesterday
That, standing inland in a heathery dell,
At dead of night, she bade this man farewell,
And heard him swear full fondly in her ear
Sooner or late to come with gold and gear,
And marry her in church by holy rite;
And at the memory a quiet light,
Rose-like and maiden, came upon her face,
And softened her tall shape to nameless grace,
As warm winds blowing on a birk-tree green
Make it one rippling sheet of radiant sheen.
And to her soul it seemed but yesterday
That, standing inland in a heathery dell,
At dead of night, she bade this man farewell,
And heard him swear full fondly in her ear
Sooner or late to come with gold and gear,
216
And at the memory a quiet light,
Rose-like and maiden, came upon her face,
And softened her tall shape to nameless grace,
As warm winds blowing on a birk-tree green
Make it one rippling sheet of radiant sheen.
But soon from that remembrance driven again
By the man's silence and his pallid pain,
She shivered for a moment as with cold,
And left his bosom, looking grieved and old,
Yet smiling, forcing a strange smile, and seeking
For tokens in his face more sweet than speaking.
But he was dumb, and with a pallid frown,
Twitching his fingers quick, was looking down.
‘What ails thee, Angus?’ cried the woman, reading
His face with one sharp look of interceding;
Then, looking downward too, she paused apart,
With blood like water slipping through her heart,
Because she thought, ‘Alas, if it should be
That Angus cares no more for mine and me,
Since I am old and worn with sharp distress,
And men like pretty looks and daintiness;
And since we parted twenty years have past,
And that, indeed, is long for a man's love to last!’
By the man's silence and his pallid pain,
She shivered for a moment as with cold,
And left his bosom, looking grieved and old,
Yet smiling, forcing a strange smile, and seeking
For tokens in his face more sweet than speaking.
But he was dumb, and with a pallid frown,
Twitching his fingers quick, was looking down.
‘What ails thee, Angus?’ cried the woman, reading
His face with one sharp look of interceding;
Then, looking downward too, she paused apart,
With blood like water slipping through her heart,
Because she thought, ‘Alas, if it should be
That Angus cares no more for mine and me,
Since I am old and worn with sharp distress,
And men like pretty looks and daintiness;
And since we parted twenty years have past,
And that, indeed, is long for a man's love to last!’
But, agonised with looking at her woe,
And bent to end her hope with one sharp blow,
The troubled man, uplifting hands, spake thus,
In rapid accents, sharp and tremulous:
‘Too late, Meg Blane! seven years ago I wed
Another woman, deeming you were dead,—
And I have bairns!’ And there he paused, for fear.
And bent to end her hope with one sharp blow,
The troubled man, uplifting hands, spake thus,
In rapid accents, sharp and tremulous:
‘Too late, Meg Blane! seven years ago I wed
Another woman, deeming you were dead,—
And I have bairns!’ And there he paused, for fear.
As when, with ghostly voices in her ear,
While in her soul, as in a little well
The silver moonlight of the Glamour fell,
She had been wont to hark of nights alone,
So stood she now, not stirring, still as stone,
While in her soul, with desolate refrain,
The words, ‘Too late!’ rang o'er and o'er again;
Into his face she gazed with ghastly stare;
Then raising her wild arms into the air,
Pinching her face together in sharp fear,
She quivered to the ground without a tear,
And put her face into her hands, and thrust
Her hair between her teeth, and spat it forth like dust.
While in her soul, as in a little well
The silver moonlight of the Glamour fell,
She had been wont to hark of nights alone,
So stood she now, not stirring, still as stone,
While in her soul, with desolate refrain,
The words, ‘Too late!’ rang o'er and o'er again;
Into his face she gazed with ghastly stare;
Then raising her wild arms into the air,
Pinching her face together in sharp fear,
She quivered to the ground without a tear,
And put her face into her hands, and thrust
Her hair between her teeth, and spat it forth like dust.
And though, with pity in his guilty heart,
The man spake on and sought to heal her smart,
She heard not, but was dumb and deaf in woe;
But when, in pain to see her grieving so,
Her son put down his hand, and named her name,
And whispered, ‘Mither! mither! let us hame!’
She seized the hand, and smoothed her features wan,
And rose erect, not looking at the man,
But, gazing down, moved slowly from the spot.
The man spake on and sought to heal her smart,
She heard not, but was dumb and deaf in woe;
But when, in pain to see her grieving so,
Her son put down his hand, and named her name,
And whispered, ‘Mither! mither! let us hame!’
She seized the hand, and smoothed her features wan,
And rose erect, not looking at the man,
But, gazing down, moved slowly from the spot.
Over this agony I linger not.
Nor shall I picture how on that sad shore
They met and spoke and parted yet once more,
So calmly that the woman understood
Her hope indeed had gone away for good.
But ere the man departed from the place
It seemed to Meg, contemplating his face,
Her love for him had ne'er been so intense
As it had seemed when he was far from thence;
And many a thing in him seemed little-hearted
And mean and loveless; so that ere they parted
She seemed unto her sorrow reconciled.
And when he went away, she almost smiled,
But bitterly, then turned to toil again,
And felt most hard to all the world of men.
Nor shall I picture how on that sad shore
They met and spoke and parted yet once more,
So calmly that the woman understood
Her hope indeed had gone away for good.
But ere the man departed from the place
It seemed to Meg, contemplating his face,
Her love for him had ne'er been so intense
As it had seemed when he was far from thence;
And many a thing in him seemed little-hearted
And mean and loveless; so that ere they parted
She seemed unto her sorrow reconciled.
And when he went away, she almost smiled,
But bitterly, then turned to toil again,
And felt most hard to all the world of men.
217
IV.
‘And the Spirit of God moved upon the waters.’
Lord, with how small a thing
Thou canst prop up the heart against the grave!
A little glimmering
Is all we crave!
The lustre of a love
That hath no being,
The pale point of a little star above
Flashing and fleeing,
Contents our seeing.
The house that never will be built; the gold
That never will be told;
The task we leave undone when we are cold;
The dear face that returns not, but is lying,
Lick'd by the leopard, in an Indian cave;
The coming rest that cometh not, till, sighing,
We turn our tremulous gaze upon the grave.
And, Lord, how should we dare
Thither in peace to fall,
But for a feeble glimmering even there—
Falsest, some sigh, of all?
We are as children in Thy hands indeed,
And Thou hast easy comfort for our need,—
The shining of a lamp, the tinkling of a bell,
Content us well.
Thou canst prop up the heart against the grave!
A little glimmering
Is all we crave!
The lustre of a love
That hath no being,
The pale point of a little star above
Flashing and fleeing,
Contents our seeing.
The house that never will be built; the gold
That never will be told;
The task we leave undone when we are cold;
The dear face that returns not, but is lying,
Lick'd by the leopard, in an Indian cave;
The coming rest that cometh not, till, sighing,
We turn our tremulous gaze upon the grave.
And, Lord, how should we dare
Thither in peace to fall,
But for a feeble glimmering even there—
Falsest, some sigh, of all?
We are as children in Thy hands indeed,
And Thou hast easy comfort for our need,—
The shining of a lamp, the tinkling of a bell,
Content us well.
And even when Thou bringest to our eyes
A thing long-sought, to show its worthlessness,
Anon we see another thing arise,
And we are comforted in our distress;
And, waiting on, we watch it glittering,
Till in its turn it seems a sorry thing;
And even as we weep
Another rises, and we smile again!
Till, wearied out with watching on in vain,
We fall to sleep.
A thing long-sought, to show its worthlessness,
Anon we see another thing arise,
And we are comforted in our distress;
And, waiting on, we watch it glittering,
Till in its turn it seems a sorry thing;
And even as we weep
Another rises, and we smile again!
Till, wearied out with watching on in vain,
We fall to sleep.
And oft one little light that looks divine
Is all some strong Soul seeks on mortal ground;
There are no more to shine
When that one thing is found.
If it be worthless, then what shall suffice?
The lean hand grips a speck that was a spark,
The heart is turned to ice,
And all the world is dark.
Hard are Thy ways when that one thing is sought,
Found, touch'd, and proven nought.
Far off it is a mighty magic, strong
To lead a life along.
But, lo! it shooteth thitherward, and now
Droppeth, a rayless stone, upon the sod.—
The world is lost: perchance not even Thou
Survivest it, Lord God!
Is all some strong Soul seeks on mortal ground;
There are no more to shine
When that one thing is found.
If it be worthless, then what shall suffice?
The lean hand grips a speck that was a spark,
The heart is turned to ice,
And all the world is dark.
Hard are Thy ways when that one thing is sought,
Found, touch'd, and proven nought.
Far off it is a mighty magic, strong
To lead a life along.
But, lo! it shooteth thitherward, and now
Droppeth, a rayless stone, upon the sod.—
The world is lost: perchance not even Thou
Survivest it, Lord God!
In poverty, in pain,
For weary years and long,
One faith, one fear, had comforted Meg Blane,
Yea, made her brave and strong;
A faith so faint it seemed not faith at all,
Rather a trouble and a dreamy fear,—
A hearkening for a voice, for a footfall,
She never hoped in sober heart to heart
This had been all her cheer!
Yet with this balm
Her Soul might have slept calm
For many another year.
In terror and in desolation, she
Had been sustained,
And never felt abandoned utterly
While that remained.
Lord, in how small and poor a space can hide
The motives of our patience and our pride,—
The clue unto the fortunate man's distress,
The secret of the hero's fearlessness!
What had sustained this Woman on the sea
When strong men turned to flee?
Not courage, not despair,
Not pride, not household care,
Not faith in Thee!
Nought but a hungry instinct blind and dim—
A fond pathetic pain:
A dreamy wish to gaze again on him
She never wholly hoped to see again!
For weary years and long,
One faith, one fear, had comforted Meg Blane,
Yea, made her brave and strong;
A faith so faint it seemed not faith at all,
Rather a trouble and a dreamy fear,—
A hearkening for a voice, for a footfall,
She never hoped in sober heart to heart
This had been all her cheer!
Yet with this balm
Her Soul might have slept calm
For many another year.
In terror and in desolation, she
Had been sustained,
And never felt abandoned utterly
While that remained.
Lord, in how small and poor a space can hide
The motives of our patience and our pride,—
The clue unto the fortunate man's distress,
The secret of the hero's fearlessness!
What had sustained this Woman on the sea
When strong men turned to flee?
Not courage, not despair,
Not pride, not household care,
Not faith in Thee!
Nought but a hungry instinct blind and dim—
A fond pathetic pain:
A dreamy wish to gaze again on him
She never wholly hoped to see again!
Not all at once,—not in an hour, a day
Did the strong Woman feel her force depart,
Or know how utterly had passed away
The strength of her sad heart.
It was not Love she missed, for Love was dead,
And surely had been dead long ere she knew;
She did not miss the man's face when it fled,
As passionate women do.
She saw him walk into the world again,
And had no pain;
She shook him by the hand, and watched him go,
And thought it better so.
She turned to her hard task-work as of old,
Tending her bearded child with love tenfold,
Hoisted the sails and plied the oar,
Went wandering out from shore,
And for a little space
Wore an unruffled face,
Though wind and water helped her heart no more.
But, mark: she knelt less often on her knees,
For, labour as she might,
By day or night,
She could not toil enough to give her ease.
And presently her tongue, with sharper chimes,
Chided at times;
And she who had endured such sharp distress
Grew peevish, pain'd at her own peevishness;
And though she did not weep,
Her features grew disfigur'd, dark, and dead,
And in the night, when bitterest mourners sleep,
She feverishly tossed upon her bed.
Did the strong Woman feel her force depart,
Or know how utterly had passed away
The strength of her sad heart.
218
And surely had been dead long ere she knew;
She did not miss the man's face when it fled,
As passionate women do.
She saw him walk into the world again,
And had no pain;
She shook him by the hand, and watched him go,
And thought it better so.
She turned to her hard task-work as of old,
Tending her bearded child with love tenfold,
Hoisted the sails and plied the oar,
Went wandering out from shore,
And for a little space
Wore an unruffled face,
Though wind and water helped her heart no more.
But, mark: she knelt less often on her knees,
For, labour as she might,
By day or night,
She could not toil enough to give her ease.
And presently her tongue, with sharper chimes,
Chided at times;
And she who had endured such sharp distress
Grew peevish, pain'd at her own peevishness;
And though she did not weep,
Her features grew disfigur'd, dark, and dead,
And in the night, when bitterest mourners sleep,
She feverishly tossed upon her bed.
Slowly the trouble grew, and soon she found
Less pleasure in the fierce yet friendly Sea;
The wind and water had a wearier sound,
The moon and stars were sick as corpselights be;
Then more and more strange voices filled her ear,
And ghostly feet came near,
And strange fire blew her eyelids down, and then
Dead women and dead men
Dripping with phosphor, rose, and ere she wist
Went by in a cold mist;
Nor left her strengthen'd in her heart and bold,
As they had done of old;
But ever after they had stolen away
She had no heart to pray:
Bitter and dull and cold,
Her Soul crawl'd back into the common day.
Less pleasure in the fierce yet friendly Sea;
The wind and water had a wearier sound,
The moon and stars were sick as corpselights be;
Then more and more strange voices filled her ear,
And ghostly feet came near,
And strange fire blew her eyelids down, and then
Dead women and dead men
Dripping with phosphor, rose, and ere she wist
Went by in a cold mist;
Nor left her strengthen'd in her heart and bold,
As they had done of old;
But ever after they had stolen away
She had no heart to pray:
Bitter and dull and cold,
Her Soul crawl'd back into the common day.
Out of the East by night
Drew the dark drifting cloud;
The air was hushed with snow-flakes wavering white,
But the seas below were loud;
And out upon the reef the rapid light
Rose from a shipwrecked bark
Into the dark!
Pale stood the fishers, while the wind wail'd by,
Till suddenly they started with one cry,
And forth into the foam the black boat flew,
And fearless to their places leapt the crew.
Then one called out, ‘Meg Blane!’
But Meg stood by, and trembled and was dumb,
Till, smit unto the heart by sudden pain,
Into her hair she thrust her fingers numb,
And fell upon the sands,
Nor answer'd while the wondering fishers called,
But tore the slippery seaweed with her hands,
And screamed, and was appalled.
Drew the dark drifting cloud;
The air was hushed with snow-flakes wavering white,
But the seas below were loud;
And out upon the reef the rapid light
Rose from a shipwrecked bark
Into the dark!
Pale stood the fishers, while the wind wail'd by,
Till suddenly they started with one cry,
And forth into the foam the black boat flew,
And fearless to their places leapt the crew.
Then one called out, ‘Meg Blane!’
But Meg stood by, and trembled and was dumb,
Till, smit unto the heart by sudden pain,
Into her hair she thrust her fingers numb,
And fell upon the sands,
Nor answer'd while the wondering fishers called,
But tore the slippery seaweed with her hands,
And screamed, and was appalled.
For, lo! the Woman's spiritual strength
Snapt like a thread at length,
And tears, ev'n such as suffering women cry,
Fell from her eyes anon;
And she knew well, although she knew not why,
The charm she had against the deep was gone!
And after that dark hour,
She was the shadow of a strong Soul dead,
All terrible things of power
Turned into things of dread,
And all the peace of all the world had fled.
Then only in still weather did she dare
To seek her bread on Ocean, as of old,
And oft in tempest time her shelf was bare,
Her hearth all black and cold;
Then very bitterly, with heart gone wild,
She clung about her child,
And hated all the earth beneath the skies,
Because she saw the hunger in his eyes.
For on his mother's strength the witless wight
Had leant for guide and light,
And food had ever come into his hand,
And he had known no thought of suffering;
Yea, all his life and breath on sea and land
Had been an easy thing.
And now there was a change in his sole friend
He could not comprehend.
Yet slowly to the shade of her distress
His nature shaped itself in gentleness!
And when he found her weeping, he too wept,
And, if she laughed, laughed out in company;
Nay, often to the fisher-huts he crept,
And begged her bread, and brought it tenderly,
Holding it to her mouth, and till she ate
Touching no piece, although he hungered sore.
And these things were a solace to her fate,
But wrung her heart the more.
Snapt like a thread at length,
And tears, ev'n such as suffering women cry,
Fell from her eyes anon;
And she knew well, although she knew not why,
The charm she had against the deep was gone!
And after that dark hour,
She was the shadow of a strong Soul dead,
All terrible things of power
Turned into things of dread,
And all the peace of all the world had fled.
219
To seek her bread on Ocean, as of old,
And oft in tempest time her shelf was bare,
Her hearth all black and cold;
Then very bitterly, with heart gone wild,
She clung about her child,
And hated all the earth beneath the skies,
Because she saw the hunger in his eyes.
For on his mother's strength the witless wight
Had leant for guide and light,
And food had ever come into his hand,
And he had known no thought of suffering;
Yea, all his life and breath on sea and land
Had been an easy thing.
And now there was a change in his sole friend
He could not comprehend.
Yet slowly to the shade of her distress
His nature shaped itself in gentleness!
And when he found her weeping, he too wept,
And, if she laughed, laughed out in company;
Nay, often to the fisher-huts he crept,
And begged her bread, and brought it tenderly,
Holding it to her mouth, and till she ate
Touching no piece, although he hungered sore.
And these things were a solace to her fate,
But wrung her heart the more.
Thus to the bitter dolour of her days
In witless mimicry he shaped his ways!
They fared but seldom now upon the Sea,
But wandered 'mid the marshes hand in hand,
Hunting for faggots on the inland lea,
Or picking dulse for food upon the strand.
Something had made the world more sad and strange,
But easily he changëd with the change.
For in the very trick of woe he clad
His features, and was sad since she was sad,
Yea, leant his chin upon his hands like her,
Looking at vacancy; and when the Deep
Was troublous, and she started up from sleep,
He too awoke, with fearful heart astir;
And still, the more her bitter tears she shed
Upon his neck, marking that mimic-woe,
The more in blind deep love he fashionëd
His grief to hers, and was contented so.
In witless mimicry he shaped his ways!
They fared but seldom now upon the Sea,
But wandered 'mid the marshes hand in hand,
Hunting for faggots on the inland lea,
Or picking dulse for food upon the strand.
Something had made the world more sad and strange,
But easily he changëd with the change.
For in the very trick of woe he clad
His features, and was sad since she was sad,
Yea, leant his chin upon his hands like her,
Looking at vacancy; and when the Deep
Was troublous, and she started up from sleep,
He too awoke, with fearful heart astir;
And still, the more her bitter tears she shed
Upon his neck, marking that mimic-woe,
The more in blind deep love he fashionëd
His grief to hers, and was contented so.
But as a tree inclineth weak and bare
Under an unseen weight of wintry air,
Beneath her load the weary Woman bent,
And, stooping double, waver'd as she went;
And the days snow'd their snows upon her head
As they went by,
And ere a year had fled
She felt that she must die.
Under an unseen weight of wintry air,
Beneath her load the weary Woman bent,
And, stooping double, waver'd as she went;
And the days snow'd their snows upon her head
As they went by,
And ere a year had fled
She felt that she must die.
Then like a thing whom very witlessness
Maketh indifferent, she lingered on,
Not caring to abide with her distress,
Not caring to be gone;
But gazing with a dull and darkening eye,
And seeing Dreams pass by.
Not speculating whither she would go,
But feeling there was nought she cared to know,
And melting even as snow.
Save when the man's hand slipped into her own,
And flutter'd fondly there,
And she would feel her life again, and groan,
‘O God1 when I am gone, how will he fare?’
And for a little time, for Angus' sake,
Her hopeless heart would ache,
And all life's stir and anguish once again
Would swoon across her brain.
Maketh indifferent, she lingered on,
Not caring to abide with her distress,
Not caring to be gone;
But gazing with a dull and darkening eye,
And seeing Dreams pass by.
Not speculating whither she would go,
But feeling there was nought she cared to know,
And melting even as snow.
Save when the man's hand slipped into her own,
And flutter'd fondly there,
And she would feel her life again, and groan,
‘O God1 when I am gone, how will he fare?’
And for a little time, for Angus' sake,
Her hopeless heart would ache,
And all life's stir and anguish once again
Would swoon across her brain.
‘O bairn, when I am dead,
How shall ye keep frae harm?
What hand will gie ye bread?
What fire will keep ye warm?
How shall ye dwell on earth awa' frae me?’—
‘O Mither, dinna dee!’
How shall ye keep frae harm?
What hand will gie ye bread?
What fire will keep ye warm?
How shall ye dwell on earth awa' frae me?’—
‘O Mither, dinna dee!’
‘O bairn, by nigh or day
I hear nae sounds ava’,
But voices of winds that blaw,
And the voices of ghaists that say
“Come awa! come awa!”
The Lord that made the Wind, and made the Sea,
Is sore on my son and me,
And I melt in His breath like snaw,'—
‘O Mither, dinna dee!
‘O bairn, it is but closing up the een,
And lying down never to rise again.
Many a strong man's sleeping hae I seen,—
There is nae pain!
Im weary, weary, and I scarce ken why;
My summer has gone by,
And sweet were sleep, but for the sake o' thee.’—
‘O Mither, dinna dee!’
I hear nae sounds ava’,
But voices of winds that blaw,
And the voices of ghaists that say
“Come awa! come awa!”
The Lord that made the Wind, and made the Sea,
Is sore on my son and me,
And I melt in His breath like snaw,'—
‘O Mither, dinna dee!
220
And lying down never to rise again.
Many a strong man's sleeping hae I seen,—
There is nae pain!
Im weary, weary, and I scarce ken why;
My summer has gone by,
And sweet were sleep, but for the sake o' thee.’—
‘O Mither, dinna dee!’
When summer scents and sounds were on the Sea,
And all night long the silvern surge plash'd cool,
Outside the hut she sat upon a stool,
And with thin fingers fashion'd carefully,
While Angus leant his head against her knee,
A long white dress of wool.
‘O Mither,’ cried the man, ‘what make ye there?’
‘A blanket for our bed!’
‘O Mither, it is like the shroud folk wear
When they are drown'd and dead!’
And Meg said nought, but kissed him on the lips,
And looked with dull eye seaward, where the moon
Blacken'd the white sails of the passing ships,
Into the Land where she was going soon.
And all night long the silvern surge plash'd cool,
Outside the hut she sat upon a stool,
And with thin fingers fashion'd carefully,
While Angus leant his head against her knee,
A long white dress of wool.
‘O Mither,’ cried the man, ‘what make ye there?’
‘A blanket for our bed!’
‘O Mither, it is like the shroud folk wear
When they are drown'd and dead!’
And Meg said nought, but kissed him on the lips,
And looked with dull eye seaward, where the moon
Blacken'd the white sails of the passing ships,
Into the Land where she was going soon.
And in the reaping-time she lay abed,
And by her side the dress unfinishëd,
And with dull eyes that knew not even her child
She gazed at vacancy and sometimes smiled;
And ever her fingers work'd, for in her thought
Stitching and stitching, still the dress she wrought;
And then a beldame old, with blear-eyed face,
For Christ and Charity came to the place,
And stilly sewed the woollen shroud herself,
And set the salt and candle on a shelf.
And like a dumb thing crouching moveless there,
Gripping the fingers wan,
Marking the face with wild and wondering stare,
And whining beast-like, watch'd the witless man.
Then like a light upon a headland set,
In winds that come from far-off waters blowing,
The faint light glimmered—fainter—fainter yet!
But suddenly it brighten'd, at its going;
And Meg sat up, and, lo! her features wore
The stately sweetness they had known of yore;
And delicate lines were round her mouth, mild rest
Was in her eyes, though they were waxing dim;
And when the man crept close unto her breast,
She brighten'd kissing him.
And it was clear
She had heard tidings it was sweet to hear,
And had no longer any care or fear.
‘I gang, my bairn, and thou wilt come to me!’
‘O Mither, dinna dee!’
But as he spake she dropt upon the bed,
And darken'd, while the breath came thick and fleet:
‘O Jessie, see they mind my Bairn!’ she said,
And quivered,—and was sleeping at God's Feet.
And by her side the dress unfinishëd,
And with dull eyes that knew not even her child
She gazed at vacancy and sometimes smiled;
And ever her fingers work'd, for in her thought
Stitching and stitching, still the dress she wrought;
And then a beldame old, with blear-eyed face,
For Christ and Charity came to the place,
And stilly sewed the woollen shroud herself,
And set the salt and candle on a shelf.
And like a dumb thing crouching moveless there,
Gripping the fingers wan,
Marking the face with wild and wondering stare,
And whining beast-like, watch'd the witless man.
Then like a light upon a headland set,
In winds that come from far-off waters blowing,
The faint light glimmered—fainter—fainter yet!
But suddenly it brighten'd, at its going;
And Meg sat up, and, lo! her features wore
The stately sweetness they had known of yore;
And delicate lines were round her mouth, mild rest
Was in her eyes, though they were waxing dim;
And when the man crept close unto her breast,
She brighten'd kissing him.
And it was clear
She had heard tidings it was sweet to hear,
And had no longer any care or fear.
‘I gang, my bairn, and thou wilt come to me!’
‘O Mither, dinna dee!’
But as he spake she dropt upon the bed,
And darken'd, while the breath came thick and fleet:
‘O Jessie, see they mind my Bairn!’ she said,
And quivered,—and was sleeping at God's Feet.
When on her breast the plate of salt was laid,
And the corse-candle burned with sick blue light,
The man crouch'd, fascinated and afraid,
Beside her, moaning through the night;
And answered not the women who stole near,
And would not see nor hear;
And when a day and night had come and gone,
Ate at the crusts they brought him, gazing on;
And when they took her out upon a bier,
He followed quietly without a tear;
And when on the hard wood fell dust and stone,
He murmur'd a thin answer to the sound,
And in the end he sat, with a dull moan,
Upon the new-made mound.
And the corse-candle burned with sick blue light,
The man crouch'd, fascinated and afraid,
Beside her, moaning through the night;
And answered not the women who stole near,
And would not see nor hear;
And when a day and night had come and gone,
Ate at the crusts they brought him, gazing on;
And when they took her out upon a bier,
He followed quietly without a tear;
And when on the hard wood fell dust and stone,
He murmur'd a thin answer to the sound,
And in the end he sat, with a dull moan,
Upon the new-made mound.
Last, as a dog that mourns a master dead,
The man did haunt that grave in dull dumb pain;
Creeping away to beg a little bread,
Then stealing back again;
And only knaves and churls refused to give
The gift of bread or meal that he might live—
Till pale and piteous-eyed,
He moan'd beneath a load too hard to bear.
‘Mither!’ he cried,—
And crawled into the Dark, to seek her there.
The man did haunt that grave in dull dumb pain;
221
Then stealing back again;
And only knaves and churls refused to give
The gift of bread or meal that he might live—
Till pale and piteous-eyed,
He moan'd beneath a load too hard to bear.
‘Mither!’ he cried,—
And crawled into the Dark, to seek her there.
THE BATTLE OF DRUMLIEMOOR.
(COVENANT PERIOD.)
Bar the door! put out the light, for it gleams across the night,
And guides the bloody motion of their feet;
Hush the bairn upon thy breast, lest it guide them in their quest,
And with water quench the blazing of the peat.
Now, Wife, sit still and hark!—hold my hand amid the dark;
O Jeanie, we are scattered—e'en as sleet!
And guides the bloody motion of their feet;
Hush the bairn upon thy breast, lest it guide them in their quest,
And with water quench the blazing of the peat.
Now, Wife, sit still and hark!—hold my hand amid the dark;
O Jeanie, we are scattered—e'en as sleet!
It was down on Drumliemoor, where it slopes upon the shore,
And looks upon the breaking of the bay,
In the kirkyard of the dead, where the heather is thrice red
With the blood of those asleep beneath the clay;
And the Howiesons were there, and the people of Glen Ayr,
And we gathered in the gloom o' night—to pray.
And looks upon the breaking of the bay,
In the kirkyard of the dead, where the heather is thrice red
With the blood of those asleep beneath the clay;
And the Howiesons were there, and the people of Glen Ayr,
And we gathered in the gloom o' night—to pray.
How! Sit at home in fear, when God's Voice was in mine ear,
When the priests of Baal were slaughtering His sheep?
Nay! there I took my stand, with my reaphook in my hand,
For bloody was the sheaf that I might reap;
And the Lord was in His skies, with a thousand dreadful eyes,
And His breathing made a trouble on the Deep.
When the priests of Baal were slaughtering His sheep?
Nay! there I took my stand, with my reaphook in my hand,
For bloody was the sheaf that I might reap;
And the Lord was in His skies, with a thousand dreadful eyes,
And His breathing made a trouble on the Deep.
Each mortal of the band brought his weapon in his hand,
Though the chopper or the spit was all he bare;
And not a man but knew the work he had to do,
If the Fiend should fall upon us unaware.
And our looks were ghastly white, but it was not with affright,—
The Lord our God was present to our prayer.
Though the chopper or the spit was all he bare;
And not a man but knew the work he had to do,
If the Fiend should fall upon us unaware.
And our looks were ghastly white, but it was not with affright,—
The Lord our God was present to our prayer.
Oh, solemn, sad, and slow, rose the stern voice of Monroe,
And he curst the curse of Babylon the Whore;
We could not see his face, but a gleam was in its place,
Like the phosphor of the foam upon the shore;
And the eyes of all were dim, as they fixed themselves on him,
And the Sea filled up the pauses with its roar.
And he curst the curse of Babylon the Whore;
We could not see his face, but a gleam was in its place,
Like the phosphor of the foam upon the shore;
And the eyes of all were dim, as they fixed themselves on him,
And the Sea filled up the pauses with its roar.
But when, with accents calm, Kilmahoe gave out the psalm,
The sweetness of God's Voice upon his tongue,
With one voice we praised the Lord of the Fire and of the Sword,
And louder than the winter wind it rung;
And across the stars on high went the smoke of tempest by,
And a vapour roll'd around us as we sung.
The sweetness of God's Voice upon his tongue,
With one voice we praised the Lord of the Fire and of the Sword,
And louder than the winter wind it rung;
And across the stars on high went the smoke of tempest by,
And a vapour roll'd around us as we sung.
'Twas terrible to hear our cry rise deep and clear,
Though we could not see the criers of the cry,
But we sang and gript our brands, and touched each other's hands,
While a thin sleet smote our faces from the sky;
And, sudden, strange, and low, hissed the voice of Kilmahoe,
‘Grip your weapons! Wait in silence! They are nigh!’
Though we could not see the criers of the cry,
But we sang and gript our brands, and touched each other's hands,
While a thin sleet smote our faces from the sky;
And, sudden, strange, and low, hissed the voice of Kilmahoe,
‘Grip your weapons! Wait in silence! They are nigh!’
And heark'ning, with clench'd teeth, we could hear, across the heath,
The tramping of the horses as they flew,
And no man breathed a breath, but all were still as death.
And close together shivering we drew;
And deeper round us fell all the eyeless gloom of Hell,
And—the Fiend was in among us ere we knew!
The tramping of the horses as they flew,
And no man breathed a breath, but all were still as death.
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And deeper round us fell all the eyeless gloom of Hell,
And—the Fiend was in among us ere we knew!
Then our battle-shriek arose, mid the cursing of our foes—
No face of friend or foeman could we mark;
But I struck and kept my stand (trusting God to guide my hand),
And struck, and struck, and heard the hell-hounds bark;
And I fell beneath a horse, but I reached with all my force,
And ript him with my reap-hook through the dark.
No face of friend or foeman could we mark;
But I struck and kept my stand (trusting God to guide my hand),
And struck, and struck, and heard the hell-hounds bark;
And I fell beneath a horse, but I reached with all my force,
And ript him with my reap-hook through the dark.
As we struggled, knowing not whose hand was at our throat,
Whose blood was spouting warm into our eyes,
We felt the thick snow-drift swoop upon us from the lift,
And murmur in the pauses of our cries;
But, lo! before we wist, rose the curtain of the mist,
And the pale Moon shed a glimmer from the skies.
Whose blood was spouting warm into our eyes,
We felt the thick snow-drift swoop upon us from the lift,
And murmur in the pauses of our cries;
But, lo! before we wist, rose the curtain of the mist,
And the pale Moon shed a glimmer from the skies.
O God! it was a sight that made the hair turn white,
That wither'd up the heart's blood into woe,
To see the faces loom in the dimly lighted gloom,
And the butcher'd lying bloodily below;
While melting, with no sound, fell so peace-fully around
The whiteness and the wonder of the Snow!
That wither'd up the heart's blood into woe,
To see the faces loom in the dimly lighted gloom,
And the butcher'd lying bloodily below;
While melting, with no sound, fell so peace-fully around
The whiteness and the wonder of the Snow!
Ay, and thicker, thicker, poured the pale Silence of the Lord,
From the hollow of His hand we saw it shed,
And it gather'd round us there, till we groan'd and gasp'd for air,
And beneath was ankle-deep and stainèd red;
And soon, whatever wight was smitten down in fight
Was buried in the drift ere he was dead!
From the hollow of His hand we saw it shed,
And it gather'd round us there, till we groan'd and gasp'd for air,
And beneath was ankle-deep and stainèd red;
And soon, whatever wight was smitten down in fight
Was buried in the drift ere he was dead!
Then we beheld at length the troopers in their strength,
For faster, faster, faster up they streamed,
And their pistols flashing bright showed their faces ashen white,
And their blue steel caught the driving Moon, and gleamed.
But a dying voice cried, ‘Fly!’ And behold, e'en at the cry,
A panic fell upon us, and we screamed!
For faster, faster, faster up they streamed,
And their pistols flashing bright showed their faces ashen white,
And their blue steel caught the driving Moon, and gleamed.
But a dying voice cried, ‘Fly!’ And behold, e'en at the cry,
A panic fell upon us, and we screamed!
Oh, shrill and awful rose, 'mid the splashing blood and blows,
Our scream unto the Lord that let us die;
And the Fiend amid us roared his defiance at the Lord,
And his servants slew the strong man 'mid his cry;
And the Lord kept still in Heaven, and the only answer given
Was the white Snow falling, falling, from the sky.
Our scream unto the Lord that let us die;
And the Fiend amid us roared his defiance at the Lord,
And his servants slew the strong man 'mid his cry;
And the Lord kept still in Heaven, and the only answer given
Was the white Snow falling, falling, from the sky.
Then we fled! the darkness grew! 'mid the driving cold we flew,
Each alone, yea, each for those whom he held dear;
And I heard upon the wind the thud of hoofs behind,
And the scream of those who perish'd in their fear,
But I knew by heart each path through the darkness of the strath,
And I hid myself all day,—and I am here.
Each alone, yea, each for those whom he held dear;
And I heard upon the wind the thud of hoofs behind,
And the scream of those who perish'd in their fear,
But I knew by heart each path through the darkness of the strath,
And I hid myself all day,—and I am here.
Ah! gathered in one fold be the holy men and bold,
And beside them the accursed and the proud;
The Howiesons are there, and the Wylies of Glen Ayr,
Kirkpatrick, and Macdonald, and Macleod.
And while the widow groans, lo! God's Hand around their bones
His thin ice windeth whitely, as a shroud
And beside them the accursed and the proud;
The Howiesons are there, and the Wylies of Glen Ayr,
Kirkpatrick, and Macdonald, and Macleod.
And while the widow groans, lo! God's Hand around their bones
His thin ice windeth whitely, as a shroud
On mountain and in vale our women will look pale,
And palest where the ocean surges boom:
Buried 'neath snow-drift white, with no boly prayer or rite,
Lie the loved ones they look for in the gloom;
And deeper, deeper still, spreads the Snow on vale and hill,
And deeper and yet deeper is their Tomb!
And palest where the ocean surges boom:
Buried 'neath snow-drift white, with no boly prayer or rite,
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And deeper, deeper still, spreads the Snow on vale and hill,
And deeper and yet deeper is their Tomb!
THE NORTHERN WOOING.
Skies are dusky, winds are keen,
Round Lallan Farm this Hallowe'en.
Round Lallan Farm this Hallowe'en.
All is dark across the night,
But see! one glimmer of pink light!
But see! one glimmer of pink light!
What are those that in the air
Flit against the window-glare?
Flit against the window-glare?
Falling flakes of snow they seem,
Or night-moths gather'd by the gleam.
Or night-moths gather'd by the gleam.
Round and round they wind and wind,—
Tiny shades against the blind.
Tiny shades against the blind.
Child, wish now! while thou canst see!
'Tis the faëry companie!
'Tis the faëry companie!
Once a year, on Hallowe'en,
Are the faëry people seen.
Are the faëry people seen.
Thus round happy farms they fly,
While the peat-fire blazes high.
While the peat-fire blazes high.
Lad and lass, to-night beware!
There is magic in the air!
There is magic in the air!
‘Ah, bairns, my bairns, forbear on Hallow Night
To mock the faëry people and their might,
For though ye deem these things are all untrue,
Yourseives may be the first to see and rue!
Hark! now the winds a moment cease to roar,
A sound like some one breathing at the door!
And hark again! faint pattings on the pane
Of little finger-taps, like fluttering rain!
Ay! 'tis the faëry people hovering nigh:
Draw back the blind to peep, and they will fly!
But serve them solemnly, with charm and spell,
And the old customs that they love so well,
And they will show you all you wish to see,—
Your true love's face, his country and degree,—
All, all a lass with pleasure asks and learns,
Down to the number of her unborn bairns!
To mock the faëry people and their might,
For though ye deem these things are all untrue,
Yourseives may be the first to see and rue!
Hark! now the winds a moment cease to roar,
A sound like some one breathing at the door!
And hark again! faint pattings on the pane
Of little finger-taps, like fluttering rain!
Ay! 'tis the faëry people hovering nigh:
Draw back the blind to peep, and they will fly!
But serve them solemnly, with charm and spell,
And the old customs that they love so well,
And they will show you all you wish to see,—
Your true love's face, his country and degree,—
All, all a lass with pleasure asks and learns,
Down to the number of her unborn bairns!
‘Ay, please the fays! 'tis easy if ye will;
But woe be yours if they should wish you ill:
Your jo will take to drink, or drown at sea,
Or find another sweeter companie;
Your cheeks will droop, your looks will lose their light;
Ye'll marry an old man, and freeze at night!
In vain, in vain ye try to change your fate,
When they have fix'd your lot and future mate:
In vain ye seek to frown and turn aside,—
They make your heart consent in spite of pride.
'Twas so with me, when I was young and gay,
Though I was loth to hearken and obey.
They led me to their choice by spells and charms;
They closed my een, and drew me to his arms!
Or grandfather had ne'er prevailed on me
To droop my pride, and smile as low as he!
But woe be yours if they should wish you ill:
Your jo will take to drink, or drown at sea,
Or find another sweeter companie;
Your cheeks will droop, your looks will lose their light;
Ye'll marry an old man, and freeze at night!
In vain, in vain ye try to change your fate,
When they have fix'd your lot and future mate:
In vain ye seek to frown and turn aside,—
They make your heart consent in spite of pride.
'Twas so with me, when I was young and gay,
Though I was loth to hearken and obey.
They led me to their choice by spells and charms;
They closed my een, and drew me to his arms!
Or grandfather had ne'er prevailed on me
To droop my pride, and smile as low as he!
‘For, though I say it, bairns, my face was fair,
And I was Farmer Binnie's child and heir;
A widowed father's pet, I ruled the place,
Right proud, be sure, of fortune and of face.
My hair was golden then, like Maggie's here,
And I had een as sly, yet crystal clear,
And I could look as bright when pleased and fain,
Or toss my curls with just as sweet disdain!
What wonder, then, if half the country-side
Looked love into my face, and blush'd and cried,
Bleating behind me, like a flock of sheep
Around a shepherd-lass, who, half asleep,
Counts them in play, leads them with pretty speech,
Rates all alike, and scarce kens each from each?
One found me coy, another found me gleg,
Another skittish as the gray mare Meg;
Just as the humour took me, I was wild
Or gentle,—one day cross, the next day mild;
But cared no more for handsome Jamie West,
When he came o'er the heather in his best,
Jingling his silver spurs at our fire-end,
In breeks so tight 'twas near his death to bend,
Than for the grim old Laird of Glumlie Glen,
Who rode on solemn sheltie now and then
Over the moors,—and, making mouths at me,
With father cracked of crops o'er barley-bree,—
While Jock the groom, who knew I loved such fun,
Ginger'd the sheltie for a homeward run!
And I was Farmer Binnie's child and heir;
A widowed father's pet, I ruled the place,
Right proud, be sure, of fortune and of face.
My hair was golden then, like Maggie's here,
And I had een as sly, yet crystal clear,
And I could look as bright when pleased and fain,
Or toss my curls with just as sweet disdain!
What wonder, then, if half the country-side
Looked love into my face, and blush'd and cried,
Bleating behind me, like a flock of sheep
Around a shepherd-lass, who, half asleep,
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Rates all alike, and scarce kens each from each?
One found me coy, another found me gleg,
Another skittish as the gray mare Meg;
Just as the humour took me, I was wild
Or gentle,—one day cross, the next day mild;
But cared no more for handsome Jamie West,
When he came o'er the heather in his best,
Jingling his silver spurs at our fire-end,
In breeks so tight 'twas near his death to bend,
Than for the grim old Laird of Glumlie Glen,
Who rode on solemn sheltie now and then
Over the moors,—and, making mouths at me,
With father cracked of crops o'er barley-bree,—
While Jock the groom, who knew I loved such fun,
Ginger'd the sheltie for a homeward run!
‘Yet oft I tried to picture in my brain
What kind of laddie in the end would gain,
And vainly sought 'mong those around to find
The substance of the shadow in my mind.
But, bairns, in vain I pictured; and anew
Will you and children's children picture too:—
The bonnie shadow flies, and in its place
The chilly substance steals to our embrace.
I swore he should be stately, dark, and tall,—
His hair was fiery-red and he was small!
I swore he should be rich in gold and lands,—
His fortune was the strength of his two hands!
I swore he should be meek and ruled by me,—
The De'il himself is easier led than he!’
What kind of laddie in the end would gain,
And vainly sought 'mong those around to find
The substance of the shadow in my mind.
But, bairns, in vain I pictured; and anew
Will you and children's children picture too:—
The bonnie shadow flies, and in its place
The chilly substance steals to our embrace.
I swore he should be stately, dark, and tall,—
His hair was fiery-red and he was small!
I swore he should be rich in gold and lands,—
His fortune was the strength of his two hands!
I swore he should be meek and ruled by me,—
The De'il himself is easier led than he!’
Round the happy farm they flee,—
Faëry folk in companie.
Faëry folk in companie.
Near the peat-blaze range in ring;
Fiddler, twang the fiddle-string.
Fiddler, twang the fiddle-string.
In the great tub duck the head
After apples rosy red!
After apples rosy red!
Slyly let each pair by turn
Watch the magic chestnuts burn!
Watch the magic chestnuts burn!
Love who never loved before,—
Kiss me quick behind the door!
Kiss me quick behind the door!
Lad and lass, to-night beware!
There is magic in the air!
There is magic in the air!
‘O bairns, we gathered round the blazing peat,
And lad and lass sat close and whispered sweet,
While ancient women spake of wonders seen
On many a long-forgotten Hallowe'en,
And old men nodded snowy polls the while,
Passing the snuff-box round with sceptic smile.
Tall in the midst my father had his place,
Health and a golden harvest in his face;
And, hand in his, full rosy and full sly,
Surrounded by my silly sheep sat I.
Loud rang the laughter! fearless grew the fun!
Happy and warm at heart was every one!
The old, old shepherd, worn with rain and wind,
Blink'd in the ingle-nook with eyes half blind,
While at his feet his tired old dog slept deep,
And, starting, dream'd of gathering the sheep.
And lad and lass sat close and whispered sweet,
While ancient women spake of wonders seen
On many a long-forgotten Hallowe'en,
And old men nodded snowy polls the while,
Passing the snuff-box round with sceptic smile.
Tall in the midst my father had his place,
Health and a golden harvest in his face;
And, hand in his, full rosy and full sly,
Surrounded by my silly sheep sat I.
Loud rang the laughter! fearless grew the fun!
Happy and warm at heart was every one!
The old, old shepherd, worn with rain and wind,
Blink'd in the ingle-nook with eyes half blind,
While at his feet his tired old dog slept deep,
And, starting, dream'd of gathering the sheep.
‘James West was there, the Laird, and many more,
Wooers both old and young, and rich and poor;
And, though I say it, bairns, that night I smiled
My sweetest, and their wits were fairly wild.
Braw with new ribbons in my hair lint-light,
Clean as a guinea, newly minted, bright,
I sat and hearkened to their silly speech,
Happy, and with a careless smile for each;
And yet, though some were fine and fair to see,
Not one had power to steal my heart from me,
‘Oh, Hallowe'en in those old times, I vow,
Was thrice as merry, thrice as sweet, as now!
The benches drawn aside, the supper o'er,
Fresh sand was strewn upon this very floor;
The fiddle played—the fiddler gave a squeal—
Up stood the folk, and father led the reel!
The lads loup'd up and kick'd the beam for fun!
The crimson lassies screamed to see it done!
Meantime the old men, with contented look,
Smoked clean new cutties in the chimney nook,
And thought of days when they were young and gay,
And pleased the lassies, too, with feats of play.
Yet one was there, my bairns, amid the throng,
Who, though his years were young, his limbs full strong,
Danced not that night; but pale and gloomy, stayed
Among the gaffers, in the chimney shade,—
Hugh Scott his name, an orphan lad, whose hand
Guided the ploughshare on my father's land,
But one my father prized and trusted best
For cunning and for skill o'er all the rest.
Full well I knew the rogue esteemed me sweet,
But I was gentry, and his masters' meat!
And oft I smiled on him full fond and free,
As ne'er I smiled on those who courted me,
Pleased that my smiles sank sweet to his heart's core,
But certain he would never hope for more.
Wooers both old and young, and rich and poor;
And, though I say it, bairns, that night I smiled
My sweetest, and their wits were fairly wild.
Braw with new ribbons in my hair lint-light,
Clean as a guinea, newly minted, bright,
I sat and hearkened to their silly speech,
Happy, and with a careless smile for each;
And yet, though some were fine and fair to see,
Not one had power to steal my heart from me,
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Was thrice as merry, thrice as sweet, as now!
The benches drawn aside, the supper o'er,
Fresh sand was strewn upon this very floor;
The fiddle played—the fiddler gave a squeal—
Up stood the folk, and father led the reel!
The lads loup'd up and kick'd the beam for fun!
The crimson lassies screamed to see it done!
Meantime the old men, with contented look,
Smoked clean new cutties in the chimney nook,
And thought of days when they were young and gay,
And pleased the lassies, too, with feats of play.
Yet one was there, my bairns, amid the throng,
Who, though his years were young, his limbs full strong,
Danced not that night; but pale and gloomy, stayed
Among the gaffers, in the chimney shade,—
Hugh Scott his name, an orphan lad, whose hand
Guided the ploughshare on my father's land,
But one my father prized and trusted best
For cunning and for skill o'er all the rest.
Full well I knew the rogue esteemed me sweet,
But I was gentry, and his masters' meat!
And oft I smiled on him full fond and free,
As ne'er I smiled on those who courted me,
Pleased that my smiles sank sweet to his heart's core,
But certain he would never hope for more.
‘There in the chimney shadow, pale and sad,
Clad in his clothes of Sabbath, sat the lad:
In vain, to catch his look, the lassies leered,
In vain the old folk saw his sulks, and sneered,
But aye his dim and melancholy e'e
Turned flashing in the shade and followed me.
Whene'er I danced with some fine wooer there,
I saw his fist clench and his eyeballs glare,—
Red as a rick on fire I watched him grow
Whene'er my partner whispered light and low,
And had a kiss been stolen in his sight,
I swear he would have ta'en revenge in fight.
Half pleased, half careless, to increase his ill,
I marked him kindly, as a lassie will,
And sent him many a smile of tender light
To cheer him in his nook, that Hallow night.
Clad in his clothes of Sabbath, sat the lad:
In vain, to catch his look, the lassies leered,
In vain the old folk saw his sulks, and sneered,
But aye his dim and melancholy e'e
Turned flashing in the shade and followed me.
Whene'er I danced with some fine wooer there,
I saw his fist clench and his eyeballs glare,—
Red as a rick on fire I watched him grow
Whene'er my partner whispered light and low,
And had a kiss been stolen in his sight,
I swear he would have ta'en revenge in fight.
Half pleased, half careless, to increase his ill,
I marked him kindly, as a lassie will,
And sent him many a smile of tender light
To cheer him in his nook, that Hallow night.
‘Louder the fiddler, gay with many a glass,
Shouted to stir the hearts of lad and lass!
Faster and faster on his strings he skirled!
Faster and faster round the dancers whirled!
Close by, the young folks duck'd for apples red,
Splashing, with puffing cheek and dripping head,
Into the washing-bine, or, in a ring,
With gaping mouths, they played at cherry-string.
But in the parlour, from the turmoil free,
Father sat now with antique companie—
Cronies who mixed their tumblers strong and deep
Twelve times, and toddled, sober, off to sleep.
Shouted to stir the hearts of lad and lass!
Faster and faster on his strings he skirled!
Faster and faster round the dancers whirled!
Close by, the young folks duck'd for apples red,
Splashing, with puffing cheek and dripping head,
Into the washing-bine, or, in a ring,
With gaping mouths, they played at cherry-string.
But in the parlour, from the turmoil free,
Father sat now with antique companie—
Cronies who mixed their tumblers strong and deep
Twelve times, and toddled, sober, off to sleep.
‘But, bairns, 'twas near the hour when ghaists are said
To rise white-sheeted from their kirkyard bed,
When the owl calls, and blinks his e'eball white
In ruins, where the fairies flit by night.
And now my heart beat fast and thick for fear,
Because the time of spells and charms was near,
And I was bent that very night to fly
Out o'er the meadow to the kiln,—and try
The twining charm, the spell of fairy fate,
And hear the name of him that I should mate.’
To rise white-sheeted from their kirkyard bed,
When the owl calls, and blinks his e'eball white
In ruins, where the fairies flit by night.
And now my heart beat fast and thick for fear,
Because the time of spells and charms was near,
And I was bent that very night to fly
Out o'er the meadow to the kiln,—and try
The twining charm, the spell of fairy fate,
And hear the name of him that I should mate.’
Lad and lass, to-night beware!
There is magic in the air!
There is magic in the air!
Winds are crying shrill, and, hark
Ghosts are groaning in the dark.
Ghosts are groaning in the dark.
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Who will dare this Hallow Night
Leave the happy ingle-light?
Leave the happy ingle-light?
Who will dare to stand alone,
While the fairy thread is thrown?
While the fairy thread is thrown?
Who this night is free from fear?
Let her ask,—and she shall hear!
Let her ask,—and she shall hear!
‘Dark, dark was all, as shivering and alone
I set my foot upon the threshold-stone,
And, trembling close, with twitching fingers caught
The great horn-lanthorn from the stables brought,
And leant against the door to keep it wide,
And peer'd into the solemn gloom, and sighed.
Black was the lift, and faintly fell the rain,
The wind was screeching like a sprite in pain;
And, while I paused, pinching my e'en to mark,
The wind swung-to the door, and left me in the dark!
I set my foot upon the threshold-stone,
And, trembling close, with twitching fingers caught
The great horn-lanthorn from the stables brought,
And leant against the door to keep it wide,
And peer'd into the solemn gloom, and sighed.
Black was the lift, and faintly fell the rain,
The wind was screeching like a sprite in pain;
And, while I paused, pinching my e'en to mark,
The wind swung-to the door, and left me in the dark!
‘O bairns! what would my foolish heart have gi'en
To let the fairies be, that Hallowe'en!
But I had sworn, and all the lassies knew,
And I was shamed, and fain must see it through.
Oh! where were all my boasts, my laughter light,
Now I was there alone amid the night?
While faintly ben the farm the fiddle cried,
And far away the sound of dancing died.
To let the fairies be, that Hallowe'en!
But I had sworn, and all the lassies knew,
And I was shamed, and fain must see it through.
Oh! where were all my boasts, my laughter light,
Now I was there alone amid the night?
While faintly ben the farm the fiddle cried,
And far away the sound of dancing died.
‘Thud, thud against my breast my wild heart leapt,
As out across the misty yard I crept,
Holding the lanthorn up;—its flickering ray
Made darkness doubly deep along the way.
Then in my ears I seem'd to hear strange screams,
And fearful faces flashed with lightning-gleams,
And, as I wandered, fingers sharp and wee
Pinched me and pulled my garter o'er the knee.
Out of the yard, across the field, the dew
Still drizzling damply in my face, I flew,
Till, breathless, panting hard against the wind,
Fearful to look before me or behind,
I reached the kiln,—and, standing dizzy there,
Heard softer voices round me in the air,
A sound like little feet along the gloom,
And hummings faint as of a fairy loom.
Then setting down the lanthorn on the ground
I entered in, nor paused to look around.
But faint and fast began to say the charm
All northern lassies know, and reached my arm,
Casting the twine, and catching one end tight—
Flinging the other loose into the night.
O bairns! O bairns! scarce had I uttered thrice
The secret spell, with lips as cold as ice,
When through my blood a sick'ning shudder spread,
For ghaistly fingers tighten'd at the thread!
Then in a hollow voice, to know my doom,
“Who holds? who holds?” I cried into the gloom;—
And ere the echo of my voice had died,
“Hugh Scott! Hugh Scott!” a hollow voice replied:
And, screaming out, and covering up my face,
Kicking the lanthorn o'er, I fled the place,
Stumbling and tripping, flew across the field,
Till, white as any lamb, I reached the bield,
And crept up to my room, and hid my head,
Moaning, among the blankets of the bed!’
As out across the misty yard I crept,
Holding the lanthorn up;—its flickering ray
Made darkness doubly deep along the way.
Then in my ears I seem'd to hear strange screams,
And fearful faces flashed with lightning-gleams,
And, as I wandered, fingers sharp and wee
Pinched me and pulled my garter o'er the knee.
Out of the yard, across the field, the dew
Still drizzling damply in my face, I flew,
Till, breathless, panting hard against the wind,
Fearful to look before me or behind,
I reached the kiln,—and, standing dizzy there,
Heard softer voices round me in the air,
A sound like little feet along the gloom,
And hummings faint as of a fairy loom.
Then setting down the lanthorn on the ground
I entered in, nor paused to look around.
But faint and fast began to say the charm
All northern lassies know, and reached my arm,
Casting the twine, and catching one end tight—
Flinging the other loose into the night.
O bairns! O bairns! scarce had I uttered thrice
The secret spell, with lips as cold as ice,
When through my blood a sick'ning shudder spread,
For ghaistly fingers tighten'd at the thread!
Then in a hollow voice, to know my doom,
“Who holds? who holds?” I cried into the gloom;—
And ere the echo of my voice had died,
“Hugh Scott! Hugh Scott!” a hollow voice replied:
And, screaming out, and covering up my face,
Kicking the lanthorn o'er, I fled the place,
Stumbling and tripping, flew across the field,
Till, white as any lamb, I reached the bield,
And crept up to my room, and hid my head,
Moaning, among the blankets of the bed!’
Lightly soon shall rise the sun!
Fays, begone! your work is done.
Fays, begone! your work is done.
Fiddler, put your tools away,
Take a nap among the hay.
Take a nap among the hay.
Lads and lassies, flush'd and red,
Yawn no more, but off to bed.
Yawn no more, but off to bed.
Maiden, thou hast heard and seen
Wonders strange at Hallowe'en.
Wonders strange at Hallowe'en.
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Thou hast wish'd to hear and see—
And thy fate is fixed for thee.
And thy fate is fixed for thee.
Sad or merry, ill or well,
Fairy looms have spun the spell.
Fairy looms have spun the spell.
In among the blankets creep—
Dream about him in your sleep.
Dream about him in your sleep.
Wake and smile with heart resigned!
Kiss and cuddle, and be kind!
Kiss and cuddle, and be kind!
‘Oh, bitter was my heart, my wits amazed;
Wildly I pondered like a lassie crazed:
Hugh Scott my mate! Hugh Scott, of all around!
A pauper lad, a tiller of the ground!
When wealthy men came lilting o'er the lea,
In shining braws, and sought to marry me!
“Nay, nay!” I cried, and frowning raised my face,
“No force shall make me choose a lot so base:
The spirits of the air but wish this night
To try my heart, and fill my soul with fright;
Yet they shall know full soon they rate me ill,—
I fear them not, nor shall I work their will!”
But as I spoke, I shook, and unaware
Keek'd o'er my shoulder at the glass, and there,
In the faint lamplight burning by the bed,
His face, a moment mirror'd, flash'd and fled!
Wildly I pondered like a lassie crazed:
Hugh Scott my mate! Hugh Scott, of all around!
A pauper lad, a tiller of the ground!
When wealthy men came lilting o'er the lea,
In shining braws, and sought to marry me!
“Nay, nay!” I cried, and frowning raised my face,
“No force shall make me choose a lot so base:
The spirits of the air but wish this night
To try my heart, and fill my soul with fright;
Yet they shall know full soon they rate me ill,—
I fear them not, nor shall I work their will!”
But as I spoke, I shook, and unaware
Keek'd o'er my shoulder at the glass, and there,
In the faint lamplight burning by the bed,
His face, a moment mirror'd, flash'd and fled!
‘O bairns!—what further tale have I to tell?
How could I fight against a fate so fell?
Strive as I might, awaking or asleep,
I found my eyes in fascination deep
Follow Hugh Scott, and, till my heart went wild,
He haunted me from spot to spot, and smiled.
Then, unaware, to notice I began
That he was trim and stout, and like a man,
That there were tender tones upon his tongue,
And that his voice was sweet whene'er he sung.
Nay, more, full soon his manners seemed to me
More fine than those of loftier degree,
And as for gold, though he was humble, still
He had a fortune in his farming skill.
Ay, bairns! before another Hallow Night
The fairies to their wish had worked me quite;
And, since his heart had ever favoured Hugh,
Full easily they won my father too—
And when at last Hugh craved me to be his,
I—fell upon his heart and blush'd for bliss!
How could I fight against a fate so fell?
Strive as I might, awaking or asleep,
I found my eyes in fascination deep
Follow Hugh Scott, and, till my heart went wild,
He haunted me from spot to spot, and smiled.
Then, unaware, to notice I began
That he was trim and stout, and like a man,
That there were tender tones upon his tongue,
And that his voice was sweet whene'er he sung.
Nay, more, full soon his manners seemed to me
More fine than those of loftier degree,
And as for gold, though he was humble, still
He had a fortune in his farming skill.
Ay, bairns! before another Hallow Night
The fairies to their wish had worked me quite;
And, since his heart had ever favoured Hugh,
Full easily they won my father too—
And when at last Hugh craved me to be his,
I—fell upon his heart and blush'd for bliss!
‘Ah! heed not, bairns, though grand-father should swear
That, when I tried the spell, himsel' was there,
And, when I saw the phantom in the room,
Again, was near me, keeking through the gloom;
And that his craft and cunning were the charms
Which cheated me and drew me to his arms.
Nay! nay! right solemnly, with song and spell,
And the old customs that they love so well,
Serve the good fays this night—be bold! be brave!
And though they may not give you all ye crave,
Be sure that you will find, as I have found,
Their choice right wise, and all their counsels sound,
And bless for many a year the love and light
They spin for happy hearts, on Hallow Night.’
That, when I tried the spell, himsel' was there,
And, when I saw the phantom in the room,
Again, was near me, keeking through the gloom;
And that his craft and cunning were the charms
Which cheated me and drew me to his arms.
Nay! nay! right solemnly, with song and spell,
And the old customs that they love so well,
Serve the good fays this night—be bold! be brave!
And though they may not give you all ye crave,
Be sure that you will find, as I have found,
Their choice right wise, and all their counsels sound,
And bless for many a year the love and light
They spin for happy hearts, on Hallow Night.’
AN ENGLISH ECLOGUE.
‘He crept close to Creation's brim, and heard a roar like water.’
TIMOTHY.
Well, here's the cuckoo come again, after the barley sowing,
Down on the duck-pond in the lane the white-weed is a-blowing,
The gorse has got its coat of gold, and smells as sweet as clover,
The lady-smocks are blowing bold, the primroses nigh over,
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The speckled snakes crawl here and there, —but Holy Tommie's sleeping.
JACOB.
Ah, him that used to work with Crew!
Crewe told me how he blundered.
He used to preach. I heard him too.
Lord! how he groaned and thundered!
The women shrieked like sucking-swine, the men roared out like cattle,
But seem'd to think it mighty fine!
TIMOTHY.
All trash and stuff and tattle!
He lost his head through meddling so with things that don't concern us;
When questioning too close we go, 'tis little God will learn us;
To squeeze the crops 'tis hard enough from His dry ground about us,
But sowing t'other world is stuff,—it gets its crops without us!
JACOB.
That's where it lies! We get no good by asking questions, neighbour:
'Tis Parsons cook our Sunday food, while we are hard at labour:
This world needs help upon its way, for men feed one another,
And why do we give Parsons pay?—if not to manage t'other?
TIMOTHY.
You're right! No man as grunts and grides at this here world has thriven;
Mutton won't drop in our insides though we do gape at heaven!
Why, Tommie's cheek was ruddy red, as rosy as an apple,
Till Methodism filled his head, and he was seen at chapel,
Found out that he'd received a call, grew dismal, dull, and surly,
Read tracts at work, big tracts and small, went praying late and early,
And by and by began, poor fool, to argue with the doubting,
And though he'd scarcely been to school, began his public spouting.
I wasn't blind—and soon I found how he let matters go here,—
While he was tilling heavenly ground things suffered down below here:
Through want of feed, the hens did die, the horses next grew useless,
For lack o' milking by and by the very cows grew juiceless;
And when I sought him out, and swore in rage and consternation,
Why, Tommie sigh'd, and snivell'd sore, and talk'd about salvation!
‘Salvation's mighty well,’ says I, right mad with my disaster,
‘I want to save my property; so find another master!’
He didn't grumble or resist, though he seemed broken-hearted,
But slipped a tract into my fist the morning he departed;
Ay, got a place next day with Crewe, who knew the lad was clever,
But dawdled as he used to do, and preached as much as ever.
JACOB.
But Crewe soon sent him packing too—he's just the sort of fellow;
Why, ev'n when Parson calls, old Crewe grunts, grumbles, and looks yellow!
TIMOTHY.
He got another master, though, but soon began to tire him;
His wages sank and sank, and so no farmer here would hire him;
And soon, between that world and this, poor Tommie grew more mournful,
His worldly ways went all amiss—the country folk looked scornful—
And last the blessed Methodists grew tired, and would not hear him,
And wouldn't heed his talk inspired, and shrank from sitting near him.
JACOB.
With Methodists 'tis just the way. Give me the High Church, neighbour.
TIMOTHY.
‘Why don't you be a man?’ said they, ‘keep clean and do your labour?’
And what d'ye think that Tommie cried?— ‘I don't play shilly-shally;
If I'm to serve my Lord and Guide, 'twill be continuälly:
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And put the Lord Almighty off by howling out on one day;
But if you seek salvation, know, your feelings must be stronger.’
And holy Tommie would not go to chapel any longer.
Learned sense? Not he! Reformed? Pooh, pooh! but moped and fretted blindly,
Because the precious praying crew had used him so unkindly.
His back grew bare, his life grew sore, his brain grew dreadful airy,
He thought of t'other world the more 'cause this seemed so contrary;
Went wandering on the river-side, and in the woods lay lurking,
Gaped at the sky in summer-tide when other men were working,
And once (I saw him) watch'd the skies, where a wild lark was winging,
With tears a-shining in his eyes,—because the lark was singing!
Last harvest-time to me he came, and begged for work so sadly,
Show'd for his former ways such shame, and look'd so sick and badly,
I had not heart to give him pain, but put him out a-reaping,
But, Lord! the same tale o'er again—he worked like one half-sleeping.
‘Be off!’ says I, ‘you lazy lout,’ and all the rest stood sneering.
‘Master,’ says he, ‘you're right, I doubt,— the Lord seems hard o' hearing!
I thought I could fulfil full clear the call that I had gotten,
But here's another harvest here, and all my life seems rotten.
The Methodists are dull as stone, the High Church folk are lazy,
And even when I pray alone, the ways of Heaven seem hazy.
Religion don't appear to me to keep a lad from sad things,
And though the world is fine to see, 'tis full of cruel bad things.
Why, I can't walk in woodland ways, and see the flowers a-growing,
And on the light green meadows gaze, or watch the river flowing,
But even here, where things look fine, out creeps the speckled adder,
Or snakes crawl in the golden shine, and all creation's sadder.
The better I have seemed to grow, the worse all things have gone with me,
It beats me out and out, and so—I wish the Lord was done with me!’
And after these same words were said, Tommie grew paler, stiller,
And by and by he took to bed, and quickly he grew iller:
And when the early new-year rain was yellowing pool and river,
He closed his eyes, and slipt his chain, and fell to sleep for ever.
JACOB.
'Tis clear enough, he'd lost his wit—the chapel set it turning.
TIMOTHY.
Now, this is how I look at it, although I've got no learning:
In this here world, to do like him is nothing but self-slaughter,—
He crept close to Creation's brim, and heard a roar like water,
His head went round, his limbs grew stiff, his blood lost life and motion,—
Like one who stands upon a cliff and sees the roaring Ocean. . . .
But there's the Parson at his gate, with Doctor Barth, his crony;
Some of these days the old chap's weight will kill that precious pony!
Ah, he's the man whose words don't fail to keep one sage and steady!
Wife, here be Parson! Draw some ale, and set the table ready.
A SCOTTISH ECLOGUE.
‘The Lord on him forgot to put His mark.’
SANDIE.
O Lord above, swift is Thy wrath and deep!
And yet by grace Thou sanctionest Thy sheep;
And blest are they who till the day o' doom
Like haddocks bear the marking of Thy thoomb;
And curst, in spite of works and prayers, are they
On whom Thy mark has ne'er been printed sae.
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And fast in flaming fire, and gnash their teeth,
Above their heads, where streams of honey spring,
Thine Elders stand in shining sarks, and sing,
Blessing Thy Name for present gifts and past . . .
O wife, John Galloway is gone, at last!
JEANIE.
Dead? Weel, we all are bound to God's abode,
And John has started first upon the road.
A Christian man and kind was John, indeed,
And free of siller unto folk in need:
Ay, many a hearth will want now John is cold!
But God will give him back his gifts tenfold.
SANDIE.
O Jeanie Gourlay! keep thy clapper still;
It talks o' things you understand but ill:
I doubt, I sorely doubt, John Galloway
Is 'neath the oxter o' the De'il this day!
True, in the way of sinful flesh, his mind
Was charitable, and his heart was kind;
But Light he lacked as long as he drew breath,
And lost the Eldership before his death;
And he had many a ghostly whispering
To tell he was a miserable thing,
Doom'd by the Wisdom of the Just to be
Condemn'd with those who graceless live and dee.
Ay, grace, I fear, John Galloway was denied,
Though loud and oft for grace he groaned and cried.
‘Sandie,’ he used to say, ‘I fear, I fear
I have no right among the holy here;
I fear, I fear that I am in the dark—
The Lord on me forgot to put His mark!
I canna steel my heart to folk who sin,
I canna put my thoughts to discipline;
Oft when I pray, I hear Him whisper plain,
“Jock Galloway, pray awa', but 'tis in vain;”—
Nae sweet assurance arms me 'gainst the De'il,
Nae happy faith, like that my fellows feel;
I long for God, I beg Him on my knee,
But fear He hath to wrath prevision'd me!’
JEANIE.
Poor man! his strife was sore; but, Sandie, mind,
Nae man can tell what folks are predestined;
Ev'n Sandie Gourlay may be one the De'il
Hath liberty to catch within his creel!
SANDIE.
Oh, blasphemy! Thou fool, forbear and cease!
The sign o' grace is perfect faith and peace,
Such as the Lord, in spite o' many a cross,
Vouchsafes to men like me and neighbour Ross.
But Galloway ever was a braxie sheep,
A whining thing who dug his doubts too deep.
Why, mind ye, when old Robin Caird himsel'—
A heretic, a rogue, a man o' Bel,
Averring written Scripture was a lee,
And doubting God, stretch'd out his limbs to dee,
John by the sinner knelt and offered prayers:
‘Lord God,’ he said, ‘pity his old white hairs!
Be kind unto him! Take him unto Thee!’
And bought the coffin, paid the burial fee.
‘Sandie,’ he said, when Caird was in his grave,
‘I doubt I am less holy than the lave:
My blood is water, I am weak o' brain,—
O Lord, it broke my heart to see his pain!
I thought—I dared to think—if I were God,
Poor Caird should never gang so dark a road;
I thought—ay, dared to think, the Lord forgi'e!—
The Lord was crueller than I could be;
Forgetting God is just, and knoweth best
What folk should burn in fire, what folk be blest.’
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Unlike the stern strong shepherds of His sheep.
We made an Elder of John Galloway!
Large seemed his heart, he ne'er was known to stray;
But he had little strength or wrath severe—
He soften'd at the sinful pauper's tear;
He push'd his purse and pleaded like a fool
For every lassie on the cuttie-stool.
JEANIE.
Where had the parish bairns sae kind a friend?
SANDIE.
Bairns? did he teach them grace, and make them mend?
At Sunday School what lad or lass had care
For fear of flaming Hell, if John was there,—
Questioning blushing brats upon his knees,
And slyly slipping in their hands—bawbees?
Once while he talked to me o' life and death,
I smelt the smell o' whisky in his breath.
‘Drinking again, John Galloway?’ I said;
As gray as this pipe-reek, he hung his head.
‘O Sandie, Sandie!’ he replied, ‘I ken
I am indeed the weakest man of men.
Strange doubts torment me daily, and, alas!
I try to drown them in the poison'd glass.
By fits I fear, and in my soul I say,
Lord, is Thy mark on poor John Gallo-way?
And sorely troubled, stealing slyly out,
I try in drink to drown the imp o' Doubt.’
Woman, is this the man ye would defend?
Nay, wheesht awhile, and hearken to his end.
When he fell sick in Martinmas, his fears
Grew deeper far; I found him oft in tears;
Though from the Prophets of God's wrath I read,
He hearken'd, but was little comforted,
And even ‘Revelations’ had no power
To soothe the pangs of his departing hour.
A week before he left this vale of woe,
He at his window sat, and watched the Snow
Falling and falling down without a sound,
Poured slowly from God's hand upon the ground:
‘See, Sandie, how it snaws!’ I heard him say;
‘How many folk are cold, cold, cold this day!
How many want the fire that's warming me!
How many starve!—and yet—why should it be?’
And when I took the Book, explained, and read,
He only gave a groan and shook his head.
‘Clearer and clearer I perceive my sin,
How I to grace may never enter in;
That Book is for the strong, but I am weak,’
And trembled, and a tear was on his cheek.
JEANIE.
Poor man! poor man! small peace on earth he found.
SANDIE.
The day he died, he called the Elders round,
Shook hands, and said, ‘Friends, though I gang from here,
Down under earth, all will at last be clear.
Too long have I been dwelling in the dark,
The Lord on me forgot to put His mark,
God help me!’ And, till he was cold as clay,
His foolish lips had little more to say;
Yet after we had laid him down in dust,
Weak to the last we found him, and unjust;
For when his will was read, unto our shame,
No holy man was mentioned in the same!
But he had left what little gold he had
To Caird's sick widow and her lass and lad!
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THE SCAITH O' BARTLE.
Fathoms deep the ship doth lie,
Wreath'd with ocean weed and shell,
Still and deep the shadows lie,
Dusky as a forest dell:
Tangled in the twisted sail,
With the breathing of the Sea,
Stirs the Man who told this tale,
Staring upward dreamilie.
Wreath'd with ocean weed and shell,
Still and deep the shadows lie,
Dusky as a forest dell:
Tangled in the twisted sail,
With the breathing of the Sea,
Stirs the Man who told this tale,
Staring upward dreamilie.
I laid him here, and scarcely wept; but look!
His grave is green and wild and like a wave,
And strewn with ocean-shells instead of flowers.
His grave is green and wild and like a wave,
And strewn with ocean-shells instead of flowers.
You saw him long ago, on board the Erne,
Cod-fishing in Newfoundland, and (you mind?)
We drank a gill, all three, the very day
Before the Erne went down off Fitful Head,
And all the crew were drown'd but brother Dan.
Strange, that a man who faced so many a storm,
And stood on splitting planks and never quail'd,
And swam to save his life a dozen times,
Should ever die ashore! Why, from the first,
We twins were meant for sailors:—God Himself
Planted a breeze in both our brains to blow
Our bodies up and down His calms and storms.
Never had wilder, stormier year been known
Here in the clachan, than the very year
When Dan and I were born;—waters and winds
Roar'd through the wintry season, and the sounds
And sights weigh'd on our Highland mother's heart,
Giving her whims and moods in which the clay
Beneath her heart was fashion'd; and in March
The Scaith came down the valley, screaming past
Her ears the very hour that we were born.
Cod-fishing in Newfoundland, and (you mind?)
We drank a gill, all three, the very day
Before the Erne went down off Fitful Head,
And all the crew were drown'd but brother Dan.
Strange, that a man who faced so many a storm,
And stood on splitting planks and never quail'd,
And swam to save his life a dozen times,
Should ever die ashore! Why, from the first,
We twins were meant for sailors:—God Himself
Planted a breeze in both our brains to blow
Our bodies up and down His calms and storms.
Never had wilder, stormier year been known
Here in the clachan, than the very year
When Dan and I were born;—waters and winds
Roar'd through the wintry season, and the sounds
And sights weigh'd on our Highland mother's heart,
Giving her whims and moods in which the clay
Beneath her heart was fashion'd; and in March
The Scaith came down the valley, screaming past
Her ears the very hour that we were born.
When other boys were mumping at the school,
I went as cabin-lad on board a whaler,
And Dan took up his canvas-bag, tied up
His serk and comb and brush, with two or three
Big home-baked bannocks and a lump of cheese,
Kiss'd mother, (that's her grave beside his own,)
And walk'd to Aberdeen, where soon he found
A berth on board a brig—the Jessie Gray,
Bound south for Cadiz. After that for years
We drifted up and down;—and when we met
Down in the Forth, and journey'd home together,
We both were twenty, Dan was poor as ever,
But I had saved. How changed he look'd! how fine!
Brown cheek and bit o' whisker, hands like steel,
A build as sturdy as a mountain fir's,—
Ay, every inch a sailor! Then, the tales
We had for one another!—tales of storms
And sights on land, pranks play'd and places seen!—
But, ‘Bob, I'm tired of being on the seas,
The life's a hard one at the best,’ says Dan;
And I was like a fool and thought the same.
So home we came, found father dead and gone,
And mother sorely push'd; and round her neck
We threw our arms, and kiss'd her, and she cried,
And we cried too, and I took out my pay
And pour'd it in her lap; but Dan look'd grieved,
And, glancing from the pay to mother, cried,
‘I'll never, never go to sea again!’
I went as cabin-lad on board a whaler,
And Dan took up his canvas-bag, tied up
His serk and comb and brush, with two or three
Big home-baked bannocks and a lump of cheese,
Kiss'd mother, (that's her grave beside his own,)
And walk'd to Aberdeen, where soon he found
A berth on board a brig—the Jessie Gray,
Bound south for Cadiz. After that for years
We drifted up and down;—and when we met
Down in the Forth, and journey'd home together,
We both were twenty, Dan was poor as ever,
But I had saved. How changed he look'd! how fine!
Brown cheek and bit o' whisker, hands like steel,
A build as sturdy as a mountain fir's,—
Ay, every inch a sailor! Then, the tales
We had for one another!—tales of storms
And sights on land, pranks play'd and places seen!—
But, ‘Bob, I'm tired of being on the seas,
The life's a hard one at the best,’ says Dan;
And I was like a fool and thought the same.
So home we came, found father dead and gone,
And mother sorely push'd; and round her neck
We threw our arms, and kiss'd her, and she cried,
And we cried too, and I took out my pay
And pour'd it in her lap; but Dan look'd grieved,
And, glancing from the pay to mother, cried,
‘I'll never, never go to sea again!’
'Tis thirty years ago, and yet right well
I mind it all. How pleasant for a time
Was life on land: the tousling with the girls,
The merry-making in the public-house,
The cosy bed on winter nights. We work'd—
I at the fishing, Dan at making nets—
And kept old mother for a year and more.
But ere the year was out, the life grew dull:
We never heard the wind blow, but we thought
Of sailing on the sea,—we got a knack
Of lying on the beach and listening
To the great waters. Still, for mother's sake,
Ashore we had to tarry. By and by,
The restlessness grew worse, and show'd itself
In other ways,—taking a drop too much,
Fighting and cutty-stooling—and the folk
Began to shake their heads. Amid it all,
One night when Dan was reading out God's Book,
(That bit about the Storm, where Peter tries
To walk on water, and begins to sink,)
Old mother sigh'd and seem'd to go to sleep,
And when we tried to wake her, she was dead.
I mind it all. How pleasant for a time
Was life on land: the tousling with the girls,
The merry-making in the public-house,
The cosy bed on winter nights. We work'd—
233
And kept old mother for a year and more.
But ere the year was out, the life grew dull:
We never heard the wind blow, but we thought
Of sailing on the sea,—we got a knack
Of lying on the beach and listening
To the great waters. Still, for mother's sake,
Ashore we had to tarry. By and by,
The restlessness grew worse, and show'd itself
In other ways,—taking a drop too much,
Fighting and cutty-stooling—and the folk
Began to shake their heads. Amid it all,
One night when Dan was reading out God's Book,
(That bit about the Storm, where Peter tries
To walk on water, and begins to sink,)
Old mother sigh'd and seem'd to go to sleep,
And when we tried to wake her, she was dead.
With sore, sore hearts we laid poor mother down;
And walk'd that day up yonder cliffs, and lay
A hearkening to the Sea that wash'd beneath:
Far, far away we saw a sail gleam wet
Out of a rainy spot below the line
Where sky and water meet; the Deep was calm,
And overhead went clouds whose shadows floated
Slowly beneath, and here and there were places
Purple and green and blue, and close to land
The red-sail'd fish-boats in a violet patch.
I look'd at brother Dan, Dan look'd at me,—
And that same morning, off we went again!
And walk'd that day up yonder cliffs, and lay
A hearkening to the Sea that wash'd beneath:
Far, far away we saw a sail gleam wet
Out of a rainy spot below the line
Where sky and water meet; the Deep was calm,
And overhead went clouds whose shadows floated
Slowly beneath, and here and there were places
Purple and green and blue, and close to land
The red-sail'd fish-boats in a violet patch.
I look'd at brother Dan, Dan look'd at me,—
And that same morning, off we went again!
No rest for us on land from that day forth.
We grew to love the waters; they became
Part of our flesh and blood; the Sea, the Sea,
The busy whistling round the foam-girt world,
Was all our pleasure. Now and then we met,—
Once in a year or two, and never came
To Scotland but we took a journey here
To look on mother's grave, and spend a day
With old companions. But we never thought
Of resting long, and never hoped to die
Ashore, like mother: we had fix'd it, Jack,
That we must drown some day. At last, by luck,
We ran together. Dan had got a place
As captain of a brig, and, press'd by him,
They made me mate. Ten years we sail'd together,
From Liverpool to New South Wales and back;
And we were lads no more, but staid, strong men,
Forty and upward,—yet with kibble arms,
Brown cheeks, and cheerful hearts. Then the ill wind
That blows no good to anyone began,
And brought us back to Scotland, to this place
Where we were born and bred.
We grew to love the waters; they became
Part of our flesh and blood; the Sea, the Sea,
The busy whistling round the foam-girt world,
Was all our pleasure. Now and then we met,—
Once in a year or two, and never came
To Scotland but we took a journey here
To look on mother's grave, and spend a day
With old companions. But we never thought
Of resting long, and never hoped to die
Ashore, like mother: we had fix'd it, Jack,
That we must drown some day. At last, by luck,
We ran together. Dan had got a place
As captain of a brig, and, press'd by him,
They made me mate. Ten years we sail'd together,
From Liverpool to New South Wales and back;
And we were lads no more, but staid, strong men,
Forty and upward,—yet with kibble arms,
Brown cheeks, and cheerful hearts. Then the ill wind
That blows no good to anyone began,
And brought us back to Scotland, to this place
Where we were born and bred.
Now, mark you, Jack,
Even a sailor is but flesh and blood,
Though out upon the water he can laugh
At women and their ways; a run on shore,
A splash among the dawties and the drink,
Soon tires, soon tires—then hey! away again
To the wild life that's worthy of a man!
At forty, though, a sailor should be wise,
And 'ware temptation: whole a sailor, free,
But only half a sailor, though afloat,
When wedded. Don't you guess? Though Dan was old,
His head was turn'd, while in the clachan here,
And by a woman,—Effie Paterson,
The daughter of a farmer on the hills,
And only twenty. Bonnie, say you? Ay:
As sweet a pout as ever grew on land;
But soft and tender, with a quiet face
That needed the warm hearth to light it up,
And went snow-pallid at a puff of wind
Or whiff of danger. When I saw the trap,
I tried my best to wheedle Dan away,
Back to the brig; but, red as ricks on fire,
He glinted with those angry eyes of his,
And linger'd. Then, 'twas nearly time to sail;
I talk'd of going, and it all came out:
He meant to marry, Jack!—and not content
With marrying, he meant to stop ashore!
Even a sailor is but flesh and blood,
Though out upon the water he can laugh
At women and their ways; a run on shore,
A splash among the dawties and the drink,
Soon tires, soon tires—then hey! away again
To the wild life that's worthy of a man!
At forty, though, a sailor should be wise,
And 'ware temptation: whole a sailor, free,
But only half a sailor, though afloat,
When wedded. Don't you guess? Though Dan was old,
His head was turn'd, while in the clachan here,
And by a woman,—Effie Paterson,
The daughter of a farmer on the hills,
And only twenty. Bonnie, say you? Ay:
As sweet a pout as ever grew on land;
But soft and tender, with a quiet face
That needed the warm hearth to light it up,
And went snow-pallid at a puff of wind
Or whiff of danger. When I saw the trap,
I tried my best to wheedle Dan away,
Back to the brig; but, red as ricks on fire,
He glinted with those angry eyes of his,
234
I talk'd of going, and it all came out:
He meant to marry, Jack!—and not content
With marrying, he meant to stop ashore!
Why, if a lightning flash had split our craft,
I should have wonder'd less. But, ‘Bob,’ says he,
‘I love this lassie as I never thought
'Twas in my heart to love; and I have saved;
And I am tired of drifting here and there
On yonder waters: I have earn'd my rest,
And mean to stop ashore until I die.’
'Twas little use to argue things with Dan
When he had settled aught within his mind;
So all I said was vain. What could I do
But put a sunny face upon it all,
And bid him hasten on the day, that I
Might see his wedding, and be off again?
I should have wonder'd less. But, ‘Bob,’ says he,
‘I love this lassie as I never thought
'Twas in my heart to love; and I have saved;
And I am tired of drifting here and there
On yonder waters: I have earn'd my rest,
And mean to stop ashore until I die.’
'Twas little use to argue things with Dan
When he had settled aught within his mind;
So all I said was vain. What could I do
But put a sunny face upon it all,
And bid him hasten on the day, that I
Might see his wedding, and be off again?
Yet soon I guess'd, before the wedding day,
That Effie did not care a cheep for Dan,
But scunner'd at his brave rough ways and tales
Of danger on the deep. His was a voice
Meant for the winds, with little power to whisper
The soft sleek things that make the women blush,
And tingle, and look sweet. Moreover, Dan
Was forty, and the lassie but a child.
I saw it all, but dared not speak my thought!
For Dan had money, Effie's folks were poor,
And Dan was blind, and Effie gave consent,
And talk was no avail. The wedding guests
Went up to Effie's home one pleasant day,
The minister dropp'd in, the kirk-bells rang,
And all was over. 'Twas a summer morn,
The blue above was fleck'd with feathery down,
The Sea was smooth, and peaceful, and the kirk
Stood mossy here upon the little hill,
And seem'd to smile a blessing over all.
That Effie did not care a cheep for Dan,
But scunner'd at his brave rough ways and tales
Of danger on the deep. His was a voice
Meant for the winds, with little power to whisper
The soft sleek things that make the women blush,
And tingle, and look sweet. Moreover, Dan
Was forty, and the lassie but a child.
I saw it all, but dared not speak my thought!
For Dan had money, Effie's folks were poor,
And Dan was blind, and Effie gave consent,
And talk was no avail. The wedding guests
Went up to Effie's home one pleasant day,
The minister dropp'd in, the kirk-bells rang,
And all was over. 'Twas a summer morn,
The blue above was fleck'd with feathery down,
The Sea was smooth, and peaceful, and the kirk
Stood mossy here upon the little hill,
And seem'd to smile a blessing over all.
And Effie? Ah! keep me from women, Jack!
Give them a bit o' sunshine—and they smile,
Give them a bit o' darkness—and they weep;
But smiles and tears with them are easy things,
And cheat ye like the winds. On such a day,
With everybody happy roundabout,
Effie look'd happy too; and if her face
Flush'd and was fearful, that was only joy;
For when a woman blushes, who can tell
Whether the cause be gladness, pride, or shame?
And Dan (God bless him!) look'd as young as you,
Trembled and redden'd lass-like, and I swear,
Had he not been a sailor, would have cried.
So I was cheer'd, next day, when off I went
To take his post as captain of the brig,
And I forgot my fears, and thought them wrong,
And went across the seas with easy heart,
Thinking I left a happy man behind.
Give them a bit o' sunshine—and they smile,
Give them a bit o' darkness—and they weep;
But smiles and tears with them are easy things,
And cheat ye like the winds. On such a day,
With everybody happy roundabout,
Effie look'd happy too; and if her face
Flush'd and was fearful, that was only joy;
For when a woman blushes, who can tell
Whether the cause be gladness, pride, or shame?
And Dan (God bless him!) look'd as young as you,
Trembled and redden'd lass-like, and I swear,
Had he not been a sailor, would have cried.
So I was cheer'd, next day, when off I went
To take his post as captain of the brig,
And I forgot my fears, and thought them wrong,
And went across the seas with easy heart,
Thinking I left a happy man behind.
But often, out at sea, I thought of Dan,
Wonder'd if he was happy. When the nights
Were quiet, still, and peaceful, I would lie
And listen to the washing of the waves,
And think: ‘I wonder if this very light
Is dropping far away on poor old Dan?
And if his face looks happy in it, while
He sleeps by Effie's side?’ On windy nights
I used to think of Dan with trouble and fear;
And often, when the waves were mountains high,
And we were lying-to before the wind,
The screaming surges seem'd to take the shape
Of this old clachan, and I seem'd to hear
Dan calling me; and I would drink the salt,
And pace the deck with all my blood on fire,
Thinking—‘If Dan were driving on out here,
Dashing and weather-beaten, never still,
He would be happier!’
Wonder'd if he was happy. When the nights
Were quiet, still, and peaceful, I would lie
And listen to the washing of the waves,
And think: ‘I wonder if this very light
Is dropping far away on poor old Dan?
And if his face looks happy in it, while
He sleeps by Effie's side?’ On windy nights
I used to think of Dan with trouble and fear;
And often, when the waves were mountains high,
And we were lying-to before the wind,
The screaming surges seem'd to take the shape
Of this old clachan, and I seem'd to hear
Dan calling me; and I would drink the salt,
And pace the deck with all my blood on fire,
Thinking—‘If Dan were driving on out here,
Dashing and weather-beaten, never still,
He would be happier!’
235
Ay! though the Storm
Roll'd on between us, voices came from Dan
To tell me he was lonely on the land.
Often, when I was sailing in the ship,
He crept about these caves and watch'd the Moon
Silv'ring the windless places of the sea,
And thought of me! or on the beach he lay,
And wearied to the breaking of the waves!
Or out from land he row'd his boat, and gazed
Wistfully eastward! or on windy nights
He speel'd yon cliffs above the shore, and set
His teeth together in the rain and wind,
Straining eyes seaward, seeking lights at sea,
And pacing up and down upon the brink
As if he trode the decks! Why, things like those
Saved him from sinking, salted all his blood,
And soothed his heartache. Wind and wave are far
More merciful than a young woman's heart!
Roll'd on between us, voices came from Dan
To tell me he was lonely on the land.
Often, when I was sailing in the ship,
He crept about these caves and watch'd the Moon
Silv'ring the windless places of the sea,
And thought of me! or on the beach he lay,
And wearied to the breaking of the waves!
Or out from land he row'd his boat, and gazed
Wistfully eastward! or on windy nights
He speel'd yon cliffs above the shore, and set
His teeth together in the rain and wind,
Straining eyes seaward, seeking lights at sea,
And pacing up and down upon the brink
As if he trode the decks! Why, things like those
Saved him from sinking, salted all his blood,
And soothed his heartache. Wind and wave are far
More merciful than a young woman's heart!
Why, had she been a bickering hizzie, fill'd
With fire and temper, stubborn as a whin,
And cushlingmushling o'er a cheerless fire,
Dan might have brought her round: that was the work
He understood full well; and, right or wrong,
He would have been the Skipper to the end.
But though a man who has been train'd at sea,
Holding a hard strong grip on desperate men,
Can sink his voice and play a gentle part
In sunny seasons, he has little power
To fight with women's weapons. Dan, be sure,
Loved Effie with a love the deeper far
And tenderer because he had been bred
On the rough brine; but when, from day to day,
He met a weary and a waning face,
That tried to smile, indeed, but could not smile,
And saw the tears where never tears should be,
Yet never met an angry look or word,
What could he do? He loved the lass too well
To scold; tried soothing words, but they were spent
Upon a heart where the cold crancreuch grew;
And, when the sorrow grew too sharp to bear,
Stole sicken'd from the dwelling. Plain he saw
The lass was dreary, though she kept so still,
And loved him not, though nothing harsh was said,
But fretted, and grew thin, and haunted him
With a pale face of gentleness and grief.
O Jack, Jack, Jack! of all the things accurst,
Worse than a tempest and the rocks ahead,
Is misty weather, not a breath of wind,
And the low moaning of some unseen shore!
Homeless and sad and troubled by her face,
If Dan had let his heart and brain keep still,
Let the sick mildew settle on his soul,
He would have shrunk into a wretched thing
The rains might beat on, and the winds might lash,
And ne'er have had the heart to stand erect,
And set his teeth, and face them, and subdue.
What could he do, but try to ease his heart
By haunting yonder beach, and glorying
In stormy seasons, thinking of the life
He used to lead, with ocean-sound for ever
Making a second life within his blood,
Thinking of me, and feeling that his soul
Was soothed a bit by his old friend the Sea?
With fire and temper, stubborn as a whin,
And cushlingmushling o'er a cheerless fire,
Dan might have brought her round: that was the work
He understood full well; and, right or wrong,
He would have been the Skipper to the end.
But though a man who has been train'd at sea,
Holding a hard strong grip on desperate men,
Can sink his voice and play a gentle part
In sunny seasons, he has little power
To fight with women's weapons. Dan, be sure,
Loved Effie with a love the deeper far
And tenderer because he had been bred
On the rough brine; but when, from day to day,
He met a weary and a waning face,
That tried to smile, indeed, but could not smile,
And saw the tears where never tears should be,
Yet never met an angry look or word,
What could he do? He loved the lass too well
To scold; tried soothing words, but they were spent
Upon a heart where the cold crancreuch grew;
And, when the sorrow grew too sharp to bear,
Stole sicken'd from the dwelling. Plain he saw
The lass was dreary, though she kept so still,
And loved him not, though nothing harsh was said,
But fretted, and grew thin, and haunted him
With a pale face of gentleness and grief.
O Jack, Jack, Jack! of all the things accurst,
Worse than a tempest and the rocks ahead,
Is misty weather, not a breath of wind,
And the low moaning of some unseen shore!
Homeless and sad and troubled by her face,
If Dan had let his heart and brain keep still,
Let the sick mildew settle on his soul,
He would have shrunk into a wretched thing
The rains might beat on, and the winds might lash,
And ne'er have had the heart to stand erect,
And set his teeth, and face them, and subdue.
What could he do, but try to ease his heart
By haunting yonder beach, and glorying
In stormy seasons, thinking of the life
He used to lead, with ocean-sound for ever
Making a second life within his blood,
Thinking of me, and feeling that his soul
Was soothed a bit by his old friend the Sea?
And Effie, as the dawn look'd down each day,
Turn'd from the happy shining of the sun,
In wanrest and in tears; and poor old Dan
Dree'd bitterly the dreary life on land.
No stanchgrass ever heal'd a wound so deep!
Turn'd from the happy shining of the sun,
In wanrest and in tears; and poor old Dan
Dree'd bitterly the dreary life on land.
No stanchgrass ever heal'd a wound so deep!
'Twas comfort dwelling in so wild a place,
So near to open water; but for that,
I do not think he could have borne to dwell
Pining ashore. His trouble grew and grew:
No corsy-belly warm'd at Effie's fire,
No doctor's watch tick'd by the jizzen-bed,
No sound of tiny footfalls fill'd the house
With happy cheer; the dull and lifeless mood
Grew on the wife; her sense of shame seem'd gone;
She paid no heed to dress, or to the house,
But faded, like a pale-faced, listless flower,
Grown in a weedy garden. Then, indeed,
To see all household goods neglected so,
The crowsfeet gathering round Effie's eyes,
The ingleside so cheerless and so cold,
Dan clench'd his fists, and storm'd with thunder-voice;
But Effie only trembled, and was still,
Or threw her apron o'er her face and wept;
And Dan, who never in his life could bear
To see a woman weep, pleaded and begg'd,—
Without avail. Then many and many a night
He roam'd the silent cliffs till peep of day,
Or join'd the fishers, out upon the sea;
And many and many a night he thought he heard
My voice a-calling him. One night of storm,
When the sky murmur'd, and the foam-fleck'd sea
Flash'd in the fireflaught round the shadowy cliffs,
He fix'd to run away;—but could not go,
Until he gazed on Effie's face once more;
And when he stole into her room unheard,
He saw her sleeping with a happy smile,
So still, so sweet, so bonnie in her dream,
So like the shining lass she used to be,
That his heart sank, he swaver'd forth again,
And lay upon the waterside and wept,
And tho' the wind was whistling in his eyes,
Tho' the still fireflaught flash'd upon the foam,
He felt too weak, too timid, and too sad,
To quit her in the little cottage here,
And dree again the dangers of the deep.
So near to open water; but for that,
I do not think he could have borne to dwell
Pining ashore. His trouble grew and grew:
No corsy-belly warm'd at Effie's fire,
No doctor's watch tick'd by the jizzen-bed,
236
With happy cheer; the dull and lifeless mood
Grew on the wife; her sense of shame seem'd gone;
She paid no heed to dress, or to the house,
But faded, like a pale-faced, listless flower,
Grown in a weedy garden. Then, indeed,
To see all household goods neglected so,
The crowsfeet gathering round Effie's eyes,
The ingleside so cheerless and so cold,
Dan clench'd his fists, and storm'd with thunder-voice;
But Effie only trembled, and was still,
Or threw her apron o'er her face and wept;
And Dan, who never in his life could bear
To see a woman weep, pleaded and begg'd,—
Without avail. Then many and many a night
He roam'd the silent cliffs till peep of day,
Or join'd the fishers, out upon the sea;
And many and many a night he thought he heard
My voice a-calling him. One night of storm,
When the sky murmur'd, and the foam-fleck'd sea
Flash'd in the fireflaught round the shadowy cliffs,
He fix'd to run away;—but could not go,
Until he gazed on Effie's face once more;
And when he stole into her room unheard,
He saw her sleeping with a happy smile,
So still, so sweet, so bonnie in her dream,
So like the shining lass she used to be,
That his heart sank, he swaver'd forth again,
And lay upon the waterside and wept,
And tho' the wind was whistling in his eyes,
Tho' the still fireflaught flash'd upon the foam,
He felt too weak, too timid, and too sad,
To quit her in the little cottage here,
And dree again the dangers of the deep.
The house is yonder—ay, the slated house,
With little patch of garden. Mark the pool
Of water at the door. Beyond you see
The line of boats, drawn high and dry, and yonder
The dull, green water, with the purple stain
Out eastward, and the sunlight slanting through
Upon a sail. Mark how the clachan lies
Down in the gully, with the barren hills,
Where never ran-tree waves its silver hair,
On either side. Look backward, now! The glen,
Hollow'd between the hills, goes inland, far
As eye can see—with yellow pools of rain,
And cattle looking shadowy in the mists
Upon the slopes. How still and dull looks all!
'Tis plain you gather, with a sailor's eye,
The danger. When the rains have lasted long,
The yellow Waters (rightly christen'd here
The Scaith o' Bartle) gather up the glen,
Suck in the strength of flying mist and cloud,
And, bursting from the hollows where they meet,
Rush seaward, with a roaring like the sea,
O'erwhelming all. Thrice has the mischief come
In one-and-twenty years.
With little patch of garden. Mark the pool
Of water at the door. Beyond you see
The line of boats, drawn high and dry, and yonder
The dull, green water, with the purple stain
Out eastward, and the sunlight slanting through
Upon a sail. Mark how the clachan lies
Down in the gully, with the barren hills,
Where never ran-tree waves its silver hair,
On either side. Look backward, now! The glen,
Hollow'd between the hills, goes inland, far
As eye can see—with yellow pools of rain,
And cattle looking shadowy in the mists
Upon the slopes. How still and dull looks all!
'Tis plain you gather, with a sailor's eye,
The danger. When the rains have lasted long,
The yellow Waters (rightly christen'd here
The Scaith o' Bartle) gather up the glen,
Suck in the strength of flying mist and cloud,
And, bursting from the hollows where they meet,
Rush seaward, with a roaring like the sea,
O'erwhelming all. Thrice has the mischief come
In one-and-twenty years.
When I came home,
A month ago, and walk'd across the hills
From Cardy town, I paused on yonder cliffs,
And saw the clachan lying at my feet,—
The setting sun shining upon the house
Where Dan was dwelling. Nought was alter'd there!
The very smacks and fish-boats just the same
As when I quitted. While I stood and gazed,
I saw a stooping figure with a staff,
Standing hard by me on the cliffs, and gazing
Silently seaward. As I look'd, he turn'd,
And though the face was haggard, worn, and old,
And every hair upon the head was gray,
And the fresh life about the limbs was lost,
I knew old Dan, and, shouting blithely, ran
To hug him to my heart; and he turn'd white,
Shaking like straw in wind, to find 'twas me.
Then, when the shock was over, and we talk'd,
He brighten'd,—as an icicle turns bright
When shone on. But my heart was shock'd and sore!
He was the ghost of what he once had been;
His voice was broken, and his welcome seem'd
Like one's who, sinking on his pillow, smiles
To see a face he loves before he dies;
And when his air grew cheerier, and at last
His love for me came lighter on his look,
His cheeriness seem'd sadder far than all.
Swavering down the path, he took my arm,
Leant heavily on his staff, as if he dream'd,
Talk'd of old times, and friends alive and dead,
Until we halted at his cottage door;
And, while he lifted up the latch, he cast
His eyes to windward, read the weather signs,
After old habit, ere he enter'd in.
A month ago, and walk'd across the hills
From Cardy town, I paused on yonder cliffs,
And saw the clachan lying at my feet,—
The setting sun shining upon the house
Where Dan was dwelling. Nought was alter'd there!
The very smacks and fish-boats just the same
As when I quitted. While I stood and gazed,
I saw a stooping figure with a staff,
Standing hard by me on the cliffs, and gazing
Silently seaward. As I look'd, he turn'd,
And though the face was haggard, worn, and old,
And every hair upon the head was gray,
And the fresh life about the limbs was lost,
I knew old Dan, and, shouting blithely, ran
To hug him to my heart; and he turn'd white,
Shaking like straw in wind, to find 'twas me.
Then, when the shock was over, and we talk'd,
He brighten'd,—as an icicle turns bright
When shone on. But my heart was shock'd and sore!
He was the ghost of what he once had been;
His voice was broken, and his welcome seem'd
237
To see a face he loves before he dies;
And when his air grew cheerier, and at last
His love for me came lighter on his look,
His cheeriness seem'd sadder far than all.
Swavering down the path, he took my arm,
Leant heavily on his staff, as if he dream'd,
Talk'd of old times, and friends alive and dead,
Until we halted at his cottage door;
And, while he lifted up the latch, he cast
His eyes to windward, read the weather signs,
After old habit, ere he enter'd in.
Effie was there,—changed too; she welcomed me,
Moved but and ben the house with a light step,
And smiled a bit:—all women have a smile,
A happiness, a kind of second self,
Kept for fresh faces. Yet I saw full soon
The bield was homeless; little love was there;
Ah, that was common talk aroundabout!
The first flush faded soon from Effie's face,
Leaving it dull and wan; she moved about
Like a sick lassie risen from a dream;
And oft, when we were seated in the lowe,
She started, and her colour went and came;
And though her features wore a kind of fear,
There was a light of youth there: she would keek
At Dan, whose eyes were fix'd upon the fire,
Hang o'er her knitting, breathing deep, and then
Hearken and hearken, till the soft bright blush
Died by degrees, her face became composed
To pallor, and the light had gone away,
Leaving her sick and soopit once again.
Moved but and ben the house with a light step,
And smiled a bit:—all women have a smile,
A happiness, a kind of second self,
Kept for fresh faces. Yet I saw full soon
The bield was homeless; little love was there;
Ah, that was common talk aroundabout!
The first flush faded soon from Effie's face,
Leaving it dull and wan; she moved about
Like a sick lassie risen from a dream;
And oft, when we were seated in the lowe,
She started, and her colour went and came;
And though her features wore a kind of fear,
There was a light of youth there: she would keek
At Dan, whose eyes were fix'd upon the fire,
Hang o'er her knitting, breathing deep, and then
Hearken and hearken, till the soft bright blush
Died by degrees, her face became composed
To pallor, and the light had gone away,
Leaving her sick and soopit once again.
At last, when we were smoking in the bield
One dull day in November, Dan arose
And took his stick, and, beckoning me, went out:
I follow'd; and he never spake a word,
But gript me by the arm, and walk'd along,
Until we left the clachan far behind,
And took a pathway winding up the hills.
For many weeks, at intervals, the rain
Had fallen; and the hills were dreeping damp,
And down their sides ran many streams new-born,
Making an eerie murmur. Far away
Ben Callachan was glimmering through a mist,
And all round Bartle rose a vaporous steam
Silent and white, with cattle here and there
Dismally looming. Still and dull was all—
So still, so chill; only the faint sharp stir
That is a sound, but seems a click within
The ear itself;—save when from far away
A cow would low, and echoes faint and far
Died inland, or when, blowing on the wind,
A cry came from the sea, whose waves we saw
Beyond us, breaking in a shadowy cloud,
With gleams of glittering foam. But Dan walk'd on,
Scarce heeding ought; and yet his sailor's eye
Took in the signs, and glinted up and down
With the old cunning; but his heart was full,
His voice was broken like a weeping wean's,
And as we went along he told me all.
One dull day in November, Dan arose
And took his stick, and, beckoning me, went out:
I follow'd; and he never spake a word,
But gript me by the arm, and walk'd along,
Until we left the clachan far behind,
And took a pathway winding up the hills.
For many weeks, at intervals, the rain
Had fallen; and the hills were dreeping damp,
And down their sides ran many streams new-born,
Making an eerie murmur. Far away
Ben Callachan was glimmering through a mist,
And all round Bartle rose a vaporous steam
Silent and white, with cattle here and there
Dismally looming. Still and dull was all—
So still, so chill; only the faint sharp stir
That is a sound, but seems a click within
The ear itself;—save when from far away
A cow would low, and echoes faint and far
Died inland, or when, blowing on the wind,
A cry came from the sea, whose waves we saw
Beyond us, breaking in a shadowy cloud,
With gleams of glittering foam. But Dan walk'd on,
Scarce heeding ought; and yet his sailor's eye
Took in the signs, and glinted up and down
With the old cunning; but his heart was full,
His voice was broken like a weeping wean's,
And as we went along he told me all.
All that you guess! but somewhat more —a thought
Of later growth, a nettle in his heart—
That Effie was not true, as wives should be;
And that her fairest thoughts were fallen things
That clung around a fresh young lover's knees.
I stared at Dan, and hearken'd in amaze!
His grip was tight upon my arm, his face
White as the snow on Callachan, his voice
Shrill as a sea-gull's shriek; and all at once
He waved his arms, turn'd his wild face away,
And cried aloud with a full heart—‘O God!
Why did I ever cease to sail the Sea?’
Of later growth, a nettle in his heart—
That Effie was not true, as wives should be;
And that her fairest thoughts were fallen things
That clung around a fresh young lover's knees.
I stared at Dan, and hearken'd in amaze!
His grip was tight upon my arm, his face
White as the snow on Callachan, his voice
Shrill as a sea-gull's shriek; and all at once
He waved his arms, turn'd his wild face away,
And cried aloud with a full heart—‘O God!
Why did I ever cease to sail the Sea?’
I tried to argue with him—he was dumb!
And yet I saw, had I been daft enough
To echo him, he would have hated me.
He only half believed the things he said,
And would have turn'd in wrath on any man
Who could believe them true, and say the same.
He loved the braxie still, as few can love.
Save the Good Shepherd, who has love for all!
Could not have tholed to hear another's thoughts
Condemn her! blamed himself for all his grief!
And gladly would have died beneath her feet,
To win one word, one kiss, one shining look,
To show his love had not been quite in vain!
And yet I saw, had I been daft enough
To echo him, he would have hated me.
He only half believed the things he said,
And would have turn'd in wrath on any man
Who could believe them true, and say the same.
He loved the braxie still, as few can love.
238
Could not have tholed to hear another's thoughts
Condemn her! blamed himself for all his grief!
And gladly would have died beneath her feet,
To win one word, one kiss, one shining look,
To show his love had not been quite in vain!
But on we fared, so fill'd with our own thoughts,
We scarcely saw how far away we wander'd,
How mirk all grew, how close the gathering clouds
Drew to the hill-tops, while the cattle raised
Their heads into the dismal air and cried.
Then, suddenly, there came a lightning gleam
That for a moment lighted up the hills,
The far off cliffs, and the far flash of foam,
And faded,—to a sound as if the earth
And heavens were torn asunder. Soon the storm
Deepen'd—the thunder and the lightning came
Ofter than dark or silence; and I felt
Far less myself on those dull endless heights,
Than seeing, hearing, from my ship at sea.
But Dan said little; only, as the drops
Of rain began to fall, he led the way
Into a mountain shieling, roof'd with turfs,
Where we in shelter crouch'd, and still talk'd on
Of his dull ingleside, his darken'd days,
The terror and the pain he had to dree.
And ‘All I care for now is ended, Bob!
I want to die, but not to leave the lass
Untended and unhappy. After all,
I cannot blame her for her crancreuch face,—
She is so young—mid-eild is past with me—
Be sure that she would love me if she could!’
And then he glower'd out on the dark, and groan'd,
‘Would I were in my grave!—would I were doom'd
Among the waves!—would I were far out yonder,
Praying and sinking in a boat at sea!’
We scarcely saw how far away we wander'd,
How mirk all grew, how close the gathering clouds
Drew to the hill-tops, while the cattle raised
Their heads into the dismal air and cried.
Then, suddenly, there came a lightning gleam
That for a moment lighted up the hills,
The far off cliffs, and the far flash of foam,
And faded,—to a sound as if the earth
And heavens were torn asunder. Soon the storm
Deepen'd—the thunder and the lightning came
Ofter than dark or silence; and I felt
Far less myself on those dull endless heights,
Than seeing, hearing, from my ship at sea.
But Dan said little; only, as the drops
Of rain began to fall, he led the way
Into a mountain shieling, roof'd with turfs,
Where we in shelter crouch'd, and still talk'd on
Of his dull ingleside, his darken'd days,
The terror and the pain he had to dree.
And ‘All I care for now is ended, Bob!
I want to die, but not to leave the lass
Untended and unhappy. After all,
I cannot blame her for her crancreuch face,—
She is so young—mid-eild is past with me—
Be sure that she would love me if she could!’
And then he glower'd out on the dark, and groan'd,
‘Would I were in my grave!—would I were doom'd
Among the waves!—would I were far out yonder,
Praying and sinking in a boat at sea!’
And I was silent; but the elements
Made answer. With a clash like iron fell
The headlong torrent of the soot-black clouds,
Drowning the thunders with its dreesome cry,
Birming above, around, and smiting earth
With strength of stone. Never for many a year
Had such a fall been known: it seem'd the Lord
Unlocking all His waters to destroy
The bad world o'er again. No rainbow there
To promise sunshine and a speedy end!
For 'twas the Black Rain, which had once or twice
Gone southward, making frighted Elders groan,
And which old wives in Bartle often call
The ‘Deil's rain,’ thinking Satan flies him-self,
Dropping the dreadful blackness from above.
Silent we waited, watching, and the air
Was full of a great roar—the sods beneath
Seem'd shaking—and the rain-wash forced a way
Through the thick turf above our heads, and fell
Upon us, splashing, as with watery ink,
Our hands and faces. But I saw Dan's eye
Had kindled. He was younger. For the sounds
Quicken'd his sense of life, brought up his strength,
And minded him of former fearsome days
Upon the Ocean; and his other self—
The sickly self that lived the life on land—
Forsook him. Then there was a lull, a pause—
Not broken by the further fall of rain,
Nor by the thunder-claps, but by a sign
More terrible than all—a roar, a groan,
A motion as of waters, and a sound
Like the dread surging of an angry Sea.
Made answer. With a clash like iron fell
The headlong torrent of the soot-black clouds,
Drowning the thunders with its dreesome cry,
Birming above, around, and smiting earth
With strength of stone. Never for many a year
Had such a fall been known: it seem'd the Lord
Unlocking all His waters to destroy
The bad world o'er again. No rainbow there
To promise sunshine and a speedy end!
For 'twas the Black Rain, which had once or twice
Gone southward, making frighted Elders groan,
And which old wives in Bartle often call
The ‘Deil's rain,’ thinking Satan flies him-self,
Dropping the dreadful blackness from above.
Silent we waited, watching, and the air
Was full of a great roar—the sods beneath
Seem'd shaking—and the rain-wash forced a way
Through the thick turf above our heads, and fell
Upon us, splashing, as with watery ink,
Our hands and faces. But I saw Dan's eye
Had kindled. He was younger. For the sounds
Quicken'd his sense of life, brought up his strength,
And minded him of former fearsome days
Upon the Ocean; and his other self—
The sickly self that lived the life on land—
Forsook him. Then there was a lull, a pause—
Not broken by the further fall of rain,
Nor by the thunder-claps, but by a sign
More terrible than all—a roar, a groan,
A motion as of waters, and a sound
Like the dread surging of an angry Sea.
And Dan threw up his arms, screaming aloud,
‘The Scaith! the Scaith!’—and groan'd, and rush'd away,—
I following close behind him in the mirk.
‘The Scaith! the Scaith!’—and groan'd, and rush'd away,—
I following close behind him in the mirk.
239
And on he tore, until he gain'd a craig,
Above the glen, yonder between the hills;
And cattle huddled round him, lowing loud,
And the Scaith thicken'd, and the murmur grew,
While we gazed down. The mists hung round the heights,
The rain still fell, but faintly,—and below,
Roaring on seaward, snatching in its course
Boulders and trees and cattle, rush'd the Scaith,
A blacken'd yellow wash of waters, foaming
Where'er it touched the feet of stone or steep,
And dizzily whirling round the great tree-roots
To twist them from their beds. White, scared, and stunn'd,
Dan groan'd, and sank upon his knees, and sobbed.
Done was the thunder; but the waters made
Another thunder, and the fireflaught came
Fainter and fainter. Then we heard from far
A sound more awful—shrieks of living men,
Children and women; while the thinning clouds
Parted to westward, brightening at the rims,
And rays of misty sunset slanted down
On Bartle, and the Scaith had seized its prey.
Above the glen, yonder between the hills;
And cattle huddled round him, lowing loud,
And the Scaith thicken'd, and the murmur grew,
While we gazed down. The mists hung round the heights,
The rain still fell, but faintly,—and below,
Roaring on seaward, snatching in its course
Boulders and trees and cattle, rush'd the Scaith,
A blacken'd yellow wash of waters, foaming
Where'er it touched the feet of stone or steep,
And dizzily whirling round the great tree-roots
To twist them from their beds. White, scared, and stunn'd,
Dan groan'd, and sank upon his knees, and sobbed.
Done was the thunder; but the waters made
Another thunder, and the fireflaught came
Fainter and fainter. Then we heard from far
A sound more awful—shrieks of living men,
Children and women; while the thinning clouds
Parted to westward, brightening at the rims,
And rays of misty sunset slanted down
On Bartle, and the Scaith had seized its prey.
‘Effie!’ cried Dan; and sped along the hills,
And would have rush'd right downward to his death
Had I not gript him. But we found a way
O'er the hillside, and gain'd the northern height
Above the clachan. Jack, until I die,
That hour will haunt me! For the village lay
Naip-deep beneath the moaning rain-dyed flood,
And bields sank shatter'd, and the sunset cold
Gleam'd upon Bartle and the sea beyond;
And on the slopes on either side there gather'd
Women and men: some screeching as they saw
The Scaith drink up their houses and their goods,
Some crying for the friends they could not see,
Some sitting still, and looking on their bairns,
As if they had gone wild. Then Dan glared round,
Seeking for Effie,—but he saw her not;
And the damp sunset gleaming on his face,
Grimed with the rain-drops, show'd it ghastly pale,
But he was cool as he had often been
On gruesome nights at sea. ‘She is not here!’
He whispered; ‘yet she cannot but be saved.
Perchance she gathers with the folk that stand
Waving their arms yonder across the flood:
Oh! would my eyes were young that I might see.’
That way I gazed; but all that I could see
Were mists beyond the clachan; down below,
The wildly washing waters; here and there,
Women and children screaming on the roofs,
While punts and skiffs were gliding here and there,
Piloting slowly through the rocks and walls,
To succour those unsaved; at intervals
A leafless tree-top peering through the water,
While frighted birds lit on its twigs, or wheel'd
Around it crying. Then, ‘A boat! a boat!’
Dan cried; but he was crying to the air:
The folk around him heard and made a stir,—
But some scarce raised their wild and watery eyes,
And some stopp'd moaning, look'd at him who cried,
And then again sat rocking to and fro,
Gazing straight downward, and with eerie groans
Bewailing their own sorrow.
And would have rush'd right downward to his death
Had I not gript him. But we found a way
O'er the hillside, and gain'd the northern height
Above the clachan. Jack, until I die,
That hour will haunt me! For the village lay
Naip-deep beneath the moaning rain-dyed flood,
And bields sank shatter'd, and the sunset cold
Gleam'd upon Bartle and the sea beyond;
And on the slopes on either side there gather'd
Women and men: some screeching as they saw
The Scaith drink up their houses and their goods,
Some crying for the friends they could not see,
Some sitting still, and looking on their bairns,
As if they had gone wild. Then Dan glared round,
Seeking for Effie,—but he saw her not;
And the damp sunset gleaming on his face,
Grimed with the rain-drops, show'd it ghastly pale,
But he was cool as he had often been
On gruesome nights at sea. ‘She is not here!’
He whispered; ‘yet she cannot but be saved.
Perchance she gathers with the folk that stand
Waving their arms yonder across the flood:
Oh! would my eyes were young that I might see.’
That way I gazed; but all that I could see
Were mists beyond the clachan; down below,
The wildly washing waters; here and there,
Women and children screaming on the roofs,
While punts and skiffs were gliding here and there,
Piloting slowly through the rocks and walls,
To succour those unsaved; at intervals
A leafless tree-top peering through the water,
While frighted birds lit on its twigs, or wheel'd
Around it crying. Then, ‘A boat! a boat!’
Dan cried; but he was crying to the air:
The folk around him heard and made a stir,—
But some scarce raised their wild and watery eyes,
And some stopp'd moaning, look'd at him who cried,
And then again sat rocking to and fro,
Gazing straight downward, and with eerie groans
Bewailing their own sorrow.
Then the place
Blacken'd in gloaming—mists rose from the flood—
The sky turn'd black, with neither stars nor moon,
And down below, flashing from place to place,
The lights, like corpse-lights warning folk of death,
Flitted and faded, showing where the boats
Still moved about upon their weary work
And those who grieved were stiller all around;
The solemn moaning of the Scaith was hush'd,
Your ears could hear the sobbing of the Sea;
And only now and then a hollow splash
Spake plain of walls that yielded and slipt down
Into the waters. Then a light came near,
And to the water's edge a fishing-boat
Brought a dead fisher, and a little child
Who cried for ‘mither’; and as he who row'd
Handed the bairn to hungry outstretch'd arms,
And landed with the corpse, old Dan leapt in,
Snatching the lanthorn from the fisher's hand,
Push'd off ere I could follow, and had flown
Into the darkness . . .
Blacken'd in gloaming—mists rose from the flood—
The sky turn'd black, with neither stars nor moon,
240
The lights, like corpse-lights warning folk of death,
Flitted and faded, showing where the boats
Still moved about upon their weary work
And those who grieved were stiller all around;
The solemn moaning of the Scaith was hush'd,
Your ears could hear the sobbing of the Sea;
And only now and then a hollow splash
Spake plain of walls that yielded and slipt down
Into the waters. Then a light came near,
And to the water's edge a fishing-boat
Brought a dead fisher, and a little child
Who cried for ‘mither’; and as he who row'd
Handed the bairn to hungry outstretch'd arms,
And landed with the corpse, old Dan leapt in,
Snatching the lanthorn from the fisher's hand,
Push'd off ere I could follow, and had flown
Into the darkness . . .
Jack,—I never again
Saw poor old Dan, alive! Yet it was well
His woes were ended; for that very day,
Ere the Scaith came, Effie had crept from home,—
Ay, with a man;—and ere I knew the truth
Why, she was out upon the ocean waves,
And fleeing with the loon to Canada.
Ill winds pursue her! God will find her out!
He sent His water down to free old Dan,
And He is after her across the Deep!
Saw poor old Dan, alive! Yet it was well
His woes were ended; for that very day,
Ere the Scaith came, Effie had crept from home,—
Ay, with a man;—and ere I knew the truth
Why, she was out upon the ocean waves,
And fleeing with the loon to Canada.
Ill winds pursue her! God will find her out!
He sent His water down to free old Dan,
And He is after her across the Deep!
Next dawning, when the Scaith was part subdued,
And sinking slowly through the seams of earth,
Pouring in bright brown burns to join the sea,
Fouling with mud the line of breaking foam,
'Twas a most piteous sight to see the folk,
With spade and mattock, digging at the graves
Of their own dwellings; taking what was saved
With bitter thankless faces. Fallen walls,
And trees uprooted from the waste hillsides,
And boulders swept from far along the glen,
And household lumber gather'd everywhere,
Mingled in ruin; and the frailer bields
Were swept away for ever. As for me,
I had my work in hand. I took a spade
And waded through the thick and muddy pools,
('Twas still waist-deep,) right onward to the place
Where Dan had dwelt. For something drew me there,
Foremost of all. The bield was standing still,
Though doors and windows had been beaten in;
And as I splash'd along the passage, bits
Of household lumber tripped me; but I went
Right on to Effie's room, and there the flood
Was lying black and cold;—and there lay Dan.
And sinking slowly through the seams of earth,
Pouring in bright brown burns to join the sea,
Fouling with mud the line of breaking foam,
'Twas a most piteous sight to see the folk,
With spade and mattock, digging at the graves
Of their own dwellings; taking what was saved
With bitter thankless faces. Fallen walls,
And trees uprooted from the waste hillsides,
And boulders swept from far along the glen,
And household lumber gather'd everywhere,
Mingled in ruin; and the frailer bields
Were swept away for ever. As for me,
I had my work in hand. I took a spade
And waded through the thick and muddy pools,
('Twas still waist-deep,) right onward to the place
Where Dan had dwelt. For something drew me there,
Foremost of all. The bield was standing still,
Though doors and windows had been beaten in;
And as I splash'd along the passage, bits
Of household lumber tripped me; but I went
Right on to Effie's room, and there the flood
Was lying black and cold;—and there lay Dan.
Washing upon the water, with his face
Drawn downward, his hands clench'd, his long gray hair
Rippling around him—stiff, and cold, and dead
And when I turn'd his face up to the light,
I did not scunner much—it look'd so strong,
So seaman-like, and fine. I saw it all!
How he had drifted thither in the dark,
And found the water low around the bield,
But slowly rising; how he fought his way,
Search'd but and ben, and last, in Effie's room,
Stood ghastly in the lanthorn light, and saw
The place was empty; how, while there he stood,
Staring in horror, with an eldritch cry
The wild Scaith struck the crashing window panes,
Dash'd down the lanthorn, gript him in the dark,
Roar'd in his ears, and while it struck him down,
Out of his nostrils suck'd the breath of life.
Jack, Jack, we know there comes to men who drown
A sudden flashing picture of the past,—
And ah! how pitiful, how pitiful,
In that last minute did the picture come:
A vision of the sounding Sea afar,
A ghaistly ship upon it,—Effie's face,
Coming and going like to floating foam,—
The picture of the kirk upon the hill,
And sunshine smiling on the wedding guests,—
The shadowy cliffs where he had paced in pain,
The waves, the sun, the moon, the thought of me,
All thicken'd on him as he scream'd her name,
And struggled with the cruel Scaith, and died!
Drawn downward, his hands clench'd, his long gray hair
Rippling around him—stiff, and cold, and dead
And when I turn'd his face up to the light,
I did not scunner much—it look'd so strong,
So seaman-like, and fine. I saw it all!
How he had drifted thither in the dark,
And found the water low around the bield,
But slowly rising; how he fought his way,
Search'd but and ben, and last, in Effie's room,
Stood ghastly in the lanthorn light, and saw
The place was empty; how, while there he stood,
Staring in horror, with an eldritch cry
The wild Scaith struck the crashing window panes,
Dash'd down the lanthorn, gript him in the dark,
241
Out of his nostrils suck'd the breath of life.
Jack, Jack, we know there comes to men who drown
A sudden flashing picture of the past,—
And ah! how pitiful, how pitiful,
In that last minute did the picture come:
A vision of the sounding Sea afar,
A ghaistly ship upon it,—Effie's face,
Coming and going like to floating foam,—
The picture of the kirk upon the hill,
And sunshine smiling on the wedding guests,—
The shadowy cliffs where he had paced in pain,
The waves, the sun, the moon, the thought of me,
All thicken'd on him as he scream'd her name,
And struggled with the cruel Scaith, and died!
Ay! God Almighty's water, e'en ashore,
More merciful than women, found him out;
And here he lies, but should have lain else-where.
Had Scots law, and the blethering women's tongues,
Not hinder'd me,—I would have ta'en a boat,
And sewn his body in a sheet, with stones
Fasten'd beneath his soles to sink him down,
And row'd out yonder, westward, where the sun
Dips red beneath the straight blue water line,
Then said a prayer, and softly sent him down
Where he could sleep in peace, and hear for ever
The washing of the waters through the depths:
With flag-flowers o'er his head, great weeds all round,
And white salt foam-bells hanging in his ears,
His would have been a sailor's sleep indeed!
But as it is, he slumbers here on land,
In shade of Bartle Kirk, 'mong country loons
And fishermen that shrink at open Sea.
More merciful than women, found him out;
And here he lies, but should have lain else-where.
Had Scots law, and the blethering women's tongues,
Not hinder'd me,—I would have ta'en a boat,
And sewn his body in a sheet, with stones
Fasten'd beneath his soles to sink him down,
And row'd out yonder, westward, where the sun
Dips red beneath the straight blue water line,
Then said a prayer, and softly sent him down
Where he could sleep in peace, and hear for ever
The washing of the waters through the depths:
With flag-flowers o'er his head, great weeds all round,
And white salt foam-bells hanging in his ears,
His would have been a sailor's sleep indeed!
But as it is, he slumbers here on land,
In shade of Bartle Kirk, 'mong country loons
And fishermen that shrink at open Sea.
THE GLAMOUR.
The hills close round her—everywhere
Strange voices deepen in the air;
The pain, the hope, the agony,
Flash to a sense of mystery;
The shapes of earth and air and skies
Catch glamour in her weary eyes;
Worn with the pain, worn with the pain,
She would lie down, and sleep again!
Strange voices deepen in the air;
The pain, the hope, the agony,
Flash to a sense of mystery;
The shapes of earth and air and skies
Catch glamour in her weary eyes;
Worn with the pain, worn with the pain,
She would lie down, and sleep again!
O Lord my God, draw not Thy hand away—
The sleep-stoure fills my eyes—I feel my grave—
And I would reach a painless end, like those
Thy glamour ne'er hath troubled. I have been
O'er long a shadow on the paths of men,
O'er long a screeching bird in happy bields,
O'er long a haunted wanderer day and night.
Lord, let me die! Lord, let me die! Lord God,
Pity and spare me! Draw Thy hand away!
Thy breath is on me in the mirk, and ah!
I sicken sore, while yonder through the pane
Corpse-candles, blowing blue against the wind,
Flit slowly to the kirkyard, down Glen-Earn.
The sleep-stoure fills my eyes—I feel my grave—
And I would reach a painless end, like those
Thy glamour ne'er hath troubled. I have been
O'er long a shadow on the paths of men,
O'er long a screeching bird in happy bields,
O'er long a haunted wanderer day and night.
Lord, let me die! Lord, let me die! Lord God,
Pity and spare me! Draw Thy hand away!
Thy breath is on me in the mirk, and ah!
I sicken sore, while yonder through the pane
Corpse-candles, blowing blue against the wind,
Flit slowly to the kirkyard, down Glen-Earn.
What had I done, that Thou shouldst pick me out,
To breathe Thy glamour on? I was a lass
Happy and heartsome, till that dreesome day
I walk'd from kirk by moonlight down the glen,
And saw Maccaskill of Craig-Dhonil pass,
Sewn to the middle in his winding-sheet,
And waving hairy arms until I swoon'd;—
And ere a year was run Maccaskill died;
And then I kenn'd I had the bitter gift
My father and my father's father had.
Yet I was young, and felt a kind o' pride,
To see so far into Thy mysteries,—
To ken when man or wife was doom'd to die;
To see the young life in a lassie's wame,
Although her snood was whole; to prophesy
Tempests and human losses. Many a man
Then turn'd away; but Kenneth married me—
Kenneth Macdonald, sheep-herd on the hills,
A holy man and kind; and for a time
The glamour came no more, and I was gay,
Feeling the young bairn underneath my breast
Breathe softly with the rocking of my heart.
But in the winter gloaming, when the drift
Was thick around the door, and winds were blowing,
And I was lying on the jizzen-bed,
And Jean the howdie wash'd my paps with salt,
I saw a strange thing lying on her knee—
A span-long body in a blood-stain'd sowe—
And scream'd and cried, ‘Jean, Jean, the bairn will die!’
And so it was. For while old mother slipt
Out to the kitchen lowe, where Kenneth sat,
To drop a cinder through the wee white sark,
The bairn came dead into the chilly mirk;
And in the snowy dawning I beheld
The span-long body of my sweet first-born,
Wrapt in its sowe, upon the howdie's knee.
To breathe Thy glamour on? I was a lass
Happy and heartsome, till that dreesome day
I walk'd from kirk by moonlight down the glen,
And saw Maccaskill of Craig-Dhonil pass,
Sewn to the middle in his winding-sheet,
And waving hairy arms until I swoon'd;—
And ere a year was run Maccaskill died;
And then I kenn'd I had the bitter gift
My father and my father's father had.
Yet I was young, and felt a kind o' pride,
To see so far into Thy mysteries,—
To ken when man or wife was doom'd to die;
To see the young life in a lassie's wame,
Although her snood was whole; to prophesy
Tempests and human losses. Many a man
Then turn'd away; but Kenneth married me—
242
A holy man and kind; and for a time
The glamour came no more, and I was gay,
Feeling the young bairn underneath my breast
Breathe softly with the rocking of my heart.
But in the winter gloaming, when the drift
Was thick around the door, and winds were blowing,
And I was lying on the jizzen-bed,
And Jean the howdie wash'd my paps with salt,
I saw a strange thing lying on her knee—
A span-long body in a blood-stain'd sowe—
And scream'd and cried, ‘Jean, Jean, the bairn will die!’
And so it was. For while old mother slipt
Out to the kitchen lowe, where Kenneth sat,
To drop a cinder through the wee white sark,
The bairn came dead into the chilly mirk;
And in the snowy dawning I beheld
The span-long body of my sweet first-born,
Wrapt in its sowe, upon the howdie's knee.
But Angus lived—my white-faced sickly bairn,
The last I bore; for, ere I rose from bed,
I heard, one gloaming dark, from but the house,
A sound of sawing, hewing with an adze,
Mix'd with a sound of weeping, clapping hands;
And all the bield was empty,—and I knew
A shell was being made for some one near;
And ah! before the moon was full again
Just as the season of the lambing came,
My bonnie man was sheeted in the house,
And stiff, and cold; and I was left alone,
Shadow'd and sad, with hot tears dropping down
On Angus, pulling feebly at my breast.
The last I bore; for, ere I rose from bed,
I heard, one gloaming dark, from but the house,
A sound of sawing, hewing with an adze,
Mix'd with a sound of weeping, clapping hands;
And all the bield was empty,—and I knew
A shell was being made for some one near;
And ah! before the moon was full again
Just as the season of the lambing came,
My bonnie man was sheeted in the house,
And stiff, and cold; and I was left alone,
Shadow'd and sad, with hot tears dropping down
On Angus, pulling feebly at my breast.
I never bedded with another man,
Never bare wéan again; but I could earn
Both food and drink, and all my pride and joy
Was Angus. Lord, he was the bonniest bairn
The sweetest, gentlest, ever wrought in flesh,
To gladden mother's eyes. The very day
That he was born, I call'd the minister,
Who gave him baptism, that the glamour ne'er,
Might come on him or his; and ah! he grew,
Pale like a lily—for this solemn world
O'er gentle; and the glamour brought no fear
To mirk our dwelling. Nay, for many a year,
The eerie light seem'd gone away from me,
For never ghaist or burial cross'd my path,
Corpse-light or wraith. Then Angus on the hills
Grew sheep-herd, like his father, though he lack'd
His father's fearless heart; and, as he grew,
Turn'd weaker, whiter—bonnie still, but thin
And bloodless; and he lack'd the heart to face
Darkness and danger: ringing of a bell
At midnight, sudden footsteps in the dark,
A hand placed on his shoulder suddenly,
Would strike him down into a swooning fit,
Dreesome to see; and when his eighteenth year
Was o'er, he sometimes sicken'd at my face,
And shiver'd though he knew me. All at once
The glamour came across my Soul again.
One night, while we were seated in the bield,
I heard a wailing come from but the house,
And horror gript me. ‘Mother!’ Angus cried,
Glow'ring full fear'd into my burning eyes,
‘What ails thee?’ ‘Wheesht!’ I whisper'd; ‘hear ye nought?’
‘Nought! Angus said. And then I heard a sound
Of groans, and clapping hands; and suddenly
I saw my Angus shrink until he grew
As small as any babe new-born, and turn,
Swift as the fireflaught, to himself again?—
And while I scream'd, and fell upon his neck,
Weeping, and kissing him, and moaning low,
He sicken'd at my face, and swoon'd away.
Never bare wéan again; but I could earn
Both food and drink, and all my pride and joy
Was Angus. Lord, he was the bonniest bairn
The sweetest, gentlest, ever wrought in flesh,
To gladden mother's eyes. The very day
That he was born, I call'd the minister,
Who gave him baptism, that the glamour ne'er,
Might come on him or his; and ah! he grew,
Pale like a lily—for this solemn world
O'er gentle; and the glamour brought no fear
To mirk our dwelling. Nay, for many a year,
The eerie light seem'd gone away from me,
For never ghaist or burial cross'd my path,
Corpse-light or wraith. Then Angus on the hills
Grew sheep-herd, like his father, though he lack'd
His father's fearless heart; and, as he grew,
Turn'd weaker, whiter—bonnie still, but thin
And bloodless; and he lack'd the heart to face
Darkness and danger: ringing of a bell
At midnight, sudden footsteps in the dark,
A hand placed on his shoulder suddenly,
Would strike him down into a swooning fit,
Dreesome to see; and when his eighteenth year
Was o'er, he sometimes sicken'd at my face,
And shiver'd though he knew me. All at once
The glamour came across my Soul again.
One night, while we were seated in the bield,
I heard a wailing come from but the house,
And horror gript me. ‘Mother!’ Angus cried,
Glow'ring full fear'd into my burning eyes,
‘What ails thee?’ ‘Wheesht!’ I whisper'd; ‘hear ye nought?’
‘Nought! Angus said. And then I heard a sound
Of groans, and clapping hands; and suddenly
I saw my Angus shrink until he grew
As small as any babe new-born, and turn,
Swift as the fireflaught, to himself again?—
And while I scream'd, and fell upon his neck,
Weeping, and kissing him, and moaning low,
He sicken'd at my face, and swoon'd away.
For, though I hid the trouble from my bairn,
Long had he known his mother was a seer,
Whose eyes were troubled by mysterious things;
And every shade he saw upon my face
Distraught him, lest I saw before his path
Mishap or death. My white-faced, fearful bairn!
My drooping Angus, with his soft, wide eyes,
And fluttering mouth! Alone upon the hills,
He trembled—fear'd the lightning and the storm—
Tholed not to lie within the dark alone—
And would have wither'd in his bairndom's time,
Had I not cheer'd him with a smiling face.
Long had he known his mother was a seer,
243
And every shade he saw upon my face
Distraught him, lest I saw before his path
Mishap or death. My white-faced, fearful bairn!
My drooping Angus, with his soft, wide eyes,
And fluttering mouth! Alone upon the hills,
He trembled—fear'd the lightning and the storm—
Tholed not to lie within the dark alone—
And would have wither'd in his bairndom's time,
Had I not cheer'd him with a smiling face.
Lord, Thou wert sore upon me! I was lone,
And Angus was my pleasure. I was haunted,
And Angus was my help. Yet, once again,
Thy glamour struck me, and I knew, I knew,
Angus must die. Hard, hard, both day and night,
I tried to cheat myself and hope, and smiled
On Angus, till his heart grew still once more.
But it was all in vain. Thrice Angus shrunk.
Three several gloamings, seated in his chair.
And I kept down my fear, and did not scream;
And oft I heard the wailing in the house,
And sounding of the kirk-bells down Glen-Earn
At midnight. Then I sicken'd and grew thin,
And hunger'd o'er my bairn, and pray'd, and pray'd,—
And what to me was light of sun or star
If Angus went away?
And Angus was my pleasure. I was haunted,
And Angus was my help. Yet, once again,
Thy glamour struck me, and I knew, I knew,
Angus must die. Hard, hard, both day and night,
I tried to cheat myself and hope, and smiled
On Angus, till his heart grew still once more.
But it was all in vain. Thrice Angus shrunk.
Three several gloamings, seated in his chair.
And I kept down my fear, and did not scream;
And oft I heard the wailing in the house,
And sounding of the kirk-bells down Glen-Earn
At midnight. Then I sicken'd and grew thin,
And hunger'd o'er my bairn, and pray'd, and pray'd,—
And what to me was light of sun or star
If Angus went away?
. . . It was a night
Quiet and cold. The moon and stars were out,
The moon-dew glittering on the hills. Alone,
I sat, awaiting Angus. It grew late,
And Angus came not; and the low winds blew,
And the clock tick'd, and ah! my heart was dark.
Then, last, I took my cloak, and wander'd forth,
To see if he was coming down the Glen,
And took the cold wet pathway in the moon
Until I reach'd the foot of Cawmock Craig,
And saw the straight rock rise into the lift,
Its side all dark, but on its top the Moon
Shining full bright and chilly. As I stood.
I heard a shout, and saw, far, far above,
A figure dark between me and the lift,
Threading the narrow paths around the Craig
Whence many a man hath fallen and been slain;
And even then—Lord, Lord!—Thy glamour dropt
Upon me, and I saw before my face
The wraith of Angus wrapt in bloody sowe
Gliding before me in the ghaistly light.
Shrill as an owl, I screech'd!—and up above
My Angus heard, and sicken'd, and swam round,
And, swooning on the sharp edge of the Craig,
Dash'd downward to his death!—
Quiet and cold. The moon and stars were out,
The moon-dew glittering on the hills. Alone,
I sat, awaiting Angus. It grew late,
And Angus came not; and the low winds blew,
And the clock tick'd, and ah! my heart was dark.
Then, last, I took my cloak, and wander'd forth,
To see if he was coming down the Glen,
And took the cold wet pathway in the moon
Until I reach'd the foot of Cawmock Craig,
And saw the straight rock rise into the lift,
Its side all dark, but on its top the Moon
Shining full bright and chilly. As I stood.
I heard a shout, and saw, far, far above,
A figure dark between me and the lift,
Threading the narrow paths around the Craig
Whence many a man hath fallen and been slain;
And even then—Lord, Lord!—Thy glamour dropt
Upon me, and I saw before my face
The wraith of Angus wrapt in bloody sowe
Gliding before me in the ghaistly light.
Shrill as an owl, I screech'd!—and up above
My Angus heard, and sicken'd, and swam round,
And, swooning on the sharp edge of the Craig,
Dash'd downward to his death!—
. . . O bonnie, bonnie
Look'd Angus, lying in his sowe asleep,
Quiet like moonlight on his face, his hair
Kaim'd back and shining round his cold white ears.
And yonder in the cold kirkyard he lies;
And, Lord, I want to slumber at his side,
And cheer him in the darkness of the grave,—
For he was ever fearful, weak, and pale—
A young man with a white bairn's timorous soul.
And, Lord, I think that Thou at last art kind,
For oft the white wraith, glimmering at my side,
Hath waved its arms, and moan'd, and look'd like me:
And I have watched it ever, not afraid,
But sad and smiling, and what dress I wore
The wraith hath worn; and when I turn'd my gown
And let the grey hairs hang all down my neck,
The wraith too, turn'd its gown, and loos'd its hair;
And yonder, yonder, yonder through the pane
The blue corpse-candles, blowing in the wind,
Flit slowly to the kirkyard, down Glen-Earn.
Look'd Angus, lying in his sowe asleep,
Quiet like moonlight on his face, his hair
Kaim'd back and shining round his cold white ears.
And yonder in the cold kirkyard he lies;
And, Lord, I want to slumber at his side,
And cheer him in the darkness of the grave,—
For he was ever fearful, weak, and pale—
A young man with a white bairn's timorous soul.
And, Lord, I think that Thou at last art kind,
For oft the white wraith, glimmering at my side,
Hath waved its arms, and moan'd, and look'd like me:
And I have watched it ever, not afraid,
But sad and smiling, and what dress I wore
The wraith hath worn; and when I turn'd my gown
And let the grey hairs hang all down my neck,
The wraith too, turn'd its gown, and loos'd its hair;
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The blue corpse-candles, blowing in the wind,
Flit slowly to the kirkyard, down Glen-Earn.
SIGURD OF SAXONY.
(MEDIÆVAL.)
The sedgy shores of this enchanted lake
Are dark with shadows of the swans which make
Their nests along its marge;
And on the hither side, where silver waves
Curl with low music into hollow caves,
Waiting for that bright barge
Which beareth sleepers to the silent land,
I, Sigurd, in my ghostly sorrow, stand.
Are dark with shadows of the swans which make
Their nests along its marge;
And on the hither side, where silver waves
Curl with low music into hollow caves,
Waiting for that bright barge
Which beareth sleepers to the silent land,
I, Sigurd, in my ghostly sorrow, stand.
I stand alone beneath heaven's silent arch,
Shaded both night and day by clouds that march
And countermarch above;
A sombre suit of perfect mail I wear,
A gloomy plume, that troubles the thin air
To murmurs if I move;
My sword is red and broken; and my shield
Bears a gold anchor on a sable field.
Shaded both night and day by clouds that march
And countermarch above;
A sombre suit of perfect mail I wear,
A gloomy plume, that troubles the thin air
To murmurs if I move;
My sword is red and broken; and my shield
Bears a gold anchor on a sable field.
This is a place where mortals find not speech;
Save the small murmurous waves that crawl the beach,
All is as still as death:
I hear my heart against my ribs of stone,
Like to a wild bird in the net, make moan;
My slow and frozen breath
Curls like a vapour o'er the silent spot;
My shadow seeks my feet, and moveth not.
Save the small murmurous waves that crawl the beach,
All is as still as death:
I hear my heart against my ribs of stone,
Like to a wild bird in the net, make moan;
My slow and frozen breath
Curls like a vapour o'er the silent spot;
My shadow seeks my feet, and moveth not.
Nought can redeem her. Wherefore I seek grace
To join her in her distant dwelling-place
Of pastoral repose;
And I would make this heart that aches and grieves
As white and perfect as a lily's leaves
And fragrant as a rose,
That with a stainless spirit I may take
The solemn barge across the enchanted lake.
To join her in her distant dwelling-place
Of pastoral repose;
And I would make this heart that aches and grieves
As white and perfect as a lily's leaves
And fragrant as a rose,
That with a stainless spirit I may take
The solemn barge across the enchanted lake.
For, having worn her stainless badge in fight,
Thrice conquering in her name, by day and night
I rode with vizor down,
Meeting and slaying honourable foes,
Wounded in flesh, giving and taking blows
To compass her renown.
Thus, warring a sweet war without reprieve,
I, Sigurd, wore her badge upon my sleeve.
Thrice conquering in her name, by day and night
I rode with vizor down,
Meeting and slaying honourable foes,
Wounded in flesh, giving and taking blows
To compass her renown.
Thus, warring a sweet war without reprieve,
I, Sigurd, wore her badge upon my sleeve.
Arméd from head to heel, with spear in hand,
I cried her praises through the wondering land,
And few her praise refused;
Then flushing with my victory complete,
I hastened back and knelt me at her feet,
Battered, and maimed, and bruised;
And then I wooed her in a secret place,
With light upon me from her shining face.
I cried her praises through the wondering land,
And few her praise refused;
Then flushing with my victory complete,
I hastened back and knelt me at her feet,
Battered, and maimed, and bruised;
And then I wooed her in a secret place,
With light upon me from her shining face.
She bathed my bloody brow, with red wounds striped,
And with a kerchief white as snow she wiped
The foam from off my mouth;
She set my unhelmed head upon her knee,
And wound white arms about me tenderly,
And slaked the thirsty drouth
That ebbed in sluggish fire through blood and brain,
From a full cup of cool white porcelain.
And with a kerchief white as snow she wiped
The foam from off my mouth;
She set my unhelmed head upon her knee,
And wound white arms about me tenderly,
And slaked the thirsty drouth
That ebbed in sluggish fire through blood and brain,
From a full cup of cool white porcelain.
Wherefore my soul again was strong. I caught
The voiceless music of her form and thought.
I knelt upon my knee,
Saying, ‘I love thee more than life or fame;
I love thee only less than my good name,
Which is a part of thee;
And I adore thy beauty undefiled!’
Whereat she looked into mine eyes and smiled.
The voiceless music of her form and thought.
I knelt upon my knee,
Saying, ‘I love thee more than life or fame;
I love thee only less than my good name,
Which is a part of thee;
And I adore thy beauty undefiled!’
Whereat she looked into mine eyes and smiled.
I wooed her night and day with virtuous deeds,
And that humility which intercedes
With ladies for true men.
I took her lily of a hand in mine,
Drinking her breath, as soft as eglantine,
And wooing well; and then
She toyed with my great beard, and gave consent:
So down the flowery path of love we went.
And that humility which intercedes
245
I took her lily of a hand in mine,
Drinking her breath, as soft as eglantine,
And wooing well; and then
She toyed with my great beard, and gave consent:
So down the flowery path of love we went.
Twined closely, down the soft descent of love
We wandered on, with golden stars above,
And many flowers below,
Until we came to this dark lake or sea,
Which openeth upon eternity,
And could no farther go;
For beyond life and death, and these dark skies,
The place of sleep, the Silent Valley, lies.
We wandered on, with golden stars above,
And many flowers below,
Until we came to this dark lake or sea,
Which openeth upon eternity,
And could no farther go;
For beyond life and death, and these dark skies,
The place of sleep, the Silent Valley, lies.
Here on the beach we stood, and hand in hand
Waited to wander to that silent land,
And all the shore was dark;
Saying, ‘We yearn to see the Happy Vale,
And hand in hand together we will sail
In the enchanted barque.’
Too late to turn: one passage we must take
Across the gleaming silence of the lake.
Waited to wander to that silent land,
And all the shore was dark;
Saying, ‘We yearn to see the Happy Vale,
And hand in hand together we will sail
In the enchanted barque.’
Too late to turn: one passage we must take
Across the gleaming silence of the lake.
She said, ‘The waters make such threatening moan,
Neither can pass across their waste alone;
We cannot, cannot part;
We will together cross these waves of death.’
But the dark waves grew darker, and the breath
Came colder from the heart;
And by each face a quiet cloud was worn,
Small as the shadow of a lamb new born.
Neither can pass across their waste alone;
We cannot, cannot part;
We will together cross these waves of death.’
But the dark waves grew darker, and the breath
Came colder from the heart;
And by each face a quiet cloud was worn,
Small as the shadow of a lamb new born.
Then in the distant waves we could behold
A radiance like the blowing autumn gold
Of woodland forests deep;
And my sweet lady trembled, growing white
As foam of ocean on a summer night,
When the wild surges leap;
And falling very cold upon my breast,
She faltered, ‘I am weary,—let me rest.’
A radiance like the blowing autumn gold
Of woodland forests deep;
And my sweet lady trembled, growing white
As foam of ocean on a summer night,
When the wild surges leap;
And falling very cold upon my breast,
She faltered, ‘I am weary,—let me rest.’
I laid her down upon a flowery bed,
And put soft mosses underneath her head,
And kissed her, and she slept;
And the air brightened round her, as the far
Blue ether burns like silver round a star.
And round her slumber crept
A trouble of the air, and silver clear
The ghostly light upon the lake grew near.
And put soft mosses underneath her head,
And kissed her, and she slept;
And the air brightened round her, as the far
Blue ether burns like silver round a star.
And round her slumber crept
A trouble of the air, and silver clear
The ghostly light upon the lake grew near.
Yea, nearer, nearer grew the light, and soon,
Shaped like the sickle of the early moon,
The barge drew shoreward slow—
A vapour and a radiance all around,
A gleaming of fair faces, and a sound
Of flutes and lute-strings low.
And round my lady crept a shadowy crowd,
Fading and brightening like a moonlit cloud.
Shaped like the sickle of the early moon,
The barge drew shoreward slow—
A vapour and a radiance all around,
A gleaming of fair faces, and a sound
Of flutes and lute-strings low.
And round my lady crept a shadowy crowd,
Fading and brightening like a moonlit cloud.
They clustered with a ghostly light around
My lady dear, and raised her from the ground,
And bare her to the barque:
Whereon I would have followed, but a hand
Held me like iron to the hated land.
Then all again was dark;
And from the breathing darkness came a hum
Of voices sweet, ‘Thy time has not yet come.’
My lady dear, and raised her from the ground,
And bare her to the barque:
Whereon I would have followed, but a hand
Held me like iron to the hated land.
Then all again was dark;
And from the breathing darkness came a hum
Of voices sweet, ‘Thy time has not yet come.’
And then I shrieked in utter agony;
While fading far away upon the sea,
I saw the light again;
And with a cry into the waves I sprung,
And sought to follow, but the waters clung
About me like a chain;
And thrice I fought amid their rage and roar,
And thrice they hurled me bleeding on the shore.
While fading far away upon the sea,
I saw the light again;
And with a cry into the waves I sprung,
And sought to follow, but the waters clung
About me like a chain;
And thrice I fought amid their rage and roar,
And thrice they hurled me bleeding on the shore.
Long have I waited here, alone, alone,
Hearing the melancholy waves make moan
Upon the pebbly beach:
With eyes upon the pitiless stars above
Here have I waited in my homeless love,
Pale, patient, deaf to speech,
With the salt rheum upon me, pale and bent,
And breathless as a marble monument.
Hearing the melancholy waves make moan
Upon the pebbly beach:
With eyes upon the pitiless stars above
Here have I waited in my homeless love,
Pale, patient, deaf to speech,
With the salt rheum upon me, pale and bent,
And breathless as a marble monument.
246
This lonely watching would invite despair
Did I not oft catch glimpses of my fair
Lady, so sadly lost,
Making, with radiance round her like a star,
A luminous pathway on the hill afar,
Then fading like a ghost;
What time I shout aloud, and at the shout
Pause, shuddering at the echoes round about.
Did I not oft catch glimpses of my fair
Lady, so sadly lost,
Making, with radiance round her like a star,
A luminous pathway on the hill afar,
Then fading like a ghost;
What time I shout aloud, and at the shout
Pause, shuddering at the echoes round about.
Twice has the barge returned: once for a bent
Old servitor, who, down the soft descent
That leads to this dim land,
Had wandered from the towns that lie behind,
And, groping in the cold, had fall'n stone-blind
Upon the shifting sand;
Once for a little gold-haired child astray,
Who, wandering hither, fell to sleep at play.
Old servitor, who, down the soft descent
That leads to this dim land,
Had wandered from the towns that lie behind,
And, groping in the cold, had fall'n stone-blind
Upon the shifting sand;
Once for a little gold-haired child astray,
Who, wandering hither, fell to sleep at play.
Twice has the mystic barge returned, and twice
Have I been frozen to the earth in ice,
Helpless to move or speak;
Thrice have I fought with the relentless roar
Of water, and been flung upon the shore
Battered, and maimed, and weak;
But now I wait with quiet heart and brain,
Grown patient with unutterable pain.
Have I been frozen to the earth in ice,
Helpless to move or speak;
Thrice have I fought with the relentless roar
Of water, and been flung upon the shore
Battered, and maimed, and weak;
But now I wait with quiet heart and brain,
Grown patient with unutterable pain.
And I will wait. To slay myself were sin,
And I, self-slaughter'd, could not hope to win
My solitary boon;
But if the barge should come again, and leave
Me still in lonely watch without reprieve,
Under the silver moon
I will lie down upon my back and rest,
With mailéd hands crossed praying on my breast;
And I, self-slaughter'd, could not hope to win
My solitary boon;
But if the barge should come again, and leave
Me still in lonely watch without reprieve,
Under the silver moon
I will lie down upon my back and rest,
With mailéd hands crossed praying on my breast;
And fall to slumber on a bed of weeds,
A knight well worn in honourable deeds,
Yet lost to life, and old;
And haply I may dream before I wake
That I am floating o'er the pathless lake
In that bright barge of gold;
And, waking, I may see with sweet surprise
Light shining on me from my lady's eyes.
A knight well worn in honourable deeds,
Yet lost to life, and old;
And haply I may dream before I wake
That I am floating o'er the pathless lake
In that bright barge of gold;
And, waking, I may see with sweet surprise
Light shining on me from my lady's eyes.
A POEM TO DAVID.
I.
I would not be lying yonder,
Where thou, belovéd, art lying,
Though the nations should crown me living,
And murmur my praises dying.
Where thou, belovéd, art lying,
Though the nations should crown me living,
And murmur my praises dying.
Better this fierce pulsation,
Better this aching brain,
Than dream, and hear faintly above me
The cry of the wind and the rain;
Better this aching brain,
Than dream, and hear faintly above me
The cry of the wind and the rain;
Than lie in the kirkyard lonely,
With fingers and toes upcurled,
And be conscious of never a motion
Save the slow rolling round of the world.
With fingers and toes upcurled,
And be conscious of never a motion
Save the slow rolling round of the world.
I would not be lying yonder,
Though the seeds I had sown were springing!
I would not be sleeping yonder,
And be done with striving and singing!
Though the seeds I had sown were springing!
I would not be sleeping yonder,
And be done with striving and singing!
For the eyes are blinded with mildew,
The lips are clammy with clay,
And worms in the ears are crawling,—
But the brain is the brain for aye!
The lips are clammy with clay,
And worms in the ears are crawling,—
But the brain is the brain for aye!
The brain is warm and glowing,
Whatever the body be;
It stirs like a thing that breatheth,
And dreams of the Past and To be!
Whatever the body be;
It stirs like a thing that breatheth,
And dreams of the Past and To be!
Ay! down in the deep damp darkness
The brains of the dead are hovelled!
They gleam on each other with radiance,
Transcending the eye that is shrivelled!
The brains of the dead are hovelled!
They gleam on each other with radiance,
Transcending the eye that is shrivelled!
Each like a faint lamp lighteth
The skull wherein it dwelleth!
Each like a lamp turneth brighter
Whenever the kirk-bell knelleth!
The skull wherein it dwelleth!
Each like a lamp turneth brighter
Whenever the kirk-bell knelleth!
I would not be lying yonder
Afar from the music of things,
Not were my green grave watered
By the tears of queens and kings.
Afar from the music of things,
Not were my green grave watered
By the tears of queens and kings.
247
If the brain like a thing that breatheth
Is full of the Past and To be,
The silence is far more awful
Than the shriek and the agony;
Is full of the Past and To be,
The silence is far more awful
Than the shriek and the agony;
And the hope that sweetened living
Is gone with the light of the sun,
And the struggle seems wholly over,
And nothing at all seems done;
Is gone with the light of the sun,
And the struggle seems wholly over,
And nothing at all seems done;
And the dreams are heavy with losses,
And sins, and errors, and wrongs,
And you cannot hear in the darkness
If the people are singing your songs!
And sins, and errors, and wrongs,
And you cannot hear in the darkness
If the people are singing your songs!
There's only the slow still rolling
Of the dark world round and round,
Making the dream more wondrous,
Though it render the sleep more sound.
Of the dark world round and round,
Making the dream more wondrous,
Though it render the sleep more sound.
'Tis cold, cold, cold and weary,
Cold in a weary place:
The sense of the sin is present
Like the gleam of a demon's face!
Cold in a weary place:
The sense of the sin is present
Like the gleam of a demon's face!
What matter the tingling fingers
That touch the song above you?
What matter the young man's weeping,
And longing to know you and love you?
That touch the song above you?
What matter the young man's weeping,
And longing to know you and love you?
Nought has been said and uttered,
Nought has been seen or known,—
Detraction, the adder above you,
Is sunned on the cold grave-stone.
Nought has been seen or known,—
Detraction, the adder above you,
Is sunned on the cold grave-stone.
II.
Yet 't is dark here, dark,
And the voices call from below!
'T is so dark, dark, dark,
That it seems not hard to go!
And the voices call from below!
'T is so dark, dark, dark,
That it seems not hard to go!
'T is dark, dark, dark,
And we close our eyes and are weary!
'T is dark, dark, dark,
And the waiting seems bitter and dreary!
And we close our eyes and are weary!
'T is dark, dark, dark,
And the waiting seems bitter and dreary!
And yonder the sun is shining,
And the green, long grass hath grown,
And the cool kirk-shade looks pleasant,
And you lie so alone, so alone!
And the green, long grass hath grown,
And the cool kirk-shade looks pleasant,
And you lie so alone, so alone!
The world is heartless and hollow,
And singing is sad without you,
And I think I could bear the dreaming
Were mine arms around about you;
And singing is sad without you,
And I think I could bear the dreaming
Were mine arms around about you;
Were thy lips to mine, belovéd,
And thine arms around me too,
I think I could lie in silence,
And dream as we used to do!
And thine arms around me too,
I think I could lie in silence,
And dream as we used to do!
The flesh and the bones might wither,
The blood be dried like dew,
The heart might crumble to ashes,
Till dust was dust anew;
The blood be dried like dew,
The heart might crumble to ashes,
Till dust was dust anew;
And the world with its slow still motion
Might roll on its heavenward way,—
And our brains upon one another
Would gleam till the Judgment Day!
Might roll on its heavenward way,—
And our brains upon one another
Would gleam till the Judgment Day!
HAKON.
Hakon of Thule, ere he died,
Summoned a Priest to his bed-side.
Summoned a Priest to his bed-side.
‘Ho, Priest!’ with blackening brow quoth he,
‘What comfort canst thou cast to me?’
‘What comfort canst thou cast to me?’
The young Priest, with a timorous mouth,
Told of the new gods of the South,—
Told of the new gods of the South,—
Of Mary Mother and her Child,
And holy Saints with features mild;
And holy Saints with features mild;
Of those who hate and those who love,
Of Hell beneath and Heaven above.
Of Hell beneath and Heaven above.
Then Hakon laughed full loud and shrill—
‘Serve thy puny gods who will!’
‘Serve thy puny gods who will!’
Then, roaring to his henchman red,
‘Slit me the throat o' the Priest,’ he said;
‘Slit me the throat o' the Priest,’ he said;
‘His red heart's blood shall flow before,
As steaming sacrifice to Thor!
As steaming sacrifice to Thor!
‘Bring me my mighty drinking-cup:
With fiery wine now fill it up!’
With fiery wine now fill it up!’
Then, though so faint his life's blood ran,
‘Let me die standing, like a man!’
‘Let me die standing, like a man!’
He swore, and staggered to his legs,
And drained the goblet to the dregs.
And drained the goblet to the dregs.
‘Skaal be to the gods!’ he said—
His great heart burst, and he was dead!
His great heart burst, and he was dead!
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |