The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir :: :: University of Virginia Library

When winds were wailing round me,
And Day, with closing eye,
Scowled from beneath the sullen clouds
Of pale November's sky,—
In downcast meditation
All silently I stood,
Gazing the wintry ocean's
Rough, bleak, and barren flood.

II

A place more wild and lonely
Was nowhere to be seen;
The caverned sea-rocks beetled o'er
The billows rushing green;
There was no sound from aught around,
Save, 'mid the echoing caves,
The plashing and the dashing
Of the melancholy waves.

210

III

High, 'mid the lowering waste of sky,
The grey gulls flew in swarms;
And far beneath the surf upheaved
The sea-weed's tangly arms;
The face of Nature in a pall
Death-shrouded seemed to be,
As by St Serf's lone tomb arose
The dirges of the sea.

St Mungo, or Kentigern, is said to have been born here, and to have been left by his mother to the tutelage of St Serf, or Servanus, who lived in a hermitage on the shore of the Forth, noar Culross; and who, there dying, was buried. From this circumstance he was adopted as the guardian saint of the neigh-bourhood; and, down to the close of the fifteenth century, the people showed their veneration for his memory by an annual festival.

A chapel on the beach, at the east end of Culross, was dedicated to St Kentigern, but has long since disappeared.

IV

In twilight's shadowy scowling,
Not far remote there lay
Thine old dim harbour, Culross,
Smoky, and worn, and grey;

Culross—or, as it is pronounced, Cooross—rose many centuries ago to be a considerable seat of population and mart of trade, from its vicinity to the handsome monastery erected by Malcolm, Thane of Fife, in 1217, and which was devoted to the Virgin and St Serf. Its monks were of the Cistercian Order; and the ruins yet extant indicate how considerable were its dimensions.

At a remote era Culross possessed a good deal of shipping, and carried on no inconsiderable maritime commerce, especially in the export trade of salt and coal. From James VI., and from Charles II., were also obtained grants which gave the town the exclusive right of manufacturing girdles—thin circular plates of iron, used in Scotland for the baking of oatmeal or other cakes. For long this continued to be a source of revenue; but the peculiar privilege has long been virtually annulled, and nothing remains of the prosperity of the burgh but a profitless memory. A place more decayed or forlorn-looking cannot well be imagined.

Through far-back generations
Thy blackened piles had stood,
And, though the abodes of living men,
All looked like solitude.

V

Of hoar decrepitude all spake,
And ruin and decay;
Of fierce, wild times departed;
Of races passed away;
Of quaint, grim vessels beating up
Against the whelming breeze;
Of tempest-stricken mariners,
Far on the foamy seas.

211

VI

It spake of swart grey-headed men,
Now dust within their graves,
Who sailed with Barton or with Spens,
To breast the trampling waves;

Naval power very early showed itself to be an important matter to the sovereigns of Scotland—probably from what the country had been occasionally doomed to suffer from the maritime superiority of the Danes and Norwegians; and William the Lion made the building of ships an object of royal attention and patronage. We learn from the Chronicon Manniæ (p. 39) that the fleet which Alexander II. led against Angus of Argyll, and in whose command he died, was a large one; and it is stated by Matthew Paris, (p. 668—odit. Wats.,) that the ship which conveyed Hugh de Chastillon, Earl of St Paul, and his vassals to the Holy Land, along with Louis IX. of France, in 1249, was built at Inverness.

By the time of Alexander III. the mereantile wealth of the country had greatly increased; and Lombard merchants made proposals for settling in the kingdom. It is curious to learn that the spots which they fixed on were the hill above Queens-ferry, and one of the islands at Cramond. At this period, says Mr Tytler, (History, vol. ii. 292,)—“Voyages had become more distant; the various countries which were visited more numerous; the risks of loss by piracy, tempest, or arrestment in foreign ports, more frequent; and it is a remarkable circumstance that the king, in consequence of this, became alarmed, and published an edict, by which he forbade the exportation of any merchandise from his dominions.” This shortsighted policy, as we learn from the ancient historian Fordun, (à Goodall, vol. ii. p. 135,) created a great sensation in foreign countries, and occasioned an immediate resort of vessels from abroad into the Scottish harbours, to take up the commerce we had abandoned.

In the text, the line, if strictly adhering to historical propriety, should rather have joined the name of Wood to that of Barton, as a distinguished early Scottish navigator—Sir Patric Spens, the “skeely skipper” of what Coleridge rightly calls “the grand old ballad” which bears his name, being probably less of the true than of the poetical and “ancient marinere” school. Although not alluded to by any of our old chroniclers, it is generally believed that the cause of his mission to Norway related to Margaret the daughter of King Eric, and grandchild of Alexander III. From the king, however, being mentioned as “sitting in Dunfermline toun,” while it was not till after his death that Sir David Wemyss, and Sir Michael Scott of Balwearie—the famous wizard of Scottish tradition, and of the Lay of the Last Minstrel—were really sent there, it has been feasibly suggested by Sir Walter Scott (Border Minstrelsy, vol. i.) that perhaps the unfortunate expedition of Sir Patric Spens was previous to that solemn embassy, and might be suggested by a natural desire of the king to see his grandchild and heir. According to Mr Buchan's edition of the story, (Ancient Ballads, 1828,) the errand of Spens was not to bring the Maiden of Norway to Scotland at all, but to convey thither her mother, the daughter of Alexander III. The remote antiquity of the ballad is undoubted, but this would carry it back even beyond the era of the generally received version.

Sir Andrew Wood, the celebrated Scottish admiral, who, in the roign of James IV., defeated the English fleet under Stephen Bull, was a native of Largo, in Fifeshire, and for his gallantry was invested by the king with the barony of his birthplace. It is rather a curious coincidence that, in 1676, Alexander Selkirk—the Robinson Crusoe of De Foe's inimitable narrative—should also have been born there. After an absence of several years, during which Selkirk endured the solitude of Juan Fernandez, he returned to Largo, bringing with him his gun, his sea-chest, and cocoa-nut cup—all of which are yet to be seen. After remaining nine months at home, he again took to sea, and, like Falconer, was never more heard of. The cottage in which he was born is still in the possession of his family, as are his chest and cup. The gun is now the property of Mr Lumsdaine of Lathallan.

And how, in shallops picturesque,
Unawed they drifted forth,
Directed by the one bright star,
That points the stormy North.

VII

And how, when windows rattled,
And strong pines bowed to earth,
Pale wives, with trembling children mute,
Would cower beside the hearth,—
All sadly musing on the ships,
That, buffeting the breeze,
Held but a fragile plank betwixt
The sailor and the seas.

VIII

How welcome their return to home!
What wondrous tales they told,
Of birds with rainbow plumage,
And trees with fruits of gold;
Of perils in the wilderness,
Beside the lion's den;
And huts beneath the giant palms,
Where dwelt the painted men!

212

IX

'Mid melancholy fancies
My spirit loved to stray,
Back thro' the mists of hooded Eld,
Lone wandering, far away;
When dim-eyed Superstition
Upraised her eldritch croon,
And witches held their orgies
Beneath the waning moon.

X

Yes! through Tradition's twilight,
To days had Fancy flown
When Canmore or when Kenneth dree'd
The Celt's uneasy crown;
When men were bearded savages,
An unenlightened horde,
'Mid which gleamed Cunning's scapulaire,
And War's unshrinking sword.

XI

And, in their rusty hauberks,
Throng'd past the plaided bands;—
And slanting lay the Norsemen's keels
On ocean's dreary sands;—
And, on the long flat moorlands,
The cairn, with lichens grey,
Mark'd where their souls shriek'd forth in blood,
On Battle's iron day.

213

XII

Between me and the sea, loomed out
The ivied Abbey old,
In whose grim vaults the Bruces kneel
In marble quaint and cold;

The church of the ancient Abbey stood on its north side, and the tower in the midst is still to be seen. The portion of the church which remains has been fitted up, and is now used as a place of parochial worship. The burial-vault of the Bruces is in the north aisle, and contains several very interesting monuments; among them is that of Sir George and his lady, around whom, on a low settle, are ranged their seven children, in a kneeling posture. The whole group is sculptured in marble, and is of great beauty—the costume of the time being distinctly and faithfully preserved. By letters patent, 8th July 1604, Edward Bruce, the Commendator of the Abbey of Kynloss, in Morayshire, at the time of the Reformation, and afterwards a Lord of Session, was created Baron Bruce of Kinloss by James VI. His son, Thomas, received the higher title of Earl of Elgin from Charles I., 19th June 1633.—Vide Keith's Scottish Bishops, (Russel's edit'.,) p. 418-19.

And where, inurned, lies hid the heart
Of young Kinloss deplored,
Whose blood, by Belgium's Oster-Scheldt,
Stain'd Sackville's ruthless sword.

From the side of the aisle, containing the tombs of the Bruces, there projects a piece of unornamented mason-work, which some years ago was found to hold the embalmed heart of Edward, second Lord Kinloss—a young and gallant noble, who was a prominent figure at the English court of James VI., and who fell near Bergen-op-Zoom in a sanguinary duel with his quondam friend, Sir Edward Sackville, afterwards Earl of Dorset. His heart was brought home in a silver case, and was there deposited amid the bones of his ancestors. The circumstances of this romantic and fatal rencontre are detailed with great precision by Mr Robert Chambers in his Life of James the Sixth; and forms one of the most striking and melancholy episodes of family history.

XIII

Waned all these trancèd visions;—
But, on my eerie sight,
Remained the old dim

seaport
Beneath the scowl of night;
The sea-mews for their island cliffs
Had left the homeless sky,
And only to the dirgeful blast
The wild seas made reply.

214

THE CONTADINA.

I

Most cheerful Contadina!—thy lapsing years glide o'er,
Serenely, like the elfin waves that melt on Nemi's shore;
Thy heart is full of pleasant thoughts, thy tongue is void of guile,
The eloquence of purest truth effulges in thy smile;
No dark malignant passions break thy bosom's chaste repose,
But softest sleep and sweetest dreams thy tranquil spirit knows;
Through sunny day and starry night propitious fates decree
Whate'er of brightest, blithest, best, the world contains, for thee!

215

II

Most lovely Contadina!—in thy sparkling, speaking eye,
Gleams the purity and depth of thine own Italian sky;
In rings of glossy brightness thy raven locks hang down;
And what although the day-star's glow hath tinged thy cheek with brown?—
It takes not from thy beauty's dower, but seems to lend a charm,
When stealthily a glimpse we gain of thy snowy neck and arm;
For in thy locks, and lips, and eyes, and witching form, we see
That earth has showered, with lavish hand, her choicest gifts on thee!

III

Most generous Contadina!—thy hospitable home
Still, with its open porch, invites the passer-by to come;
The kneaded cake, the fragrant milk, the vegetable store
Of herbs and fruits thy garden yields, and vine-encircled door,
What though they deck a humble board?—he lays his welcome head,
A light and cheerful supper o'er, upon his rushy bed;

216

And when, beneath the opal morn, the wild birds carol free,
Thou speed'st him on his path, while flows his blessing back to thee!

IV

Most gentle Contadina!—thou breath'st Ausonian air,
Where Nature's face is, like thine own, serenely fresh and fair;
Thou sittest by azure lakelets, where the sportive fishes leap,
Around thee groves, above thee vine-clad ruins on the steep;
Thou sing'st and twirl'st thy distaff, while beside thee sleep or play
Thy loveliest children, pleasure-tired, in the blue light of day;
While on the turf the household fawn, beneath the threshold tree,
Turns, listening to thy syren notes, her floating eyes on thee!

V

Most simple Contadina!—although around thee lie
Pride's scattered wrecks, and o'er thee glows the Roman's classic sky,
Although thou know'st not Arria's fate, how home-sick Clelia fled,
In purity how Portia shone, and how Lucretia bled,

217

Yet is thy duty daylight task, for Nature's torch within
The beauty and the blot displays of sanctity and sin;
And what to most is weary toil, as perfume leads the bee,
Silent, spontaneous feeling tells, and kindness teaches thee.

VI

Most pious Contadina!—from earth-caught errors shriven,
The steadfast anchor of thy hope, through faith, is fixed on Heaven;
Thou know'st that He who bled for man can for thy faults atone;
Thou feel'st that He thy soul can free with ransom not its own:
In the calm of peace thou kneelest down, outpouring songs of praise;
Or if the storm of sorrow comes to overcloud thy days,
Unto thy Rock of refuge still 'tis thine for aid to flee,
And, if denied on earth, still shines Heaven's star of bliss for thee!

218

THE WINTER WILD.

I

How sudden hath the snow come down!
Last night the new moon show'd her horn,
And, o'er December's moorland brown,
Rain on the breeze's wing was borne;
But, when I ope my shutters, lo!
Old Earth hath changed her garb again,
And with its fleecy whitening Snow
O'ermantles hill and cumbers plain.

II

Bright Snow, pure Snow, I love thee well,
Thou art a friend of ancient days;
Whene'er mine eyes upon thee dwell,
Long-buried thoughts 'tis thine to raise:
Far—to remotest infancy—
My pensive mind thou hurriest back,
When first, pure blossoms of the sky,
I watch'd to earth your mazy track—

219

III

And upward look'd, with wondering eyes,
To see the heavens with motion teem,
And butterflies, a thousand ways,
Down flaking in an endless stream;
The roofs around, all clothed with white,
And leafless trees with feathery claws,
And horses black with drapery bright—
O, what a glorious sight it was!

IV

Each season had its joys in store,
From out whose treasury boyhood chose:
What though blue Summer's reign was o'er,
Had Winter not his storms and snows?
The Giant then aloft was piled,
And balls in mimic war were toss'd,
And thumps dealt round in trickery wild,
As felt the passer to his cost.

V

The wintry day was as a spell
Unto the spirit—'twas delight
To note its varying aspects well,
From dawn to noon, from noon to night,
Pale morning on the hills afar,—
The low sun's ineffectual gleam,—
The twinkling of the Evening Star
Reflected in the frozen stream:

220

VI

And when the silver moon shone forth
O'er lands and lakes, in white array'd,
And dancing in the stormy North
The red electric streamers play'd;
'Twas ecstasy, 'neath tinkling trees,
All low-born thoughts and cares exiled,
To listen to the Polar breeze,
And look upon “the winter wild.”

VII

Hollo! make way along the line:—
Hark how the peasant scuds along,
His iron heels, in concord fine,
Brattling afar their under-song:
And see that urchin, ho-ieroe!
His truant legs they sink from under,
And to the quaking sheet below
Down thwacks he, with a thud like thunder!

VIII

The skater there, with motion nice,
In semicirque and graceful wheel,
Chalks out upon the dark-blue ice
His chart of voyage with his heel;
Now skimming underneath the boughs,
Amid the crowd now gliding lone,
Where down the rink the curler throws,
With dexterous arm, his booming stone.

221

IX

Behold! upon the lapsing stream
The frost-work of the night appears—
Beleaguer'd castles, round which gleam
A thousand glittering crystal spears;
Here galleys sail of shape grotesque;
There hills o'erspread with palmy trees;
And, mix'd with temples Arabesque,
Bridges and pillar'd towers Chinese.

X

Ever doth Winter bring to me
Deep reminiscence of the past:
The opening flower and leafing tree,
The sky without a cloud o'ercast,
Themselves of beauty speak, and throw
A gleam of present joy around;
But, at each silent fall of snow,
Our hearts to boyhood's pulses bound—

XI

To boyhood turns reflection back,
With mournful pleasure, to behold
Life's early morn, the sunny track
Of feet, now mingled with the mould:
Where are the playmates of those years?
Hills rise and oceans roll between:
We call—but scarcely one appears—
No more shall be what once hath been.

222

XII

Yes! gazing o'er the bleak, green sea,
The snow-clad peaks and desert plain,
Mirror'd in thought, methinks to me
The spectral Past comes back again:
Once more in Retrospection's eyes,
As 'twere to second life restored,
The perish'd and the past arise,
The early lost, and long deplored!

THE DEFEAT OF WINTER.

I

But yester morn the frozen snow
Grimly o'ermantled lawn and lea;
Grey clouds shut out the sky; the sea
Whitened in foam the cliffs below;
And storm-blasts vexed the leafless tree.

II

And now—as by the sudden wave
Of some benign enchanter's rod—
How placidly the waters lave
The entrance of the dank sea-cave,
How brightly greens the vernal sod!

223

III

Up from the dark mould, see, arise
The snowdrop with its soundless bell;
The crocus opes its azure eyes,
And, by the fountain-side, espies
A thousand daisies in the dell.

IV

Hearken the birds—all winter long,
That through the bleak air tuneless flew;
The woodlands seem alive with song,—
They flit about, a rapturous throng,
And dart the green boughs thro' and thro'.

V

Upon the furze the linnet sits,
And to the silence sweetly sings;
Up from the grass the sky-lark flits,
Pours forth its gushing song by fits,
And upwards soars on twinkling wings.

VI

From crevice and from sheltered nook,
Bursting their winter sleep, the fly
And midge come forth, and gladly look
On the bright sun—some skim the brook,
Some wheel in mazy circles by.

224

VII

The bee within its waxen cell
Hath felt the vernal call, and comes
Forth in the warm daylight to dwell,—
Hath bade the silent hive farewell,
And o'er the field delighted hums.

VIII

Sky—earth—and ocean—each hath felt
The sudden influence; life renewed
Into all nature's veins hath stealt;
And Love, with an engirding belt,
Hath beautified the solitude.

IX

As at a new, a glorious birth,
The soul exults, the heart leaps up;
A visioned joy illumines earth;
The primrose glows with silent mirth,
As does the hyacinth's blue cup.

X

The spirit swells—the thoughts expand,
As if escaped from brooding gloom;
And in the sky, and o'er the land,
Are traced, as with an Angel's hand,
The embryo tints of coming bloom.

225

XI

A waken vanished thoughts—come back
The visions of impassioned youth;
And Hope once more regilds the track,
O'er which hath floated long the rack,
Stormy and dim, of cheerless Truth.

XII

In boyhood, ere the spirit knew
How round the earth the seasons range,
There seemed an amaranthine hue
Upon the wall-flower, and the blue
Anemone, that owned not change;

XIII

But Time, the moral monitor,
Brushed, one by one, bright dreams away,
Till scarce is left, but to deplore
Things that have been—to be no more:
Vainly we seek them—where are they?

XIV

Unto the birds—unto the bloom
Of opening flowers a love was given,
As if our world knew not a tomb—
As if our yearning hearts had room
For boundless bliss, and earth was Heaven!

226

XV

Away!—no dreams of gloom should dim
The spirit on a morn like this;
Fill up a beaker to the brim,
Of sunny thoughts, the beads which swim
Upon it all shall melt in bliss.

MAY-DAY.

I.

Come hither, come hither, and view the face
Of Nature, in all her May-day grace!
By the hedgerow wayside flowers are springing;
On the budded elms the birds are singing;
And up—up—up to the gates of Heaven,
Mounts the lark, on the wings of her rapture driven;
The voice of the streamlet is fresh and loud;
On the sky there is not a speck of cloud:
Come hither, come hither, and join with me
In the season's delightful jubilee!

227

II.

Haste out of doors: from the pastoral mount
The isles of ocean thine eye may count;
From coast to coast, and from town to town,
You can see the white sails gleaming down,
Like monstrous water-birds, which fling
The golden light from each snowy wing;
And the chimney'd steamboat tossing high
Its volumed smoke to the waste of sky;
While you note, in foam, on the yellow beach,
The tiny billows each chasing each,
Meeting, and mixing, and melting away,
Like happy things in the light of day,
As rack dissolves in the soft blue sky,
Or Time in the sea of Eternity.

III.

Why tarry at home? the swarms of air
Are about, and o'erhead, and every where—
The little fly opens its silken wings,
And from right to left like a blossom flings,
And from side to side, like a thistle-seed,
Uplifted by winds from September mead;
The midge and the moth, from their long, dull sleep,
Venture again on the light to peep,
Over land and lake abroad they fly,
Filling air with their murmurous ecstasy:
The hare leaps up from her brushwood bed,
And limps, and turns her timid head;

228

The partridge whirrs from the glade; the mole
Pops out from the earth of its wintry hole;
And the perking squirrel's small nose you see
From the fungous nook of its own beech-tree.

IV.

Come hasten, come hither, and you shall see
The beams of that same sun on tower and tree,
That shone over Adam in Eden's bowers,
And drank up the dew of his garden flowers;
Come hither, and look on the same blue sky,
Whose arching cloudlessness blest the eye
Of sapient Solomon, when he sung,
With fluttering heart, and raptured tongue,
“The rain is over and gone—and lo!
The winter is past, and the young flowers blow,
The turtle coos, the green figs swell,
And the tender grapes have a pleasant smell,
The birds are singing to greet the day;
Arise, my fair one, and come away!”

V.

Come hasten ye out: the reviving year
As in a glass makes the past appear;
And, afar from care, and free from strife,
We bask in the sunshine of morning life—
The days when Hope, from her seraph wing,
Rich rainbow hues over earth did fling;
And lo! the blithe throng of the green play-ground—
The cricketers cheer, and the balls rebound—

229

The marble is shot at the ring—the air
Re-echoes the noises of hounds and hare—
The perish'd and past, the things of yore,
Come back in the loveliest looks they wore,
And faces, long hid in Oblivion's night,
Start from the darkness, and smile in light!

VI.

Come hasten ye hither: our garden bowers
Are green with the promise of budding flowers—
The crocus, and spring's first messenger,
The fairy snowdrop, are blooming here;
The taper-leaf'd tulip is sprouting up;
The hyacinth speaks of its purple cup;
The jonquil boasteth, “Ere few weeks run,
My golden circlet I'll show the sun;”
The gillyflower raises its stem on high,
And peeps on heaven with its pinky eye;
Primroses, an iris-hued multitude,
Woo the bland airs, and in turn are woo'd;
While the wall-flower threatens, with bursting bud,
To darken its blossoms with winter's blood.

VII.

Come here, come hither, and mark how swell
The fruit-buds of the jargonelle;
On its yet but leaflet greening boughs
The apricot open its blossom throws;
The delicate peach-tree's branches run
O'er the warm wall, glad to feel the sun;

230

And the cherry proclaims of cloudless weather,
When its fruit and the blackbirds will toy together;
See, the gooseberry bushes their riches show;
And the currant-bloom hangs its leaves below;
And the damp-loving rasp saith, “I'll win your praise
With my grateful coolness on harvest days.”
Come along, come along, and guess with me
How fair and how fruitful the year shall be!

VIII.

Look into the pasture grounds o'er the pale,
And behold the foal with its switching tail;
About and abroad in its mirth it flies,
With its long black forelocks about its eyes,
Or bends its neck down, with a stretch,
The daisy's earliest flower to reach.
See, as on by the hawthorn fence we pass,
How the sheep are nibbling the tender grass,
Or holding their heads to the sunny ray,
As if their hearts, like its smile, were gay;
While the chattering sparrows, in and out,
Fly the shrubs, and trees, and roofs about;
And sooty rooks, loudly cawing, roam
With sticks and straws to their woodland home.

IX.

Out upon in-door cares! Rejoice
In the thrill of Nature's bewitching voice!
The finger of God hath touch'd the sky,
And the clouds, like a vanquish'd army, fly,

231

Leaving a rich, wide, azure bow,
O'erspanning the works of His hand below:—
The finger of God hath touch'd the earth,
And it starts from slumber in smiling mirth;
Behold it awake in the bird and bee,
In the springing flower and the sprouting tree,
And the leaping trout, and the lapsing stream,
And the south-wind soft, and the warm sunbeam:—
From the sward beneath, and the boughs above
Come the scent of flowers, and the sounds of love;
Then haste thee hither, and join thy voice
With a world's which shouts, “Rejoice, rejoice!”

AN EVENING SKETCH.

FROM THE LINKS OF MUSSELBURGH.

The birds have ceased their songs,
All save the blackbird, that from yon tall ash,
'Mid Pinkie's greenery, from his mellow throat,
In adoration of the setting sun,
Chants forth his evening hymn.

'Tis twilight now;
The sovran sun behind his western hills—
His Grampian range of amethystine hue—

232

In glory hath declined. The volumed clouds,
Kissed by his kind effulgence, hang around,
Like pillars of some tabernacle grand,
Worthy his mighty presence; while the sky,
Illumined to its centre, glows intense,
Changing the sapphire of its arch to gold.
How deep is the tranquillity! yon wood
Is slumbering through its multitude of stems,
Even to the leaflet on the frailest twig!
A gentle gloom pervades the Birslie heights,
An azure softness mingling with the sky;
And westward, looking to the Morphoots dim,
Grey Falsyde, like an aged sentinel,
Stands on the shoulder of his watch-tower green.
Nor lovely less in its serenity
The Forth, now waveless as a lake engulfed
'Mid sheltering hills; without a ripple spreads
Its bosom, silent and immense: the hues
Of flickering light have from its surface died,
Leaving it garbed in sunless majesty.
No more is heard the plover's circling wail,
No more the silver of the sea-mew's wing
In casual dip beheld; on eastern Bass
The flocks of ocean slumber in their cells.
The fisherman, forsaken by the tide,
His shadow lost, drags to the yellow shore
His cumbrous nets, and in the sheltering cove
Behind yon rocky point his shallop moors,
To tempt again the perilous deep at dawn.
With bosoming boughs round Musselburgh hang

233

Its clumps of ancient elm-trees; silently
Pierces the sky its immemorial spire,
Whose curfew-bell, through many a century,
Glad sound, hath loosed the artisan from toil;
And silently, o'er many a chimneyed roof,
The smoke from many a cheerful hearth ascends,
Melting in ether.

As I gaze, behold
The Evening Star illumines the blue south,
Twinkling in loveliness. O holy star!
Thou bright dispenser of the welcome dews,
Thou herald of Night's glowing galaxy,
And harbinger of social bliss! how oft,
Amid the twilights of departed years,
Ere Truth had from the pinions of Romance
Brushed off the downy gold—how oft, alone,
Resting beside the grove-o'ershadowed Esk,
On trunk of mossy oak, with eyes upturned
To thee in admiration, have I sate,
Dreaming sweet dreams, till earth-born turbulence
Was quite forgot, and fancying that in thee,
So glitteringly remote, so calm, so pure,
Free from the sins and sorrows of this world,
There might be realms of real happiness!

234

ON THE DEATH OF IDA.

I

'Tis midnight deep; the full, round moon,
As 'twere a spectre, walks the sky;
The balmy breath of gentlest June
Just stirs the stream that murmurs by:
Above me frowns the solemn wood;
Nature, methinks, seems Solitude
Embodied to the eye.

II

Yes, 'tis a season and a scene,
Ida, to think on thee: the day,
With stir and strife, may come between
Affection and thy beauty's ray;
But feeling here assumes control,
And mourns my desolated soul
That thou art rapt away!

235

III

Thou wert a rainbow to my sight,
The storms of life before thee fled;
The glory and the guiding light
That onward cheered and upward led;
From boyhood to this very hour,
For me, and only me, thy flower
Its fragrance seemed to shed.

IV

Dark though the world for me might show
Its sordid faith and selfish gloom,
Yet, 'mid life's wilderness, to know
For me that sweet flower shed its bloom,
Was joy, was solace—thou art gone—
And hope forsook me, when the stone
Sank darkly o'er thy tomb.

V

And art thou dead? I dare not think
That thus the solemn truth can be;
And broken is the only link
That chain'd youth's pleasant thoughts to me!
Alas! that thou couldst know decay—
That, sighing, I should live to say,
“The cold grave holdeth thee!”

236

VI

For me thou shon'st, as shines a star,
Lonely, in clouds when heaven is lost;
Thou wert my guiding light afar,
When on misfortune's billows tost:
Now darkness hath obscured that light,
And I am left, in rayless night,
On Sorrow's lowering coast.

VII

And art thou gone? I deemed thee some
Immortal essence—art thou gone?
I saw thee laid within the tomb,
And I am left to mourn alone:
Once to have loved is to have loved
Enough; and what with thee I proved,
Again I'll seek in none.

VIII

Earth in thy sight grew faëry land;
Life was Elysium—thought was love—
When, long ago, hand clasped in hand,
We roamed through Autumn's twilight grove;
Or watched the broad uprising moon
Shed, as it were, a wizard noon,
The blasted heath above.

237

IX

Farewell!—and must I say farewell?—
No—thou wilt ever be to me
A present thought; thy form shall dwell
In love's most holy sanctuary;
Thy voice shall mingle with my dreams,
And haunt me when the shot-star gleams
Above the rippling sea.

X

Never revives the past again;
But still thou art, in lonely hours,
To me earth's heaven, the azure main,
Soft music, and the breath of flowers;
My heart shall gain from thee its hues;
And Memory give, though truth refuse,
The bliss that once was ours!

238

OUR NATIVE LAND.

Moriens dulces reminiscitur Argos.

The halo round the Seraph's head,
Too purified for thing of earth,
Is not more beautifully bright
Than that celestial zone of light,
Which Nature's magic hand hath shed
Around the land which gave us birth.

O!—be that country beautified
With woods that wave, and streams that glide,
Where bounteous air and earth unfold
The gales of health and crops of gold;
Let flowers and fields be ever fair;
Let fragrance load the languid air;
Be vines in every valley there,
And olives on each mountain side:—
Or—let it be a wilderness
Where heaven and earth oppose in gloom;

239

Where the low sun all faintly glows
O'er regions of perennial snows:—
Still 'tis the country not the less
Of him, who sows what ne'er may bless
His labours with autumnal bloom!

Yes! partial clans, in every clime,
Since first commenced the march of Time,
Where'er they rest—where'er they roam—
All unforgot,
Have still a spot
Which memory loves, and heart calls—home!
From where Antarctic oceans roar
Round Patagonia's mountain shore;
To where grim Hecla's cone aspires,
With sides of snow, and throat of fires!

240

BLOOM AND BLIGHT.

I

The scene is desolate and bleak;
Dim clouds, presaging tempest, streak
The waning fields of air;
In sombre shade the valleys lie,
And January breezes sigh
Through leafless forests bare;
The rank grass rustles by the stone,
With danky lichens overgrown.

II

The drooping cattle cower below,
While on the beech's topmost bough
The croaking raven sits;
The tumult of the torrent's roar,
That, rain-swoln, rushes to the shore,
Is heard and lost by fits—
Now with a voice o'erpowering all,
Now sinking in a dying fall.

241

III

How vanishes our time away!
'Tis like the circuit of a day,
Since last, with devious feet,
This lone, sequester'd path I trode;
The blooming wild-flowers gemm'd the sod,
And made the breezes sweet;
The hues of earth, the tints of sky,
Were rapture to the heart and eye.

IV

I listen'd to the linnet's song;
I heard the lyric lark prolong
Her heart-exulting note,
When, far removed from mortal sight,
She, soaring to the source of light,
Her way through cloudland sought,
And, from ethereal depths above,
Seem'd hymning earth with strains of love.

V

The wild rose, arch'd in artless bower,
The purpling thyme, the heather flower,
The whin in golden bloom,
Smiled forth upon the shining day,
As if they joy'd in their array
Of beauty and perfume;
And from the heart of every grove
Was heard the cushat's coo of love.

242

VI

And now I listen to the breeze
That whistles through the leafless trees,
And to the pattering rain;
Down roars the stream with foamy surge,
And from the marsh the curlew's dirge
Comes wailing o'er the plain:
Well may such alter'd scene impart
A moral to the thinking heart!

VII

In youth, ah! little do we think
How near the torrent's crumbling brink
The flowers of pleasure grow;
How fickle Fortune's gale; how far
From gleam of Duty's guiding star,
Life's bark may sail below;
What chance and change frail Man may brave,
Betwixt the cradle and the grave!

VIII

Change is impress'd on all we see—
The budding, blooming, blighted tree;
The brightening waning sky;
The sun that rises but to set;
Health with its glowing coronet;
Disease with sunken eye;
And Childhood passing, stage by stage,
Through Manhood to decrepit Age.

243

IX

What read we thence? That not for us
In vain Creation preacheth thus,
By growth and by decay:
That Man should lift his mental eye
Beyond Earth's frail mortality,
And in the endless day
Of Heaven behold a light display'd,
To which Our sunshine is like shade.

MINE OWN.

I

I need not token-flowers to tell
How deeply dear thou art,
Still on mine ear thine accents dwell,
Thy virtues in my heart;
Thy beauty floats before mine eyes
In soft celestial light,
Alike at orient day's uprise,
And pensive shut of night.

244

II

Although afar—although afar—
Yet art thou with me still,
When evening's star, and morning's star,
Gleams o'er the twilight hill;
Thy beauty streams through all my dreams,
The lone night-watches through;
And cloudless skies recall thine eyes,
The archangel's tearless blue.

III

The sinking and the swelling heart
Of fond yet fearful love,
The bliss to meet, the pain to part,
It hath been ours to prove;
The deep embrace of blessedness,
By absence made more blest;
And separation's pangs, which press
Its life-blood from the breast.

IV

Memorials of that vanished day
Of mingled bliss and woe,
When from yon garden bowers away
Time forced my steps to go;
I prize each withered bloom and stalk,
For that dear hand of thine,
Which plucked them on our parting walk,
And gifted them to mine.

245

V

I see thee in thy beauty yet
Upon the gravel stand,
The glowing tints, red, blue, and jet,
Fresh blooming in thy hand:
And lo! all withered, wan, and dried,
Before me here they lie,
To tell that since I left thy side
Long months have lingered by.

VI

But think not months, however long,
(For long all months must be,
Theme of my blessing and my song!
Which sever me from thee,)
Shall e'er undo one tender tie
Affection's fingers wove,
Shall make less deep the daily sigh
Which Absence owes to Love!

VII

'Twas Autumn,—and the redbreast lulled
With song the fading bowers,
When for my hand thy fingers culled
These wan and withered flowers:
Fresh were they then; but, as I gaze
The shrivelled blossoms o'er,
The mountain-peaks are grey with haze,
And gleams the snowy moor.

246

VIII

The clouds of doubt between us rolled,
In shadows passed the day,
But, like a star, thy love consoled
My spirit with its ray;
For through the tempest and the night
That beam was duly shed,
To cherish with its steadfast light
The hope which else had fled.

IX

O hallowed, Heavenly to my view
Is every gentle scene,
Where thy fair foot hath brushed the dew
From off the daisied green!
Thy love, thy loveliness, thy worth,
To me seem blessings given,
To show my soul how things of earth
Can raise its thoughts to Heaven!

X

Farewell! thou shalt not be forgot,
My beautiful, mine own!
O may the sorrows of our lot
Bow down my head alone!
And these dried flowers, which, given to me,
Were moist with morning rain,
Shall bloom of thee, and breathe of thee,
Until we meet again!

247

THE IMPROVISATRICE.

ILLUSTRATIVE OF A PICTURE BY BONE, ENGRAVED BY ROMNEY.

I

Beside her cottage door she sate and sang,
That gentle creature, with her deep black eyes,
As if her heart of grief ne'er owned a pang,
And her young breast were sunny as her skies;
The ripe rich grapes hung clustering round her head,
And roses, by her side, sweet perfume shed.

II

A poetess in spirit, by the touch—
Of Nature framed, she needed not the rules
Of pedants, sophists, dogmatists, and such;
Art's trickery, or the doctrines of the schools:
The glow was at her soul, and so she sung,
Life in her words, and heart upon her tongue.

248

III

Her theme was love—of quiet summer eves,
And shepherds piping in the pastoral dale;
And how, with throbbing heart, beneath the leaves
Of the green elms, the lover breathed his tale,
And she, his idol, from his amorous arms,
Half-pain'd, half-pleas'd, withdrew her conquering charms.

IV

Of Tasso and his passion deep she told,
His inspiration, frenzy, and despair;
And how, thro' lonesome years, amid the mould
Of dungeon cells, his Leonora fair
Rose in her beauty on his tranced sight,
Like eve's one star 'mid winter's gathering night.

V

And then to gentle Petrarch changed the theme,
And to Vaucluse's woodland greenery bright—
Laura his daylight idol, and the dream
Of his mild spirit through each watch of night;
Time purifying still his ardours high,
Till Passion's self became Philosophy.

249

VI

Anon she sang of battle, and the breath
Of Slaughter tainting heaven's salubrious gale;
Households laid prostrate by the leveller Death,
And orphans desolate, and widows pale;
Anguish imploring Rapine, deaf to hear;
Life-withering Famine, and sepulchral Fear.

VII

The wars of fierce and fiery Tamerlane
She sang; and how it soothed his savage rage
To pluck, in daily hate, the humbling chain
Which knit proud Bajazet to his iron cage,
Until, beneath Scorn's unrelenting yoke,
His hopes forsook him, and his heart was broke.

VIII

Then Peter's praise she hymn'd, who o'er the rude
And darken'd Russ shed civilising light,
Triumphant in the van of battle stood,
And vanquish'd Charles at red Pultowa's fight.—
Symphonious with her voice, the rich guitar
Calm'd into peace, or kindled into war.

250

IX

Anon the varied charms of Nature's face
Would lend a syren witchery to her song,
As she the lovely lineaments would trace
Of amaranthine isles, to which belong
Perennial, endless summer; and man's life,
Unpoison'd by Ambition, knows not strife.

X

Straight to the wintry waste of polar seas
Th' enchantress bore with her the soul astray,
Where scowl'd the iceberg, and the sleety breeze
Drifted from howling cubs the bear away,
And fur-clad natives, housed in caverns drear,
Slept thro' the night which darken'd half the year.

XI

The Passions at her bidding throng'd around—
Hope, with her bright blue eyes and golden hair;
Teeth-gnashing Hate; Remorse that bit the ground;
Yellow-brow'd Jealousy, and fierce Despair;—
The Spirits met and mix'd; and from the strife
She drew that pictured chaos, human life.

251

XII

Gaze on that face—'tis fair and feminine;
Yet, in the mirror of those pensive eyes,
Whose lustre rather seems to speak than shine,
A fathomless abyss of passion lies:
Earth is to her a spectral vision bright,
Flashing with sunshine, or begrimed with night.

XIII

'Tis past!—and art thou but a brilliant dream
On which I gaze—a something, by the power
Of Genius conjured from the shapes that teem
In the mind's eye, thro' Inspiration's hour?—
Even as I gaze, the warm illusions fade
Into a silent scene, an empty shade.

XIV

Bare canvass, and the solitary gloom
Of a dim studio—there the Painter stands,
Bidding each nice and tender touch illume
The scene, till beauty on the sight expands;
And lo! the marvel which creative Art
Gifts in its high perfection to the heart!

252

XV

Yes! such was the illusion, and so bright
The Poetess of Nature, which the power
Of genius conjured to the Painter's sight,
In Contemplation's meditative hour,—
The syren shape in Memory's love enshrined,
Which Bone to beauty drew, and Romney lined.

CHRISTMAS MUSINGS.

ADDRESSED TO IANTHE.

I

Time flies apace—another year hath perished,
Perished, and joined the irrevocable past;
Hopes, in its progress brightly born and cherished,
Have been by shade o'ercast,
And sorrows, that seemed evils to our sight,
Have “turned their silver linings to the night:”
So little do we know of what is for us
Doomed by unerring Providence for good,
That, could the past from out its womb restore us
The visions we have wooed,
So inconsistent must existence seem,
That reason should seem frenzy, truth a dream.

253

II

Time flies apace—since last ice-crown'd December
With his snow-mantle overlaid the earth,
What myriad hopes and fears do we remember,
That had their death or birth!
How many joys and sorrows, which have made
Life's pathway one all sunshine, or all shade!
Since last the ruddy Christmas hearth did brighten
The kindred faces of the social ring,
Since last the angel of the frost did whiten
The landscape with his wing,
Hath Misery from our firesides kept aloof?
Hath Death afforded of his power no proof?

III

Ah! who can say thus much? and tho' hath cost me
Full many a heart-pang the departed year,
Yet why should I repine?—it hath not lost me
(What was of all most dear)
Thy love—an undeserved possession, worth
Far more than all the wealth of all the earth!
Yes, in that knowledge there are blessings treasured,
More than a kingdom's gold for me could buy:
Oft are life's goods by a false standard measured
In Error's vulgar eye,
While happiness, true happiness, is found
In the heart's feelings, not in things around.

254

IV

Summer was on the hills, when last we parted,
Flowers in the vale, and beauty in the sky;
Our hearts were true, altho' our hopes were thwarted:
Forward, with wistful eye,
Scarce half-resigned we looked, yet thought howsweet
'Twould be again in after-months to meet.
Now 'tis December chill: the moon is shining
O'er the grey mountains and the stilly sea,
As, by the streamlet's willowy bend reclining,
I pause, remembering thee,
Who to the moonlight lent a softer charm,
As through these wilds we wandered, arm in arm.

V

Yes! as we roamed, the sylvan earth seemed glowing
With many a beauty unremarked before:
The soul was like a deep urn overflowing
With thoughts, a treasured store;
The very flowers seemed born but to exhale,
As breathed the West, their fragrance to the gale.
Methinks I see thee yet—thy form of lightness,
An angel phantom gliding through the trees,
Thine alabaster brow, thy cheek of brightness,
Thy tresses in the breeze
Floating their auburn, and thine eyes that made,
So rich their blue, heaven's azure like a shade.

255

VI

Methinks even yet I feel thy timid fingers,
With their bland pressure, thrilling bliss to mine:
Methinks yet on my cheek thy breathing lingers,
As, fondly leant to thine,
I told how life all pleasureless would be,
Green palm-tree of earth's desert, wanting thee.—
Not yet, not yet, had Disappointment shrouded
Youth's summer calm with storms of wintry strife;
The star of Hope shone o'er our path unclouded;
And Fancy coloured life
With those elysian rainbow hues, which Truth
Melts with his rod, when disenchanting Youth.

VII

Where art thou now? I look around, but see not
The features and the form that haunt my dreams:
Where art thou now? I listen, but for me not
The deep, rich music streams
Of that entrancing voice, which could bestow
A zest to pleasure and a balm to woe:
I miss thy smile, when morn's first light is bursting
Through the green branches of the casement tree;
To list thy voice my lonely ear is thirsting,
Beside the moonlight sea.
Vain are my longings, my repinings vain;
Sleep only gives thee to my arms again.

256

VIII

Yet should it cheer me, that nor Woe hath shattered
The ties that link our hearts, nor Hate, nor Wrath;
And soon the day may dawn, when shall be scattered
All shadows from our path;
And visions be fulfilled, by Hope adored,
In thee, the long-lost, to mine arms restored.
Ah, could I see thee!—see thee, were it only
But for a moment looking bliss to me!
Ah, could I hear thee!—desolate and lonely
Is life, deprived of thee:
I start from out my reverie, to know
That hills between us rise, and rivers flow.

IX

Let fickle Fortune change—be she preparing
To shower her arrows, or to shed her balm,
All that I ask for, pray for, is the sharing
With thee life's storm or calm;
For ah! with others, Wealth and Mirth would be
Less sweet by far than Sorrow shared with thee!
Yes! vainly, foolishly, the vulgar reckon,
That Happiness resides in outward shows:
Contentment from the lowliest cot may beckon
True Love to sweet repose;
For genuine bliss can ne'er be far apart,
When soul meets soul, and heart responds to heart.

257

X

Farewell! let tyrannous Time roll on, estranging
The eyes and heart from each familiar spot,
Be fickle friendships with the seasons changing,
So that thou changest not!
I would not that the love, which owes its birth
To Heaven, should perish like the things of earth!—
Adieu! as falls the flooding moonlight round me,
Fall Heaven's best joys on thy beloved head;
May cares that harass, and may griefs that wound me,
Flee from thy path and bed!
Be every thought that stirs, and hour that flies,
Sweet as thy smile, and radiant as thine eyes!

LINES ON A PORTRAIT OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, BY C. R. LESLIE, ESQ., R.A.

Pride of my country! I delight,
As from the Painter's canvass bright
Thy placid smile beams cheerily,
Musing alone, to gaze on thee,
Imagination's mightiest son,
And, marvelling at thy triumphs won,

258

Think what may be achieved by man,
Even in this life's contracted span!

Ennobler of man's name! thy mind
Is as the free air unconfined;
Thou wav'st thy wand—and from the tomb
Long-vanished spirits trooping come;
Tradition's shadowy ages pass
Before our thoughts, as in a glass;
The past is as the present seen;
And hoar Antiquity looks green.
There glide they on—revived once more,
The feelings and the forms of yore—
The cuirassed warrior, stern and high;
Beauty, with soul-subduing eye;
Religion's choir in cloistral nave;
The hermit in his mossy cave;
The warder on the bastion's brow;
The peasant at his peaceful plough;
The simple serf, the lettered sage,
Soul-glowing youth, and chastened age;
The loftiest and the lowliest birth;
The pomp and poverty of earth!

Prime lustre of our age! with glow
Of grateful pride, I thrill to know
That I am countryman of thine:
Thy fame to Scotland is a mine
Of glory, wealthier than Peru
Can boast her golden regions through.

259

Thy tale is on our hills—thy tale
Re-echoes through each verdant vale;
From southland borders, where the Tweed
Flows murmuring to the shepherd's reed,
And, by the cairn and crested steep,
Ruin and Silence empire keep;
To where the Arctic billow foams
Round Shetland's sad and silent homes,
And weeps the rain, and wails the surge,
As 'twere of living things the dirge.

Kind benefactor of thy race,
The whole world seems thy dwelling-place!
Where'er flows blood of human-kind,
Man will in thee a brother find.
Thou hast not used thy genius high
Life's motley scenes to bid us fly;
Thou hast not told us that our fate
Is to be hated, and to hate;
That faith is falsehood; that within
Man's heart dwells nought save thoughts of sin;
That eyes were only formed to weep;
That death is an eternal sleep:
No!—thou hast taught us that the air
Is sweet, the green earth very fair;
That on the mount and on the main,
That in the forest and the plain,
Nature's boon gifts are richly strewn;
That peace dwells with the good alone;

260

That man's heart is a holy place,
And man of an immortal race!

Thy soul-born greatness can deride,
Illustrious Bard! all paltry pride,
And 'midst thy fellows thou might'st pass
As not apart, but of the mass;
Yet who hath won a fame like thee,
Throughout the world, by land or sea?
With it Time's empire is allied,
And the world rings from side to side:
'Tis fame, the loftiest and the best
That ever mortal genius blest:
'Tis pure—that fame owes not a jot
From pandering to unworthy thought:
It ne'er awakened virtue's sigh,
Nor flushed the cheek of modesty:
'Tis bloodless—from another's woe
Thy laurels were not trained to grow;
And thou canst lay thee down at eve,
Nor with the boast thy heart deceive,
That thou has done thy best to throw
Hope's healing balm o'er human woe;
In south and north, in east and west,
That thou hast made some bosom blest;
Lighted the cheerless home of grief;
To wearied spirits breathed relief;
Stirred youth's ambitious pulse to rise;
And drawn sweet tears from Beauty's eyes.

261

Brother of Homer, and of him,
By Avon's shore, 'mid twilight dim,
Who dreamed immortal dreams, and took
From Nature's hand her pictured book,
Time hath not seen, and may not see,
Till ends his reign, a third like thee.

THE GRAVES OF THE DEAD.

A DIRGE.

A pickaxe, and a spade, a spade,
But and a shrouding sheet;
O, a pit of clay for to be made
For such a guest is meet!
Lord de Vaux