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

Have I scared thee from thy bough,
Tenant of the lonely wild,
Where, from human face exiled,
'Tis thine the sky to plough;
Hearing but the wailing breeze,
Or the cataract's sullen roaring,
Where, 'mid clumps of ancient trees,
O'er its rocks the stream is pouring?—
Up on ready wing thou rushest
To the gloom of woods profound,
And through silent ether brushest
With a whirring sound.

II

Ring-dove beauteous! is the face
Of man so hateful, that his sight
Startles thee in wild affright,
From beechen resting-place?—
Time was once, when sacrifice,
Served by blue-eyed Druids hoary,

Smoked beneath the woodland skies
O'er their human victims gory;
And time hath been when veil'd Religion
Bade the calm-brow'd Hermit roam,
Seeking, with the lark and pigeon,
Guilt-untroubled home.

III

Truly 'twas an erring choice—
If (as Reason says) be given
Earth, preparative for Heaven,
And calm, unclouded joys.
Nobler far 'tis sure to brave
Every barrier which retards us,
Than, to craven fear a slave,
Flee the path that Fate awards us:
He, from duty never altering,
Who, with Faith's heroic ken,
Forward treads with step unfaltering,
Is the man of men!

IV

Surely pleasant life is thine,
Underneath the shining day;
Thus from sorrow far away,
'Mid bowering groves to pine—
To pine in wild, luxurious love,
With thy cooing partner near thee;

Flowers below, and boughs above,
And nought around to fear thee;
While thy bill so gently carries
To thy young, from field or wood,
Seeds, or fruits, or purple berries,
For their slender food.

V

In sequester'd haunts like thine,
Where, in solitude, the trees
Blossom to the sun and breeze,
Worth has loved to shine;
And ardent Genius structured high
Her magic piles of bright invention,
Achieving immortality,
And sharing not in Time's declension:
Glorious task, that nobly smothers
Earthward cravings, power and pelf,
Scorning, in proud zeal for others,
Every thought of self.

VI

Time was once, when Man, like thee,
In the forest made his home,
Near the river's yellow foam,
Beneath the spreading tree.
Cities then were not: he dwelt
In the cavern's twilight chamber;

And in adoration knelt,
When the morn with clouds of amber,
Or the wild birds singing round him,
Bade him to the chase arise;
Then with quiver'd shafts he bound him
'Neath the opal skies.

VII

Rapidly thou wing'st away—
I saw thee now, a tiny spot—
Again—and now I see thee not—
Nought save the skies of day.
The Psalmist once his prayer address'd—
“Dove, could I thy pinions borrow,
My soul would flee, and be at rest,
Far from Earth's oppressing sorrow!”

“O that I had wings like a dove! for then would I flee away, and be at rest. Lo, then would I wander far off, and remain in the wilderness. I would hasten my escape from the windy storm and tempest.”—Psalm lv. 6-8.

The same sentiment has afforded a groundwork for a beautiful lyric by Mrs Hemans—“The Wings of the Dove”—of which part of the above quotation is the motto. It was also evidently thrilling through the heart of Keats in these lines from his deep-thoughted “Ode to the Nightingale:”—

“That—I might leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit, and hear each other groan,”

Alas! we turn to brave the billows
Of the world's tempestuous sway,
Where Life's stream, beneath Care's willows,
Murmurs night and day!