The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir Edited by Thomas Aird: With A Memoir of the Author |
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SONNETS.
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SONNETS ON THE SCENERY OF THE ESK.
I.
[A mountain child, 'mid Pentland's solitudes]
A mountain child, 'mid Pentland's solitudes,Thou risest, murmuring Esk, and lapsing on,
Between rude banks, o'er rock and mossy stone,
Glitterest remote, where seldom step intrudes;
Nor unrenowned, as, with an ampler tide,
Thou windest through the glens of Woodhouselee,
Where 'mid the song of bird, the hum of bee,
With soft Arcadian pictures clothed thy side
The pastoral Ramsay.
Amid these scenes the locale of Ramsay's inimitable Gentle Shepherd has been placed, though different writers dispute as to the exact whereabouts. “Habbie's How” has, however, been the most popular as a resort for summer festivity, and still continues to be the scene o many a blithesome fête-champêtre. So thoroughly has the bard struck the heart of Scotland in this pastoral drama, that, like the verses of Tasso with the Italians, its couplets have passed into adages with its people.
Thy rocky bed 'mid Roslin's crannies deep,
While proud on high time-hallowed ruins peep
Of castle and chapelle; yea, to this hour
Grey Hawthornden smiles downward from its steep,
To tell of Drummond's poesy's spring flower.
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II.
[Not lovelier to the bard's enamoured gaze]
Not lovelier to the bard's enamoured gaze,Winded Italian Mincio o'er its bed,
By whispering reeds o'erhung, when calmly led
To meditate what rural life displays;
Trees statelier do not canopy with gloom
The brooks of Valombrosa; nor do flowers,
Beneath Ausonia's sky that seldom lowers,
Empurple deep-dyed Brenta's banks with bloom
Fairer than thine at sweet Lasswade: so bright
Thou gleam'st, a mirror for the cooing dove,
That sidelong eyes its purpling form with love
Well pleased; 'mid blossomy brakes, with bosom light,
All day the linnet carols; and, from grove,
The blackbird sings to thee at fall of night.
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III.
Down from the old oak forests of Dalkeith,Where majesty surrounds a ducal home,
In looking on the modern version of “The Castle of Dalcaeth,” it should be remembered that it has been successively the home of “the gallant Grahames”—of the Douglas of Otterburn — of the Regent Morton — of General Monk — of Anne, duchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth—and of the patriot Duke Henry, the friend of Pitt and Melville.
Between fresh pastures gleaming thou dost come,
Bush, scaur, and rock, and hazelly shaw beneath,
Till, greeting thee from slopes of orchard ground,
Towers Inveresk with its proud villas fair,
The patrician village of Inveresk is beautifully situated on a little hill, forming a gentle curve along the northern bank of the Esk—orchards, and gardens with terraces, stretching from behind the mansions down to the slip of pasture ground which borders the river. From the beauty of its site, and the amenity of its climate, Inveresk obtained of yore the appellation of the Montpelier of Scotland. At the western extremity of the village stood the venerable church of St Michael the Archangel, which was ruthlessly demolished at the beginning of the present century, to be supplanted by a modern building in the most commonplace taste. The house in which the Regent Randolph died, and which stood near the east port of Musselburgh, was also swept away at the same period of barbarous innovation.
Scotland's Montpelier, for salubrious air,
And beauteous prospect wide and far renowned.
What else could be, since thou, with winding tide
Below dost ripple pleasantly, thy green
And osiered banks outspread, where frequent seen,
The browsing heifer shows her dappled side,
And 'mid the bloom-bright furze are oft descried
Anglers, that patient o'er thy mirror lean?
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IV.
Delightful 'tis, and soothing sweet, at eve,When sunlight like a dream hath passed away
O'er Pentland's far-off peaks, and shades of grey
Around the landscape enviously weave,—
To saunter o'er this high walk canopied
With scented hawthorn, while the trellised bowers
Are rich with rose and honeysuckle flowers,
And gaze o'er plains and woods outstretching wide
Till bounded by the Morphoot's heights of blue,
That range along the low south-west afar;
And thee, translucent Esk, with face of blue;
While, as enamoured, evening's first fair star
Looks on thy pool its loveliness to view.
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V.
A beech-tree o'er the mill-stream spreads its boughs,In many an eddy whirls the wave beneath;
From Stony-bank the west wind's perfumed breath
Sighs past—'tis Summer's gentle evening close:
Smooth Esk, above thy tide the midges weave,
Mixing and meeting oft, their fairy dance;
While o'er the crown of Arthur's Seat a glance
Of crimson plays—the sunshine's glorious leave;
Except the blackbird from the dim Shire Wood,
Of the once extensive Shire Wood, in whose shade were a hundred stents or grazings for a hundred cows, only a few trees now remain. It extended from the Shire Mill on the south— with its hereditary miller—northwards to the hollow immediately below Mortonhall—the Esk having of old run almost in a line from where the mill-dam enters it to that spot. From gradually bending towards Inveresk, upwards of thirty acres have been gradually transferred to the south banks of the river. When a boy, I remember the town herd at early morn sounding his horn to collect and conduct the cows of the burgesses to these pastures. Nothing of the common now remains: all is under the plough.
All else is still. So passes human life
From us away—a dream within a dream:
Ah! where are they, who with me, by this stream,
Roamed ere this world was known as one of strife?
Comes not an answer from the solitude!
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VI.
[Leaning upon the time-worn parapet]
Leaning upon the time-worn parapetOf this old Roman bridge,
The venerable bridge over the Esk at Musselburgh is believed to be of Roman construction; but no traces of its date are extant. An ancient local tax for keeping it in repair is still in force, under the name of the gentes custom.
Three noted fields of battle are within view of Inveresk— Pinkie, Carberry, and Prestonpans.
Of Forth hath seen thee, Esk, gliding away
From age to age, and spans thee gliding yet,—
Before me I behold thy sea-most town,
Yclept in Saxon Chronicles Eske-mouthe,
Its venerable roofs—its spire uncouth—
And Pinkie's field of sorrowful renown.
Scenes of my childhood, manhood, and decline—
Scenes that my sorrows and my joys have known,
Ye saw my birth, and be my dust your own,
When, as these waters mingle with the sea,
To look upon the light no more is mine,
And time is swallowed in eternity!
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MOONLIGHT CHURCHYARD.
To die and go we know not whither,
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot.
Shakspeare.
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot.
Shakspeare.
Round thee, pure Moon, a ring of snowy clouds
Hover, like children round their mother dear
In silence and in joy, for ever near
The footsteps of her love. Within their shrouds,
Lonely, the slumbering dead encompass me!
Thy silver beams the mouldering abbey flout;
Black rails, memorial stones, are strew'd about;
And the leaves rustle on the holly tree.
Shadows mark out the undulating graves;
Tranquilly, tranquilly the departed lie!—
Time is an ocean, and mankind the waves
That reach the dim shores of Eternity;
Death strikes; and Silence, 'mid the evening gloom,
Sits spectre-like, the guardian of the tomb!
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TO WORDSWORTH.
Wordsworth, I envy thee, that from the strifeFar distant, and the turmoil of mankind,
Thou hold'st communion with the eternal mind
Of Nature, leading an unblemish'd life.
What have the bards of other realms and years
Fabled of innocence or golden age,
But, graven on the tablet of thy page,
And of thy life, in majesty appears?
What marvel that the men of cities, they
Whose fate or choice compels them to endure
The sight of things unholy or impure,
Feel not the moonlight softness of thy lay?
But thou hast fought—hast conquer'd, and decay
Flies far from thee, whose great reward is sure!
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TO THE MUSE OF MILTON.
Far from this visible diurnal sphere,Immortal Spirit, it was thine to stray,
And, bending towards the sun thy proud career,
Dip thy white plumage in the font of day;
Time, marvelling at thy course, beheld thee leave
His confines—overlook, with steadfast eye,
The ungirdled regions of Eternity—
And through the waste wide Empyrean cleave—
Darting with sheer descent the caves amid
Of Night chaotic, downwards to the abyss
Of Death and Darkness, where the Furies hiss,
And Hope from wretched souls is ever hid;—
Heaven, Hell, and Earth thy theme—a scene of bliss
The last, ere Sin the Elysian charm undid.
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RURAL SCENERY.
(LARBERT, STIRLINGSHIRE.)
Receded hills afar of softened blue,Tall bowering trees, thro' which the sunbeams shoot
Down to the waveless lake, birds never mute,
And wild-flowers all around of every hue—
Sure 'tis a lovely scene. There, knee-deep stand,
Safe from the fierce sun, the o'ershadowed kine,
And, to the left, where cultured fields expand,
'Mid tufts of scented thorn the sheep recline.
Lone quiet farmsteads, haunts that ever please,
O how inviting to the traveller's eye
Ye rise on yonder uplands, 'mid your trees
Of shade and shelter! Every sound from these
Is eloquent of peace, in earth and sky,
And pastoral beauty, and Arcadian ease.
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CRICHTON CHAPEL.
How like an image of repose it looks,That ancient, holy, and sequestered pile!
Silence abides in each tree-shaded aisle,
And on the grey spire caw the hermit rooks:
So absent is the stamp of modern days,
That in the quaint carved oak, and oriel stained
With saintly legend, to Reflection's gaze
The star of Eld seems not yet to have waned.
At pensive eventide, when streams the West
On moss-greened pediment, and tombstone grey,
And spectral Silence pointeth to Decay,
How preacheth Wisdom to the conscious breast,
Saying, “Each foot that roameth here shall rest:”
To God and Heaven, Death is the only way!
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WINTER.
I. DAYBREAK.
Slow clear away the misty shades of morn,As sings the Redbreast on the window-sill;
Fade the last stars; the air is stern and still;
And lo! bright frost-work on the leafless thorn.
Why, Day-god, why so late? the tardy heaven
Brightens; and, screaming downwards to the shore
Of the waste sea, the dim-seen gulls pass o'er,
A scatter'd crowd, by natural impulse driven
Home to their element. All yesternight
From spongy ragged clouds pour'd down the rain,
And, in the wind gusts, on the window pane
Rattled aloud; but now the sky grows bright.
Winter! since thou must govern us again,
O, take not in fierce tyrannies delight.
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II. SNOW-STORM.
How gloom the clouds! quite stifled is the ray,Which from the conquer'd sun would vainly shoot
Through the blank storm; and, though the winds be mute,
Lo! down the whitening deluge finds its way:
Look up!—a thousand thousand fairy motes
Come dancing downwards, onwards, sideways whirl'd,
Like flecks of down, or apple-blossoms curl'd
By nipping winds. See how in ether floats
The light-wing'd mass—then, mantling o'er the field,
Changes at once the landscape, chokes the rill,
Hoaries with white the lately verdant hill,
And silvers earth. All to thine influence yield,
Stern conqueror of blithe Autumn: yearly still
Of thee, the dread avatar is reveal'd.
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III. CLEAR FROST.
'Tis noon, the heaven is clear without a cloud;And, on the masses of untrodden snow,
The inefficient sunbeams glance and glow:
Still is the mountain swathed in its white shroud:
But look along the lake!—hark to the hum
Of mingling crowds!—in graceful curves how swings
The air-poised skater—Mercury without wings!—
Rings the wide ice, a murmur never dumb;
While over all, in fits harmonious, come
The dulcet tones which Music landward flings.
There moves the ermined fair, with timid toe,
Half-pain'd, half-pleased. Yes! all is joy and mirth,
As if, though Frost could subjugate mean earth,
He had no chains to bind the spirit's flow.
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IV. MOONLIGHT.
Behold the mountain peaks how sharply linedAgainst the cloudless orient! while, serene,
The silver Moon, majestic as a queen,
Walks 'mid thin stars, whose lustre has declined.
There is no breath of wind abroad: the trees
Sleep in their stilly leaflessness; while, lost
In the pale, sparkling labyrinths of frost,
The wide world seems to slumber, and to freeze.
'Tis like enchanted fairyland! A chill
Steals o'er the heart, as, gazing thus on night,
Life from our lower world seems pass'd away;
And, in the witchery of the faint moonlight,
Silence comes down to hold perpetual sway;—
So breathless is the scene—so hush'd—so still!
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V. CHANGE.
O! sweetly beautiful it is to markThe virgin vernal Snow-drop, lifting up,
Meek as a nun, the whiteness of its cup
From earth's dead bosom, desolate and dark!
Glorious is Summer, with its rich array
Of blossom'd greenery, perfume-glowing bowers,
Blue skies, and balmy airs, and fruits, and flowers,
Bright sunshine, singing birds, and endless day!
Nor glorious less brown Autumn's witchery,
As by her golden trees Pomona sits,
And Ceres, as she wanders, hears by fits
The reapers' chant, beneath the mellowing sky!
But thy blasts, Winter, hymn a moral lay,
And, mocking Earth, bid Man's thoughts point on high.
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THE SCOTTISH SABBATH.
Sweet day! so calm, so pure, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky!
Herbert.
The bridal of the earth and sky!
Herbert.
I.
After a week of restless care and coil,How sweet unspeakably it is to wake,
And see, in sunshine, thro' the lattice break
The Sabbath morn's serene and saintly smile!
To hallowed quiet human stir is hushed;
'Twould almost seem that the external world
Felt God's command, and that the sea-waves curled
More blandly, making music as they rushed.
The flowers breathe fragrance; from the summer fields
Hark to the small birds singing, singing on
As 'twere an endless anthem to the throne
Of Nature for the boundless stores she yields:
Yea! to the Power that shelters and that shields,
All living things mute adoration own.
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II.
If Earth hath aught that speaks to us of Heaven,'Tis when, within some lone and leafy dell,
Solemn and slow we list the Sabbath bell,
On Music's wings, thro' the clear ether driven:—
Say not the sounds aloud—“O men, 'twere well
Hither to come; walk not in sins unshriven;
Haste to this temple; tidings ye shall hear,
Ye who are sorrowful and sick in soul,
Your doubts to chase, your downcastness to cheer,
To bind affliction's wounds, and make you whole:
Hither—come hither; though, with Tyrian dye,
Guilt hath polluted you, yet, white as snow,
Cleansed by the streams that from this altar flow,
Home ye shall pass to meet your Maker's eye?”
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III.
Soother of life, physician of all ail,Thou, more than reputation, wealth, or power,
In the soul's garden the most glorious flower,
Earth's link to Heaven, Religion thee I hail!
Than Luxury's domes, where thou art oft forgot,
Life's aim and object quite misunderstood,
With thee how far more blest the lowliest cot,
The coarsest raiment, and the simplest food!
O! may not with the Heavenly, holy calm
Of Sabbath, from our hearts thine influence glide;
But, thro' Earth's pilgrimage, whate'er betide,
May o'er our path thy sweets descend like balm;
Faith telling that the Almighty light, “I Am,”
Is ever through Sin's labyrinth our guide.
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IV.
Fallen hath our lot on days of pleasant calm,How different from the stormy times of yore
When prayer was broken by the cannon's roar,
And death-shrieks mingled with the choral psalm!
In sacred as in civil rights, we now
Are Freedom's children: not in doubt and fear,
But with blest confidence, in noonday clear,
As fitliest deems the heart, the knee we bow:
Soon be it so with all! may Christian light
Diffusing mental day from zone to zone,
Rescue lorn lands from Superstition's blight,
Of Earth an Eden make, and reign alone;
Then Man shall loathe the wrong, and choose the right,
Remorse and moral blindness be unknown.
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V.
On shores far foreign, or remoter seas,How doth poor Scotland's wanderer hail thy ray,
Blest Sabbath! and with “joy of woe” survey
In thought his native dwelling 'mid its trees—
And childhood's haunts—and faces well-beloved—
Friends of his soul by distance made more dear!
Oh! as fond Memory scans them with a tear,
By Manhood be it shed—and unreproved:
He thinks of times—times ne'er to come again—
Sweet times, when to the old kirk, hand in hand,
With those he loved in his far Fatherland
He wont on Sabbath morn to cross the plain!
Tell him, Religion, and 'twill soothe his pain,
All yet shall meet on Heaven's eternal strand.
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VI.
Twilight's grey shades are gathering o'er the dell,In the red west the sun hath shut his eye,
The stars are gathering in the conscious sky,
As, with a solemn sound, the curfew bell
Tolls thro' the breezeless air, as 'twere farewell
To God's appointed day of sanctity.
Scotland, I glory that throughout thy bounds
(And O! whilst holy canst thou be unblest?)
Each Sabbath is a jubilee of rest,
And prayer and praise almost the only sounds.
Richer and prouder other lands may be;
But, while the world endures, be this thy boast,
(A worthy one) that sunshine gilds no coast
Where Heaven is served more purely than in thee.
| The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir | |