The lump of gold: and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Low o'er Ben Nevis, the mists of the sunrise are trailing;
Dimly he stands by the tempests of centuries worn;
Lonely Lochaber and grey Ballahulish are veiling
Their cold jagged peaks in the thick-drooping vapours of morn;
Red gleams the sun o'er the ocean,
Lochlin with angry commotion
Batters the shore, making moan in its innermost caves;
While from each mountain height,
Fed by the rains of night,
Torrents come bounding to mingle their voice with the waves.

152

II

On through Glen Cona, the valley of murder and rapine,
Dark with the crimes and the sorrows of days that are past;
On by the track where the three giant Sphinxes of Appin,
Loom through the moorland, unshapely, majestic, and vast;
On by the turbulent river,
Darting the spray from her quiver,
Bounding and rolling in glory and beauty along;—
On by the rocky path,
Far through the gloomy strath,
Lonely I wander by Cona, the river of song.

III

Cona! sad Cona! I hear the loud psalm of thy sorrow;
Wierd are thy melodies, filling with music the glen;

153

Dark is the day of the people, and shall no to-morrow
Gleaming with brightness bring joy to these true-hearted men?
Not for the past and its sadness,
Not for its guilt and its madness,
Mourn we, oh Cona! To-day has a grief of its own.
Forth go the young and old,
Forth go the free and bold,
Albyn is desolate! Rachael of nations! Alone!

IV

Roll, ye dark mists, and take shape as ye marshal before me,
One is among you;—I see her, dejected and pale!
Mournful she glides;—it is Cona, who, hovering o'er me,
Chants in the roar of the stream, her lament for the Gael.
Words from her echoes are fashion'd,
Surging like pibrochs impassioned;

154

Mourning for Scotland—and sobbing her useless appeals;
Sprite of the mountain stream,
Telling a truth—or dream!—
Reason is in it;—Come, hear what the spirit reveals!

V

“Weep, Albyn, weep!” she exclaims, “for this dark desolation;
Green are thy mountains, and blue are thy streams as of yore;
Broad are thy valleys to feed and to nurture a nation,
Mother of nations, but nation thyself never more!
Men of strong heart and endeavour,
Sigh as they leave thee for ever;
Those who remain are down stricken, and weary, and few;
Low in the dust they lie,
Careless to live or die;
Misery conquers them, foemen could never subdue.

155

VI

“Once thou wert home of a people of heroes and sages;
Strong in the battle, and wise in the counsel were they,
Firm in all duty, as rocks in the tempests of ages,
Loving and loyal, and honest and open as day.
Pure were their actions in story,
Clear was the light of their glory,
Proud were the chiefs of the clansmen who came to their call;
Proud of their race and laws;
Proud of their country's cause;
Proud of their faith, of their liberty prouder than all.

VII

“Each Highland hut was the home of domestic affection;
Honour and Industry sat at the hearth of the poor;
Piety prompted the day's and the night's genuflexion;
Those who felt sorrow could still be erect and endure.

156

Born in no bright summer bowers,
Sweet were the fair human flowers—
Maids of the Highlands, array'd in their glory of smiles;
Blessings of good men's lives,
Thrifty and sober wives,
Mothers of heroes, the charm and the pride of the Isles.

VIII

“Where are they now? Tell us where are thy sons and thy daughters?
Albyn! Sad mother! No more in thy bosom they dwell!
Far, far away, they have found a new home o'er the waters,
Yearning for thee, with a love that no language can tell.
Cold are the hearths of their childhood,
Roofless their huts in the wild wood,

157

Bends the red heather no more to the feet of the clan;
Where once the clachan stood,
Comes the shy grouse and brood,
Fearing no danger so far from the presence of man.

IX

“Where the fair-headed, blue-eyed, rosy babes of the Norland
Bathed in the burn, making merry the long summer noon,
Comes the red-deer undismay'd from his haunts in the moorland,
Slaking his thirst, where the pool shows its breast to the moon.
Where in the days long departed,
Maidens sat singing, light-hearted,
Sounds but the roar of the flood, or the whisper of rills;
Voices of human kind,
Freight not the vacant wind;
Music and laughter are mute on the tenantless hills.

158

X

“Nimrods and hunters are lords of the mount and the forest,
Men but encumber the soil where their forefathers trod;
Tho' for their country they fought when its need was the sorest,
Forth they must wander, their hope not in man, but in God.
Roaming alone o'er the heather,
Nought but the bleat of the wether,
The bark of the colly, or crack of the grouse-slayer's gun,
Breaks on the lonely ear;
Land of the sheep and deer!
Albyn of heroes! The day of thy glory is done!”

XI

Cona! sad Cona! I hear the loud psalm of thy sorrow;
Wierd are thy melodies, filling with music the glen;

159

Dark is the day of the people, and shall no to-morrow,
Gleaming with brightness, bring joy to these desolate men?
Yes; but not here shall they find it;
Darkness has darkness behind it;
Far o'er the rolling Atlantic the day-star shall shine;
Young o'er the western main,
Albyn shall bloom again,
Bearing new blossoms, old land! as majestic as thine.

Glencoe, August, 1854.