The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
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A Greek Pastoral.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
292
A Greek Pastoral.
Where proud Olympus rears his head
As white as the pall of the sheeted dead,
And mingling with the clouds that sail
On heaven's pure bosom, softly pale,
Till men believe that the hoary cloud
Is part of the mountain's mighty shroud,
While far below, in lovely guise,
The enchanted vale of Tempe lies,
There sat a virgin of peerless fame—
Thessalia's sweetest, comeliest dame,—
Gazing upon the silver stream,
As if in a rapt Elysian dream.
Far, far below her glowing eye,
Standing on an inverted sky,
Where clouds and mountains seem'd to swingle,
And Ossa with Olympus mingle,
She saw a youth of manly hue,
In robes of green and azure blue,
Of grape, of orange, and of rose,
And every dye the rainbow knows;
The nodding plumes his temples graced,
His sword was girded to his waist:
And much that maiden's wonder grew,
At a vision so comely and so new;
And, in her simplicity of heart,
She ween'd it all the enchanter's art.
As white as the pall of the sheeted dead,
And mingling with the clouds that sail
On heaven's pure bosom, softly pale,
Till men believe that the hoary cloud
Is part of the mountain's mighty shroud,
While far below, in lovely guise,
The enchanted vale of Tempe lies,
There sat a virgin of peerless fame—
Thessalia's sweetest, comeliest dame,—
Gazing upon the silver stream,
As if in a rapt Elysian dream.
Far, far below her glowing eye,
Standing on an inverted sky,
Where clouds and mountains seem'd to swingle,
And Ossa with Olympus mingle,
She saw a youth of manly hue,
In robes of green and azure blue,
Of grape, of orange, and of rose,
And every dye the rainbow knows;
The nodding plumes his temples graced,
His sword was girded to his waist:
And much that maiden's wonder grew,
At a vision so comely and so new;
And, in her simplicity of heart,
She ween'd it all the enchanter's art.
As straining her eyes adown the steep,
At this loved phantom of the deep,
She conjured him to ascend, and bless
With look of love his shepherdess.
And when she beheld him mount the tide,
With eagle eye and stately stride,
She spread her arms and her bavaroy,
And scream'd with terror and with joy.
At this loved phantom of the deep,
She conjured him to ascend, and bless
With look of love his shepherdess.
And when she beheld him mount the tide,
With eagle eye and stately stride,
She spread her arms and her bavaroy,
And scream'd with terror and with joy.
The comely shade, approaching still
To the surface of the silent rill,
Beckon'd the maid with courteous grace,
And look'd her fondly in the face,
Till even that look she could not bear,
It was so witching and so dear.
She turn'd her eyes back from the flood,
And there a Scottish warrior stood,
Of noble rank and noble mien,
And glittering in his tartans sheen.
To the surface of the silent rill,
Beckon'd the maid with courteous grace,
And look'd her fondly in the face,
Till even that look she could not bear,
It was so witching and so dear.
She turn'd her eyes back from the flood,
And there a Scottish warrior stood,
Of noble rank and noble mien,
And glittering in his tartans sheen.
She neither fainted, scream'd, nor fled,
But there she sat astonished;
Her eyes o'er his form and feature ran—
She turn'd to the shadow, then the man;
Till at last she fix'd a look serene
Upon the stranger's manly mien.
Her ruby lips fell wide apart;
High beat her young and guileless heart,
Which of itself reveal'd the tale,
By the quiverings of its snowy veil,—
A living statue feminine,
A model cast in mould divine;
There she reclined, enchanted so,
She moved not finger, eye, nor toe,
From fear one motion might dispel
The great enchanter's thrilling spell.
But there she sat astonished;
Her eyes o'er his form and feature ran—
She turn'd to the shadow, then the man;
Till at last she fix'd a look serene
Upon the stranger's manly mien.
Her ruby lips fell wide apart;
High beat her young and guileless heart,
Which of itself reveal'd the tale,
By the quiverings of its snowy veil,—
A living statue feminine,
A model cast in mould divine;
There she reclined, enchanted so,
She moved not finger, eye, nor toe,
From fear one motion might dispel
The great enchanter's thrilling spell.
“'Tis all enchantment! Such a grace
Ne'er ray'd a human virgin's face:
'Tis all enchantment—rock and river—
May the illusion last for ever!”
Exclaim'd the youth—“O maiden dear,
Are such enchantments frequent here?”
Ne'er ray'd a human virgin's face:
'Tis all enchantment—rock and river—
May the illusion last for ever!”
Exclaim'd the youth—“O maiden dear,
Are such enchantments frequent here?”
“Yes, very!” said this mould of love;
But hand or eye she did not move,
But whispering said,
As if afraid
Her breath would melt the comely shade;
“Yes, very! This enchanted stream
Has visions raised in maiden's dream,
Of lovers' joys, and bowers of bliss,
But never aught so sweet as this.
Oh, pass not like fleeting cloud away!
Last, dear illusion,—last for aye!
And tell me, if on earth there dwell
Men suiting woman's love so well.”
YOUTH.But hand or eye she did not move,
But whispering said,
As if afraid
Her breath would melt the comely shade;
“Yes, very! This enchanted stream
Has visions raised in maiden's dream,
Of lovers' joys, and bowers of bliss,
But never aught so sweet as this.
Oh, pass not like fleeting cloud away!
Last, dear illusion,—last for aye!
And tell me, if on earth there dwell
Men suiting woman's love so well.”
“I came from the isle of the evening sun,
Where the solans roost, and the wild deer run;
Where the giant oaks have a gnarl'd form,
And the hills are coped with the cloud and the storm;
Where the hoar-frost gleams on the valleys and brakes,
And a ceiling of crystal roofs the lakes:
And there are warriors in that land,
With helm on head and sword in hand;
And tens of thousands roving free,
All robed and fair as him you see.
I took the field to lead my own
Forward to glory and renown;
I learn'd to give the warrior word,
I learn'd to sway the warrior's sword,
Till a strange enchantment on me fell—
How I came here I cannot tell.
Where the solans roost, and the wild deer run;
Where the giant oaks have a gnarl'd form,
And the hills are coped with the cloud and the storm;
Where the hoar-frost gleams on the valleys and brakes,
And a ceiling of crystal roofs the lakes:
And there are warriors in that land,
With helm on head and sword in hand;
And tens of thousands roving free,
All robed and fair as him you see.
I took the field to lead my own
Forward to glory and renown;
I learn'd to give the warrior word,
I learn'd to sway the warrior's sword,
Till a strange enchantment on me fell—
How I came here I cannot tell.
“There came to the field an old gray man,
With a silver beard and a visage wan;
And out of the lists he beckon'd me,
And began with a tale of mystery,
Which soon, despite of all control,
Took captive my surrender'd soul.
With a powerful sway,
It roll'd away,
Till evening dropp'd her curtain gray,
And the bittern's cry
Was heard on high,
And the lamps of glory begemm'd the sky;
Yet still the amazing tale proceeded,
And still I follow'd, and still I heeded,—
For darkness or light,
The day or the night,
The last or the first,
Or hunger or thirst,
To me no motive could impart—
It was only the tale that charm'd my heart.
With a silver beard and a visage wan;
And out of the lists he beckon'd me,
And began with a tale of mystery,
Which soon, despite of all control,
Took captive my surrender'd soul.
With a powerful sway,
It roll'd away,
Till evening dropp'd her curtain gray,
And the bittern's cry
Was heard on high,
And the lamps of glory begemm'd the sky;
Yet still the amazing tale proceeded,
And still I follow'd, and still I heeded,—
For darkness or light,
The day or the night,
293
Or hunger or thirst,
To me no motive could impart—
It was only the tale that charm'd my heart.
“We posted on till the morning sun,
And still the tale was never done;
Faster and faster the old man went,
Faster and faster I ran, intent
That tale of mystery out to hear,
Till the ocean's roll-call met my ear;
For the forest was past, and the shore was won,
And still the tale was never done.
And still the tale was never done;
Faster and faster the old man went,
Faster and faster I ran, intent
That tale of mystery out to hear,
Till the ocean's roll-call met my ear;
For the forest was past, and the shore was won,
And still the tale was never done.
“He took to a boat, but said no word;
I follow'd him in of my own accord,
And spread the canvas to the wind,
For I had no power to stay behind:
We sail'd away, and we sail'd away,
I cannot tell how many a day;—
But the winsome moon did wax and wane,
And the stars dropp'd blood on the azure main,
And still my soul with burning zeal
Lived on the magic of that tale,
Till we came to this enchanted river,
When the old gray man was gone for ever.
He faded like vapour before the sun,
And in a moment the tale was done.
And here am I left,
Of all bereft,
Except this zone of heavenly weft,
With the flowers of Paradise inwove,
The soft and silken bands of love.
Art thou the angel of this glade—
A peri, or a mortal maid?”
I follow'd him in of my own accord,
And spread the canvas to the wind,
For I had no power to stay behind:
We sail'd away, and we sail'd away,
I cannot tell how many a day;—
But the winsome moon did wax and wane,
And the stars dropp'd blood on the azure main,
And still my soul with burning zeal
Lived on the magic of that tale,
Till we came to this enchanted river,
When the old gray man was gone for ever.
He faded like vapour before the sun,
And in a moment the tale was done.
And here am I left,
Of all bereft,
Except this zone of heavenly weft,
With the flowers of Paradise inwove,
The soft and silken bands of love.
Art thou the angel of this glade—
A peri, or a mortal maid?”
MAIDEN.
“It is all enchantment! Once on a time
I dwelt in a distant eastern clime—
Oh, many a thousand miles away,
Where our day is night, and our night is day;
Where beauty of woman is no bliss,
And the Tigris flows, a stream like this.
I was a poor and fatherless child,
And my dwelling was in the woodland wild,
Where the elves waylaid me out and in;
And my mother knew them by their din,
And charm'd them away from our little cot—
For her eyes could see them, but mine could not.
I dwelt in a distant eastern clime—
Oh, many a thousand miles away,
Where our day is night, and our night is day;
Where beauty of woman is no bliss,
And the Tigris flows, a stream like this.
I was a poor and fatherless child,
And my dwelling was in the woodland wild,
Where the elves waylaid me out and in;
And my mother knew them by their din,
And charm'd them away from our little cot—
For her eyes could see them, but mine could not.
“One summer night, which I never can rue,
I dream'd a dream that turn'd out true:
I thought I stray'd on enchanted ground,
Where all was beauty round and round;
The copse and the flowers were full in bloom,
And the breeze was laden with rich perfume.
There I saw two golden butterflies,
That shone like the sun in a thousand dyes;
And the eyes on their wings that glow'd amain,
Were like the eyes on the peacock's train.
I did my best
To steal on their rest,
As they hung on the cowslip's damask breast;
But my aim they knew,
And shier they grew,
And away from flower to flower they flew.
I ran—I bounded as on wings,
For my heart was set on the lovely things;
And I call'd, and conjured them to stay,
But they led me on, away, away!
Till they brought me to enchanted ground,
When a drowsiness my senses bound;
And when I sat me down to rest,
They came and they flutter'd round my breast;
And when I laid me down to sleep,
They lull'd me into a slumber deep;
And I heard them singing, my breast above,
A strain that seem'd a strain of love:—
It was sung in a shrill and soothing tone,
By many voices join'd in one.
I dream'd a dream that turn'd out true:
I thought I stray'd on enchanted ground,
Where all was beauty round and round;
The copse and the flowers were full in bloom,
And the breeze was laden with rich perfume.
There I saw two golden butterflies,
That shone like the sun in a thousand dyes;
And the eyes on their wings that glow'd amain,
Were like the eyes on the peacock's train.
I did my best
To steal on their rest,
As they hung on the cowslip's damask breast;
But my aim they knew,
And shier they grew,
And away from flower to flower they flew.
I ran—I bounded as on wings,
For my heart was set on the lovely things;
And I call'd, and conjured them to stay,
But they led me on, away, away!
Till they brought me to enchanted ground,
When a drowsiness my senses bound;
And when I sat me down to rest,
They came and they flutter'd round my breast;
And when I laid me down to sleep,
They lull'd me into a slumber deep;
And I heard them singing, my breast above,
A strain that seem'd a strain of love:—
It was sung in a shrill and soothing tone,
By many voices join'd in one.
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |