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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Superstition.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
Superstition.
In Caledonia's glens there once did reign
A sovereign of supreme unearthly eye;
No human power her potence could restrain,
No human soul her influence deny:
Sole empress o'er the mountain homes, that lie
Far from the busy world's unceasing stir:
But gone is her mysterious dignity,
And true Devotion wanes away with her;
While in loose garb appears Corruption's harbinger.
A sovereign of supreme unearthly eye;
No human power her potence could restrain,
No human soul her influence deny:
Sole empress o'er the mountain homes, that lie
Far from the busy world's unceasing stir:
But gone is her mysterious dignity,
And true Devotion wanes away with her;
While in loose garb appears Corruption's harbinger.
Thou sceptic reveller—ill-framed with thee
Is visionary bard a war to wage:
Joy in thy light, thou earth-born Sadducee,
That earth is all thy hope and heritage.
Already wears thy front the line of age;
Thou see'st a heaven above—a grave before;
Does that lone cell thy wishes all engage?
Say, does thy yearning soul not grasp at more?
Woe to thy grovelling creed—thy cold ungenial lore!
Is visionary bard a war to wage:
Joy in thy light, thou earth-born Sadducee,
That earth is all thy hope and heritage.
Already wears thy front the line of age;
Thou see'st a heaven above—a grave before;
Does that lone cell thy wishes all engage?
Say, does thy yearning soul not grasp at more?
Woe to thy grovelling creed—thy cold ungenial lore!
Be mine to sing of visions that have been,
And cherish hope of visions yet to be;
Of mountains clothed in everlasting green,
Of silver torrent and of shadowy tree,
Far in the ocean of eternity.
Be mine the faith that spurns the bourn of time;
The soul whose eye can future glories see;
The converse here with things of purer clime,
And hope above the stars that soars on wing sublime.
And cherish hope of visions yet to be;
Of mountains clothed in everlasting green,
Of silver torrent and of shadowy tree,
Far in the ocean of eternity.
Be mine the faith that spurns the bourn of time;
The soul whose eye can future glories see;
The converse here with things of purer clime,
And hope above the stars that soars on wing sublime.
But she is gone that thrilled the simple minds
Of those I loved and honoured to the last;
She who gave voices to the wandering winds,
And mounted spirits on the midnight blast.
At her behest the trooping fairies passed,
And wayward elves in many a glimmering band;
The mountains teemed with life, and sore aghast
Stood maid and matron 'neath her mystic wand,
When all the spirits rose and walked at her command.
Of those I loved and honoured to the last;
She who gave voices to the wandering winds,
And mounted spirits on the midnight blast.
At her behest the trooping fairies passed,
And wayward elves in many a glimmering band;
The mountains teemed with life, and sore aghast
Stood maid and matron 'neath her mystic wand,
When all the spirits rose and walked at her command.
And she could make the brown and careless boy
All breathless stand, unknowing what to fear;
Or panting deep beneath his co'erlet lie,
When midnight whisper stole upon his ear.
And she could mould the vision of the seer
To aught that rankled breast of froward wight;
Or hang the form of cerement or of bier
Within the cottage fire—O woeful sight!
That called forth many a prayer and deepened groan by night.
All breathless stand, unknowing what to fear;
Or panting deep beneath his co'erlet lie,
When midnight whisper stole upon his ear.
And she could mould the vision of the seer
To aught that rankled breast of froward wight;
Or hang the form of cerement or of bier
Within the cottage fire—O woeful sight!
That called forth many a prayer and deepened groan by night.
Oh! I have bowed to her resistless sway,
When the thin evening vapours floated nigh;
When the gray plover's wailings died away,
And the tall mountains melted into sky:
The note of gloaming bee that journeyed by
Sent through my heart a momentary knell;
And sore I feared in bush or brake might lie
Things of unearthly make—for I knew well,
That hour with danger fraught more than when midnight fell.
When the thin evening vapours floated nigh;
When the gray plover's wailings died away,
And the tall mountains melted into sky:
The note of gloaming bee that journeyed by
Sent through my heart a momentary knell;
And sore I feared in bush or brake might lie
Things of unearthly make—for I knew well,
That hour with danger fraught more than when midnight fell.
But oh! if ancient cemetery was near,
Or cairn of harper murdered long ago,
Or wandering pedlar for his hoarded gear,
Of such, what glen of Scotland doth not know?
Or grave of suicide, upon the brow
Of the bleak mountain, withered all and gray;
From these I held as from some deadly foe:
There have I quaked by night and mused by day;
But chiefly where I weened the bard or warrior lay.
Or cairn of harper murdered long ago,
Or wandering pedlar for his hoarded gear,
Of such, what glen of Scotland doth not know?
Or grave of suicide, upon the brow
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From these I held as from some deadly foe:
There have I quaked by night and mused by day;
But chiefly where I weened the bard or warrior lay.
For many a wild heart-thrilling Scottish bard,
In lowland dale the lyre of heaven that wooed,
Sleeps 'neath some little mound or lonely sward,
Where humble dome of rapt devotion stood,
Mid heathy wastes by Mary's silent flood,
Or in the moorland glen of dark Buccleuch;
There o'er their graves the heath-fowl's mottled brood,
Track with light feathery foot the morning dew;
There plays the gamesome lamb, or bleats the yeaning ewe.
In lowland dale the lyre of heaven that wooed,
Sleeps 'neath some little mound or lonely sward,
Where humble dome of rapt devotion stood,
Mid heathy wastes by Mary's silent flood,
Or in the moorland glen of dark Buccleuch;
There o'er their graves the heath-fowl's mottled brood,
Track with light feathery foot the morning dew;
There plays the gamesome lamb, or bleats the yeaning ewe.
Yet there still meet the thoughtful shepherd's view
The marble fount-stone, and the rood so gray;
And often there he sees with changeful hue
The snow-white skull washed by the burn away;
And O! if 'tis his chance at eve to stray,
Lone by the place where his forefathers sleep;
At bittern's whoop or gor-cock's startling bay,
How heaves his simple breast with breathings deep!
He mutters vow to Heaven, and speeds along the steep.
The marble fount-stone, and the rood so gray;
And often there he sees with changeful hue
The snow-white skull washed by the burn away;
And O! if 'tis his chance at eve to stray,
Lone by the place where his forefathers sleep;
At bittern's whoop or gor-cock's startling bay,
How heaves his simple breast with breathings deep!
He mutters vow to Heaven, and speeds along the steep.
For well he knows, along that desert room,
The spirits nightly watch the sacred clay;
That, cradled on the mountain's purple bloom,
By him they lie, companions of the day,
His guardian friends, and listening to his lay:
And many a chant floats on the vacant air,
That spirit of the bard or warrior may
Hear the forgotten names perchance they bare:
For many a warrior wight, and nameless bard, lies there!
The spirits nightly watch the sacred clay;
That, cradled on the mountain's purple bloom,
By him they lie, companions of the day,
His guardian friends, and listening to his lay:
And many a chant floats on the vacant air,
That spirit of the bard or warrior may
Hear the forgotten names perchance they bare:
For many a warrior wight, and nameless bard, lies there!
Those were the times for holiness of frame;
Those were the days when fancy wandered free;
That kindled in the soul the mystic flame,
And the rapt breathings of high poesy.
Sole empress of the twilight—woe is me!
That thou and all thy spectres are outworn,
For true devotion wanes away with thee;
All thy delirious dreams are laughed to scorn,
While o'er our hills has dawned a cold saturnine morn.
Those were the days when fancy wandered free;
That kindled in the soul the mystic flame,
And the rapt breathings of high poesy.
Sole empress of the twilight—woe is me!
That thou and all thy spectres are outworn,
For true devotion wanes away with thee;
All thy delirious dreams are laughed to scorn,
While o'er our hills has dawned a cold saturnine morn.
Long did thy fairies linger in the wild,
When vale and city wholly were resigned;
Where hoary cliffs o'er little holms were piled,
And torrents sung their music to the wind;
The darksome heaven upon the hills reclined,
Save when a transient sun-beam, through the rain,
Past, like some beauteous phantom of the mind,
Leaving the hind in solitude again—
These were their last retreats, and heard their parting strain.
When vale and city wholly were resigned;
Where hoary cliffs o'er little holms were piled,
And torrents sung their music to the wind;
The darksome heaven upon the hills reclined,
Save when a transient sun-beam, through the rain,
Past, like some beauteous phantom of the mind,
Leaving the hind in solitude again—
These were their last retreats, and heard their parting strain.
But every vice effeminate has sped,
Fast as the spirits from our hills have gone;
And all these light unbodied forms are fled,
Or good or evil, save the ghost alone.
True, when the kine are lowing in the loan,
An evil eye may heinous mischief brew;
But deep enchantments to the wise are known,
That certainly the blasted herd renew,
And make the eldron crone her cantrips sorely rue.
Fast as the spirits from our hills have gone;
And all these light unbodied forms are fled,
Or good or evil, save the ghost alone.
True, when the kine are lowing in the loan,
An evil eye may heinous mischief brew;
But deep enchantments to the wise are known,
That certainly the blasted herd renew,
And make the eldron crone her cantrips sorely rue.
Oh! I have seen the door most closely barred;
The green turf fire where stuck was many a pin;
The rhymes of incantation I have heard,
And seen the black dish solemnly laid in
Amid the boiling liquid—Was it sin?
Ah! no—'twas all in fair defence of right.
With big drops hanging at her brow and chin,
Soon comes the witch in sad and woeful plight;
Is cut above the breath, and, yelling, takes her flight!
The green turf fire where stuck was many a pin;
The rhymes of incantation I have heard,
And seen the black dish solemnly laid in
Amid the boiling liquid—Was it sin?
Ah! no—'twas all in fair defence of right.
With big drops hanging at her brow and chin,
Soon comes the witch in sad and woeful plight;
Is cut above the breath, and, yelling, takes her flight!
And I have seen, in gaunt and famished guise,
The brindled mouser of the cot appear;
A haggard wildness darted from her eyes;
No marvel was it when the truth you hear,
That she is forced to carry neighbour near,
Swift through the night to countries far away;
That still her feet the marks of travel bear;
And her broad back, that erst was sleek and gray,
O, hapless beast!—all galled where the curst saddle lay.
The brindled mouser of the cot appear;
A haggard wildness darted from her eyes;
No marvel was it when the truth you hear,
That she is forced to carry neighbour near,
Swift through the night to countries far away;
That still her feet the marks of travel bear;
And her broad back, that erst was sleek and gray,
O, hapless beast!—all galled where the curst saddle lay.
If every creed has its attendant ills,
How slight were thine!—a train of airy dreams!
No holy awe the cynic's bosom thrills;
Be mine the faith diverging to extremes!
What though, upon the moon's distempered beams,
Erewhile thy matrons gallopped through the heaven,
Floated like feather on the foaming streams,
Or raised the winds by tenfold fury driven,
Till ocean blurred the sky, and hills in twain were riven.
How slight were thine!—a train of airy dreams!
No holy awe the cynic's bosom thrills;
Be mine the faith diverging to extremes!
What though, upon the moon's distempered beams,
Erewhile thy matrons gallopped through the heaven,
Floated like feather on the foaming streams,
Or raised the winds by tenfold fury driven,
Till ocean blurred the sky, and hills in twain were riven.
Where fell the scathe?—The beldames were amused,
Whom eild and poverty had sorely crazed.
What, though their feeble senses were abused
By gleesome demon in the church-aisle raised,
With lion tail, and eyes that baleful blazed,
Whose bagpipe's blare made all the roof to quake!
But ages yet unborn will stand amazed
At thy dread power, that could the wretches make
Believe these things all real, and swear them at the stake.
Whom eild and poverty had sorely crazed.
What, though their feeble senses were abused
By gleesome demon in the church-aisle raised,
With lion tail, and eyes that baleful blazed,
Whose bagpipe's blare made all the roof to quake!
But ages yet unborn will stand amazed
At thy dread power, that could the wretches make
Believe these things all real, and swear them at the stake.
But ah! thou filled'st the guilty heart with dread,
And brought the deeds of darkness to the day!
Who was it made the livid corse to bleed
At murderer's touch, and cause the gelid clay
By fancied movement all the truth betray?
Even from dry bones the drops of blood have sprung!
'Twas thou, Inquisitor!—whose mystic sway
A shade of terror over nature hung;
A feeling more sublime than poet ever sung.
And brought the deeds of darkness to the day!
Who was it made the livid corse to bleed
At murderer's touch, and cause the gelid clay
By fancied movement all the truth betray?
Even from dry bones the drops of blood have sprung!
'Twas thou, Inquisitor!—whose mystic sway
A shade of terror over nature hung;
A feeling more sublime than poet ever sung.
Fearless the shepherd faced the midnight storm,
To save his flocks deep swathed amid the snow;
Though threatening clouds the face of heaven deform,
The sailor feared not o'er the firth to row;
Dauntless the hind marched forth to meet the foe:
For why? they knew, though earth and hell combined,
In heaven were registered their days below;
That there was One well able and inclined
To save them from the sword, the wave, and stormy wind.
To save his flocks deep swathed amid the snow;
Though threatening clouds the face of heaven deform,
The sailor feared not o'er the firth to row;
Dauntless the hind marched forth to meet the foe:
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In heaven were registered their days below;
That there was One well able and inclined
To save them from the sword, the wave, and stormy wind.
O blissful thought to poverty and age!
When troubles press and dangers sore belay,
This is their only stay, their anchorage,
“It is the will of Heaven, let us obey!
Ill it befits the creatures of a day
Beneath a Father's chastening to repine.”
This high belief in Providence's sway,
In the eye of reason wears into decline;
And soon that heavenly ray must ever cease to shine.
When troubles press and dangers sore belay,
This is their only stay, their anchorage,
“It is the will of Heaven, let us obey!
Ill it befits the creatures of a day
Beneath a Father's chastening to repine.”
This high belief in Providence's sway,
In the eye of reason wears into decline;
And soon that heavenly ray must ever cease to shine.
Yet these were days of marvel—when our king,
As chronicles and sapient sages tell,
Stood with his priests and nobles in a ring,
Searching old beldame for the mark of hell,
The test of witchcraft and of devilish spell:
And when I see a hag, the country's bane,
With rancorous heart and tongue of malice fell,
Blight youth and beauty with a burning stain,
I wish for these old times, and Stuarts back again.
As chronicles and sapient sages tell,
Stood with his priests and nobles in a ring,
Searching old beldame for the mark of hell,
The test of witchcraft and of devilish spell:
And when I see a hag, the country's bane,
With rancorous heart and tongue of malice fell,
Blight youth and beauty with a burning stain,
I wish for these old times, and Stuarts back again.
Haply 'tis weened that Scotland now is free
Of witchcraft, and of spell o'er human life;
Ah me!—ne'er since she rose out of the sea,
Were they so deep, so dangerous, and so rife:
The heart of man, unequal to the strife,
Sinks down before the lightning of their eyes.
Oh! it is meet that every maid and wife
Some keen exorcist still should scrutinize,
And bring them to the test for all their sorceries.
Of witchcraft, and of spell o'er human life;
Ah me!—ne'er since she rose out of the sea,
Were they so deep, so dangerous, and so rife:
The heart of man, unequal to the strife,
Sinks down before the lightning of their eyes.
Oh! it is meet that every maid and wife
Some keen exorcist still should scrutinize,
And bring them to the test for all their sorceries.
Much have I owed thee—much may I repine,
Great Queen! to see thy honours thus decay:
Among the mountain maids the power was thine,
On blest Saint Valentine's or Hallow Day.
Ours was the omen—theirs was to obey:
Firm their belief, or most demurely feigned!
Each maid her cheek on lover's breast would lay,
And, sighing, grant the kiss so long refrained;—
'Twas sin to counteract what Providence ordained!
Great Queen! to see thy honours thus decay:
Among the mountain maids the power was thine,
On blest Saint Valentine's or Hallow Day.
Ours was the omen—theirs was to obey:
Firm their belief, or most demurely feigned!
Each maid her cheek on lover's breast would lay,
And, sighing, grant the kiss so long refrained;—
'Twas sin to counteract what Providence ordained!
Oh! I remember, as young fancy grew,
How oft thou spokest in voice of distant rill;
What sheeted forms thy plastic finger drew,
Throned on the shadow of the moonlight hill,
Or in the glade so motionless and still,
That scarcely in this world I seemed to be;
High on the tempest sing thine anthem shrill;
Across the heaven upon the meteor flee;
Or in the thunder speak with voice of majesty!
How oft thou spokest in voice of distant rill;
What sheeted forms thy plastic finger drew,
Throned on the shadow of the moonlight hill,
Or in the glade so motionless and still,
That scarcely in this world I seemed to be;
High on the tempest sing thine anthem shrill;
Across the heaven upon the meteor flee;
Or in the thunder speak with voice of majesty!
All these are gone—the days of vision o'er;
The bard of fancy strikes a tuneless string.
Oh! if I wist to meet thee here no more,
My muse should wander, on unwearied wing,
To find thy dwelling by some lonely spring,
Where Norway opes her forests to the gale;
The dell thy home, the cloud thy covering;
The tuneful sea-maid, and the spectre pale,
Tending thy gloomy throne, amid heaven's awful veil.
The bard of fancy strikes a tuneless string.
Oh! if I wist to meet thee here no more,
My muse should wander, on unwearied wing,
To find thy dwelling by some lonely spring,
Where Norway opes her forests to the gale;
The dell thy home, the cloud thy covering;
The tuneful sea-maid, and the spectre pale,
Tending thy gloomy throne, amid heaven's awful veil.
Or shall I seek thee where the Tana rolls
Her deep blue torrent to the northern main;
Where many a shade of former huntsman prowls,
Where summer roses deck the untrodden plain,
And beauteous fays and elves, a flickering train,
Dance with the foamy spirits of the sea?
Oh! let me quake before thee once again,
And take one farewell on my bended knee,
Great ruler of the soul, which none can rule like thee!
Her deep blue torrent to the northern main;
Where many a shade of former huntsman prowls,
Where summer roses deck the untrodden plain,
And beauteous fays and elves, a flickering train,
Dance with the foamy spirits of the sea?
Oh! let me quake before thee once again,
And take one farewell on my bended knee,
Great ruler of the soul, which none can rule like thee!
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |