Household Verses :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Highland hills are bleak and bare,
Yet bracing is their mountain air
To Scotia's hardy child:
Nor would he, for the crops of grain
Reared on the richest southern plain,
Exchange that region wild.

Well may its native's heart expand
With filial love to such a land,
And own the varied thralls
Of mountains towering to the sky,
Of vales as lovely to the eye,
Of lakes, and water-falls!

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In hearts which own the strong appeal
Of scenes like these, and justly feel
Their influence and their worth,
Such objects to no transient ties,
No frail and fleeting sympathies,
Must evermore give birth.

“Land of brown heath and shaggy wood!
Land of the mountain and the flood!”
As thy own Bard hath sung,
“What shall untie the filial band
Which knits unto thy rugged strand”
Thy children—old or young?

To them thy hills are fortress-towers;
Thy glens are Beauty's fairest bowers;
Thy lakes and flowing streams,
In storm or calm, in sun or shade,
Have each a spell that asks no aid
From poet's fondest dreams.

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They in themselves are beautiful;
And bards from each and all might cull
Full many a theme for verse,
Of graces and of charms a throng,
Such as a poet's proudest song
With rapture might rehearse.

But more than strangers can espy,
Unto thy children's partial eye
Their loveliness inspires:
On barren heath, by torrent's foam,
Their hearts, exulting, hail their home,
The country of their sires!

Tradition hoar, or minstrel rhyme,
With legends of the olden time
Have peopled every spot;
Giving it in each heart to dwell,
As by some individual spell,
Its own peculiar lot.

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Thus tower or castle, which of old
Was of some Highland chief the hold,
Retains its lingering sway;
Recalling, even to this hour,
His fame, his valour, and his power,
In the old feudal day.

The cell in which a brownie dwelt,
Or where an anchorite has knelt,
Hath each its record found:
Nor less hath many a fastness wild,
'Mid caverned rocks around it piled,
Been rendered hallowed ground.

For hallowed ground that ought to be
Where Piety hath bent the knee,
Though but on heath or sod;
And fearless martyrs, famed of old,
Have met, as in their last strong-hold,
To worship before God!

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Theirs was no temple man had reared;
Yet justly had its use endeared
The spot their God had given:
Its ceiling was the vaulted sky;
Its walls—with ivied tapestry,
The grey rocks rent and riven.

Their pastor's pulpit—some rude nook,
In which he oped the sacred Book!
Sometimes by lightning's glare:
Yet hence by day and night would rise,
In blessed incense to the skies,
Thanksgiving, praise, and prayer!

Around, on many a craggy height,
Distant spectator of the sight,
Or, with an eager ear,
Catching the sounds of prayer and praise,
If darkness mocked his wistful gaze,
Some sentinel was near.

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'Twas his, by signal of alarm,
To call upon the strong to arm,
And brave the oppressor's might;
Or, if resistance must be vain,
To guide and guard their helpless train,
In swift and silent flight.

While memories such as these endear
Full many a glen, else wild and drear,
And many a stern defile;
Well, Scotia! may thy children love
Those homes all fairer haunts above,
Where tamer beauties smile.

Even a Southron bard like me
Can scarcely for a moment see
Thy mountains, rocks, and vales,
Though copied but by mimic art,
Nor feel that such within his heart
Revive soul-stirring tales!

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Tales of the patriot, bard, or chief;
Annals of glory, guilt, or grief,
Or martyred saint sublime;
Endeared alike to age and youth,
By the simplicity and truth
Of the far olden time!