Poems by James Hyslop :: :: University of Virginia Library

The e'enin' o' simmer on Spango was closin',
An' night on the woodlands o' Nithsdale reposin',
When Lydia walked, where the greenwood path lay,
To hear the dark mountain-stream murmur away.

'Mang wild dewy blossoms her footsteps were strayin';
Her ringlets were wantonly o'er her cheeks playin';
An' save where the simmer breeze pilfered its kisses,
Her white neck was veiled by her dark auburn tresses;

Below, the white folds o' the cambric were swellin',
Concealin' a bosom where Love had his dwellin';
Ae star twinkl'd bright in the blue silk that bound it,
An' spoke o' delight in the heaven beyond it.

As through the green wood-path I met her advancin';
The thoughts o' her heart frae her dark een were glancin';
A blush, through the ringlets, mine eye could discover,
For the hand I held out was the hand o' her lover.

II.
Scottish Song.

Now simmer's flow'rs o' loveliest hue
Are fadin' on the lea,
An' leaves, that lately hung sae green,
Fa' yellow frae the tree.
Now Nithsdale's weary russet woods
Are joyless a' an' drear,
While harvest's mournfu' gales lament
The dyin' o' the year.

122

Where now the wee white-breastit flowers
That clad yon dewy brae?
An' where the little warblin' birds
That sang their cheerfu' lay?
An' where art thou, my ain lov'd youth,
Made a' thae joys sae dear,
That led me 'mang the scented birks
At bloomin' o' the year?

When last the dewy primrose bloom'd
Aneath yon fadin' tree,
Whose green leaves screen'd my e'enin' walk,
My love first met wi' me;
That night how warm this bosom thrill'd
Wi' joy sae fond and dear,
Nor thocht o' lang an' dowie days
In the departin' year!

Then hinnied plaivens, snawie white,
Were blawin' i' the breeze,
Now dreary winter's stormy blasts
Souch waefu' through the trees:
How like the flcetin' joys o' Love,
Ance to this heart sae dear,
Departed wi' the lovely flowers
That clad the bloomin' year!

How sweetly bloom'd Love's flowerie bed
Where aft we twa reclin'd!
Her ringlets on that bosom spread
That was tae me sae kind;
Now unadorn'd thae locks may float
An' hide the fallin' tear,
He's gane wha often priz'd their charms
In the departed year.

O happy days o' youthfu' love,
For ever fled away,
An' naethin' left to my young heart
But sadness now an' wae!
O Willie, will ye ne'er come back
To dry this fallin' tear,
An' bring me back the joys that fled
Wi' the departed year?

The flower of the white clover, Trifolium repens.

123

III.
Kintra Jock.

Mither, yestreen when it grew late,
Ye ken ye teuk a towte,
An' sent me tae bring hame the cow
Frae 'mang the miller's nowte.

As I gaed up the march-dyke side
To seek auld doddit Bawsie,
Wha meets I gaen tae Kilmalcolm
But a gay bonnie lassie!

I didna speer whaur she cam' frae,
For troth I didna like;
But I genteely says, “Mamma,
I'll help ye ower the dyke.”

“Sir,” quo' she, “if you'll be so good,
I'll take it very kind”—
“Hout, lass! an' I'se do ten times mair,
Gin ye but hae a mind.”

I lifts her up, an' ower the dyke
I jumpit in a crack,
An' catcht her on the 'tither side,
Just like a bunch o' thack.

An' O, her hair was curled nice,
As ye may weel suppose;
Some o' them hung ahint her lugs,
An' some abune her nose!

A kaim, like our auld clockin' hen—
Nae, mither, it's nae whud!—
Sat cockin' up a tait ahin,
Maist like a maukin's fud!

An' then, O mither, too, her een
I very near forgot;
They min't me o' the clear buttons
On my new duffel coat.

124

“And now,” says she, “what do I owe
For such a favour's this?”
“Mamma,” says I, “a gentleman
Wad ask nocht but a kiss.”

“Such favours, Sir, I seldom grant,”—
She ca't me Sir again!—
I kenna how it cam' about—
I catcht her shekal-bane.

An' O, her han' was saft an' warm,
An' unco nice to han'le;
Her fingers they were white an' sma',
Maist like a bawbee can'le;

An' on the mid ane's tap there was
A nice clear glancin' thim'il,
Wad maist hae shod the ringit stick
That I gat frae our Samuel.

I gied her cheek a wee bit whisk,
An' her bit bonnie chin;
They were as saft's my grannie's purse,
Made o' the mowdie skin.

I ettelt weel her lips wad be
As sweet as succar-aloe,
But weel I wat the prie I gat
Was maist as wersh as tallow.

Some poets say a kiss inspires
Them like the Castle stream;
For my part, I wad rather drink
Guid sweet milk, whey, or cream.

Maybe they might hae been mair sweet,
Had but my lips been hale,—
But yesterday I burnt them a'
Wi' suppin' scaudin' kale;

An' then she faught an' warstled sae
I har'ly gat a prievin'
Syne, in a huff, she bang'd away,
An' ower the muir gaed scrievin';

125

I heard a rowt—I fan' the nowte,
But tint the bonnie lassie;
Sae I cam' hame an' fill'd my wame,
An' dreamt o' her and Bawsie.

Madam.

Speckled.

Castalia.

IV.
To My Dear Lassie Far Away.

[_]

Tune—“Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon.”

How happy, happy were the hours
'Mang Crawick's woods o' deepenin' green!
Where aft 'mang simmer's dewy flow'rs
We wander'd baith sae bless'd at e'en.
There first thy soft young blushin' cheek
I to my bosom fondly pressed,—
What thy sweet lips refused to speak,
A trembling heart o' love confess'd.

While o'er us flew the bloomin' year,
Aye kinder our acquaintance grew;
But ah! a partin' hour drew near—
We met to tak' a fond adieu!
Then, while thy languid downcast eye
Hid in my bosom fondly lay,
You said, an' breath'd a farewell sigh,
You'd think on me when far away!

How thrill'd my breast wi' tender pain
Frae thy last dear embrace to part;
I thocht that maybe ne'er again
You'd press me to a lovin' heart:
I thocht on days o' love gane by,
On days when parted far frae you:—
When last I met that tearfu' eye
My lips could hardly breathe adieu!

Sweet partner o' love's happiest hours!
Companion o' my midnight dreams!
O think, while wand'ring 'mang the bow'rs
That shade my native mountain streams,

126

Thou'rt oft recalled wi' fond delight
When in my e'enin' walk I stray!
My heart's sweet song in falling night
Is “My dear lassie far away!”

V.
The Beacon on the Cumbrae Isles.

The scene was more beautiful, far, to the eye,
Than if day in its pride had array'd it,
The land breeze blew mild, and the azure-arched sky
Look'd pure as the spirit that made it.

The murmur rose soft, as I silently gazed
On the shadowy wave's playful motion,
From the dim, distant isle, till the beacon-fire blazed
Like a star in the midst of the ocean.

No longer the joy of the sailor boy's breast
Was heard in his wildly-breath'd numbers,
The sea-bird had flown to its wave-girded nest;
The fisherman sunk to his slumbers.

One moment I look'd from the hill's gentle slope,
All hushed was the billow's commotion,
And, to fancy, the beacon seemed lovely as Hope,
That star of life's tremulous ocean.

The time is long past, and the scene is afar,
Yet, when my head rests on its pillow,
Shall memory sometimes rekindle the star
That blazed on the breast of the billow.

127

VI.
To Lydia.

Oft in the dark and silent night,
When sleep has closed nature's e'e,
Has my warm fancy wi' delight
In broken slumbers met wi' thee.

I see thee in the dark green grove,
Blooming in summer's flowery pride;
Wi' pensive pace like one in love,
Musing along the crystal tide.

Long my young heart, wi' love opprest,
Has hoped the happy moment nigh
When you would languish on my breast,
And breathe your love in many a sigh.

Oh! did'st thou know the secret flame
My heart for thee has long concealed,
Its purity, thou would'st not blame
That heart for having it revealed.

Had I not marked thy bosom's sighs,
My soul thy image ne'er had cherished;
But for thy warm and sunny eyes,
This flower of love had never flourished.

VII.
Lydia and Cupid.

[_]

(In imitation of some of Prior's pieces.)

When moorlands clad in autumn's pride
Displayed the heather's purple bloom;
And Spango's hills, wi' thyme o'erspread,
Breathed nature's sweetest wild perfume.

128

'Twas then the loveliest mountain maid,
My dark-eyed Lydia, sought the mountains,
With little Cupid by her side,
To gather berries by the fountains.

The softening graces, mild and meek,
Were sweetly in her glances mingled;
Her auburn tresses o'er her cheek
Fell down in many a waving ringlet.

Her heart was innocent and warm,
Awake to love, yet undesigning;
Courageous at th' approach of harm—
Such was our tricky god's companion.

Where scarlet berries hung half-hid,
In clusters 'mong the rustling green,
Cupid and Lydia onward strayed,
And cull'd the ripest to be seen.

The winy clusters, dangling round,
Whose ripening juices Cupid sips,
Tho' they were cull'd by Lydia's hand,
Oh! they were not like Lydia's lips

For sweetness. When they both had drank
These sweets till taste began to cloy,
Wearied and faint upon the bank,
Sunk down the little am'rous boy.

Oh! he was tired and wished to sleep;
For it was warm and sunny weather.
Here was a bed, rich, soft, and deep,
Among the wild flowers and the heather.

My Lydia's bosom, kind and warm,
Was touched to see the infant's grief;
Nor dreamt there could be any harm
To bring his little heart relief.

Where red the mountain heather wav'd,
In all the pride of opening blossom,
The tender-hearted girl received
The wearied boy into her bosom.

129

Her down-soft hand, as white as milk,
Around his little neck was plac'd;
His pillow was the purple silk
That veiled her sighing, snowy breast.

His curtain was her love-locks, spread
In ringlets o'er his languid eyes;
Wee Cupid ne'er had sic a bed,
Neither in earth, nor in the skies.

While thus he lay within her arms,
Entranced amidst her softening glances,
Sweet languor stole o'er all her charms,
And gentle sleep sealed up her senses.

And now the little am'rous thief,
Thinking he hadna got enough yet,
From her bright tresses, to be brief,
He stole a ringlet, and ran off wi't.

Like many anither thievish wight,
His treachery but began his sorrows;
For Cupid, in his hasty flight,
Forgot behind his bow and arrows.

Soon Lydia wakened, seized the bow,
Perceived the theft he had committed:
The thief ran trippin' o'er the knowe;
An arrow to the bow she fitted.

“Stop, thou ungrateful, treach'rous child!
Or else this arrow brings thee death.”
Cupid, with guilt and shame appall'd,
Sunk trembling down upon the heath.

“How durst you, impudent, presume
To steal a ringlet of my hair?
Was it for this my breast found room
For you, ungrateful? Let me hear.”

“O, be not angry, Lydia fair!
Your beauty caus'd me to transgress;
I'd ne'er have touch'd your shining hair
But for its charming loveliness.

130

“Hear me a moment. Oh, forgive!
I meant this little lock to twine,
To dart the winged shafts o' love
Frae that wee golden bow o' mine.”

“Your golden bow, impert'nent thief!
I'll let ye better ken whose aught it;
Your memory mauna be sae scrimp;
Next time ye steal, mind Lydia taught ye't.”

In love's array while Lydia stands,
O how bombaz'd his godship looked;
She snatch'd her ringlet frae his hand,
And cuff'd the lugs o' little Cupid.

VIII.
To Lydia.

[_]

(Translated from Cornelius Gallus.)

Thy beauteous skin, my Lydia dear,
Like Indian ivory polish'd bright,
Outshines the milk and lily fair,
Mingled with roses red and white.

Expand, dear girl, thy yellow hair,
In ringlets like the sparkling gold;
Thy lovely neck and shoulders bare,
Let me their snowy charms behold!

From thy soft eyebrows, arching dark,
Open thy starry eyes on me;
Thy Tyrian-purple-colour'd cheek,
Shining in beauty, let me see.

Stretch me thy lips, thy coral lips,
Fraught with love's treasure, like the dove;
Drink, with thy breath, into thy heart
My mingling spirit mad with love.

131

O Lydia dear! thy burning breath
Sets my dissolving soul on fire;
Dries up the maddening stream of life,
I'll on thy coral lips expire.

IX.
To Lydia.

Bright was the summer scene,
Dark was the bower of green,
You in the woods had been
Gathering red flowers;
Soft eyes of darkening hue
Beam'd wanton ringlets through,
My heart at the witching view
Asked for yours.

While o'er us the summer flew,
Each time I met with you,
Early acquaintance grew
Warmer and fonder:
Soon did the eye display
What the young heart would say,
Thoughts that concealed lay,
Stolen looks made kinder.

X.
Song.

Yet fair be the flowers
Of the fast coming year;
And happy the hearts
That shall oft wander here;
And sweet be the breeze
On the flower-spangled grove,
That shall sport with the ringlets
Of beauty and love.

132

And blest be that bosom,
That once was my own,
When far, far away,
I'm forgotten and gone;
When some happier heart
On that breast shall recline,
May those transports be his
That no more shall be mine.

I'll not say, young Lydia,
Thy love is untrue;
You ne'er made a promise,
You ne'er broke a vow;
But as warm ties are broken
As love ever knew,
Since your heart's early partner's
Forgotten by you.

O, how could you think
That my heart would be free,
When so often it met
With a maiden like thee?
Or think that a bosom
Like mine was to blame,
When it caught from thy eyes
Love's infectious flame?

O, how could my bosom
Refuse to be blest,
When thy dark auburn tresses
Were spread o'er my breast;
When so fond was thy heart,
And so languid thine eye,
As you breath'd on my lips
Young affection's pure sigh?

But be quiet now, my heart;
All these joys now are o'er;
The maid that once loved me
Now loves me no more:
Far away I'm forgot;
All repining is vain;
I'll away to the dark
Swelling ocean again.

133

Dear stream! that now murmurs
So mournfully through
'Mong the willows, where often
We've wandered, adieu!
May friendship and love
On thy banks still increase;
And beauty's soft bloom
Crown thy dwellings of peace.

XI.
Pastoral Sweetness.

'Tis sweet to wander in the moors
And hear the muirfowl cryin';
'Tis sweet to see the mountain flowers
Among the heather lyin'.

'Tis sweet, reposin' on the brae,
To hear the burnie flowin';
'Tis sweet to see the rashes green
Beside its waters growin';

'Tis sweet to see, upon its banks,
The gowans springin' yellow;
'Tis sweet to see its waters clear
Embrace the buddin' willow.

All these are sweet: but Lydia's lips
Are softer far and sweeter;
This is the place, and this the hour—
She's yonder—I will meet her.

XII.
Meditations.

The evening was bright;
'Twas an evening in May;
From the blue hills the sunshine
Was fading away.

134

The flowers of the moorland
Were wet with the dew:
My heart like the flowers
Was refresh'd with it too.

The thick grass besprinkled,
In freshness did lie;
And the evening star twinkled
Afar in the sky.

Asleep in May moonlight
The blue waters lay:
And my spirit was wafted
In softness away.

XIII.
Musings.

How lovely this delightful even!
The blue serenity of heaven!
Yon stars that gem the breast of night
Shine on the waters blue and bright.
The summer waves are hushed asleep;
Music and love is on the deep,
And many a false, and many a fair,
And many a lovely one is there:
Loving and lovely tho' they be,
There is not one will think on me.

There's one romantic thought, more dear
Than all that love can furnish here,—
Beneath yon moonbeam's yellow ray,
Where Nith's dark waters glide away,
One heart may haply seek the grove,
To muse on days of early love;
And, should some fond remembrance be,
To give a sigh, and think on me.

There was a time—but the years are past—
When many an evening walk was blest;
When summer's dewy fragrance lay
On rustling corn and fresh green hay;

135

The woods were dark, the waters clear,
And not a foot save one was near:
Whoe'er that lovely one might be,
Her happiest thoughts were thoughts of me.

But why these recollections dear
No longer must be cherished here;
Why thoughts of one so dearly lov'd
Were better from my breast remov'd;
And why two loving hearts did sever,
And bade adieu, perhaps for ever,—
No one must know, but only she
Who long has thought and thinks of me.

XIV.
Farewell.

Fare thee well! since I must leave thee
All my happiness is gone.
Sweetest girl! will it not grieve thee
To reflect on what thou'st done?

Yes! I'll go, my dearest Lydia;
For thy happiness I'll go;
I will never, by refusing,
Wound the heart once lov'd me so.

But don't urge me to forget thee
Though we part at thy request;—
Those sweet hours when first I met thee,
When thy bosom made me blest.

Streams once mingled in the river
'Tis impossible to part;
'Tis as vain to try to sever
Those ideas from my heart.

They're entwin'd with my existence;
They are dearer than my breath;
Against fate they'll dare resistance,
And defy the gloom of death.

136

Among all that's sweet in nature,
No relief my heart can feel;
I can't trace one single feature
But gives wounds that will not heal.

Not a path where we have wander'd,
Not a field, a flower, a tree,
But it tells me there I've ponder'd
On endearing thoughts of thee.

All can tell of days we parted;
But we parted not as now:
Then how kind and loving-hearted
On my lips you breath'd adieu!

In those hours of young affection,
When thy bosom was so kind,
Could I e'er make one reflection
Upon all has been behind?

Could I think that eye of fondness
That reposed on my heart;
And those lips that breathed kindness
Would entreat me to depart?

But farewell! I'll not distress thee
With my bleeding bosom s pain.
Fare thee well; may Heaven bless thee,
Though we ne'er should meet again.

XV.
The Lassie wi' the Saft, Dark E'e.

[_]

Tune—“Bonnie Doon.”

Gi'e mirth and pleasure's heartless sons
Their sparklin' cups o' dark red wine,
The dance, where courtly ladies gay
In rustlin' silks and diamonds shine;

137

There's ae sweet lassie far away,
Is dearer, lovelier far, to me,—
My Lydia, by the mountain stream,
Wi' shinin' hair and dark, sweet e'e.

O mony a sweet returnin' year
O' happiness has o'er us flown;
An' mony a sweet returnin' year
I yet shall clasp her all my own!
I'll ne'er forget youth's simmer days,
The primrose bank, the green wood tree.
Where first we met, and oft ha'e blest,
The lassie wi' the saft, dark e'e.

Nae costly gems, nor rubies bright,
Nor shinin' emeralds I prepare
To glance upon thy fingers white,
Or braid thy links o' auburn hair;
But, in my happiest, fondest hours,
I'll twine a wreath o' love for thee,
An' bind it round thy snawy brow,
Dear Lydia, wi' the saft, dark e'e.

XVI.
The Cameronian Dream.

In a dream of the night I was wafted away,
To the moorland of mist where the martyrs lay;
Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen,
Engrav'd on the stone where the heather grows green.

'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood,
When the minister's home was the mountain and wood,
When in Wellwood's dark moorlands the standard of Sion,
All bloody and torn 'mong the heather was lying.

It was morning, and summer's young sun, from the east,
Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast;
On Wardlaw, and Cairntable, the clear shining dew
Glisten'd sheen 'mong the heath-bells and mountain-flowers blue.

138

And far up in heaven, in the white sunny cloud,
The song of the lark was melodious and loud;
And in Glenmuir's wild solitudes, lengthen'd and deep,
Was the whistling of plovers, and the bleating of sheep.

And Wellwood's sweet valley breath'd music and gladness,
Its fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness;
Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
And drink the delights of green July's bright morning.

But, ah! there were hearts cherish'd far other feelings,
Illum'd by the light of prophetic revealings,
Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,
For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.

'Twas the few faithful ones who, with Cameron, were lying
Concealed 'mong the mist, where the heathfowl were crying;
For the horsemen of Earl's-hall around them were hovering,
And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty covering.

Tho' their faces grew pale, and their swords were nnsheath'd,
Yet the vengeance that darken'd their brows was unbreath'd;
With eyes rais'd to heaven in meek resignation,
They sung their last song to the God of salvation.

The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing,
The curlew and plover in concert were singing;
But the melody died 'midst derision and laughter,
As the hosts of ungodly rush'd on to the slaughter.

Though in mist, and in darkness, and fire they were shrouded,
Yet the souls of the righteous stood calm and unclouded;
Their dark eyes flash'd lightning, as proud and unbending
They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending.

The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming,
The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming,
The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling,
When, in Wellwood's dark moorlands, the mighty were falling.

When the righteous had fallen, and the combat had ended,
A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended,
The drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,
And its burning wheels turn'd upon axles of brightness.

139

A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining,
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining;
And the souls, that came forth out of great tribulation,
Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation.

On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding;
Through the paths of the thunder the horsemen are riding.
Glide swiftly, bright spirits, the prize is before ye;
A crown never-fading, a kingdom of glory!

XVII.
To Lydia's Sister.

Lady of dark, sweet eyes!
Soft as the summer skies;
Where little Cupid lies
Watching his prey.
It brings delight to me
That I must write to thee
Epistles in poetry:—
What shall I say?

Had our young hearts been free
When I first met with thee,
I would have wrote to thee
Sweet songs of love:
No heart like mine could lie
Long 'neath thy beaming eye
But it must breathe a sigh—
Oh! don't reprove!

I mind a byegone year
When thy dark eyes were dear;
Young love has many a fear:
So 'twas with mine.
'Twas well my heart conceal'd
Thoughts not till now reveal'd;
Other eyes made it yield—
Dark eyes like thine.

140

That heart's engaged now,
Linked in love's softest vow:
Should it make love to you,
You must despise it.
One that has loved it long
Still has its warmest song:
Trust me, that maiden young
Dearly can prize it.

O Fanny! wilt thou be
One kind young friend to me?
Then I will write to thee
In pure affection.
At thoughts of vanish'd love
Friendship shall warmer prove;
Softer the lay be wove
From dear recollection.

XVIII.
Scottish National Melody.

Let Italy boast of her bloom-shaded waters,
Her bowers, and her vines, and her warm sunny skies;
Her sons drinking love from the eyes of her daughters,
While freedom expires amidst softness and sighs:—
Scotland's bleak mountains wild,
Where hoary cliffs are piled,
Towering in grandeur, are dearer to me;
Land of the misty cloud,
Land of the tempest loud,
Land of the brave and proud, land of the free.

Enthroned on the peak of the dark Highland mountain,
The spirit of Scotland reigns fearless and free;
Her tartan-folds waving o'er blue lake and fountain,
Exulting she sings, looking over the sea,—
“Here 'mong my mountains wild
I have serenely smiled,

141

While armies and empires against me were hurled;
Firm as my native rocks,
Calmly sustained the shocks
Of Denmark, and Cæsar, and Rome, and the World.

“When kings of the nations in council assemble,
The frown of my brow makes their proud hearts to quake,
The flash of mine eye makes the bravest to tremble,
The sound of my war song makes armies to shake.
France long shall mind the strain,
Sung on her bloody plain,
Made Europe's bold armies with terror to shiver!—
Shrouded in fire and blood,
Then sung the pibroch loud,
‘Dying but unsubdued—Scotland for ever!’

“See at the war-note my proud horses prancing,
Deep groves of steel trodden down in their path;
The eyes of the brave like their bright swords are glancing,
Triumphantly riding through ruin and death!
Bold hearts and nodding plumes
Dance o'er their bloody tombs—
Shining in blood is the bright tartan's wave—
Dire is the horseman's wheel,
Shivering the ranks of steel—
Victor in battle-field is Scotland the brave!”

XIX.
To Lydia.

The heart, that with the gloom of sadness
And sorrow has been never moved.
Knows not, 'midst all its smiles and gladness,
How sweet it is to be beloved:—

Knows not how sweet it is to languish
In sorrows from the world concealed
And feel two soft lips heal its anguish,
Breathing the sigh of love revealed.

142

Oh! there are hearts—and mine is one—
Oft wounded by too keenly feeling;
Which love like thine, and thine alone,
Can only know the art of healing.

And well thou know'st this faithful heart,
No other maiden ever knew;
'Midst all its sorrows and its smart
It never came to one but you:

Nor ever shall; for, though there's none
Could ever wound it so severely,
Now well it knows there is not one
Can ever love it half so dearly.

But why complain? Perhaps 'twas well
Our bosoms did so much endure:
Had we ne'er drunk of sorrow's well,
Our love had never been so pure.

Now I feel love's, not sorrow's, tear
Between my trembling eyelids prest:
My dearest Lydia! wert thou here,
Oh! I would shed it on thy breast.

XX.
The Mountain Song.

[_]

Tune—“O'er the Moor amang the Heather.”

How sweet the dewy bell is spread,
Where Spango's mountain streams are lavin',
The heath'ry locks o' deepenin' red
Around the mountain-brows are wavin'!

Here, on the sunny mountain side,
Dear Lydia, we'll sit down thegither,
Where Nature spreads Love's crunson bed,
Among the bonnie bloomin' heather.

143

Lang hae I wish'd, my lovely maid,
Amang thae fragrant wilds to lead ye;
And now, aneath my Highland plaid,
How blest I lie wi' you aside me!

And art thou happy, dearest, speak,
Wi' me aneath the tartan plaidie?—
Yes; that sweet glance, sae saft and meek,
Resigns thee to thy Highland laddie.

When simmer suns the flow'rs expand,
In a' their silken beauties shinin',
They're no sae saft as thy white hand,
Upon my cheek in love reclinin'.

The softness o' the gentle dove,
Its eyes in dyin' sweetness closin',
Is like thy languid eyes o' love
Sae fondly on my heart reposin'.

While thus aneath my tartan plaid
Sae warmly to my lips I press ye,
That honied bell o' dewy red
Is nocht like thy sweet lips, dear lassie!

Reclin'd on Love's soft crimson bed,
Our hearts sae fondly lock'd thegither;
Thus o'er my cheek thy ringlets spread,
How happy, happy 'mang the heather!

XXI.
Scottish Imitation of a Passage in Tasso's “Aminta.”

Dear sir,—Since you have been so kind,
I surely cannot be behind,
Accept, I pray, the followin' story,
Which I have just translated for ye.

144

The scene is an Italian wood:
The nymphs are fair, the day is good,
The sun shines bright among the flow'rs,
Two shepherds meet among the bow'rs.

But, humbly beggin' Tasso's pardon,
I dinna like to be tied hard down,
Besides, I think there's no occasion
For a strict, literal translation.

I therefore mean to change the scene
To Crawick's woods o' Scottish green;
I'll act Aminta if I can,
An' Sylvia shall be lovely Ann.

When I was just a wee, wee callan,
Rinnan about my Lydia's dwallan,
We aften wandert out thegither,
An' gowans pou'd wi' ane anither.

Her saft an' shinin' auburn hair
Hang curlin' o'er her white neck bare,
Dancin' upon the simmer breeze,—
An' I wad climb the leafy trees

To cull the fruits, o' sweetest juice,
Of which my Lydia had made choice.
While thus among the woods we ran,
An early friendship soon began:

An' she was gentler far than ony,
An' she was playfu', young, and bonny,
An' no ane among a' the fair,
Wi' my sweet Lydia could compare.

Our dwallans they were closely join'd,
But closer were our hearts combin'd,
An' though we were exactly yealans,
We nearer were in thoughts an' feelin's.

In thae sweet years o' early love,
The kind and gentle turtle dove
Was not mair happy, wi' its mate,
Than we thegither air' an' late.

145

By little an' by little grew
Up in my heart, I kenna how,
Like a wee gowan i' the meadow,
An unkent love for my dear Lydia.

While we were seated on a bank
I from her eyes a sweetness drank,
That made me always wish to be
In that young lassie's company.

Such draughts of sweetness left a pain
That never could be heal'd again,
Besides, they often made me sigh,
I did not know the reason why.

Continuin' sighs my heart did move,
An' I discover'd it was love;
How this same love o mine did end,
I mean to tell you,—pray, attend.

Ae day aneath a green birk tree
Young Fanny, Lydia, an' me,
Playfully pass'd away the hours,—
The bees drank honey 'mong the flow'rs.

Young Fanny's cheek, vermilion pure,
The bees mistook it for a flow'r:
Ane o' them cam', wi' bummin' wing,
An', waesucks! pierc'd it wi' his sting

Young Fanny's cheek was unco sair,
An' she began a-greetin' there;
My Lydia, wi' her voice sae sweet,
Said “Dearest Fanny! dinna greet.

“I ha'e a charm will heal the wound,
An' mak' your cheek yet hale an' sound,
I learned it frae an auld wise woman
Kent mony a thing that wasna common.”

This said, my Lydia did advance
Her sweet wee mouth, wi' laughin' glance,
An' prest it to the bumbee wound,
Wi' sic a sweet and murmurin' sound,

146

That really, wonderful to say,
The pain died perfectly away,
The virtue o' her lips was such
They heal'd it wi' their vera touch.

An' I, who never had before
Observ'd in Lydia any more
Than the soft languor of her eyes;
Her voice, that wak'd love's softest sighs,—

A voice far sweeter than the burnie
That plays o'er many a pebbl'd turnie,
Sweeter than simmer's sigh that heaves
Among the flow'rs an' rustlin' leaves,—

Began to feel a new desire;
Within my heart there burnt a fire
That made me long to press her lips,
An' drink the dews a lover sips.

Nae ither plan remain'd for me,
Than to bring back young Fanny's bee,
An' mak' it come wi' bummin' wing,
An' gie my cheek, like hers, a sting.

Whether my cheek was stangt or no
It matters not—but I did go
To Lydia—who my tale believ'd,
For piteously I grat and griev'd.

Soon did the kind young girl prepare
To mend my cheek was stangt sae sair:
But, ah! the stang her lips did gie
Inflam'd far waur than any bee!

Her soft arms round my neck entwin'd,
Her glowing breast on mine reclin'd;
Drunken with love's delicious draught,
Her eyes grew languid, sweet, and saft;

Her ringlets on my cheek were lyin',
My soul upon her lips was sighin';
Then Lydia taught me first the powers
Of soft rich lips like honey flowers.

Of the same age.

147

XXII.
Despair.

The sun of the morning
Ariseth in brightness,
But shineth not now
On my bosom all lightness.

To a heart that is sick
With vexation and care,
Its rays only darken
The gloom of despair.

When despair's bitter draught
Puts youth's heart in a ferment,
The prospect of day
Only deepens its torment.

Though the cup may at evening
Subside into sadness,
The dreams of the night
Mingle musings of madness.

How oft from the pillow
Where slumbers deep sorrow,
The soul in distraction
Awakes on the morrow,

With the torrent's dark dash
Hanging o'er the deep wave;
And the pistol's red flash,
And the suicide's grave!

148

XXIII.
The Prisoner's Song.

Among Nith's green hills I hae herdit sheep,
'Mong the heathery braes an' the moorland waters;
But though I was but a shepherd laddie,
My love was the fairest o' Nithsdale's daughters.

Saft was her dark e'e, an' yellow her hair,
'Mong her golden earrings in ringlets twinin';
Saft was the silk on her bosom o' milk,
But safter that bosom, on mine reclinin'.

O love's sunny mornin' rose, shinin' an' bright,
The e'enin' brought happiness, sae did the morrow,
Till misfortune's storms brought the darkness o' night,
An' love's sun gaed down among clouds o' sorrow.

Now lonely 'mong Nith's yellow woods ye may stray,
While the winter rains fa' like your tears o' mournin',
For your early lover is far, far away,
An' no ae hope o' his ever returnin'.

Wi' you I have lain on Nith's gowany braes,
Where the green birks were hangin' aboon the waters;
Now, far frae the friends o' my early days,
I maun lie in a prison 'mong chains an' fetters.

Wi' you I hae wander'd among the woods,
Where the mavis the sweet songs o' simmer was singin',
But now I maun lie in a dungeon dark,
My music the prison bells mournfully ringin'.

Wi' you I hae lain in my tartan plaid,
While your saft white hands did fondly caress me,
Now, far, far away frae my ain dear maid,
The hands o' the merciless stranger oppress me.

Farewell! farewell, sweet companion of youth!
O forget a' the days o' our early courtin'!
I hae fought till the last o' our hopes was o'ercast,
An' now I'm laid low by the blasts o' misfortune.

149

Make choice o' some happier lover than I,
Wi' the sunshine o' pleasure and fortune to bless ye;
In the circles o' happiness spend thy days
Wi' affection and friends, and the world to caress ye.

An' when ye walk in the e'enin's o' spring
By the green-wood side where sae often ye met me,
In affection's embrace to his bosom cling,
In his arms o' love, oh, try to forget me.

His gentle hand, wi' jewels and gold,
Will braid the soft links o' your hair sae yellow,
When the heart o' your early lover is cold,
An' flowers o' spring weepin' over his pillow.

XXIV.
Song to Anna.

[_]

Air—“The Last Glimpse of Erin.”

Away to the wildwoods, away, love, with me!
There's green grass on sunny braes, buds on the tree;
The palms on the white saughs are hoary and gray—
Away to the wildwoods, away, love, away!

I'll lead thee where simmer comes first to the wuds,
And pu' thee a branch o' the greenest birk buds;
Where crag-bells ring bonnie thy sweet lips will tell,
And I'll climb for the flowers that are sweetest in smell.

We'll listen the linnet and join in its mirth,
And drink a' the gladness spring sheds on the earth;
And think o' blythe July's days comin' sae dear,
When simmer wi' bridal-robes busks the young year.

We'll find out some green sunny spot 'mong the rocks,
'Midst the singin' o' waters and bleatin' o' flocks;
Thy soft lips of love on my cheek I will lay—
Come away to the wildwoods, away, love, away!

150

XXV.
Song—To You.

The Woodland Queen in her bower of love,
Her gleaming tresses with wild-flowers wove,
But her breathing lips, as she sat in her bower,
Were richer far than the honey'd flower!

The waving folds of the Indian silk
Hung loose o'er her ringlets and white neck of milk;
And O! the bosom that sigh'd below
Was pure and soft as the winter snow!

A tear-drop bright in her dark eyes shone,
To think that sweet summer would soon be gone;
How blest the hand of the lover who may
From an eye so bright wipe such tears away!

How blest is he in the moonlight hour
Who may linger with her in her woodland bower,
'Midst the gleaming ringlets and silk to sigh,
And share in the tear and the smile of her eye!

My heart was a stranger to love's young dream
Till I found her alone by the fairy stream;
But she glided away through the branches green,
And left me to sigh for the Woodland Queen!

XXVI.
Fragment of a Dream.

I follow'd it on by the pale moonlight,
Through the deep and the darksome wood;
It tarried—I trembled—it pointed and fled!
'Twas a grave where the spirit had stood:—

151

'Twas a grave—but 'twas mystery and terror to think
How the bed of the dead could be here;
'Twas here I had met in the morning of life
With one that was loving and dear:—

'Twas here we had wander'd while gathering flowers
In the innocent days of our childhood,
And here we were screen'd from the warm sunny showers
By the thickening green of the wildwood.

And here in the sweet summer morning of love
Young affection first open'd its blossom,
When none were so innocent, loving, and kind
As the maiden that lay in my bosom:—

I look'd on the woods; they were budding as green
As the sorrowful night that we parted,—
When turning again to the grave I had seen,
At the voice of a spirit I started!—

In terror I listen'd! No sound met mine ear
Save the lone waters murmuring by;
But I saw o'er the woods, in the dead of the night,
A dark mourning carriage draw nigh:—

By the green grave it hover'd, mine eye could perceive,
Where a white cover'd coffin now lay—
It hover'd not long, but again through the woods
It mournfully glided away!—

Where the kirk-yard elms shade the flat gray stones
With the long green grass overgrown,
The carriage stood still o'er an opening grave,
And I saw a black coffin let down.

Upon its dark page were a name and an age—
'Twas my Lydia in death that lay sleeping;
All vanish'd away, but her spirit pass'd by,
As alone by the grave I stood weeping!

How death-like and dim was the gaze of that eye,
Where love's warmest fires once were glowing;
The pale linen shroud now enfolded the cheek
Where once beauty's ringlets were flowing!

152

O Lydia, why thus dost thou gaze upon me,
And point to the darksome wood?—
An invisible hand seem'd to proffer a ring,
Or a dagger all stained with blood:—

But the bright sun of summer return'd with his ray.
And the singing of birds brought the morrow;
Those visions of darkness all faded away
As I woke from my slumber of sorrow!

XXVII.
Scottish Imitation of the Fifth Ode of the First Book of Horace.

What gracefu' youth, wi' sweet perfumes
Cuddles thee, Annie, 'mong the blooms
Of roses, in the lone green cave?
For whom thy yellow tresses wave
In ringlets, snudit artlessly?

He who, unwittin' o' thy art,
Thinks fondly he has a' thy heart,
Presses thee, sweetness a', an' love,
Thinks nocht will e'er thy kindness move.

How often, in some distant year,
He'll weep to think on hours sae dear
When ye were kind—an' sigh to see
Ye changèd, like the simmer sea
When rude winds blow tempestuously!

Unhappy, whom your untried charms
Shinin' allure—but my alarms
Frae them are over. I've escap'd
Frae shipwreck, wi' my garments dipp'd
In Love's salt wave, an' on the wall
I've hung them drippin', to recall
The vows an' offerings due by me
To the Great Ruler o' the Sea.

153

XXVIII.
Address to the Crawick.

Thy landscape, Crawick, from my heart
Shall never fade away;
By beauty's pencil it was drawn,
In boyhood's early day:

Sweet spring shed o'er the scenery green
Its sunshine and its light;
Love lent his colouring to the scene,
And made it far more bright.

Stream of green hills and darkening woods,
And crags of hoary gray;
Where bound thy whinstone channeled floods
In majesty away.

Thus proudly hast thou held thy path
Since first thy course began,
Unheeding of the life or death
Of frail and fading man.

Thou canst look back, and call to mind
The noon-day of the world,
When Cæsar's legions on thy hills
The Roman flag unfurled;

When mustering up thy Celtic ranks
The gathering bugle blew,
As o'er thy green and dewy banks
Rome's conquering eagle flew!

Where still thy Roman camps are seen
In mouldering ruins gray,
Where flocks now crop the daisies green,
And peaceful shepherds stray,

Thy tartaned warriors, from the heath,
In bonnet and in plume,
Have closed amid the ranks of death
With proud imperial Rome!

154

Haply, where darkening firs now spread
Their shadows o'er thy waters,
Among thy primrose bowers in spring
Where walk thy beauteous daughters,

Some lady fair, of Celtic birth,
Her dark eyes dim with weeping,
Has strewed with funeral flowers the earth
O'er her loved warrior sleeping!

Stream of my childhood!—might I now
Among thy woodlands wander,
Light-hearted, as in life's young years,
On themes like these to ponder;

To linger in thy cooling shades
The long, long summer day,
When scarcely through the thick green leaves
Could pierce the sunny ray;

With the laburnum's flowering gold
To have my covert shaded;
My brows with rustling woodbine cold,
In dark green ringlets, braided;

To view life sleeping, far away,
In sunshine, love, and lightness,
And deem it all a scene, like this,
Of gladsomeness and brightness,—

It would be sweet!—But these are dreams
Belong alone to childhood;
Those forms of love soon glide away
That meet us in the wild-wood:—

Where is that form of loveliness
That crossed my path at even,
Breathing o'er life's dark wilderness
The happiness of Heaven?

But though love's brightest early blooms
Among life's storms may perish,
The form of her it loved in youth
The heart will ever cherish:—

155

Though 'tis forgotten in the hours
Of noisy mirth and gladness,
It still returns, with all its powers,
In solitude and sadness!

The silence of the long, dark night,—
The wood, the shore, the sea,—
Annie! my early, only love!
Still brings thee back to me.

When back, through clouds of darkest woe,
I view life's early day,
I see thee in a little world
Of sunshine, far away.

Blooming in loveliness, as when
You met me in the grove,
With loose locks floating in the sun,
And dark eyes beaming love!—

I see thee in the bower of spring,
Beside the moorland fountains;
I see thee 'mong the heather bells,
On Spango's dewy mountains;

I see thee in the mirthful hall,
With songs and music ringing;
I see thee in the church-yard green,
Where holy psalms are singing!

It was a vision—and 'tis fled,
On viewless wings, away,
To mingle with the morning clouds
In brightness and decay!

Stream of the mountains!—many a flower
Of love thy banks have shaded,
Flourishing in the morning shower,
And ere the noon-day faded!

O many a fond heart has been blest
Among thy green woods deep!
But Time's dark tide has o'er them past
With overwhelming sweep:

156

Onward his surging waters roll,
Resistlessly and free,
Spreading o'er love's bright flowery vale
A misty, starless sea.

My warmest love of youth now fades
A way like morning dreams!
But other lovers, other maids,
Shall wander by thy streams;

New springs shall renovate thy bowers,
New summers gild thy skies;
To bless warm youth's enraptured hours
New forms of love arise;

But thou, unchanged, shalt pour thy floods
O'er crags and cliffs sublime,
Till angels ring, among the clouds,
The funeral bells of Time!

XXIX.
My Grandfather.

Where Crawick's woodland waters glide
By green hill, glen, an' shaw,
An aged elder I espied
Whose hair was white as snaw.

His tremblin' limbs had travell'd far,
Far down the vale o' years;
An' thus, 'neath life's declinin' star,
He sang an' shed his tears.

“Oh! when shall life's long journey end,
Its troubles, toils, an' woes?
Oh! when shall I lie down in death,
To sleep in sweet repose?

157

“I've battl'd wi' misfortune's blast
For fourscore years an' three,
Worn out wi' age an' waur'd at last;
It's unco hard for me.

“My strength is gane, my money's spent,
My mailin's far ower dear;
An envious neighbour rais'd my rent
Full twenty pounds a year.

“There's some excuse, I dinna dout,
For mony bairns has he;
But wha's he wad ha'e driv'n out
An auld, auld man like me?

“Frae Crawick's bonnie woods an' braes
I'd grieve to gang awa,
For there I've seen sweet simmer days
Twice twenty year an' twa.

“Ilk gow'ny glen an' burnie roun'
I ken them a' by name;
There's no a bush about the toun
But speaks to me o' hame.

“But gang we maun, my Mary dear!
For here we canna stay;
Our wee bit stock o' well-hain'd gear
The rent wad eat away.

“Oor bairnies maun ha'e bread an' claes,
An' somethin' I maun hain
To keep thee in thy auld frail days
When I am dead an' gane.

“My rent to five Drumlanrig Dukes
I've paid wi' meikle pride;
To leave my bonnie native brooks,
It's unco sair to bide.

“Could young Buccleuch, in grief an' tears,
His auldest tenant see,
He wadna grieve my grey-hair'd years,
Nor turn me out to dee.

158

“Fain wad I gang to young Buccleuch
An' tell my wofu' tale;
But, hoch! I downa travel now;
I'm unco auld an' frail.

“I canna write to lord or duke,
My learnin's unco sma';
An' nane amang the meikle folk
Will speak for me ava.

“The lang an' silent hame for me
Must shortly be the grave;
But frae the Duke, afore I dee,
Just ae thing I wad crave:

“That aye by Crawick's bonnie glen
My children may remain,
Wi' rent reduc'd to gar them fen'
When I am dead an' gane.”

XXX.
The Murmurs of the Crawick.

Oh! dear are his hills to the Highlander true,
His glens o' red heather, his mountains o' blue,
His dark-rising cairn where the battle has been;
But dearer to me are the hills o' the south,
The land o' my fathers, the home o' my youth,—
Though far away, hid 'mong yon wintry clouds:
Life's earliest friends have their happy abodes
Where murmurs the Crawick 'mong her mountains o' green.

Though o'er them the cauld drift o' winter may blaw,
And a' their green beauties be hid 'mong the snaw,
And darksome and dreary the woodlands be seen;
Yet spring shall return, wi' her earliest showers,
And waken the songs o' my dear native bowers;
The primrose shall bloom on the green, dewy brae;
And lovers shall meet, at the close o' the day,
Where murmurs the Crawick 'mong her mountains o' green.

159

Though darkness be over thy history spread;
Yet, among the lone glens, where the shepherds oft tread,
The traces of armies are still to be seen:
Out over thy valleys war's banners have streamed;
'Mong glens o' green breckens the blue steel has gleamed;
Thy banks have been dyed wi' the blood o' the brave,
And summer's wild blossoms now bloom o'er his grave
Who fell in defending his mountains o' green.

Again if the foe should our dwellings assail,
By Heavens! he will find there are guardians still
To defend our lone homes and their mountains o' green:
The true-hearted sons to the combat would wheel;
Their plaids they would change for the dark-gleaming steel;
Like leaves on the tempest the foe would be borne
To the land whence he never again would return
To disturb the true hearts 'mong the mountains o' green.

No; never a foe shall set foot on our home;
But free o'er the mountains our shepherds shall roam;
No tyrant nor slave 'mong us e'er shall be seen;
The servant shall cheerfully sing o'er his toil;
The smiles o' his master his cares will beguile;
While friendship and love in ilk heart shall increase;
And beauty's sweet bloom crown his dwelling o' peace,
Where murmurs the Crawick 'mong her mountains o' green.

XXXI.
Lines on Friendship.

There is many a friend
Would be kind if he could;
But his feelings are cold,
And his kindness is rude.
When the waters of sorrow
In calmness grow cool,
He throws in a pebble,
And troubles the pool.

160

There are moments when sadness
And silence are best;
When the soul in the depths
Of its thoughts seeks for rest;
When the sea and the shore
And the wood bring delight,
And the dreams of our youth,
And the darkness of night.

The morning of youth
Yields me many a dream;
But sad the remembrance,
And mournful the theme:
Companions of boyhood
Have sailed o'er the wave,
And the friend of my childhood
Lies cold in the grave.

Oh! many a sorrow
And sigh has been mine;
But I wanted a breast
Where my head might recline:
In my musings I oft
For a sister have sighed,
With a bosom of softness;
But that was denied.

My heart has been wounded—
That wound is not heal'd;
My soul's keenest anguish
Was never reveal'd:
It was sever'd in youth
From the one that I lov'd;
That loves it in sorrow
Tho' far, far remov'd.

The heart is a fountain
Whose waters o'erflow;
The heart is a garden
Where sweet flowers will grow:
If a friend or a lover
But water the flowers,
And affection's dews fall
On the fountain like showers.

161

XXXII.
Crawick Glen.

Oh! sair's my heart, nae man shall ken,
When I took leave o' yonder glen,
Its faithfu' dames, its honest men,
Its streams sae pure and glassy O;
Its woods that skirt the verdant vale,
Its balmy breeze, sae saft and hale;
She's the flower o' every flower the wale,
My blithesome bonnie lassie O.

The nichts were short, the day was lang,
As aye we sat Craw'ck's birks amang,
Till o'er our heads the blackbird sang,—
Go part wi' that dear lassie O;
Till o'er yon lofty tops sae green
The rising sunbeams saft were seen,
Wi' aching heart I left my Ann,
My blithesome bonnie lassie O.

Her air is graceful as the pine;
Her smile the sunshine after rain;
Her nature cheerful, frank, and kind;
And neither proud nor saucy O.
The fairest blossom on the tree
Was ne'er so fair nor meek as she;
Nor aught was e'er so sweet to me
As a kiss frae that dear lassie O.

Where'er I go, where'er I be,
Craw'ck glen shall aye be dear to me;
Its woody banks and holms to see,
Its braes sae green and grassy O.
'Tis there my hopes are centred a',
'Twas there my heart was stolen awa',
'Twas there my Annie first I saw—
My blithesome bonnie lassie O.

162

XXXIII.
Balandine Braes.

It was high o'er yon moorland, an' down in a glen
Where the water runs clear, an' the doe makes its den,
In childhood's gay moments, the time glided by
On a soft foggy brae, 'neath a bonnie clear sky;
Sae pure was the air, an' sae charming the lays,
Sung by ilk little bird on sweet Balandine braes—
Sweet Balandine braes, sweet Balandine braes,
Sung by ilk little bird on sweet Balandine braes.

It was there, hand in hand, wi' my Sandy I ran
Over hill, over dale, wi' a branch for my fan;
The flowers sprang to cheer us, the rill murmured by,
While a' nature around shed a beautiful dye.
On the fast fleeting rainbow, wi' wonder, we'd gaze,
As we wandered along by sweet Balandine braes.
Sweet Balandine braes, sweet Balandine braes,
As we wandered along by sweet Balandine braes.

Our young hearts were as light as the shadows that flew,
We ne'er thought that love would bring clouds on our brow;
But the laird wanted men to gae out to the war,
My brother and Sandy he sent them afar;
An' left me to mourn, a' the rest o' my days,
For the lad I lo'ed dear on sweet Balandine braes.
Sweet Balandine braes, sweet Balandine braes,
For the lad I lo'ed dear on sweet Balandine braes.

XXXIV.
To Lydia.

Think not on me, thou lovely one,
Who oft hast lain upon my breast;
To know my health and hopes are gone
Would only break thy bosom's rest.

163

Yet thou must know, my kindest maid,
And breathe for me thy fondest prayer;—
Thy early lover low is laid,
Weary with sickness, grief, and care.

Think not when gladsome spring returns
To strew thy evening path with flowers,
That ever we shall meet again,
In happiness, among the bowers:

Think not when summer nights are sweet,
And roses wild perfume the brier,
With you again I'll ever meet
'Mong corn-fields green and waters clear:

Think not when oft on autumn eves
You to the moonlit bank repair,
That, 'mong the yellow withering leaves,
Again we'll ever wander there:

Think not when winter's stormy blast
Moans dreary through the leafless grove,
I'll sing thee in thy father's home,
My Lydia dear, thy songs of love:

Think not on mornings mild and bright,
When peaceful Sabbath bells are ringing,
Our souls shall mingle, with delight,
Where hymns of holiness are singing.

But when, among the graves, are swelling
The Psalms we've sung in happier years,
Look on my green and flowery dwelling—
Then look to Heaven, and dry thy tears.

164

XXXV.
The Child's Dream.

Oh! cradle me on thy knee, mamma,
And sing me the holy strain
That soothed me last, as you fondly pressed
My glowing cheek to your soft white breast;
For I saw a scene, when I slumbered last,
That I fain would see again, mamma,
That I fain would see again.

And smile as you then did smile, mamma,
And weep as you then did weep;
Then fix on me thy glistening eye,
And gaze, and gaze, till the tear be dry;
Then rock me gently, and sing, and sigh,
Till you lull me fast asleep, mamma,
Till you lull me fast asleep.

For I dreamed a heavenly dream, mamma,
While slumbering on thy knee;
And I lived in a land where forms divine
In kingdoms of glory eternally shine;
And the world I would give, if the world were mine,
Again that land to see, mamma,
Again that land to see.

I fancied we roamed in a wood, mamma,
And we rested us under a bough,
When near us a butterfly flaunted in pride,
And I chased it away through the forest wide;
But the night came on—I had lost my guide,
And I knew not what to do, mamma,
And I knew not what to do.

My heart grew sick with fear, mamma,
And loudly I wept for thee,
But a white-robed maiden appeared in the air,
And she flung back the curls of her golden hair;
As she kissed me softly, ere I was aware,
Saying, “Come pretty child with me,” mamma,
Saying, “Come pretty child with me.”

165

My tears and fears she quelled, mamma,
And she led me far away:
We entered the door of a dark, dark tomb,
We passed through a long, long vault of gloom,
Then opened our eyes in a land of bloom,
And a sky of endless day, mamma,
And a sky of endless day.

And heavenly forms were there, mamma,
And lovely cherubs bright;
They smiled when they saw me, but I was amazed,
And, wondering, around me I gazed and gazed,
While songs were heard, and sunny robes blazed,
All glorious in the land of light, mamma,
All glorious in the land of light.

But soon came a shining throng, mamma,
Of white-winged children to me,
Their eyes looked love, and their sweet lips smiled,
For they marvelled to meet with an earth-born child,
And they gloried that I from the earth was exiled,—
Saying, “Here ever blessed shalt thou be, pretty child;
Oh! here ever blessed shalt thou be.”

Then I mixed with the heavenly throng, mamma,
With the cherubs and seraphim fair;
And I saw, as I roamed in the regions of bliss,
The spirits who came from this world of distress,
And theirs were the joys no tongue could express;
For they knew no sorrow there, mamma,
For they knew no sorrow there.

Do you mind when sister Jane, mamma,
In her coffin lay ghastly and drear;
And you gazed on the sad but lovely wreck,
With a full flood of woe that you could not check,
And your heart was so sore that you thought it would break,
And you sobbed aye with many a tear, mamma.
You sobbed aye with many a tear?

But, oh! had you been with me, mamma,
In the realms unknown to care,
And seen what I saw, you ne'er had cried,
Tho' they buried dear Jane in the grave when she died;
For bright with the blest, and adorned like a bride,
My sister Jane was there, mamma,
Sweet sister Jane was there.

166

Do you mind the silly old man, mamma,
Who came late, late to our door,
When the night was dark, and the tempest loud—
Oh! his heart was meek, but his soul was proud,
And his ragged old mantle served for his shroud
Ere the midnight watch was o'er, mamma,
Ere the midnight watch was o'er?

And think what a burden of woe, mamma,
Made heavy each long-drawn sigh,
As the good man sat on papa's old chair,
While the rain dripped down from his thin grey hair,
As fast as the tear of unspeakable care
Ran down from his glazing eye, mamma,
Ran down from his glazing eye.

And think what a heavenward look, mamma,
Flashed thro' each trembling tear,
As he told how he went to the baron's stronghold,
Saying, “Oh! let me in, for the night is cold;”
But the rich man cried, “Go sleep on the wold,
For we shield no beggars here, old man,
For we shield no beggars here.”

Well, he was in glory too, mamma,
As happy as the blest can be;
He needed no alms in the mansions of light,
For he mixed with the patriarchs clothed in white;
Not a seraph was there with a crown more bright,
Or a costlier robe than he, mamma,
Or a costlier robe than he.

Now sing, for I fain would sleep, mamma,
And dream as I dreamed before;
For sound was my slumber, and sweet my rest,
While my soul in the kingdom of life was a guest,
And the heart that has throbbed in the climes of the blest
Can love this world no more, mamma,
Can love this world no more.

167

XXXVI.
To Lydia.

Say, while within my arms
Thus I enclose thee,
One little fond request
Canst thou refuse me—
From thy dark auburn locks
One little token,
To tell love's early ties
Must not be broken?

When far away from thee
Fate has remov'd me,
'Twill tell young Lydia's heart
Once dearly lov'd me;
'Twill make sweet thoughts of thee
Far on the billows—
Hours when you walk'd with me
'Mong the green willows.

Fancy shall then recall
Hours of sweet childhood—
Days when we gather'd flowers
Deep in the wildwood:
When o'er us th' hawthorn spread
Spring's shaggy blossom,
And first thy auburn locks
Lay on my bosom.

Weep not, my kindest maid!
Days are remaining,
Yet shall thy loving heart
Meet its companion;
Then shall affection's sigh
Mark the true-hearted,
When hearts shall meet again
Long have been parted.

168

XXXVII.
To Lydia.

[_]

(Upon singing, “Go where glory waits thee.”)

Yes, thou lov'd one, ever,
Tho' we soon must sever,
I will remember thee:
When life's winding way lies
Thro' love's sunny valleys,
I will remember thee.

In my musing hours,
'Mong those blooming bowers,
Should one wreath of flowers
Haply woven be,
Worthy of entwining
'Mong thy ringlets shining,
I will remember thee.

When night's shades are falling
Round thy woodland dwelling,
I will remember thee;
And when morn discloses
Summer's earliest roses,
I will remember thee.

When the sunshine yellow,
And the fresh green willow
To the banks recall you,
Where you've walked with me,
Think, when thou shalt ponder
'Mong the spring flowers yonder,
I will remember thee.

When night's lamps shall gleam on
Dark-eyed lovely women,
I will remember thee;
When bright gems are glancing
'Mong their love-locks dancing,
I will remember thee.

169

When sweet strains are dying
On sweet lips replying
To a lover's sighing—
Haply one like me;
When soft hands are thrilling,
Love's expression telling,
I will remember thee.

XXXVIII.
The Wish.

[_]

(Imitated from Blackwood's Magazine.)

Oh! were I laid
In the greenwood shade,
Under my Lydia's soft dark eye,
Her blushing cheek shaded,
With shining hair braided,
And soft dewy lips of a deep-red dye;—

Love's tears to weep,
And to sink asleep
On a bosom as pure as the starlight dew,
When it falls in the night,
In the moonshine bright,
When woodlands are green and summer skies blue.

I ask no marriage bed,
Save the flowery sheets spread
By the bride-maids of spring, in the green woods of June,
Nor dancing, nor song,
Save the light-footed throng
Of musical elves in the beams of the moon.

Let not, let not,
On this sacred spot,
The unhallowed eye of the stranger gaze;
One young maiden nigh
Is enough; for I
Never lov'd more society all my days.

170

Oh! were I laid
In the greenwood shade,
Under my Lydia's soft, dark eye,
Her blushing cheek shaded,
With shining hair braided,
And sweet dewy lips of a deep-red dye.

XXXIX.
The Language of Love.

How dear is the young heart
That loves one with fondness—
The heart where the soul
Can bestow all its kindness!

How dear the deceit,
When the heart is concealing
The deep cherish'd love
Which soft eyes are revealing!

How dear is the lip
That we oft have caressed—
The lip that hath ne'er
By another been pressed!—

The lip that can smile,
And be sweetly denying,
As on yours, all the while,
It is breathing and sighing!

How dear is the language
The thrilling hand speaketh,
When the learner of love
An interpreter seeketh!

The soft hand can speak,
In love's silent expression,
What would redden the cheek
Should sweet lips make confession.

171

How dear is the dark eye
In softness replying,
While warm lips on yours
Are in innocence lying!—

Those fond lips of love
Pressing nearer and nearer!
A soft circling arm
Makes them dearer and dearer.

XL.
A Contrast.

What a pity it were
That a bosom so fair,
And eyes, lips, and ringlets, as lovely as yours,
Should e'er shed their blossom,
Except on a bosom
As am'rous and warm as your favourite Moore's!

Could you suffer those charms
To repose in rude arms,
That would think of nought else but the weight that they carried,
Those ringlets to lie
On a breast that would sigh,
Not for love but for hair dressing, once you were married?

Those nameless perfections,
And playful attractions,
That shine in thy manners, and beam from thine eye,
Though many a one eyes them,
There's no one can prize them,
Or feel them so dearly and keenly as I.

Oh! thou hast a treasure
Of sweet youthful pleasure,
And beauty, and softness, and love to bestow;
And none but a poet
Should ever enjoy it;
For none but a poet its value can know.

172

Forgive me and love me;
And, if you reprove me,
Oh! quarrel me sweetly, and look in mine eyes;
And, while I'm repenting,
I'll see thee relenting.
But if you my amorous verses despise,

Go choose some big farmer,
Who'll make your heart warmer,
With a melting love-sonnet on butter and cheese:
Let your bosom beat quicker,
As his warm vows fall thicker,
Of potatoes and turnips, and barley, and pease.

XLI.
Lines

[_]

Written on leaving England, August, 1821.

The white sail is set, and the dark billows heaving;
Yet lingers the eye on the land we are leaving,—
The white shores of England, receding from view
As our ship stands away o'er the waters so blue.

'Tis the last look of England: how lovely from far
Its green hills asleep under evening's bright star,—
Its rich yellow corn-fields, the wave of its trees—
All fading like mist 'midst the clouds and the seas.

'Tis like looking on sunset: and now all is gone,
And my spirit in darkness must wander alone;
And the night will be long ere that morn shall arise
That hails my return to my dear native skies.

Yes! many a season, and many a year,
Must revolve ere my spirit meet those that are dear:
'Twill be long, long, my heart! ere again thou shalt prove
The sweetness of friendship, the softness of love.

173

Farewell, my dear Susan! I almost could weep
To think that I journey afar on the deep,
While yon bright star of evening is shining on thee,
As you sigh o'er the spot where you parted with me.

But think not, dear maid, I shall ever forget
That bower, in the morning of life, where we met,—
The fall of its waters, the breath of its flowers,
The ringlets and silk on that white neck of yours.

Those first hours of love to remembrance are dear;
My spirit has cherish'd them many a year:
Thy features, thy form, in the green sunny grove,
Are fresh on my breast in their first bloom of love.

Ah! little I thought when thy lip last I prest,
As in lingering fondness on mine 'twas carest,
That long years should pass, far away on the main,
Ere I drank thy soft breath of affection again.

And little I thought that the harp, wreathed with flowers,
Which you taught me to string in our dear native bowers,
To thy sweet song of love, from its long silent sleep,
Should awake from its slumbers so far on the deep.

But all this hath been: I'm alone on the wave,
My only companion the harp that you gave;
And tho' feeble and sad be the notes I awake,
Yet its lingering tones are still dear for thy sake.

That harp hath a charm that can wake from the tomb
The spirit of youth in its brightness and bloom,—
Can renovate feelings that died in their prime,
And surround me with visions of long vanish'd time.

Then welcome enchantress! alone I'll ne'er be,
While o'er the blue waters I journey with thee;
I will fly from the living afar on the wave
To converse with the forms then recalled from the grave.

In hours when my soul is with darkness o'ercast,
I will sing me a song of the years that are past;
And again my sad spirit shall bask in the ray
Of the morning of love fled for ever away.

174

XLII.
To Lydia.

[_]

(New-Year's Evening, 1821.)

My dark-eyed beauteous lov'd one! while the year
Returns again in happiness, while mirth
And wine, and love, and gladness, in the halls
Of pleasure's sons and daughters, hail its entry;
While forms like thine of youth and loveliness
Are floating thro' the dance to mirthful music,
And songs of sweetest melody, while the blush
Flushes 'mong beauty's ringlets, as her eye
Meets that of her beloved, wilt thou with me
Resign the love of revelry, and walk
Beside green Nithsdale's waters, where the woods,
Sleeping in frosty hoariness, look dark
In winter's yellow moonshine, then to talk
Of summers fled for ever, happy days
Never to be forgotten, when our hearts,
Strangers to love and to each other, met
Among the sunny woodlands?

My dark-eyed beauteous lov'd one! 'twas an hour
Of warm delicious feeling, when our eyes,
Impelled by sweet attraction, flew to meet
Each the new partner of its happiness,
In stolen looks of kindness, when each glance
Grew far more sweet and tender, till they lay
Reposing on each other in a bed
Of languid sleepy softness, and our souls
Grew drunk with sweetest pleasure, and came forth,
T' invite each other to the bower of love.

My dark-eyed beauteous lov'd one! think'st thou ever
Of those first sighs of happiness, when we,
Strangers who ne'er had spoken save in love's
Mute language, which our eyes had taught each other,
First met in July's evening, when the nightfall
Slept on the woods and waters, and the meadows,
Fresh in thick grass and wild flowers, mingled fragrance
With the green dewy corn-fields, and thy walk

175

Was thro' this darkening scenery when I met thee
In youth's alluring loveliness—that hour
Full many a charm combined to make me love thee?
There was thy soft and shining auburn hair,
In many a silken ringlet loosely flowing,
Among the silk and cambric's airy folds,
Half-shading, half-revealing all those charms
Where lovers' drunken eyes delight to revel
'Midst am'rous loveliness, and sink to sleep,
Reposing on those sheets of snowy whiteness.

My dark-eyed beauteous lov'd one! many an art
Of playful youth and mirthful fascination,
Were thine in full perfection: had'st thou been
An artless maiden sickening in a fever
Of breathless sighs and dying languishment,
My soul had drunk too deep, and turn'd away
From love's delicious banquet; but thou wast
An hard and frugal mistress to young love,
Gave him no sweetmeats for a long, long time,
Nurs'd him upon such pure and healthy food
The little boy thought you meant to starve him;
And once or twice had thought to run away,
But you detain'd him, threw your soft white arm
Around his neck, patted upon his cheek,
And told him to be good; you would be kinder:
That, by and by, your lips and his should drink
The most delicious cup he ever tasted.

My dark-eyed beauteous lov'd one! all thy charms
Were heightened by that mild majestic air
Of queenly dignity, sitting enthroned,
The guardian of thy virtuous innocence,
Proclaiming that thy charms were all thine own,
Thou would'st resign them at thy sovereign pleasure
Unto the dear companion of thy heart
When thou had'st proved him worthy: 'twas a thought
To me of deeply cherished secret pleasure,
The sweetest chain that linked thee to my heart,
That thou, the loveliest of green Nithsdale's daughters,
Caress'd and courted by so many lovers,
Would'st leave them all to meet, under the moonlight,
Thy young beloved stranger, there to tell him,
By many a fond endearment, that you lov'd him,
Beside the shining waters to recline,

176

Upon a bank where summer flowers were breathing,
And wanton with the tangles of his hair,
Twisting them round thy white and slender fingers,
In little soft dark love-locks, thou would'st smile,
And look into his eyes in silence, as he lay
Reclining on thy pure and innocent bosom;
And haply in some sweet unguarded moment,
When thy young heart with love was warmly glowing,
Beneath its silken covering thou would'st hide
Thy face upon his breast in laughing playfulness,
And blush that thou had'st done so; and would'st chide
Thy lover for dishevelling all thy ringlets,
With so much sweetness that he oft was tempted
To press those laughing lips that he might hear
Them quarrel more—they did it so delightfully.

Caetera desunt.

XLIII.
Scotland Remembered.

Beloved maid! thy shining eyes
Of softness still my spirit feels;
Deep on my heart their sweetness lies
When midnight mine in slumber seals.

From Scotland's woody mountain streams,
O'er many a country, many a sea,
With love to bless my nightly dreams,
Beloved girl, thou com'st to me.

Thou com'st to bring me back the bliss
Of summer days of youth and love,—
Sweet hours I've spent in happiness
With thee beside my native grove.

Thou com'st to make thy wanderer blest,
To smile away his spirit's care,
Upon his lips to be carest,
And let him wanton 'mong thy hair.

177

And when the light of morning breaks,
And thy soft spirit flies away,
The thoughts this dream of love awakes
Oft cheer thy wanderer all the day.

XLIV.
Rivalry—A Song.

[_]

Air—“Remember me.”

'Tis sweet in music's mirthful hour,
When Beauty's dark eyes brightly shine,
To know the loveliest round the bower
Are those that steal a glance at thine;—

To know that when their wandering wiles
O'er many a rival's face hath past,
In love's soft lingering broken smiles,
They'll seek repose on thee at last.

'Tis sweet when ardent lovers gaze
On lips they vainly wish to press,
When many an eye enamoured strays
O'er beauties they would fain caress,

To know she'll leave them all and fly
With thee to summer's moonlight grove,
To give thy lips her softest sigh,
And linger on thy breast of love.

XLV.
To Anna.

Lady, could time and distance break the chain
That link'd thy minstrel's heart in youth to thee,
The seal of softest love had come in vain
Across the climates of the south to me.

178

But 'tis not time, nor distance, nor the sea
Can ever sever from a heart like mine
The thoughts of days we never more can see,
The thoughts of friendship fond and pure as thine,
Warm as the genial suns that brightly o'er me shine.

Thou say'st that I must sing thee many a song
Of all the loveliness of Chilian bowers,
The vineyards, and the sunshine, and the long,
Long endless years of verdure, fruits, and flowers.
This Paradise might waken songs like yours,
Could I but chain my spirit for a while;
But still it wanders to the crags and moors,
Where milder suns in days of summer smile
O'er the green breckan glens of my dear northern isle.

Those who have no remembrances of youth,
Hallowed and sacred for the heart's repose,
Basking amidst the blossoms of the south,
May soon forget the thistle and the rose,
In climes where never-fading beauty glows.
They may forget the land of clouds and rain,
The autumn's yellow woods, the winter's snows,
The gladness when the spring comes back again,
And summer's sunny days wi' daisies deck the plain.

But 'tis not thus with wanderers who have drank
In youth, like me, the spirit of the wood,
In dreams of love beside the hazel bank,
Listening the voice of mountain solitude,
The rustling of the green branch o'er the flood,
The blue hawk's scream, 'midst cliffs of hoary gray,
The lark's blythe song far in the moorland cloud,
Breaking the silence of the Sabbath-day:—
Oh! these are dreams of youth that never can decay.

Oh! that I could recall those early days
When first thy glance did young ambition wake,
When, lingering 'midst the woods and broomie braes,
I studied Tasso's Pastorals for thy sake,
When rustling heath-bells o'er my head would shake,
And white flocks fed around me in the sun,
When stealing softly thro' the leafy brake,
Came thy light footstep when the day was done,
To share sweet moonlight walks with me and me alone.

179

These were sweet days, my dear one! but they're past:
They owe thee much—more than can be repaid.
Over my life a brightness they have cast,
Which but for thee had wither'd in the shade.
Thou wast my patroness, when some assayed
To check my roving spirit in its birth.
Thy favour made it soar above their aid,
And, like the winds of heaven, burst freely forth
To revel 'midst the blooms and brightness of the earth.

How spirit-stirring to the heart of youth
To change green pastures, flocks, and flowers, and bees,
For the arm'd frigate destined for the south!
To see her broad sails first spread to the breeze!
To see green England's corn-fields, and its trees,
Like the last glimpse of sunset, fade away!—
The first encircling grandeur of the seas,
When waves are white with storm in Biscay's Bay,
The distant coast of France gilt with the sunny ray!

To see its vineyards vanish from the glance,
Like clouds behind the waters of the main;
And think of the sad look sweet Mary once
Cast on that land she never saw again!
To see afar the hills of vine-clad Spain,
And think of all its knights and dames of yore,
Its tales of chivalry, its fields of slain,
And the brave warriors sleeping on its shore,
Corunna's bloody plain, the death-devoted Moore!

And oh! how bright and beautiful to him
Whose youth was passed 'midst crags and moorlands gray,
To see Madeira's blue isle rising dim,
Amidst the mist and dews of breaking day!
View'd from the distant sea in twilight ray,
How bleak it seem'd, of brown and barren hue;
But as it, brightening in the sunshine, lay,
What glad creations rose upon the view,
White cottages, green glens, and cliffs and peaks of blue!

Like chalk-rocks scatter'd at the mountain's base
Funchal's white walls were thro' the darkness seen,
But dazzling and distinct in morning's rays
Rose foreign casements mix'd with orchards green;

180

And to the youth of Melrose who has been
Bewitch'd with northern minstrel's wizard spell,
It is a sweet and thrilling sound, I ween,
To hear the first notes of the convent bell,
And listen beauty's hymn in sacred, hallow'd cell.

'Tis like the renovation of that age
When Scotland's glens had many a cloister gray,
And knights and ladies, fam'd in classic page,
Join'd at the vesper-bell to chant and pray.
One's heart would sigh to think of the decay
Of all those temples hallow'd now by time;
But that their fall from Scotland chas'd away
Those dreary days of darkness, blood, and crime,
Whose gloom is lingering still on many a foreign clime.

Yet aye Madeira, beautiful green isle!
Reverting memory loves to dwell on thee:
I'll ne'er forget the soft and sunny smile
With which thou gavest me welcome from the sea;
Nor that delicious thrill of novelty
With which I first set foot on foreign earth,
That dream of lands far lovelier still to be,
Far in the south, that fancy pictur'd forth,
Blent with remembrance dear from islands in the north.

The Sabbath morning ride, how calm and sweet!
Up to our Lady's Convent on the hill,
Half-hid amidst the fruit trees, 'neath our feet
The ocean's glassy waters calm and still,
The vineyard's creeping clusters, that distil,
Amidst brown sunny rocks, the bursting wine,
The schoolboys gathering peaches at their will,
Apples whose red cheeks thro' the green leaves shine,
And fruits from Grecian isles of beverage divine.

Lady, farewell! for mine is not the lyre,
Nor mine the studious minstrel's polish'd art
That thro' long melodies sustains its fire,
Pouring a flood of sweetness on the heart.
But tho' Madeira's sunshine now depart,
The bright dream broke by waters wide and blue,
Some calmer, happier hour, I will revert
To songs of home, of happiness, and you:
The storm is waxing loud—thou lovely one, adieu!

181

XLVI.
The Scottish Sacramental Sabbath.

[_]

In imitation of “The Cottar's Saturday Night.”

The Sabbath morning gilds the eastern hills,
The swains its sunny dawn wi' gladness greet
Frae heath-clad hamlets, 'mong the moorland rills,
The dewy mountains climb wi' naked feet,
Skiffin' the daisies droukit wi' the weet.
The bleatin' flocks come nibblin' down the brae,
To shadowy pastures screened frae summer's heat,
In woods where tinklin' waters glide away,
'Mong holms o' clover red, and bright brown ryegrass hay.

His ewes and lambs, brought carefu' frae the height,
The shepherd's children watch them frae the corn,
On green-sward scented lawn, wi' gowans white,
Frae page o' pocket Psalm-book soil'd and torn,
The task prepare assign'd for Sabbath morn:
The elder bairns their parents join in prayer;
One daughter dear, beneath the flowery thorn,
Kneels down apart, her spirit to prepare
On this her first approach the sacred cup to share.

In social chat, wi' solemn converse mix'd,
At early hour they finish their repast,
The pious sire repeats full many a text
Of Sacramental Sabbaths long gone past:
To see her little family featly drest,
The carefu' matron feels a mother's pride,
Gi'es this a linen shirt, gi'es that a vest;
The frugal father's frowns their finery chide,
He prays that Heaven their souls may wedding-robes provide.

The sisters, buskit, seek the garden walk
To gather flowers, and watch the warnin'-bell;
Sweet-William, danglin' dewy frae the stalk,
Is mixed wi' mountain-roses rich in smell,
Green sweet briar sprigs, and daisies frae the dell.
When Spango shepherds pass the lone abode,
And Wanlock miners cross the moorland fell,
Then, down the sunny, windin', woodland road,
The little pastoral band approach the House of God.

182

Stream of my native mountains! O how oft
That Sabbath-morning walk in youth was mine!
Yet fancy hears the kirk-bells, sweet and soft,
Ring o'er the darkenin' woods o' dewy pine.
How oft the wood-rose, rich wi' scented wine,
I've stoop'd to pull while passing on my way—
But now, in sunny regions south the Line,
Nae birks nor broomflowers shade the summer brae,
Alas! I can but dream o' Scotland's Sabbath-day.

But dear that cherished dream!—I still behold
The ancient kirk, the plane-trees o'er it spread,
And, seated 'mong the graves, the young, the old,
As once in summer days for ever fled.
To deck my dream the grave gives up its dead;
The pale precentor sings as then he sung;
The long-lost pastor, wi' the hoary head,
Pours forth his pious counsels to the young;
And dear ones, from the dust, again to life are sprung.

Lost friends return from realms beyond the main,
And boyhood's best beloved ones all are there;
The blanks in family circles filled again;
No seats seem empty round the House of Prayer.
The sound of Psalms has vanished in the air,
Borne up to Heaven upon the mountain breeze.
The patriarchal priest, with silvery hair,
In tent erected 'neath the fresh green trees,
Spreads forth the Book of God with holy pride, and sees

The eyes of circling thousands on him fixed;
The kirkyard scarce contains the mingling mass
Of kindred congregations round him mixed,
Close seated on the gravestones and the grass.
Some crowd the garden wall; a wealthier class,
On chairs and benches, round the tent draw near;
The poor man prays far distant; and, alas!
Some, seated by the graves of parents dear,
Among the fresh, green flowers let fall the silent tear.

Sublime the text he chooseth:—“Who is this
From Edom comes, with garments dy'd in blood,
Travelling, in greatness of His strength, to bless,
Treading the wine-press of Almighty God?”

183

Perchance the theme that Mighty One who rode
Forth Leader of the armies cloth'd in light,
Around whose fiery forehead rainbows glow'd,
Beneath whose tread Heaven trembled, angels bright
Their shining ranks arrang'd around His steed of white.

“Behold the contrast! Christ, the King of Kings,
A houseless wanderer in a world below;
Faint, fasting, weary by the desert-springs,
From youth a man of mourning and of woe.
The birds have nests on summer's blooming bough,
The foxes in the mountains find a bed,
But Mankind's Friend found every man his foe;
His heart with anguish in the Garden bled,
He, peaceful, like a lamb, was to the slaughter led.”

The action-sermon ended, tables fenced,
While elders forth the sacred symbols bring,
The day's more solemn service now commenced.
To Heaven is wafted on devotion's wing
The Psalm. Those entering to the altar sing,—
“I'll of salvation take the cup, I'll call,
With trembling, on the name of Sion's King;
His courts I'll enter,—at His footstool fall,
And pay mine early vows before His people all!”

Behold the crowded tables clad in white,—
Extending far, above the flowery graves,—
A blessing on the bread, and wine-cups bright,
With lifted hands, the holy pastor craves.
In summer's sunny breeze his white hair waves,
His soul is with the Saviour in the sky.
The hallowed wheaten loaf he breaks, and gives
The symbol to the elders seated nigh:
“Take, eat the bread of life, sent down from Heaven on high.”

He, in like manner, also lifteth up
The flagon, filled with consecrated wine:
“Drink—drink ye all of it—Salvation's cup,
Memorial mournful of His love divine.”
Then solemn pauseth. Save the rustling pine,
Or plane-tree boughs, no sound salutes mine ears;
In silence passed, the silver vessels shine;
Devotion's Sabbath-dreams from bygone years
Return, till many an eye is moist with springing tears.

184

Again the preacher breaks the solemn pause;—
“Lift up your eyes to Calvary's mountain, see,
In mourning veiled the mid-day sun withdraws,
While dies the Saviour bleeding on the tree!
But, hark! again the stars sing jubilee,
With anthems Heaven's armies hail their King,
Ascend in glory, from the grave set free.
Triumphant, see Him soar, on seraph wing,
To meet His angel hosts around the clouds of spring!

“Behold His radiant robes of fleecy light,
Melt into sunny ether, soft and blue!
Then, in this gloomy world of tears and night,
Behold the table He hath spread for you!
What though you tread affliction's path! In few—
A few short years your toils will all be o'er;
From Pisgah's top the promised country view,—
The happy lands beyond—Immanuel's shore—
Where Eden's blissful bowers bloom green for evermore!

“Come here, ye houseless wanderers, soothe your grief,
While faith presents your Father's blest abode;
And here, ye friendless mourners, find relief,
And dry your tears, in drawing near to God,
The poor may here lay down oppression's load,
The rich forget his crosses and his care,
Youth enter on religion's narrow road,
The old for his eternal change prepare,
And whosoever will, life's waters freely share.

“How blest are they who in His courts abide,
Whose strength—whose trust—upon Jehovah stays!
For He in His pavilion shall them hide,
In covert safe, when come the evil days:—
Though shadowy darkness compasseth His ways,
And thick clouds, like a curtain, hide His throne,
Not even through a glass our eyes shall gaze;
In brighter worlds, His wisdom shall be shown,
And all things work for good to those that are His own!

“And blessèd are the young to God who bring
The morning of their days in sacrifice;
The heart's unrifled flowers, yet fresh with spring,
Send forth an incense pleasing in His eyes!

185

To Me, ye children, hearken and be wise;—
The prophets died;—our fathers, where are they?
Alas! this fleeting world's delusive joys,
Like morning clouds, and early dew, decay!
Be yours that better part that fadeth not away!

“Walk round these walls, and, o'er the yet green graves
Of friends whom you have loved, let fall the tear.
On many dresses dark, deep mourning waves,
For some in summers past who worshipped here.
Around these tables, each revolving year,
What fleeting generations I have seen!
Where, where my youthful friends and comrades dear?
Fled, fled away as they had never been,
All sleeping in the dust beneath these plane-trees green!

“And some are seated here, mine aged friends,
Who round this table never more shall meet!
For him who, bowed with age, before you stands,
The mourners soon shall go about the street!
Below these green boughs, shaded from the heat,
I've blessed the bread of life for threescore years,
And shall not many, mouldering 'neath my feet,
And some, who sit around me now in tears,
To me be for a crown of joy when Christ appears?

“Behold He comes with clouds—a kindling flood
Of fiery flame before His chariot flees!
The sun in sackcloth veiled, the moon in blood;
All kindreds of the earth dismay shall seize;
Like figs, untimely shaken by the breeze,
The fixed stars fall, amid the thunder's roar;
The buried spring to life, beneath these trees;
A mighty angel, standing on the shore,
With arms stretched forth to heaven, swears time shall be no more!

“The hour is near, your robes unspotted keep,
The vows you now have sworn are sealed on hign;
Hark! hark! God's answering voice in thunders deep,
'Midst waters dark, and thick clouds of the sky!
And what if now, to judgment, on your eye
He burst, where yonder lurid lightnings play;
His chariot of salvation passing by;
The great white throne, the terrible array
Of Him before whose frown the heavens shall flee away!

186

“My friends, how dreadful is this holy place!
Where rolls the thickening thunder, God is near,
And though we cannot see Him face to face,
Yet, as from Horeb's mount, His voice we hear!
The angel armies of the upper sphere,
Down from these clouds, on your communion gaze;
The spirits of the dead, who once were dear,
Are viewless witnesses of all your ways;
Go from His table then;—with trembling tune His praisc.”

XLVII.
The Cameronian Vision.

From the climes and the seas of the fair sunny south,
I returned to the gray hills and green glens of youth:
By mountain graves, musing on days long gone past,
A dreamlike illusion around me was cast.

In a vision it seemed that the chariot of Time
Was rolled back till I stood in the ages of crime,
When the king was a despot who deemed, with his nod,
He would cancel the bonds bound a nation to God.

The religion of Christ, like a lamb, took its flight,
As the horns of the mitre waxed powerful in might;
And the prelates, with priestcraft, men's spirits enchained
Till they feared to complain when their heart's blood was drained.

Stern law made religion no longer a link
The soul to sustain on Eternity's brink;
But the gold of the Gospel was changed to a chain,
The spirit of Scotland to curb and restrain:

A political bridle, the people to check
When the priest or the prince chose to ride on their neck;
A chariot for churchmen in splendour who rolled
At the poor man's expense—whose salvation they sold.

187

From the court, over Scotland, went forth a decree—
“Let the Kirk of the North to the king bend the knee:
To the prince and his priesthood divine right is given
A sceptre to sway both in earth and in Heaven.

“Let no one presume, from the pulpit, to read
The Scriptures, save curates by courtiers decrced;
At their peril, let parents give prccepts to youth,
Till prelates and prayer-books put words in their mouth.

“And none, 'mong the hills of the heather, shall dare
To meet in the moorlands for praises and prayer;
Nor to Heaven, in private, prefer their request,
Except as the prince shall appoint by the priest.”

The nation of Knox held the mandate accursed;
(He the fetters of Popery and priestcraft had burst—
With the stamp of his foot brought their towers to the ground,
Till royalty, trembling, shrunk back when he frowned.

And Melville, the fiery, had fearlessly dared,
In the prince's own presence, his priesthood to beard,
On the archbishop's head made his mitre to shake,
And the circle of courtiers around him to quake.)

So Scotland's Assemblies in council sat down,
God's Word well to weigh with decrees of the Crown;
And a covenant sealed, as they swore by the Lord,
Their Bibles and birthrights to guard with the sword.

These priests, from their kirks, by the prelates were driven,
A shelter to seek with the fowls of the heaven;
The wet mist their covering, the heather their bed,
By the springs of the desert in peril they fed.

At the risk of their lives, with their flocks they would mect,
In storm and in tempest, in rain and in sleet;
Where the mist on the moor-glens lay darkest, 'twas there,
In the thick cloud concealed, they assembled for prayer.

At their wild mountain worship no warning bell rung,
But the sentries were fixed ere the psalm could be sung.
When the preacher his Bible brought forth from his plaid,
On the damp rock beside him his drawn sword he laid.

188

The sleepless assemblies around him who met,
Were houseless and hungry, and weary and wet;
The wilderness wandering, through peril and strife,
To be filled with the word and the water of life.

For in cities the wells of salvation were sealed,
More brightly to burst in the moor and the field;
And the Spirit, which fled from the dwellings of men,
Like a manna-cloud rained round the camp of the glen.

I beheld in my vision a prince on his throne,
Around him, in glory, the mitred heads shone;
And the sovereign assembly said,—“Who shall go forth
In the moorlands to murder the priests of the North?

“Our horsemen have hunted the moor and the wood,
But often they shrink from the shedding of blood;
And some we sent forth with commission to slay,
Have with Renwick remained, in the mountains, to pray.

“Is there no one among us whose soul and whose sword
Will hew down in the desert that priesthood abhorred;
With their blood, on the people's minds, print our decree?
The warrior's reward shall be ‘Viscount Dundee’!”

'Twas a title of darkness, dishonour, and shame;
No warrior would wear it, save Claver'se the Graham.
With the warrant of death, like a demon, he flew
In the blood of his brethren his hands to imbrue.

That mission of murder full well fitted him,
For his black heart with malice boiled up to the brim;
Remorse had his soul made like angels who fell,
And his breast was imbued with the spirit of Hell.

A gleam of its flame in his bosom had glowed.
Till his devilish delight was in cursing of God.
He felt Him a foe, and his soul took a pride
Bridle-deep through the blood of His servants to ride!

His heart, hard as flint, was in cruelty mailed;
No tear of the orphan with him e'er prevailed;
In the blood of its sire while his sword was detiled.
The red blade he waved o'er the widow, and smiled.

189

My vision was changed, and I stood in a glen
Of the moorlands, remote from the dwellings of men,
'Mong Priesthill's bleak scenery, a pastoral abode,
Where the shepherds assembled to worship their God,

A light-hearted maiden met there with her love,
Who had won her affections, and fixed them above:
Concealed 'mong the mist, on the dark mountain side,
Stood Peden the prophet, with Brown and his bride.

A silent assembly encircled the seer,
In breathless expectance, bent forward to hear;
For the glance of his grey eye waxed bright and sublime,
As it fixed on the far-flood of fast-coming Time.

“Oh Scotland! the angel of darkness and death
One hour the Almighty hath stayed on his path:
I see on yon bright cloud his chariot stand still;
But his red sword is naked and lifted to kill.

“In mosses, in mountain, in moor, and in wood,
That sword must be bathed yet in slaughter and blood,
Till the number of saints who shall suffer be sealed,
And the breaches of backsliding Scotland be healed.

“Then a prince of the South shall come over the main,
Who in righteousness over the nation shall reign:
The race of the godless shall fade from the throne,
And the kingdom of Christ shall have kings of its own.

“But think not, ye righteous, your sufferings are past;
In the midst of the furnace ye yet must be cast;
But the seed we have sown, in affliction and tears,
Shall be gathered in gladness in far distant years.

“On the scroll of the Covenant blood must be spilt,
Till its red hues shall cancel the backslider's guilt.
Remember my warning. Around me are some
Who may watch, for they know not the hour he shall come.

“And thou, pretty maiden, rejoice in the truth
Of the lover I link for thy husband of youth.
Be kind while he lives, clasp him close to thy heart;
For the time is not far when the fondest must part.

190

“The seal of the Saviour is printed too deep
On the brow of thy bridegroom for thee long to keep.
The wolf round the sheepfold will prowl for his prey,
And the lamb be led forth for the lion to slay.

“His winding-sheet linen keep woven by thee;
It will soon be required, and it bloody will be.
A morning of terror and tears is at hand,
But the Lord will give strength, in thy trial, to stand.”

My vision was changed: happy summers had fled
O'er the heath-circled home where the lovers were wed;
Affection's springs bursting from hearts in their prime,
The stream of endearment grew deeper with time.

At the door of his home, in a glad summer night,
With his children to play was the father's delight;
One dear little daughter he fondly caressed,
For she looked like the young bride who slept on his breast.

Of her sweet smiling offspring the mother was fain,
Each added a new link to love's wedded chain;
One clung to her bosom, one play'd round her knee,
And one 'mong the heather ran chasing the bee.

In union of warm hearts, of wishes, of thought,
The prophet's prediction was almost forgot;
With wedded affection their hearts overflowed,
And their lives pass'd in rearing their offspring to God.

The mist of May morning lay dark on the mountains;
The lambs cropt the flowers springing fresh by the fountains;
The waters, the wood, and the green holms of hay lay
In sunshine asleep down in Wellwood's wild valley.

In Priesthill, at dawning, the psalm had ascended,
The chapter been read, and the humble knee bended;
Now in moors thick with mist, at his pastoral employment,
The meek soul of Brown with his God found enjoyment.

At home, Isabella was busy preparing
The meal, with a husband so sweet aye in sharing;
On the floor, at her feet, in the cradle lay smiling
Her infant, her wild songs its fancies beguiling.

191

His daughter went forth in the dews of the morning,
To meet on the footpath her father returning;
Alone 'mong the mist she expected to find him.
But horsemen in armour came riding behind him.

The mother, in trembling, in tears, and dismay,
Clasped her babe to her bosom, and hasted away;
She clung to her husband, distracted and dumb,
For she felt that the hour of her trial was come.

But vain her distractions, her tears, and her prayer,
Her sufferings by Claver'se were held light as air;
With his little ones weeping around him, he brought
The fond father forth, in their sight to be shot.

“Bid farewell to thy family, and welcome thy death,
Since thou choosest so fondly to cherish thy faith;
Some minutes my mercy permits thee for prayer,
Let six of my horsemen their pistols prepare.”

“My widow, my orphans, O God, I resign
To Thy care, and the babe yet unborn, too, is Thine;
Let Thy blessing be round them, to guard and to keep,
When, over my green grave, forsaken they weep.”

At the door of his home, on the heather he knelt;
His prayer for his family the pitiless felt;
The rough soldiers listened with tears and with sighs,
Till Claverhouse cursed him, and caused to rise.

For the last time the lips of his young ones he kissed,
His dear little daughter he clasped to his breast;
“To thy mother be kind, read thy Bible, and pray;
The Lord will protect thee when I am away.

“Isabella, farewell! Thou shalt shortly behold
Thy love on the heather stretched bloody and cold,
The hour I've long looked for hath come at the last—
Art thou willing to part?—all its anguish is past.”

“Yes, willing,” she said, and she sought his embrace,
While the tears trickled down on her little one's face,
“'Tis the last time I ever shall cling to thy heart,
Yet with thee I am willing, yes, willing to part!”

192

'Twas a scene would have softened a savage's ire;
But Claver'se commanded his horsemen to fire;
As they cursed his command, turning round to retreat,
The demon himself shot him dead at his feet.

His temples, all shattered and bleeding, she bound,
While Claver'se with insult his cruelty crowned;
“Well, what thinkest thou of thy heart's cherished pride?
It were justice to lay thee in blood by his side.”

“I doubt not, if God gave permission to thee,
That thou gladly would'st murder my offspring and me;
But thy mouth He hath muzzled, and doomed thee, in vain,
Like a blood-hound, to bay at the end of thy chain.

“Thou, friendless, forsaken, hast left me and mine,
Yet my lot is a blest one when balanced with thine,
With the viper Remorse on thy vitals to prey,
And the blood on thy hands that will ne'er wash away.

“Thy fame shall be wafted to far future time,
A proverb for cruelty, cursing, and crime;
Thy dark picture, painted in blood, shall remain
While the heather waves green o'er the graves of the slain!

“Thy glory shall wither; its wreaths have been gained
By the slaughter of shepherds, thy sword who disdained:
That sword thou hast drawn on thy country for hire,
And the title it brings shall in blackness expire!

“Thy name shall be Claver'se, the blood-thirsty Scot,
The godly, the guiltless, the gray-haired, who shot.
Round my Brown's bloody brow glory's garlands shall wave,
When the muse marketh ‘murderer’ over thy grave!”

XLVIII.
The Ringlet's Address to Lydia.

Dear mistress! 'twas with painful heart
I from your snowy brow did part;
Leaving each silken, soft companion,
Upon thy lovely cheek reclining.

193

I thought, perhaps, you meant to strain,
And twist me into some vile chain;
Which all my softness would remove—
That sweetest attribute of love.

But, lady dear, I joy to think
You've made me now the softest link
In love's silk chain, that links in truth
To thee the lover of thy youth.

With you I have been much carest;
But ne'er till now was half so blest.
What will you give me to discover
How I am used by your own lover?

He loves you far too well to wear
Your link of love, so soft, so dear,
In either gold or silver bright:—
He wears me on his lips at night

And warmly to his lips I'm prest
With many a sigh of love carest;
When moist and dewy with his breath,
He lays me his warm cheek beneath.

And, lady, might your soft lips lie
All night beneath his deep-breath'd sigh,
Burning with love's infectious flame,
To hear how oft he breathes your name.

O lady! you would join with me
In thinking few can love as he;
And wish that all your ringlets bright
Might drink like me these sighs at night.

Sometimes with his warm, silent tear
Of love I'm wet, thinking how dear
Thy young heart's kindness, and its truth
Unto the lover of thy youth.

He loves to think I have been twisted
Round thy white fingers, and have rested
Upon thy neck of snowy whiteness.
And shaded thy dark eye of brightness.

194

But, lady dear, thy little tress
This morning is in sad distress;
I'm all unlovely and dishevell'd;
My tangled hair can't be unravell'd.

Last night my hues as brightly shin'd
As any round thy forehead twin'd;—
A little glancing auburn ring,
Like some sweet tendril of the spring.

But, ah! thy lover's lips of dew
Have robbed me of my shining hue.
Were I at home again to show me,
My sister ringlets would not know me.

The little thread of scarlet silk
Thy slender fingers, white as milk,
Round me so delicately twin'd—
His ardent lips did this unbind.

You would have smiled to see how vex'd,
How sorely puzzled and perplex'd,
He was amidst the long dark night,
For loosing of thy love-lock bright.

This morning he has wrought an hour,
With all the patience in his power,
To bring my beauty back again;
But all his efforts are in vain.

But, Lydia, oh! you must forgive him,
Tho' he has done this, still I love him:
If he had done the like to you,
Perhaps you would have loved him too.

XLIX.
Letter to Your Sister.

Lady of laughing lips and dark sweet eyes,
Where youth and love enamouring softly shine,
O wilt thou list the song the minstrel tries
To sing thee far beyond the burning Line?

195

Oft as his bark is journeying on the brine,
And heaven is decked with many a dazzling star,
He calls to mind that woodland home of thine,
Hid in another hemisphere afar,
Where other planets shine, and other seasons are.

'Midst all his wanderings he has never seen
A woodland home he lov'd so much as yours:
'Tis not its blue streams bright, its banks of green,
Where waving broom is soft with yellow flowers;
But, oh! 'tis youth and beauty's magic powers,
The smiles of soft eyes ne'er to be forgot,
Writing upon the heart, in some sweet hours,
Impressions time and distance cannot blot—
Stamping love's flowery seal on all they ever wrote.

Youth has some hours it never can forget,
Awakening feelings never to decay;
And there are some, that we in youth have met,
Whose bright forms haunt us thro' life's future day:
Visions of loveliness that, far away,
Come to our spirits o'er the dark blue deep,
Like shadowy dreams of heaven that will not stay,
And with a wicked world communion keep:
And linger round our couch in darkness and in sleep.

Such are the forms of love, the beings fair
That come to me from Scotland's mountain streams;
One that I scarce need name, with auburn hair,
Still shares the sweetest of love's midnight dreams:
And one, too, whom my heart not less esteems—
Thou whom thy friendship makes so very dear:
When on Brazilian waves the moonlight gleams,
And stars are twinkling 'midst the ether clear,
You come, and with my soul hold sweet communion here.

Thou see'st, dear maid, thy wanderer yet recalls
Some hours of happiness he spent with thee—
The songs of love within thy father's halls
You and your sister often sung to me.
I sing them now alone upon the sea,
And think upon the days of other years,
Of home, and friends I never more may see,
Whom helpless age and hoary hair endears,
Whose furrowed cheeks were wet with parting, farewell tears.

196

Oh! these are the thoughts of sadness; why my heart
Delights in their indulgence I don't know:
Never to me could noisy mirth impart
Pleasures so dear as pensiveness and woe.
How sweet it is to walk where waters flow
'Midst Autumn's fading woods at midnight's noon;
When wintry gales are sighing, and below
The gravelly footpath strewed with foliage brown,
And all is still and sad beneath the silent moon.

This is the season when, on Spango's hills,
The heather-blooms and mountain flowers decay;
When Crawick's woods turn yellow; when the rills
Sparkle in hoary frost-work; when the day
Grows short, and chill, and showery; when the ray,
That lately gladdened many a little flower,
Now gleams on icicles, that from each spray
Hang pendant in the late green mirthful bower,
All hoary now and white in winter's snowy shower.

O might I leave this land, where fruits and flowers
Are ever green and ever in their prime,
Where mingle, in the dark Brazilian bowers,
The mango, tamarind, the orange, and the lime,
For one sweet walk beneath my native clime,
Far from this softening, sickening, burning sun,
To drink the breath of winter, and to climb
The snowy hill, and hear the hunter's gun,
And listen beauty's song when winter's day is done.

This is the land where bounteous Nature pours,
'Midst forests dark, fruits, flow'rs, and sunny stores;
This is the land where Afric's slave endures
His sun-burnt bondage, tugging at the oars;
This is the land where ignorance adores
Her monkish priests, with shaven crowns and cowls;
Where ladies dare not pass their fathers' doors,
For fear that love should stain their pure white souls—
Very unlike their bodies, dark and gray as owls.

197

L.
Dialogue in Scottish.

[_]

Imitation of Horace.

Hyslop.
When I was thine, no ane ava
Cuddled like me thy neck o' snaw;
When 'midst the gowans on the brae,
My hand amang thy love-locks lay,
I wadnae gi'en ae wee saft curl
For a' the kingdoms o' the warl.

Anna.
When I was thine, an' interwove
Wi' a' your sweetest sangs o' love;
When nae Eliza's name was there,
But Anna wi' the auburn hair;
When envious maids maist grat wi' spleen,
Anna was happier than a queen.

Hyslop.
Eliza's prettier far than you;
Her een are o' the saftest blue;
An' sweetly can Eliza sing
To her piano's tremblin' string:
Her breast, her lips—how gladly I
For young Eliza's love could die!

Anna.
I'm glad to hear't, I too have ane,
Wi' many a gold ring on his han',
Would fain mak' Anna a' his own,
And fondly kiss her locks o' brown:
White is his forehead, dark his e'e:
I for his sake could ten times dee!

Hyslop.
O tell me thy bewitchin' mouth
Speaks na ae single word o' truth.
Eliza's e'en o' saftest blue
Are guid for nocht but teasin' you.

198

O let thy early lover rest
His lips again upon thy breast!
My dark-eyed maid by Nith's sweet river
Shall mingle in my songs for ever.

Anna.
Well, Hyslop, this is far too bad:
Your tricks wad drive a maiden mad.
How do you think my heart can bear
Thus to be teas'd by ane sae dear?
But tho' there's tinder in your nature,
You're such a kind, caressing creature,
I ken your fond heart cannot be
Five minutes true to ane but me.
Come to my bosom, for in vain
Frae you it would its love restrain,
In vain my lips would quarrel longer
Wi' yours thus to seal up their anger.

LI.
The Memory of Early Love—A Song.

There's a lingering beauty o'ershades the grove,
Where the heart breath'd its earliest sighs of love,
Makes it often look back with a tear and a sigh,
To think that those days are all gone by.

The sun that brightened life's morning bloom
Sheds a gilding ray o'er its evening gloom;
And the flowers that gladdened our early path
Breathe their fading sweets in the vale of death.

LII.
To Anna.

My dark-ey'd maid o' Scotland's isle,
Far in the northern sea!
Tho' round me foreign fair ones smile,
My heart still sighs for thee.

199

'Tis nae the jewell'd hair o' jet,
Nor soft e'en o' the south,
Can ever make my soul forget
Thy fondness and thy truth.

In princely halls let ladies fair
In gold and jewels shine,
There's nane o' them can braid their hair
Sae gracefully as thine.

Thy snawy neck, thy tartan plaid,
Thy bosom's cambric screen,
Are richer than the robes that deck
The world's loveliest queen.

In heartless forms let maids o' rank
Their courtship pass away;
But, oh! gi'e me the hazel bank,
The summer gloamin' gray.

Thy saft brown hair, thy lips sae warm,
Thy cambric-shaded breast,
Thy tartan plaid, thy circling arm,—
Let love provide the rest.

Oh! could I waft myself away
O'er waters wide and blue,
To spend ance mair youth's simmer day
Sae sweetly spent wi' you.

But, ah! the sever'd heart maun bleed,
When in a distant clime;
And vainly wish, but cannot speed,
The weary wing o' Time.

Then, oh! my dear young Scottish maid!
Since nought remains for me,
I'll kiss thy little auburn braid,
And shed a tear for thee.

When over Chilian seas the even
Its veil of darkness throws,
I will remember thee to Heaven,
And solace all my woes.

200

LIII.
To Anna.

Oh! think o' me when gladsome spring
Maks green the simmer bowers;
Oh! think o' me when lav'rocks sing
Sae sweetly in the moors.

When gowans red, and wet wi' dew,
Are bloomin' on the brae,
Oh! think o' him who sails upon
The wide seas far away.

Oh! think o' me, when hawthorns sweet
Breathe simmer's rich perfume;
Oh! think o' me, when lovers meet
Among the yellow broom!

At gloamin' in thy woodland walks,
When siller saughs are gray,
Oh! think o' him who sails upon
The wide seas far away!

When forth you wander pensively,
'Mong autumn's yellow corn,
Oh! think o' me, and many a day,
That never can return!

The tartan plaid, the stol'n caress,
The fragrant meadow hay,
The fond young heart that shar'd them, now
On waters far away.

Dear, lovely one! although my ship
Be far upon the sea;
And years have pass'd since last thy lip
Of love was prest by me.

In fancy's eye how bright the scene
Of boyhood's vanish'd day!
I sigh to think I'm sailing on
The waters far away.

201

LIV.
To Anna.

I've often thought that never two
In love's soft chain were link'd together,
Sae sweetly fond as I and you
To kiss and fondle ane anither.

There is a witchery in thine eyes,
A knowing roguery in thy face,
That makes thy breast a paradise—
A little heaven of thy embrace.

Those locks o' gleaming brown, that curl
Sae wantonly adown thy breast,
Bespeak you for an am'rous girl,
That dearly loves to be carest.

The tempting freckles, sunny specks,
Sae thickly o'er your white skin sown
From love's warm furnace, are the marks
With which he stamp'd you for his own.

Those cunning eyes, that live by rule
Beneath the world's observing glance,
Always contrive to play the fool,
Whenever they can get a chance.

Old peevish maids condemn with spite
Thy levity and loveliness;
Their withering lips with envy bite
To think how fond is thy caress.

But never mind—e'en let them fret,
Perhaps 'twill save them from despair;
Come to thy poet's breast, and let
Him fondly kiss thy soft brown hair.

202

LV.
Letter to Anna.

Dearest to me of Nithsdale's lovely daughters,
Whose breast the woes of severed love must feel;
To seek its lovely hazel-shaded waters,
Away from thy companion, wilt thou steal,
With trembling hand to break the well-known seal,
And share thy lover's spirit all alone—
To feast thy heart on all his will reveal,
And waken thoughts of days for ever gone,
When first you link'd that heart so dearly to your own?

Not now as in those happy summer days,
When thy dark smiling eyes to me were near,
Conceal'd I linger 'midst the broomy braes,
Thy casement fring'd with ivy in my view,
Anxious to wait th' expected hour when you
Would seek the summer moonlight's yellow gleam,
To drink the freshness of the evening dew,
Besprinkling gowans by the moorland stream,
Haply to realise some fondly-cherish'd dream.

But though we're parted by the broad blue sea,
The snowy Andes and the burning Line,
Still, still my faithful spirit dwells with thee
In Scotland's woods where calmer summers shine.
Now round my walks, although the circling vine
Spreads forth its darkening clusters to the sun,
Dearer the crags where woodbine tendrils twine;
The rowan tree lives where moorland waters run,
Where winds thy evening path, my dear beloved one.

Th' impressions first-love prints upon the heart
Through after-life it ever will retain;
With many an early feeling it may part,
But those that Beauty waked will aye remain;
Distance and time sweep over them in vain.
In Chilian groves I picture freshly now
Thy milky skin, the sunny freckles stain.
The looose brown tresses floating round thy brow,
The lingering glance that spoke thy bosom's ardent glow.

203

But ah! 'tis not thy ringlets brown and sleek
In foreign lands that makes thee dearest still;
Although at midnight sometimes on my cheek
Methinks I feel the softness of their thrill;
It is not that mine eyes have had their fill,
Drinking thy beauty in the silent wood;
Nor that my lips on thine have had their will
Of poetry and love's delicious food,
That makes upon my heart thy image still intrude.

When little Love was in his infancy,
How luscious was the banquet where he fed!
The wine he drank was sweetened by thy sigh,
Amidst thy ringlets brown he made his bed;
But ah! the little boy had long been dead,
Or been at least a pale and sickly child,
Had you not taught him how to live on bread
Less sweet, but healthier, when he was exiled—
Banqueting every day his bloom would soon have spoiled.

Dear is the kiss of Beauty's scarlet lip,
When first she breathes her love upon thy breast;
But he who would prolong such sweets must sip—
A drunkard never long enjoys a feast.
The richest wine from Beauty's vineyard prest
May raise intoxication that will grieve her,
Unless her virtuous friendship add its zest
To calm the ardours of youth's burning fever.
With friendship such as thine, love will endure for ever.

Of a young playful maiden's heart like thine
How sweet it is to be the confidant!
To have those prattling lips come aye to mine,
With every little wish and little want;
To know my breast has in its power to grant
To thine its sweetest dream of happiness,
By loving thee with fondness—aye to print
On thy caressing lips a lingering kiss—
Oh! never can I tire of such a task as this.

How sweet to be thy favourite! to be singled
Out from the world, thy lov'd, thy chosen one;
Amidst thy dreaming fancies to be mingled;
To share thy thoughts at rising, setting sun;

204

To be the favourite youth you think upon
When you unbind your bosom's silken vest;
Thy cherish'd dream in crowds, and, when alone,
You raise to Heaven the pious, pure request,
On whom of future life thy hopes and wishes rest.

How sweet to have one little lock of hair
To look at from a maid so fond as thee,
To hang nearest my heart, and wear it there
For thy remembrance far beyond the sea!
Woman gives many proofs of love, but she
Gives naught that half her fondness can impart
Like one of those soft locks, that gracefully
Circle her brow with such alluring art—
When she gives one of these she always gives her heart.

My fair young moralist, oh! do not blame,
Altho' thy minstrel's song be somewhat warm;
Well dost thou know 'tis difficult to tame
A heart that feels like mine love's maddening charm.
Oh! were I now beside thy circling arm,
To read sweet moral lectures from thine eyes,
My songs might cease to waken thy alarm;
And you would teach your poet to be wise—
One of thy frowns is worth a thousand homilies.

Think not thy early lover has forgot
The morals learn'd from lips like thine;
How you would quarrel, criticise, and blot
Out of his pretty songs each glowing line;
What care you took to fetter and confine
His ardent feelings with religious chain;
With what anxiety you did resign
Him to the lawless children of the main—
Fearful his heart might soon be dark with many a stain.

Fear not, my Anna! All its blackest crimes
It has recorded in thy book of love;
Dreaming of thy brown ringlets, and at times
Caressing thee as fondly as a dove.
If 'tis a crime to have thy memory wove
Thus warmly with each feeling of my heart,
O ask for my forgiveness from above,
But never think my fondness can depart—
'Twill follow thee thro' life, thro' death, where'er thou art.

205

LVI.
Sonnet from Camoens.

Those eyes, within whose meek and modest glance
The choicest fires of love did gladly glow;
That cheek, where with unusual lustre once
The purple rose mix'd with the purest snow;
Those ringlets causing envy in the sun,
Because they made less yellow his bright gold;
That beautiful white hand, my lovely one,
Is all reduced to clay and ashes cold.
That flower torn from its stem in early youth,
That stainless beauty in its budding years,
Lies withering now in the cold hand of death.
Mine eyes may well be wet with bitter tears,
Oh! not for her fled to a brighter day,
But him who must behind in darkness stay.

LVII.
Sonnet from Camoens.

Where shall I find some lonely wilderness,
So distant from the world and all its woes,
That I may never see a human face,
Nor sound of beast or bird break my repose?
Some darksome thicket, amidst crags and rocks,
Or melancholy wood, sad and obscure,
With no clear fount, green grass, nor bleating flocks;
But gloomy like the miseries I endure?
There, in the desert's solitary gloom,
I'd let the fountain of my sorrows free,
Buried in life, and weeping in the tomb,
For all the woes this world has had for me.
Then days of gladness would not cause a tear,
And days of woe to me be very dear.

206

LVIII.
To Mr. John Laidlaw.

[_]

(On his Marriage.)

Friend of the early morning of my life,
Partner of many a pleasure when a boy,
Now that you've wed a young and lovely wife,
From far, far distant climes, I send you joy!
Blest be your coming years! may love ne'er cloy!
Deep may its green branch in the heart take root,
Never may storm nor canker-worm destroy,
Till its young blossoms ripen into fruit,
And from the parent stem full many a young tree shoot.

It surely must be very, very sweet
To have a smiling partner such as yours
To welcome you at night, when storm and sleet
And winter's drift is darkening on the moors;
Hang up the frozen plaid, and shut the doors,
Draw in the old oak-chair. and stir the fire,
Arrange the tea-cups, and ransack the stores
Of ham, white cakes, and ewe-cheese, to inspire
Contentment, mirth, and peace, and gladness, and desire.

How far superior happiness like this
To all that false and hollow-hearted mirth,
That gay companions round the circling glass,
In hours of drunken levity, call forth!
Tho' sparkling in the moment of their birth,
Those gleams of gladness never long remain:
When the bright morning dawns upon the earth,
The heart is sick with weariness and pain,
Remorse, and ruin'd health, and rash vows made in vain.

Had I a happy pastoral home like you,
With one I dare not name my own sweet bride,
I'd bid the sons of mirth and wine adieu,
And seldom would I leave my lady's side:
'Twould be my sweetest pleasure, and my pride,
With her to wile the idle hours away,
Where Spango's waters thro' the moorland glide;
To walk where flocks upon the green hills stray,
And many a mountain flower in summer decks the brae.

207

O there is beauty on thy hills, Crossbank,
When little lambs on braes and breckan feed;
When the wild mountain honey breathes on Spangk,
From holms with flowering thy me and heath-bells red,
When the thick hay-swaithes rise upon the mead,
And mowers whet the scythe at breaking morn,
And miners, full of mirth, from Wanlockhead
Cheer the young maidens 'midst the yellow corn;
And rows of rustling sheaves the new-shorn fields adorn.

Those pastoral scenes are sweet, but doubly dear
With a young lady's heart their charms to share;
A pretty, playful prattler always near
To chase away life's weariness and care.
Maidens and youths, like doves, were made to pair;
Manhood's warm breast loves not to sigh alone;
And womanhood has feelings that she dare,
Tho' fond and passionate, disclose to none
But him whose spirit blends in fondness with her own.

Sweet dreams of happiness! It makes me sigh
To think no pastoral dwelling waits for me.
Yours is a home blest by a lady's eye,
Mine the arm'd frigate on the roaring sea:
Your footing is on green hills firm and free;
Mine quakes and trembles with the tempest's breath;
Yours is soft friendship's calm society;
Mine the wild spirits of the watery path,
Whose souls are pride and fire, whose words are blood and death.

But yet I love awakening with the drum,
The fife, the bugle, and the din of war,
To hear light-hearted seamen's busy hum
Mix in confusion with the ocean's jar,
From land to land, from clime to clime afar;
To bound with England's thunder o'er the tide,
To walk the quarter-deck 'neath evening's star,
Look round upon a world of waters wide,
O'er which our red-cross flag is floating in its pride.

I love to listen when the storm grows loud,
Against us when the elements combine,
When the red-spirit of the thunder cloud
Breaks forth upon the waters of the Line,

208

Thro' midnight's gloom when sheeted lightnings shine,
When o'er the frigate whelming seas are cast,
To see her bound away thro' clouds of brine;
While the wild sea boys, singing at the mast,
Look down and smile at Death on pale horse riding past.

O 'tis sublime, and beautiful, and grand;
It makes the thrilling soul exult with pride,
But you who live with ladies upon land
Know nothing of the grandeur of the tide.
Long years of love to you, and to your bride;
Daughters and sons, and an old age of ease!
My kind remembrances to all beside;
Freedom to court and wed whene'er they please;
This is the wish I send to young friends o'er the seas.

LIX.
Song.

[_]

Air—“John of Badenyon.”

Where 'midst Brazilian forests dark,
Janeiro's waters run,
A Scottish minstrel left his bark
To view the setting sun.
He reach'd a woody cliff, which high
Looks far o'er land and sea;
With pensive heart, and moisten'd eye,
Thus mournfully sang he;—

Could balmiest bowers and brightest skies
Make foreign climates dear,
Or fruits and flowers of Paradise,
I might be happy here:
For, on a lovelier land than this
The sun did never shine;
But my sweet home of happiness
Lies far beyond the Line.

'Tis far away, oh! very far,
Midst northern waters blue;
Its soft and shining Polar star
I cannot follow now:

209

When 'cross the Equinoctial Line
The frigate wing'd her flight,
I sighed, and saw its ray decline
Behind the waters bright.

And yet 'tis sweet, thus far away,
In foreign lands alone,
When friends so dear of life's young day
Around thee there is none,
To walk where mango-forests spring,
And broad deep rivers flow,
The sadness of the heart to sing
In sweetest songs of woe;

To see the mountains, green with woods,
Wave darkly round the bay;
And far at sea, amidst the clouds,
The swift ships glide away,
To rise, like yon bright stars above,
In some far distant clime,
And fade again, like dreams of love,
Amidst the waves of Time.

Yon evening star, that soft and bright
Is shining on the sea,
In Scotland many a summer night
Has sweetly shone on me.
We thought not, dear one, when with me
You smil'd beneath its ray,
It e'er would make a sigh for thee
In lands so far away.

But sigh not, love, although afar
I journey on the deep;
O do not seek the greenwood bower
To wander and to weep;
But think how faithful, fond, and true
The lover of thy youth,
Who hourly sighs and thinks of you,
Far in the sunny south.

O might I with yon setting sun
But journey for a day,
As swiftly as the planets run,
'Midst clouds and stars away!

210

How soon I'd change the fiery glow
Of bright and burning climes,
To tread the hill of heath and snow
I've trod in other times!

How dear to view my native sky!
But, ah! the dream is vain;
Again a few short hours, and I
Embark upon the main.
For many a season, many a year,
I o'er the world must roam;
The winds and waves my soul to cheer,
The blue seas for my home.

Yet welcome be the tempest's ire;
I glory in its pride,
When thunders break, and sheeted fire
Is flashing on the tide!
From watery cliffs, when dashed below,
Down yawning vales of death,
With quivering mast, and foaming prow,
We proudly cut our path.

LX.
A Ball on Board.

The starlight is shining, the waves are asleep,
The moon throws her yellow veil o'er the blue deep;
Around all is beauty on sea, sky, and earth;
And all on the quarter-deck, music and mirth.

For the ensigns of death are removed afar,
And the big, heavy guns breathing thunder and war;
And our proud flag, in glory that streams o'er the seas,
O'er-canopies bright lamps, and flowers, and green trees.

And brave men, that trod with the sword on their thigh,
And rank on their shoulders, and pride in their eye,
Have lightened their dark brow, and softened their glance,
To mingle with beauty and love in the dance.

211

For the path of the watchman at midnight's dark noon,
By enchantment is changed to a magic saloon;
Where bright eyes are smiling, and ladies are gay,
And the light foot of love trips to music away.

Yes! light are the fairy forms floating along;
Each gesture is music, each motion is song;
With the languishing melody, soft looks increase,
And War's temple is wreath'd with the branches of peace.

But tho' gay be the scene, it for me has no charms;
But my heart would be sick in the loveliest one's arms,
For its thoughts glide away, o'er the wide-spreading sea,
To the hours it has spent, my dear Susan, with thee.

LXI.
The Wanderer's Song.

Weary o' wandering now am I,
Weary o' sailin' the dark blue waters;
I long to revisit my native sky,
Green Nithdale's hills, and its lovely daughters.

I'm tired o' Peru's brown hills o' gowd,
Its willowy vale?, and silver fountains,
My heart's i' the land where the lark sings loud,
'Mong the heather and mist on the dark grey mountains.

O for youth's hermit dream again!
My bleatin' flocks on the burn-bank feedin',
My couch the blooms o' the mountain glen,
And the hazel branches aboon me spreadin'.

The blaeberry crags in the lonely moors,
The musical burnie below them tinklin',
The thick soft grass, and the meadow flowers,
The dews o' simmer their fresh leaves sprinklin'.

Ah! little thought I in thae early days,
Amidst a' youth's dreams and imaginations,
I wad leave my flocks on the sunny burn-braes
To journey sae far among distant nations.

212

Where the northern stars shed a twinklin' light,
Awaukin' the fauld in an August even,
I thocht na' o' lookin' at stars mair bright,
Round the far south pole o' the dark blue heaven.

But the stars o' the northern heaven are lost;
We have crossed the burnin' climes o' the world;
Among southern islands o' ice and frost,
Our red-cross flag we have proudly unfurl'd.

We have journey'd till burnin' simmers came,
When December's ice was on Scotland's fountains,
And the sun, that shed o'er us his noonday flame,
Was set far behind the Highland mountains.

How grand and glorious thus to sail,
Wi' nocht but the blue vault o' heaven to bound us,
In the thunder's pride over Death's dark vale,
The ceaseless roarin' o' waters around us.

The sails are set, and away we flee,
And the clouds o' the watery wilderness hide us;
But for clouds and darkness nocht care we
As lang's there's a lamp hung frae heaven to guide us.

Away! away! though nae land-mark tell,
Our pathless course to the destin'd haven,
We watch the hour, and we cast our spell,
And we learn frae the starry page o' heaven.

Away wi' the flight o' the eagle free,
Thro' the paths o' the planets around us dancing,
Our dazzlin' track thro' the foamin' sea,
Like spangles o' gowd on a mortcloth glancing.

Away! away! o'er the dark blue main,
The stars in their courses recede behind us,
Over seas where the thick equinoctial rain
Pours down as if heaven had opened its windows.

Away where the lurid skies aboon
Are stamped wi' the angles o' dark red lightning,
Where the clouds and the waters at midnight's noon,
As if Christ were descending, are flashing and brightening.

213

Oh! who would not sail on the seas afar,
To listen the roar o' the tropical thunders—
To mingle his soul in the elements' jar,
And smile to behold the Almighty's wonders?

LXII.
In a Foreign Land.

When thou art in a foreign land,
Or sailing on the distant sea,
Amidst the sickness of the heart,
When there is none to comfort thee;

When Sabbath comes, but not to calm
The passions with its silent sway;
Not with the holy prayer and psalm,
But seamen's godless revelry;

How sweet it is to steal away
From wine-cups bright and songs obscene,
And think of Scotland's Sabbath day,
Far, far amidst its glens of green.

Yes! sweet these thoughts, beyond all measure,
To him who wanders on the sea:
Not social, solitary pleasure
Is all that now remains to me.

The sons of mirth and dissipation
May sing the songs they love so well:
With beings of my own creation,
In silence I delight to dwell.

The deep, dark sea, the burning south,
The welt'ring waves that round us roll,
Are all forgot when dreams of youth
Come brightly to the pensive soul.

'Tis not the gun-room mirth I list,
The songs and oaths of midshipmen;
But heathfowl singing 'mong the mist,
Far in my native moorland glen.

214

Not on the water's changeless blue,
Where spring's fresh flowerets never bloom,
I gaze—but on the purple hue
Of heath-bells 'mong the yellow broom.

Not in the burning forest dark
I hear the countless insects sing,
I listen to the morning lark
Rising at home in clouds of spring.

I walk no more where clanking chains
Embitter slavery's cheerless day;
But mingle with my native swains
In mirth amidst the fresh green hay.

LXIII.
The Poet and His Mistress.

POET.

Lady, with soft hair beautifully braided,
Over thy dark and fascinating eyes,
Whose bright gleam never from my heart has faded
Since first it wak'd its warmest, sweetest sighs,—

Thou whose soft image in my breast lies sleeping,
Among the fond heart's softest summer flowers,
Whether I wander, when spring's tears are weeping,
In Scotland's woodlands, or in Chilian's bowers,—

Thou who hast still been kind and constant-hearted,
Whose love has bloom'd in sorrow and in tears,
The strength of which I knew not till we parted,
Which absence nourishes and time endears,—

Thou whose warm lips, so pure and scarlet-tinted,
Have sought mine in a lingering embrace,
And with love's bright seal on my heart imprinted
Impressions that the world will ne'er efface,—

215

Tell me, thou ever-present, ever-dear,
While I am journeying on the dark, blue sea,
What are the flowers thou lovest best to wear,
When I entwine a blooming wreath for thee.

I'm weary of the world, and will recline
Awhile beneath thy sunny eyes of love;
I'll braid thy shining hair, and garlands twine
To deck thy forehead—how must they be wove?

HIS MISTRESS'S REPLY.

Twine me a wreath of love, my own dear youth,
With fresh flowers from the garden of my heart;
Tho' journeying on the waters of the south,
And many a thousand leagues from me apart.

Yet well I know that little garden's blooms
Will deck no maiden's brow on earth but mine;
For I have planted them, and their perfumes
Are sweet when breath'd so far beyond the Line.

Yes! that heart's blooms are mine; I cherish'd them
In days of summer by the wooded stream
That tinkles 'mong the dark green hills of home:
I wreath'd thy harp and first made love thy theme.

That heart is mine—no, I will not resign it:
In Crawick's woods I bought it with my own:
It lov'd my ringlets, and I did entwine it
Within the softest chain it e'er has known.

When you embrac'd me, on your lips I've kiss'd it;
And I have felt its beating warm with love;
And on your bosom tenderly caress'd it,
When to be quiet in vain the captive strove.

Love has been aye its theme, fond love to me—
The love of youth, oh! let it be so still;
Twine me a garland on the Chilian sea,
Blent with the blooms of Crawick's mountain rill.

216

LXIV.
A Storm at Sea.

The heavens are dark, the storm is loud;
Our ship is on the sea:
Nought can dispel my spirit's cloud
Except the thoughts of thee.

While sailing on thro' storms and clouds,
O'er Chili's dark, blue waters,
How sweet is the thought of Scotland's woods,
And its glens, and its lovely daughters!—

To sing the soft melody which awakes
The scenery of our youth,
Recalling our native glens and lakes
In the climes of the sunny south.

I love to prolong the shadowy dream
Of summer branches shaking
Their thick green leaves in the rustling breeze,
Where the waterfall is breaking—

The lingering sleep in the woodland couch,
Where the dewy grass is springing,
With daisies mingled bent down with dew,—
Springs, fragrance round them flinging.

How sweet the dream! But, ah! 'tis broke:
The storm turns louder and darker;
The ship is shivering 'neath its shock,
And my heart is with Susan Barker.

LXV.
The Poet's Favourite Theme.

I'll not write for the world—I'll tell you why,
Writing would then be pain instead of pleasure;
Writing of songs I never can enjoy
When I must studiously correct each measure.

217

But I will write a little book of love,
In my heart's carelessness, to thee alone;
Heedless I'll range thro' Fancy's flowery grove,
Where no path leads,—as we have often done.

I would not tempt Ambition's thorny path;
Nor, if I could, like Moore and Byron shine:
All my ambition is, that after death,
In songs of love, my name be blent with thine.

The happiness my heart has found in thee
Fame might destroy, but never could increase:
Should critics shoot their poisoned darts at me,
Well do I know how it would hurt thy peace.

Would I be dearer to you if my brow,
Like Moore's, were with poetic laurels bound;
Dreaming of little worth thy heart's soft vow,
And singing songs to every fair one round?—

Wasting affection's hours in mirth and wine,
The life of every circle glad and gay;
Leaving at home my lov'd one to repine
Over the soft hours stolen from her away?

Oh! no, my love!—altho' poetic merit
Should make the world court my society,
I've far too fond a heart, too proud a spirit,
To squander it on any one but thee.

I would not be that vain, contemptuous creature,
Who is content to dine with lords and dukes,
To make an exhibition of his nature,
And sun himself beneath their gracious looks.

Well dost thou know that I was never made
Amidst the world's gay butterflies to shine,
With spring's fresh flowers let me thy tresses braid
Far in the woods: give Moore his sparkling wine.

218

LXVI.
Moore's Poetry.

[_]

“A Word to the Wise is Enough.”

Moore's poetry is bright and thick,
And soft with sunshine, dew, and flowers;
A bouquet where the heart turns sick
In languid love's voluptuous bowers:
And were it wise that all the hours
Of youth should pass in earthly love,
Without acquiring taste and powers
For drinking purer bliss above,
With Moore I'd trifle, drink, and toy;
And you should share in all my joy.

But, ah! the heart that loves in truth,
In pensive hours, will sometimes sigh
That she so dear to love and youth
Will shortly lay her down to die.
'Twould be a thought of agony
If o'er her spirit Death had power;
But springs of love beyond the sky
Will renovate the dying flower—
A dear inducement to prepare
To meet that fond young spirit there.

But, ah! the sunny flash and bloom
That Moore has o'er his pages cast
Breathes not angelic love's perfume;
In other worlds it will not last;
At Death's dark hour 'twill all be past.
When youth and all its charms are fled,
Where shall his dear one's spirit rest
When lingering on a dying bed:
'Twill sigh for more secure repose
Than Moore's poetic finger shows.

And she may find it not in strains
With which her minstrel's harp has rung,
But in the songs on Zion's plains,
Of old the Hebrew minstrel sung:
His is the poetry the young

219

And lovely one must learn to prize,
If e'er she mean to join the song
That seraphs sing beyond the skies;
Such were the melodies that flowed
From him who tuned the harp of God.

LXVII.
To Caroline.

Fair daughter of Erin, O call not me mad,
Tho' oft I seem pensive when others are glad;
And O do not blame me tho' that soft harp of thine,
That cheers other hearts, should bring sadness to mine.

There are bright clouds, and dark ones, thine eye cannot see,
O'ershadow the heart of a wanderer like me;
Bright visions of loveliness visit the mind,
Whose vanishing beauty leaves sorrow behind.

Those songs of thy minstrel to me once were sung
By a maiden in Scotland bewitching and young:
As she sung them she asked, with a white thrilling hand,
“Will you think upon me in a far distant land?”

Yes! well may I think, for on earth there are few
Have been blest with a fair one so fond and so true.
Her voice and her features were much like thine own;
But her hair and her eyes of a far deeper brown.

Sing on, thou enchantress; for dear, dear to me
Are the visions you bring me across the wide sea,
I will gaze on thy beauty, and think my young bride
Is smiling and singing again by my side.

LXVIII.
The Absent Lover.

He who in summer's woods has felt the power
Of female loveliness in moonlight hour,—
Whose hands have wanton'd with each silken tress,
While on his breast she smil'd at his caress,—

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Oh! well may he, when journeying far away,
Think of the vanish'd scenes of life's young day,—
Think of his mountain maid, and for her weep,
When sailing o'er the dark-blue Chilian deep.

Well may his heart, so kindly once carest,
Sigh for its early only place of rest,
When years of sever'd love have o'er it flown,
Living in widow'd constancy alone.
And well may he with fondness who has wept,
Whose lips her parting kiss untainted kept,—
Oh! well does he deserve to be carest
Once more upon his mountain maiden's breast.

LXIX.
The Student.

Tho' I have studied many a weary day,
Till I have felt my spirit fade away,
Leaving my mind all dreariness and gloom—
A desert wilderness without a bloom;

Tho' oft Imagination's reveries deep
Have banish'd from my couch repose and sleep,
Turning next morning's sunshine into shade,
Till from my cheek the hues of health would fade,—

I'll not regret it now, since not in vain
Youth has been pass'd in weariness and pain;
But hope for sweet repose in happier years,
When gathering Learning's fruit without the briers.

I'll not regret it, now that I have gained
What I without it never had attained—
All that is dearest to the heart of youth—
Beauty and fondness, constancy and truth.

Thou who to me hast loving been and dear,
When I had none but thee my soul to cheer,
Who brighten'st life's dark morning as it rose,—
None else but thee shall share its sunny close.

221

LXX.
Song.—To You.

I love the scenery of the spring,
When snows dissolve, and genial showers
On April's sunny mornings bring
New grass and rain-drops, buds and flowers;
When Nature cleeds her greenwood bowers,
Like thee, in loveliness and youth,
And calls thee forth to pass the hours
With her in purity and truth:
I love the spring, but far more dear
The scenery of the fading year.

I love the summer-day so warm,
That makes thee seek the leafy shade,
Disclosing each unrifled charm,
Conceal'd beneath thy tartan plaid,
Giving to each soft silken braid
Adown thy neck and breast to flow
In curling wantonness, afraid
Lest summer tinge their virgin snow.
Oh! this is sweet, but far more dear
The scenery of the fading year:

'Tis not my heart would cherish gladness,
Or lightsome levity and mirth,
When Nature wears her robes of sadness,
And flowers are withering on the earth.
I love the floweret in its birth,
And beauty in her loveliest bloom,
Far better than to wander forth
And shed a tear upon her tomb:
'Tis not decay that makes so dear
The scenery of the fading year.

'Tis not the twinkling stars aloft,
'Midst heaven's blue ether bright and pure;
Nor yellow moonshine, sleeping soft
And silent on the lonely moor;
Nor honey'd breath of heather flower;

222

Nor woodland path with brown leaves strew'd;
Nor mountain stream at twilight hour.
Sad tinkling thro' the yellow wood,
That makes so lovely and so dear
The scenery of the fading year:

It was a dark sweet laughing eye
That young love never will forget,
Soft ringlets, breasts, and lips so nigh,
When thrilling hands embracing met.
If Beauty ever wove a net
For woodland minstrel, thou art she
Thy seal of love upon me set;
I ever will thy captive be.
'Tis thou alone that mak'st so dear
The scenery of the fading year.

LXXI.
Woman's Love.

There's more in woman's love than arms,
Soft breast, and lips, and ringlets bright:
There's more in beauty than the charms
She yields thee in the shades of night:
There is a rapture, a delight
Dearer than poet's song can tell,—
A pleasure nothing can excite
But Beauty who has lov'd thee well.

I have been told that woman's love
Was light as airy thistle-down;
I've found her fonder than the dove,
Softer than summer flowers new-blown,
Dearer than aught I've ever known.
My heart has melted oft away
Beneath its influence when alone;
My arms around her soft neck lay.

223

I have not found her love a flower
That blooms one little day and dies;
But like the glad refreshing shower
Scatter'd from April's sunny skies.
Like rain and flowers and zephyr's sighs
Her love unto my heart has been;
It made poetic blooms arise,
And aye has kept them fresh and green.

Tho' gladness sparkles in thine eye,
And beauty on thy cheek is bright,
And youthful spirits, dancing high,
Make life and love to thee delight,
Are there not oft hours when, in spite
Of all that youth and love bestow,
A dismal, dark, and cloudy night
O'ershadows all that's bright below;
And there is nought can break the gloom
But light that shines beyond the tomb?

In those dark, melancholy hours,
Where has thy spirit found repose?
Hast thou not sought the silent bowers
Where wild flowers grow, and water flows
Thy soft heart's sorrows to disclose
To Him who has thy sins forgiven,
And find relief from all thy woes
By humble faith and trust in Heaven?
Such pleasures often have been mine,
I know I have a heart like thine.

The soft frail bloom of earthly love
Is but the blossom of a day;
But, planted in the bowers above,
'Twill never, never fade away.
How sweet the thought that, though decay
And death our fondest love must sever,
An angel youth that aye will stay—
Again we'll meet to love for ever!

224

LXXII.
A Dialogue.

POET.
Anna, forgive me, you have touched a chord
Makes soft sensations vibrate, and recalls
Your ponderer to his senses. Yes, my love,
I do prefer thy sweet society
To all that books or study can impart;
But well thou knowest, when a poet's fancy
Wakens a train of thought, 'twill sometimes chase it
Till both are lost. One reconciling kiss!—
It renovates affection's early bloom,
And brings us back our youth. Well do I mind
The first you ever gave me. Dost thou mind
How very dark the night was when we lay
In th' corner of the park? 'Twas then you first
Patted my cheek with your soft thrilling hand,
And said your heart would never, never find
One who would love you better; and your lips
Sought mine, to ratify with love's sweet seal
Your early vow. Dear maid, that was an hour
Grav'd deeply in the tablet of remembrance.
D'ye recollect this, love?

ANNA.
How could I be so while your fond warm lips
Remind me of the days you won my heart
Among sweet Crawick woodlands! Thus, aye thus,
In her lone hours thy Anna comes to thee,
And finds thy faithful bosom still a home.

POET.
And well you may, my kind, caressing maid.
How often have I wished in long, long years,
When I was parted far away from you
In the south's sunny climates! oh! how oft
Has my lone spirit sighed for such an hour,
And such a friend! Blest be the happy day
That first we met! You've shed over my life
Floods of o'erflowing happiness. The world
Has few that ever were so blest as we.

225

LXXIII.
Song.

[_]

Air—“Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon.”

There are twa dark, sweet, smilin' e'en
Since days o' youth hae haunted me;
At hame in Scotland's glens o' green,
And far upon the distant sea;
Where Nature spreads her clusterin vines
On rich Madeira's lovely isle;
Where Chili's balmy summer shines,
Still, still I see her early smile.

Oh! absence ne'er can change the truth,
And distance ne'er can blot away
Her form wha in the days of youth
In love upon my bosom lay!
In many a circle, gay and glad,
I've mingled since I met wi' thee;
But thou who shared my tartan plaid
Shalt aye be dearest far to me.

LXXIV.
Scottish Verses.

When the lonely heart is wi' wanderin' grown weary,
And no ae kind breast near to yield it repose,
Oh! where can it fly in thae lone hours sae dreary
To sweeten its sorrows and lighten its woes?

Some fly to the wine-cup, and some wi' the daughters
O' foreign lands mingle in dancin' and mirth;
But mine flies away o'er the blue northern waters,
In dreams to revisit the land of my birth.

To walk where the glens nurse the fresh flowers o' Nature,
And tread the wild moorlan' in solitude's joy;
Revisit each dwellin' and trace every feature
Of all that was near to my heart when a boy.

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How many soft pictures o' pure Scottish feeling
Wi' youth's fairy visions are fadin' away:
Will naebody enter the lone mountain sheiling
To catch the sweet outline afore it decay?

Oh! naething we hear now but feudal disorder;
Nae ane sings like Ramsay and Burns now ava;
We may weel rue the order sent our lads to the Border—
“The flowers o' the Forest are a' wed awa.”

Nae wonder the muse now is courted in vain
For her green holly-branch and her berries sae red;
Her heart is ower sad for her lover that's gane,
To be won by a tongue frae the banks o' the Tweed.

In dark, misty moorlans her minstrels now wander;
They hae tint the green fitroad o' nature and truth;
And afore they win hame they'll hae lang, lang to dauner,
For the herds kenna ae single word o' their mouth.

Will nae minstrel walk where the lone rowan-trees hingan,
In the calm Sabbath nicht, in the green glen sae still,
To hear in the cottage the holy Psalm singan,
Was sung lang, lang syne upon Sion's sweet hill.

My heart nae mair drinks frae thae pure streams o' gladness;
But in bright sunny climes, on a far distant sea,
It's my dearest delight, in my lone hours o' sadness,
To sing o' that land I may ne'er again see.

Oh! mine is nae fairy harp found in the wild-wood;
Nae rich yellow flute where bright iv'ry is seen;
But mine is the harp o' the days o' sweet childhood—
A branch o' gray saugh frae the burn-bank sae green.

Its melody boasts o' nae nice variations;
Plain, simple, and artless the notes that I blaw;
But oft, as I wander o'er far distant nations,
It waukens the feelings o' years fled awa.

My dear native Scotland! the land o' life's morning!
I think of thee now wi' the tear in my e'e:
Tho' you never again see your wand'rer returning,
Accept this sma' tribute—its a' he can gie.

227

LXXV.
Birthday Verses to Anna.

My boyhood is fled, love;
'Tis time we were wed, love;
A sweet bridal bed
I have promised to thee;
Tho' wide seas are flowing,
Yet fond hearts are glowing,
And love still grows fonder
Between you and me.

In hours when reflection strays
Back on youth's vanish'd days,
No lady's loveliness
Ever was dear,
Till once thy brown tresses,
And lips rich with kisses,
And silk-shaded breast
Spoke of Paradise near.

Then wood-birds were singing,
And summer flowers springing,
And nature was flinging
Her red blossoms forth,
When first thine eyes cherish'd
The bloom that has flourish'd
In bright sunny climes
Of a far foreign earth.

How dear each stolen meeting,
Tho' fading and fleeting,
When twilight dews sweeten'd
The breath of the hay,
When love made advances,
From blushes and glances,
Till fond hands embracing
Got sweet things to say!

How dear Love's young dream
Of thy hair's golden gleam,
Of thy lips and dark eyes,
And thy soft neck so white

228

And how sweet it would be,
With a lady like thee,
Each warm wish and feeling
Of youth to unite!

Oh! blest be the hours,
Amidst Scotland's green bowers,
When my heart's early choice
First was fixed upon thee,
Is aye the reflection,
When dear recollection
Brings dreams of thy loveliness
O'er the wide sea.

Woman's love has no charm
That can make the breast warm
Which has not been practis'd
By thee upon mine;
And my heart has no wish
That need e'er make thee blush,
Save the silk chain of marriage
Our souls to entwine.

LXXVI.
The Ring-Dove to Anna.

A pretty lady walk'd in the month of spring,
Among Crawick's hazelly woods;
She caught a wee ring-dove in a silk string,
As it fluttered among the buds.

She prest her soft cheek to its feathers sae sleek,
In her bosom she took it hame;
She preen'd its plumage fair, and fondled it wi' care,
And made her wee ring-dove tame.

This pretty lady's ring-dove was very, very dear—
Oh! very, very dear indeed:
It would perch on her shoulder, and peck her white ear,
'Midst her brown locks hide its head.

229

It never was at rest, altho' it was carest
By her sisters lovely and fair;
But aye among the silk, on Anna's neck o' milk,
It wad come to nestle there.

It lov'd in that bosom, as pure as spring's blossom,
'Midst folds of thin cambric to lie;
For her skin was so white, and her ringlets so soft,
And so kind and so sweet was her eye.

In that silken bed, oft as warm and as soft
As its ain little breast o' down,
The dove would nestle deep, and coo itself asleep,
While pecking a ringlet brown.

On her pillow at night, ere she sank to repose,
She would teach it the name o' her love;
And she said it must never the secrets disclose
Of the kisses it saw in the grove.

Alas, for that fair one! his lips so ensnaring,
One night, as caressing she lay,
A thief came unseen, thro' the branches so green,
And stole her pretty ring-dove away.

LXXVII.
To Anna.—Wishes.

O could I waft my heart's sincerest wish
Over the dark blue waters of the sea!
Life's purest springs of happiness would gush
With overflowing fountains upon thee;
Thy cloudless mind, from care and sorrow free,
Should bask in young love's purest, sunniest rays,
In thy heart's dearest sweet society
Would pass in pleasure all thy coming days,
Amidst the woods and streams of thy dear native braes.

230

And dreams of youth would all be realis'd;
Thy early choice should be thy country's pride;
Thy songs of love, by youths and maidens priz'd.
Should gain him fame, and thou shouldst be his bride.
His sweet poetic maiden by his side,
With beating heart should hear her love's renown,
And wreaths of brightest poetry be tied
By her young minstrel, midst the ringlets brown,
That slept upon his breast, and shared his laurel crown.

LXXVIII.
Song.

[_]

Air—“Lochaber no More.”

Oh! welcome sweet simmer—thy warm sunny breeze,
Thy green grassy meadows, thy flowers and thy trees!
The music, the gladness that Nature pours forth
From the wood and the moorland, the clouds and the earth!

The dark storms o' winter are past and away,
The green swaird is thick wi' the gowans o' May;
The birk leaves and gray saughs smell fresh in the bowers,
The fox-foot and harebell on Spango's brown moors.

Oh! blythe days to Crawick are coming again;
The new corn will spring in the glad simmer rain,
On the banks o' the burnie the mavis will sing,
An' red 'mong the linns the strawberries spring.

The hay-fields will sweeten the breeze on Crossbank,
And the wild honey breathe on the mountains o' Spangk;
On my Carco's green holms, where the bright waters lave,
Red clover, brown rye-grass, and gowans shall wave.

The woodroof shall spread in the orchard's lone glen,
An' the broom flowers blow thick on the braes o' Bridgen';
In the holm-woods white hands will pluck blaeberries soon,
An' the sweet-brier perfume a' its hedges in June.

An' ladies will walk there, an' fond lovers meet,
When the gray, dewy evening fa's dusky and sweet;
They'll be stolen hours o' pleasure—how dear once to me!
But my ship, when they come, will be far on the sea.

231

Then fare-thee-well Crawick! dear stream o' my youth!
I maun change thy green glens for the bright sunny south;
A lady's soft looks for the grim face of war,
And the songs of my love for the wild billow's jar.

And farewell, my dear one! my heart cannot tell
If I'll e'er meet again one has lov'd me so well,
If I live, I'll remember thee far on the wave:
If I die, do not weep, for I'll die with the brave.

The local name for Spango is Spank.

LXXIX.
Song.—The Wine is Red.

The wine is red, the lamps are bright,
And gems and jewels glance,
Where ladies with their loves to-night
Are mingling in the dance:
But, ah! the music's softest swells
No gladness brings to me:—
The land of mists and heather-bells
Is far beyond the sea.

I sought the grove where fire-flies gleam,
'Mong rinds of red and gold,
To banish from my mind the dream;
But still the days of old,
With the glens, and moors, and mountain-fells,
Come back again to me,
With the land of mists and heather-bells,
Beyond the northern sea.

This land is rich with all the hues
And treasures of the spring;
Around my path, 'mong moonlight dews,
The ceaseless insects sing:
But still my lingering spirit dwells
With one who walk'd with me,
'Mong misty moors and heather-bells,
Beyond the northern sea.

232

LXXX.
Stanzas

[_]

On the cutting out of the “Esmeralda” Spanish Frigate, by Lord Cochrane.

Behold thy Cochrane, Scotland! and be proud
To see that fiery spirit of the deep,
Like freedom's guardian angel from the cloud
Forth breaking on the waves his watch to keep.
How like the bolt of Heaven! his arm can sweep
Aside the fleets of Portugal and Spain.
For their lost nations they in vain may weep,
While his broad flag is hoisted on the main,
The billows are his throne, and while he lives he'll reign.

And British seamen love to tell the sport,
Of how one night a Spanish frigate lay,
Mann'd and secure, beneath a friendly fort
Of bright brass bristling guns, in Lima Bay;
And Cochrane's boarding boats were under weigh.
His men were few, but strong enough their faith
To move a mountain had it dared to stay
Their desp'rate course. On for the prize they sweep:
“Silence or death!” the chief proclaims, with utterance deep.

'Twas sable night: nought on the waters stirr'd—
Scarce ev'n the feathering of the muffled oar.
Pacing the forts the watchmen kept their guard,
But little dream'd they who 'twas passed their shore.
The frigate's bells proclaim'd the first watch o'er;
The gun-room revellers to their berths had crept;
The seamen on her decks were heard to snore;
The mid-watch sentries wak'd; the rest all slept;
When sudden in the midst the brave assailants leapt.

Athwart her moorings, rang'd to form a chain,
A line of gunboats lay: its links they broke,
Scattering with their sabres blood like rain,
Quenching the flames amid the cannon smoke.
The opposing warriors in confusion broke
Ere scarce to quarters beat their midnight drum.
Some stood, their daggers grasping firm as rock,
Dread welcome threat'ning to the first should come;
But many of them stood with trembling terror dumb.

233

Behold the Patriots on the bulwarks spring!
They grasp the fore, the main, and mizen chains.
With fearful strength, their battle blades they swing;
With desp'rate vigour every muscle strains;
And well their chief his chieftainship maintains,
The gangway he ascends, with dauntless stride,
And where the shower of bullets thickest rains—
His dusky Patriot “Devil” by his side—
The quarterdeck he sweeps to seize the post of pride.

Brave Crosbie's band the forecastle now gain,
Cutting their path through groves of bristling steel;
The Royalists awhile the charge sustain;
But backward on the gangways soon they reel.
The Patriots dash the helmsman from the wheel;
And, cheering, rally round their leader's sword.
The frigate freed, the tide she soon 'gins feel.
“Loose sails!” a broad Scotch accent gives the word;
And instant 'tis obeyed—'tis Cochrane treads the board.

But fifteen minutes past, well-mann'd and moor'd,
Beneath the forts the Esmeralda lay.
Now under hatch, his prisoners secured,
The conqueror steers her calmly 'cross the Bay;
The deep-mouthed brazen batteries on him play;
He smiles and boasts they cannot point a gun.
The frigate's flag was changed, when dawning day
Brought o'er the Eastern Andes' peaks the sun.
'Twas thus the hero's brow its brightest laurel won.

LXXXI.
The Untombed Mariners.

[_]

(An incident really witnessed in the Bay of Biscay.)

The waves rolled long and high
In the fathomless Biscay,
And the rising breeze swept sullen by,
And the day closed heavily.

Our ship was tight and brave,
Well-trimm'd and sailing free,
And she flew along on the mountain wave,
An eagle of the sea.

234

The red cross fluttering yet,
We lowered the noble sign,
For the bell had struck, it was past sunset,
And the moon began to shine.

Her light was fitful, flung
From a sky of angry gloom,
Thick hurrying clouds o'er the waters hung,
Their hue was of the tomb.

Yet now and then a gleam
Broke through of her silent ray,
And lit around with her softened beam
Some spot of that plumbless bay.

O'er the bulwark's side we heard
The proud ship break the spray,
While her shrouds and sheets, by the wild winds stirr'd,
Made music mournfully.

And we talked of battles past,
Of shipwreck, rock, and shore,
Of ports where peril or chance had cast
Our sail the wild world o'er.

The watch looked by the lee,
A shapeless log was seen,
A helmless ship it appeared to be,
As it lay the waves between.

Oh! 'twas a fearful sight
That helpless thing to see,
Swimming mastless and lone at high midnight,
A corpse on the black, black sea!

There were souls, perchance, on board,
And heaving yet their breath,
Men, whose cry amid their despair was heard
Not to meet ocean-death.

Our chief on deck up sprung,
We lay to in that hollow deep—
Below, as our voices and trampling rung,
The sleepers sprang from sleep.

The boat we loosed and lower'd,
There were gallant hearts to go,
The dark clouds broke that the moon embower'd,
And her light shone cheering through.

235

And we watch'd that little boat
Pull up the mountain wave,
Then sink from view, like a name forgot,
Within an ancient grave.

They go—they climb the hull,
As the waters wash the deck,
They shout, and they hear but the billows dull
Strike on that lonely wreck.

The skeletons of men
Lay blanch'd and marrowless there,
But clothed in their living garb as when
That 'reft ship was their care.

Lash'd to the planks they lay,
The ropes still round them tied,
Tho' drifted long leagues in that stormy bay
Since they hoped, despair'd, and died.

Tombless in their decay,
'Mid the watery solitude,
Days dawned upon them and faded away,
Cold moons their death-sleep view'd.

Their names no trace may tell,
Nor whither their passage bound,
And our seamen leave the desolate hull
With death or darkness round.

They tread their deck again,
And silent hoist their boat—
They think of the fate of the unknown men
Who for years may wildly float.

Those bones, that ocean bier,
They well may sadly see,
For they feel that the gallant ship they steer,
Their sepulchre may be.

There is grief for beauty's woe,
Laurels strew the hero's hearse—
Are there none will the generous tear bestow
For those untomb'd mariners!

236

LXXXII.
Lines

[_]

On a Naval Officer buried in the Atlantic.

There is in the wide, lone sea,
A spot unmark'd, but holy;
For there the gallant and the free
In his ocean-bed lies lowly.

Down, down within the deep,
That oft in triumph bore him,
He sleeps a sound and pleasant sleep,
With the salt waves washing o'er him.

He sleeps serene, and safe
From tempest and from billow,
Where the storms that high above him chafe,
Scarce rock his peaceful pillow.

The sea and him in death
They did not dare to sever;
It was his home while he had breath,
'Tis now his home for ever.

Sleep on, thou mighty dead!
A glorious tomb they've found thee;
The broad blue sky above thee spread,
The boundless waters round thee.

No vulgar foot treads here,
No hand profane shall move thee;
But gallant fleets shall proudly steer,
And warriors shout above thee.

And though no stone may tell
Thy name, thy worth, thy glory,
They rest in hearts that loved thee well,
And they grace thy country's story.

And when the last trump shall sound,
And tombs are asunder riven,
Like the morning sun, from the wave thou'lt bound,
To rise and shine in Heaven.