The Dream and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

He was dreaming of his childhood's haunts,
And his grey-hair'd father's praise;
And the chance of death which hung so near
And darken'd his young days.

VII

So he turn'd, and bade them both farewell,
With a calm and mournful smile;
And he spoke of dwelling far away,
But only for a while.

251

VIII

And if a pang of bitter grief
Shot wildly through his heart,
No man heard Allan Douglas sigh,
Nor saw the tear-drop start:

IX

For he left in Scotland none who cared
If e'er he should return,
In castle hall, or cottage low,
By river or by burn.

X

Only upon the heather brae
His quivering lip he press'd;
And clasp'd the senseless birchen tree,
And strain'd it to his breast;

XI

Because the human heart is full
Of love that must be given,
However check'd, estranged, and chill'd,
To something under Heaven.

252

XII

And these things had been friends to him
Thro' a life of lonely hours—
The blue lake, and the waving birch,
And the low broom's scented flowers.

XIII

Twice had the snow been on the hills,
And twice the soft spring rain,
When Allan Douglas bent his way
To his native land again.

XIV

More healthful glow'd his hollow cheek,
His step was firm and free,
And he brought a fair Italian girl
His bonny bride to be.

XV

But darkly sneer'd his brother cold,
When he saw that maiden fair,
“Is a foreign minion come to wed
The Highland chieftain's heir?”

253

XVI

And darkly gloom'd the mother's brow
As she said, “Am I so old,
That a stranger must so soon come here
The castle keys to hold?”

XVII

Then spoke the young Italian girl
With a sweet and modest grace,
As she lifted up her soft black eyes
And look'd them in the face:

XVIII

“A stranger and an orphan comes
To Allan's native land,
And she needs the mother's welcome smile,
And the brother's friendly hand.

XIX

“Be thine! oh, stately lady—thine—
The rule that thou dost crave,
For Allan's love is all I earn'd,
And all I seek to have.

254

XX

“And trust me, brother, tho' my words
In foreign accents fall,
The heart is of no country born,
And my heart will love you all.”

XXI

But vain the music of her tongue
Against the hate they bore;
And when a babe her love had bless'd
They hated her the more.

XXII

They hated her the more because
That babe must be the heir,
And his dark and lovely eyes at times
His mother's look would wear.

XXIII

But lo! the keen cold winter came
With many a bitter blast:
It pierced thro' sickly Allan's frame,—
He droop'd and died at last!

255

XXIV

Oh! mournfully at early morn
That young wife sat and wept,—
And mournfully, when day was done,
To her widow'd couch she crept,—

XXV

And mournfully at noon she rock'd
The baby on her knee;
“There is no pity in their hearts,
My child, for thee and me.

XXVI

“There was no pity in their hearts
For him who is at rest:
How should they feel for his young son
Who slumbers at my breast?”

XXVII

The red-hair'd brother saw her tears,
And said, “Nay, cease thy moan—
Come forth into the morning air,
And weep no more alone!”

256

XXVIII

The proud step-mother chid her woe;—
“Even for thy infant's sake
Go forth into the morning air,
And sail upon the lake!”

XXIX

There seem'd some feeling for her state;
Their words were fair and mild;
Yet she shudder'd as she whisper'd low,
“God shield me and my child!”

XXX

“Come!” said dead Allan's brother stern,
“Why dost thou tremble so?
“Come!”—and with doubt and fear perplex'd,
The lady rose to go.

XXXI

They glided over the glassy lake,
'Till its lulling murmur smote,
With a death-like omen, to and fro',
Against the heaving boat.

257

XXXII

And no one spoke;—that brother still
His face averted kept,
And the lady's tears fell fast and free
O'er her infant as it slept.

XXXIII

The cold faint evening breeze sprang up
And found them floating on;
They glided o'er the glassy lake
Till the day's last streak was gone—

XXXIV

Till the day's last streak had died away
From the chill and purple strand,
And a mist was on the water's face
And a damp dew on the land;

XXXV

Till you could not trace the living hue
Of lip, or cheek, or eye,
But the outline of each countenance
Drawn dark against the sky.

258

XXXVI

And all things had a ghastly look,
An aspect strange and drear;—
The lady look'd to the distant shore
And her heart beat wild with fear.

XXXVII

There is a rock whose jutting height
Stands frowning o'er that lake,
Where the faintest call of the bugle horn
The echo's voice will wake:—

XXXVIII

And there the water lifts no wave
To the breeze, so fresh and cool,
But lies within the dark rock's curve,
Like a black and gloomy pool.

XXXIX

Its depth is great,—a stone thrown in
Hath a dull descending sound,
The plummet hath not there been cast
Which resting-place hath found.

259

XL

And scatter'd firs and birch-trees grow
On the summit, here and there—
Lonely and joylessly they wave,
Like an old man's thin grey hair.

XLI

But not to nature's hand it owes
Its mournfulness alone,
For vague tradition gives the spot
A horror of its own.

XLII

The boatman doffs his cap beneath
Its dark o'er-hanging shade,
And whispers low its Gaelic name,—
“The Rock of the Betray'd.”

XLIII

And when the wind, which never curls
That pool, goes sweeping by,
Bending the firs and birchen trees
With a low and moaning sigh,—

260

XLIV

He'll tell you that the sound which comes
So strange, and faint, and dim,
Is only heard at one set hour,
And call'd “the Lady's Hymn.”