Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Once more, romantic isle, once more,
To all thy charms of sea and shore,
To peaks where eagles dwell,
To heathery brae and wimpling burn,
And beds of foxglove, mix'd with fern,
A sad, a fond farewell!

To me and mine, for many a year,
Hast thou with ample cause been dear,
As thou to all art fair:
My wife, with childhood's rapturous gaze,
Above thee watch'd the sunset blaze
From yon dim coast of Ayr;

And when thy jagged ridge shone clear
Through summer evening's atmosphere,
Unveil'd by cloud or mist,
Beneath that glorifying light
It seem'd, to her undoubting sight,
One mass of amethyst.

Even I, when first, across the Clyde,
Thy towering summits I descried,

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Though then a man full-grown,
Scarce deem'd thee a terrestrial strand,
On which a vulgar foot might land,
Which vulgar lords might own.

Around thee a mysterious haze
Then floated in the wondering gaze
Of eyes that love to dream;
To such, thou wast a fairy land,
Not yet made earthly by the hand
Of disenchanting steam.

To dwellers on the Carrick coast,
Ere Watt arose, was thine almost
As yet a virgin shore;
Columbus or Magellan might
Have envied the adventurous wight,
Who durst its crags explore.

Time was, within the narrow span
Since I became a married man,
When here, in Brodick bay,
My wife and I, untimely left
Of locomotive aid bereft,
For days imprison'd lay.

In sight appear'd no friendly sail,—
The very boat which brought the mail
Not yet for days was due;
At last—but in a fisher's boat,—
On Sunday morn we got afloat,
Two sturdy Gaels our crew.

At day-break summon'd from our bed,
That morn we had not broken bread,

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Nor bread on board had we;
And bound for Rothsay's distant bay,
Enjoy'd, as hungry people may,
A perfect calm at sea.

Our boatmen pull'd with right good will,
Yet hours and hours the mountains still
Their shadows o'er us cast;
Until sprang up a rippling gale,
And cheer'd our hearts, and fill'd our sail,
And bore us home at last.

The quay—the house—the meal appear'd,—
We veer'd and tack'd, and tack'd and veer'd,—
The wind was much to blame;
Till just upon the stroke of one,
As crowds flock'd out from service done,
To shore at last we came.

A most disreputable plight,
In sober Presbyterian sight,
Just then was ours, no doubt;
Yet on our breakfast straight we fell,
With hunger which no shame could quell,
And food could scarce drive out.

Since then, through life's meridian prime,
Sore needing rest, from time to time,
From sickness and from care,
Fair isle, within thee and around,
Our children and ourselves have found
Clear waves and genial air.

Nor less our thanks are due to thee,
That through thy glens we wander free

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From dull decorum's rules,
And, unassail'd by jeer or scoff,
Conventional restraints throw off,
Which hamper fashion's fools.

However it to some may seem,
No unimportant boon I deem
The license, thus bestow'd,
With Nature on her mountain throne
To commune by ourselves alone,
Her wilds our brief abode.

From dull parochial feuds and strife,
From all the jars of social life,
From stir of things and men
Escaped, to cleave the briny surf,
To tread the unfrequented turf
Of mountain-side and glen.

So haply shall our children find
An unsophisticated mind
From slavish laws exempt,
And artificial forms of thought,
A blessing to be cheaply bought
By half the world's contempt.

And yet must I perforce confess
That in this rocky wilderness,
Beside this lonely sea,
To breathe for ever mountain air
And simplè mountain pleasures share,
Is not the life for me.

Good are the mountains; good the shore,
Yet, sooth to say, I covet more

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The converse of my kind;
The beaten, broad high road of life
With social stir and tumult rife,
The clash of mind with mind.

For ten months' work give two months' play,
And let me to the hills away,
To rest at will or rove,
Then, well refresh'd in heart and brain,
For England ho !—to work again,—
That's just the life I love.

There are—and who but counts them wise?—
Whom lonely nature satisfies,—
Whose spirits self-possest,
In wilds can find, almost unsought,
Exhaustless lore—for loftiest thought
Abundant food and rest.

All praise to such !—a nobler task
Than common minds can share or ask
Hath Heaven to them assign'd;
They drink at truth's unsullied fount,
On eagles' wings 'tis theirs to mount
And grasp where few can find.

A less ambitious lot is ours,
Who exercise our feebler powers
In paths which men frequent;
The daily task, by Him above
Mark'd out, in humble faith and love,
Te execute content.

Nor long, I deem, can we withdraw,
From scenes which His disposing law

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Hath made our proper sphere,
Nor long, without some hurt, disown
The ties which with our growth have grown
And strengthen'd, year by year.

To me, a bard of English birth,
And heart-bound to that spot of earth
On which my life began,
Pure though he be of thought and will,
A Scotchman is a Scotchman still,
But half my countryman.

Of all that doth his soul inspire
I reverence much, and much admire,
Nor grudge him love that's due;
But find, when near him I abide,
That still a gulf both deep and wide
Extends between us two.

He reasons by a different rule,—
Was nurtured in an alien school,—
His notions jar with mine;
Much he contemns which I revere,
Much which I love not, holds most dear
Of human and divine.

Within his tents I love full well
Awhile, from time to time, to dwell,
For change of thought and scene;
But homeward soon my spirit turns,
And, with instinctive ardour, burns
To be where it hath been;

With minds of kindred growth to think,
To walk and talk, to eat and drink,

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To dwell, in truth and deed,
Amongst the men with whom I share
One sphere of thought, one form of prayer,
One altar and one creed.

So be it now—though loth to part,
Fair isle, with an unwavering heart
I quit thee for my home;
Thanks! for thy boons, in years long past
Enjoy'd with him whose lot is cast
Beyond the ocean foam;—

With those who still in peace remain,
Who wear not yet a heavier chain
Than that of filial fear;
And those whom all-indulgent Heaven
To our parental charge hath given
Since first we sojourn'd here.

Farewell!—and if henceforth no more
We tread thy loved and lovely shore,
This we at least can say—
That in our deepest springs of thought
Thy influence hath a blessing wrought
Which will not pass away.