 | An angler's rambles |  |
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TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF ROXBURGHE,
WHOSE SKILL AND EXPERIENCE AS A SALMON-FISHER
ARE ONLY EXCELLED BY THE GENEROSITY HE HAS UNIFORMLY SHOWN TOWARDS THE
LOVERS OF RIVER-SIDE SPORTS; AND TO WHOM,
FOR HIS EXERTIONS IN CONNEXION WITH THE TWEED ACTS NOW IN FORCE,
BOTH THE ANGLING COMMUNITY AT LARGE, AND
THE OWNERS OF SALMON-FISHINGS ON THE BORDER RIVERS,
ARE GREATLY INDEBTED, THIS VOLUME IS MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.
127
A LOCH SCENE.
I
Never in dream-land met the eyeA scene so fair and witching;
Lake, heath, and forest, hill and dale,
And, gilding all in its farewell,
A sunset so enriching!
II
The chasten'd rapture of that hourSteals, like a vision, o'er me;
I see again the mirror'd heights—
The tranquil blending of delights
In the sweet lake before me.
III
A ruin on its islet stands,The walls with ivy pendant,
Its grey stones crumbling underneath,
Peer coldly through the shroud-like wreath
Of that untrain'd ascendant.
IV
But glancing from the record rudeOf the remoter ages,
Behold the image of a stag,
Timorous of the water-flag,
Its eager thirst assuages!
151
V
The stately antlers branching freeAbove its forehead tragic—
The form of animated grace
Are kindred to the quiet place,
A portion of its magic!
VI
And there the wild-duck, like a skiff,Shoots from her bower of rushes;
His glossy neck enamour'd rears
Her mate, and through the screen of spears,
Sounding his love charge, brushes.
VII
The peerly water-heron, too,Where the faint sun-ray trembles,
Drooping its ever-graceful head
Above the floating lily-bed,
A poet-bird resembles.
VIII
And yonder, on the distant marge,Behold an angler eager,
With taper wand and arm of skill,
In shadow of the darkening hill,
A solitary figure!
IX
But, falling from the heights beyond,Shadow and mist together,
Glideth away the silent show—
The mountain and the lake below—
The forest and the heather.
152
X
And night, with dewy forehead bent,Holdeth its vigil solemn,
Till the red architect of morn.
Upon a cloud-car slowly born,
Erects his amber column!
164
THE INVOCATION.
I
Oh! waken, winds, waken! the waters are still,And silence and sunlight recline on the hill,
The angler is watching beside the green springs
For the low welcome sound of your wandering wings.
II
With rod all appointed, and ready at need,His withe-woven pannier flung down on the mead,
He looks to the lake from his ambush of trees,
And sighs for the curl of the cool summer breeze.
III
Calm-bound is the form of the water-fowl fair,And the spear of the rush stands erect in the air;
And the dragon-fly roams o'er the lily-bed gay,
Where basks the bold pike in a sun-smitten bay.
IV
Oh! waken, winds, waken! wherever asleep,On cloud or dark mountain, or down in the deep,
The angler is watching beside the green springs
For the low welcome sound of your wandering wings!
190
SONG—THE YELLOW FINS OF YARROW.
I
The yellow fins o' Yarrow dale!I kenna whar they've gane tae;
Were ever troots in Border vale
Sae comely or sae dainty?
204
II
They had baith gowd and spanglit rings,Wi' walth o' pearl amang them;
An' for sweet love o' the bonnie things
The heart was laith to wrang them.
III
But he that angles Yarrow ower(Maun changes ever waken?)
Frae our Lady's Loch to Newark Tower
Will find the stream forsaken.
IV
Forsaken ilka bank and staneBy a' its troots o' splendour;
Auld Yarrow's left sae lorn an' lane,
Ane scarcely wad ha'e kenn'd her.
V
Wae's me! the Yarrow yellow fin,I marvel whar he's gane tae!
Was ever troot in Forest rin
Sae comely or sae dainty?
213
THE OLD WAND.
I
The wand that hath done service fairFrom thy boyhood to thy prime,
Onwards to thine after-time
Cherish. It is worth all care.
II
Many a fair-spoken friendHath less friendship in his heart
Than this passive piece of art,
And will fail thee at the end.
III
But a trusty rod and tried,Warp'd by service though it be,
Toughens in adversity,
And clings the nearer to thy side.
IV
Cherish it for thine own sake,For the record of events
Hanging on its accidents.
And the memories these awake.
220
V
Ferrule bent—distorted ring—Top curtail'd or past repair—
The continual wear and tear,
And relaxing of its spring;
VI
Every notch by knife impress'd,Ranging up and down the butt,
In its form of cross or rutt,
Is to thee of interest.
VII
In the fortunes of thy wandThou hast part, no common part,
And the beatings of thy heart
With its triumphs correspond.
VIII
Give it place in thine abode—In thy dwelling's inner shrine—
In the chamber made divine
By love and faith, lay up thy rod.
IX
When the wielder's arm is weak,And care's fever is at height;
In the watches of the night,
'Mid the silence it will speak;
221
X
Of the rivers' joys discoursingWhen the skies are overcast,
Making thankful for the past,
And a purer life enforcing;
XI
Whispering with bated breathOf a valley and a stream,
Leading to a land of dream—
The river and the vale of death.
XII
Symbol be it to fulfilThe sweet promises of God,—
Symbol of the Staff and Rod
Guiding by the waters still!
251
THE DROUGHT OF 1864, HOW IT AFFECTED THE ANGLER.
PART I.
I
The lips of all the springs are dry,And parch'd the throats of every rill;
A fiery shape hath scaled the hill
With blistering foot and brazen eye.
II
A fiery shape hath cross'd the lea,And trodden out its summer life,
Filling the hags with fetid stife,
And staggers onward to the sea.
III
Within the range of its regard,Drop silenced all the tongues of mirth;
Aspiring flowers crouch back to earth,
The emeralds of the mead lie charr'd.
252
IV
His thirsty tooth the gad-fly whets,Incited by the cruel glare;
The spider wrapt in crafty lair
Watches the flutter of her nets.
V
The lizard basks upon the bank;The slow-worm in our pathway crawls;
The loathly adder, on the knolls,
Lies coil'd among the herbage rank.
VI
All nature wears an air of spleen—A cast of languor, not repose,
That in the season of the rose
Seems alien to her wonted mien.
VII
Upon the feather'd tribe, the charmWorks in a more or less degree;
The swallow, which hath cross'd the sea,
Within the circuit of the farm
VIII
Shows flagging wing. The doves retireBelow the curtains of the grove,
And in the under-tones of love
Communicate their one desire.
IX
With furled canvas, under thatchOf a desponding willow, stands,
Like the carved work of cunning hands,
The heron keeping weary watch.
253
X
The valley's glory broad and bright,Which flash'd with life the May-month long,
And with its challenges of song
Saluted the starr'd ear of night,
XI
Has shrunk into a narrow thread,Or, if assuming ampler course,
It still affects the river's force,
The life and song alike are fled.
XII
The valley's glory now no more,So straiten'd are its ways and means,
So cast the tints—the golds and greens—
Which ranged across from shore to shore.
XIII
So lazily the pulses beat,Which once their merry throb sent out,
And stirr'd the hidings of the trout
And wing'd the river's twinkling feet,
XIV
And buoy'd with promises of cheerThe angler's heart, like sough of corn,
That with the breezes of the morn
Comes flowing on the sower's ear.
XV
Alas! the angler's hopes fall crush'd,Arrested in their radiant flight
His aspirations of delight,
Their music and persuasion hush'd.
254
XVI
The weapon of his prowess liesNeglected. The grey moth invades
His feathery stores; the beauty fades
From his prospective paradise.
XVII
And languor, such as reigns without,Enters into his inmost soul,
And by its pressure, past control,
Puts every longing to the rout.
XVIII
Even the soft, seducing dawnAllures not with its temper'd hues;
Nor yet the shedding of the dews
Across the carpet of the lawn;
XIX
Nor yet the rustling of the trees,The conference of oak with oak,
That ushers in the midnight stroke,
And predicates the showery breeze.
XX
A strange, low wind, without an airt,A whispering of leafy sprites,
The running to and fro of lights
Mysterious, through the forests' heart.
XXI
Such held their influence till now—The wildfire and the Dryad's talk,
The steppings in the river's walk,
The plumelike beckonings of the bough.
255
XXII
But the old faith, which fondly clungTo signs and omens, is disturb'd;
The tide of superstition curb'd
That wander'd betwixt heart and tongue.
XXIII
Ay! even his wishes lie repell'dBy the fierce furnace overhead,
Or reach the lips, to die unsaid;
So sunk the heart from which they well'd.
XXIV
Oh! quickly melt, ye skies of brass!Drop, cruel heav'ns, your crystal stores!
Open at length the long-barr'd doors,
And let the glad libation pass!
XXV
Relent apace, oh! eye of dayThat blazing smitest, like a sword
Grasp'd by an angel of the Lord,
And give the brimming tears their way!
XXVI
Ye eyes of night! a token bring,Entreat for us, thou Dian chaste!
The coursers of the watery waste,
And round thee bind thy mystic ring.
XXVII
The cloud no bigger than a hand,Awaits thy signal in the West,
Ready to do thy high behest,
And roll salvation o'er the land.
256
XXVIII
Oh! welcome rain, oh! welcome rain!Welcome the smile-precursing tears—
The weeping of the clouds and spheres
Which, pass'd, restores to life again,
XXIX
Freshens the hues of eve and morn—Dilates the humid orbs of night,
And from the treasuries of light
Replenishes the lunar horn!
XXX
I hear it coming in my sleepFrom cloudland and the vast behind;
From the four Castles of the Wind,
From the green caverns of the deep.
XXXI
I hear it coming, as they cameThat are the messengers of God,
And harness'd chariots at his nod,—
Horses of cloud to wheels of flame.
XXXII
The vision that so often pass'dBefore me, fraught of longings vain—
The wishes of the heart and brain—
Is surely realized at last!
XXXIII
Oh! welcome rain, oh! welcome rain!Welcome the quickenings all around
The cloud-drift and the moaning sound,
The shiftings of the gilded vane!
257
XXXIV
The ringings as of liquid bellsThat break the silence overhead,
And hovering o'er the river's bed
Set bubbling the enchanted wells.
XXXV
Hands feebly dropt are raised again—Tongues loosen'd to make thankful prayer—
Hearts cheer'd—eyes lighten'd everywhere;
Oh! welcome rain! oh! welcome rain!
PART II.
I
Oh! angler, thine experience tell,In faulty rhymes, of this fierce drought,
How it prevail'd within, without
And chain'd thee with its weary spell.
II
Speak to the reason running wildOf those who waste our valley's wealth,
And on the crystal tide of health
Cast things defiling and defiled;
III
Who drain the juices of our land,Reckless of what the need may be
To us and to posterity,
So that the profit comes to hand.
258
IV
Counting but for themselves aloneThe cost and chances of reward;
But taking into no regard
The future of the evil done.
V
How fountains broken up and spilt—The life-blood driven from the soil,
Never to be restored by toil—
Commit to the reward of guilt.
VI
All honour to the noble artWhich into corn transmutes the weed,
And turns the waste into the mead,—
The alchemy of hand and heart!
VII
But woe to those who so abuseThe license given to scourge and drain,
As, in their fell pursuit of gain,
All sight of what may come to lose!
VIII
Who of its fragrance rob the wold,And of its wild-flowers strip the hill;
Who check the frolics of the rill,
And push it from its courses old;
IX
To Nature's remnant laying siege,And, under guise of tenant skill,
Rake God's own garden with a will,
Committing conscious sacrilege.
259
X
God speed the honest mill, and feedIts merry spokes by night and day!
The rivers as they dance away
Repeat the blessing, God it speed!
XI
The trout within the dam and leadLove the sweet clatter of its wheel,
And with its flushings forth reveal
Their joy, and bid it—the God speed;
XII
But let a malison descendUpon those structures of the day,
That with palatial display
Shadow our streams at every bend!
XIII
Those strongholds of monopolyThat mar the pictures of the mind,
And come betwixt us and the wind,
Tainting its natural purity;
XIV
Which, to allay the thirst of fireThat hugs their vitals, and torments,
Drink in a valley's whole contents,
And sputter out a rush of mire.
XV
Must this great wrong pass unredress'd—This rifling of our valley's wealth—
This wanton tampering with health,
And no one venture to protest?
260
XVI
Shall it go on from bad to worse,Until all remedy is past,
And we conniving stand aghast,
Partakers of the withering curse?
XVII
'Tis the Bard's privilege to foresee—His bounden duty to forewarn;
Thus prompted, I uplift the horn,
And signal the calamity.
XVIII
The cry for corn was late abroad—The cry for cheap, untrammell'd bread;—
For the big quartern blood was shed,
And the great cry went up to God!
XIX
That cry hath ceased; but in its placeThreatens to come the fiercer cry,
Give us pure water else we die,
And, dying, curse you to the face!
XX
Arrest the evil while you may,Nor pause to argue, on the plea
That to advance utility
Is the first duty of the day,—
XXI
That interests where selfish strifeGoes hand in hand with factory pride,
Admit of claims which set aside
The grave necessities of life.
261
XXII
With air and fire at their control,And the electric power divine,
Why trespass on the Naiad's shrine
These taskers of the hand and soul?
XXIII
Forbid it, ye strong powers that be!Arrest the evil while you can,
And let not the Leviathan
Swallow the tribute of the sea.
XXIV
Its rivers are a nation's trust—The people's dearest heritage,
Which it is bound from age to age
To hold inviolate from lust;
XXV
With jealousy the fountain-headsTo fend against all reckless waste;
Nor suffer elements unchaste
To dim the diamond of their beds.
XXVI
Up and be busy, ye to whomThis sacred duty appertains!
Our rivers rescue from their chains,
And snatch from their impending doom.
XXVII
No weary drought will vex them then,No fiery shape invade the lea;
But salmon riches crowd the sea,
And roll up to our doors again.
262
XXVIII
The mill and farm will thrive apace,And with them peer and peasant both;
Only repel the Hun and Goth,
And meet the Vandal face to face.
351
THE OTTER.
I
A jolly life the otter leadsThat lurks by Eden Water;
He has nothing to do but frisk about
And take his pick of the eels and trout
That revel at dusk among the weeds,—
The dainty old thief of an otter!
II
Below the mill at Stichel Linn,I met the miller's daughter;
Her cheek it was pallid with affright;
But when she told me of a sprite
With rounding eye and demon grin,
I recognised the otter.
III
Now hie thee home, my timid girl,And dream away thy flutter!
We'll up betimes the morrow's morn,
Before the throstle heads the thorn,
Or from its nest the joking squirrel
Plays bo-peep with the otter.
IV
We'll up betimes at break of day,With hounds well versed in slaughter,—
As fleet and musical a pack
As ever cross'd the valley's track,
And splash'd and dash'd, from bank to brae,
A-hunting of the otter.
352
V
Old Druid, he's the boy to find,And as the scent grows hotter,
With chiming tongue and steaming pace
Keep up the spirit of the chase;
No abler header of the wind
Ere grappled with Sir Otter!
VI
Young Spurgy to old Druid's bellResponds with swatter, swotter;
Shaking his jowls in grim delight,
And sniffing up with all his might,
Among the perfumes of the dell,
The fragrance of the otter.
VII
We'll bring to bear the Grip and GurlAgainst the crafty plotter;
The ‘wee bit birkies,‘ Flam and Flor,
Will no' be hindmost in the splore,
And snarling Bob, the mongrel churl,
His teeth show to the otter.
VIII
Oh! little recks the oily thiefThat harries a' our waters,
Of what may be his morrow's fare,
Who goes a-prowling, here or there,
And how may come to sudden grief
The jolliest of otters!
387
EPIGRAM.
[Teviot a river is that lives by Rule]
Teviot a river is that lives by Rule,And scorns all guidance from your sage Ulysses;
But takes its ruddy Ale before its Kale,
And with a merry mouth fair Anna kisses.
392
SONNET. Irregular.
Another gathering from the days gone by!Another re-assembling by the stream
Of dear old forms—a grand fraternity!
What noble presences invest my dream!
Parents of deeds renowning and renown'd—
The wrestlers that in art and song o'ercame,
And help'd to raise our country to its fame!
The muse of memory stands on hallow'd ground,
And in performance of a solemn rite,
When to the trysting-place of old regard,
Which cons the river in its varied flight,
(A wooded knoll with undergrowth of sward,)
She summons round her all the shades of worth—
Companions in the sport which lightens toil—
The hundred-gifted champions of the North,
Who with their increment of boisterous health
Drawn from unstinted use of heaven's pure air,
Heighten'd the lustre of the midnight oil,
And gave to life new thoughts and fancies rare—
Standard accessions to our famed book wealth!
| An angler's rambles | |