The Legend of Genevieve with other tales and poems. By Delta [i.e. David Macbeth Moir] |
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RURAL SECLUSION.
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 | The Legend of Genevieve |  |
231
RURAL SECLUSION.
A SKETCH.
How splendidly! with what a glorious light,
Beyond the summits of yon forest deep,
The sun descends, tinging its boughs with flame
The western tent around him glows, and far
Up the steep cope of heaven outstretching brightly,
Dart the red lines with soft decaying glow.
How utter is the solitude around!
How wild, and how forlorn! It is a scene,
Which stern Salvator, with a kindling eye,
Might long have gazed unsated, treasuring up
A throng of omens dark, and desolate thoughts:
Nor motion of one living thing dispels
The breathless and unstirring loneliness,
Nor insect's hum, nor vesper song of bird,
Nor sound of lapsing stream; the evening breeze,
Sighing along, just passes o'er the flowers
Of the dark heather, and subsides to peace:
There is no trace of human step, no mark
Of man's dominion here; these mossy rocks,
These lichen'd stones, all purple-tinged and blue,
These deep-brow'd rocks, and that dim weedy pool,
Mayhap from Time's remotest chronicling,
Untouch'd have lain, and undisturb'd and lone!
Beyond the summits of yon forest deep,
The sun descends, tinging its boughs with flame
The western tent around him glows, and far
Up the steep cope of heaven outstretching brightly,
Dart the red lines with soft decaying glow.
How utter is the solitude around!
How wild, and how forlorn! It is a scene,
Which stern Salvator, with a kindling eye,
Might long have gazed unsated, treasuring up
A throng of omens dark, and desolate thoughts:
Nor motion of one living thing dispels
The breathless and unstirring loneliness,
232
Nor sound of lapsing stream; the evening breeze,
Sighing along, just passes o'er the flowers
Of the dark heather, and subsides to peace:
There is no trace of human step, no mark
Of man's dominion here; these mossy rocks,
These lichen'd stones, all purple-tinged and blue,
These deep-brow'd rocks, and that dim weedy pool,
Mayhap from Time's remotest chronicling,
Untouch'd have lain, and undisturb'd and lone!
The ptarmigan, when wintry frosts were o'er,
And skies were blue, may here have sunn'd herself,
The red-deer taken up a night's abode,
Or the lithe adder roll'd; it may have been,
That in the gloom of olden times austere,
Beneath that arching rock, the Eremite,
Shunning communion, may have dwelt alone,
Till human speech was, to his vacant ear,
Like vision to the blind, a thing gone by;
Saw, o'er yon far-off hills, the waning light
Of the last setting sun that shone for him,
In loneliness outstretch'd his wither'd limbs,
And, dying, left his bones to whiten here!—
Or, it may be, when Persecution's rage
Pursued the champions of the Covenant,
In ages less remote, on this lone mount,
At earliest sunrise, or beneath the stars,
The suffering martyrs gather'd, from the looks
Of unrepining zeal in each worn face,
—As each on each they gazed with searching eyes—
To glean rekindled ardour; here perhaps,
—And sanctified if such the spot must be!—
Kneeling they pray'd; for Scotland's hills and dales,
Pour'd out their hearts, for liberty of soul,
And for serener times.
And skies were blue, may here have sunn'd herself,
The red-deer taken up a night's abode,
Or the lithe adder roll'd; it may have been,
That in the gloom of olden times austere,
Beneath that arching rock, the Eremite,
Shunning communion, may have dwelt alone,
Till human speech was, to his vacant ear,
Like vision to the blind, a thing gone by;
Saw, o'er yon far-off hills, the waning light
Of the last setting sun that shone for him,
In loneliness outstretch'd his wither'd limbs,
And, dying, left his bones to whiten here!—
233
Pursued the champions of the Covenant,
In ages less remote, on this lone mount,
At earliest sunrise, or beneath the stars,
The suffering martyrs gather'd, from the looks
Of unrepining zeal in each worn face,
—As each on each they gazed with searching eyes—
To glean rekindled ardour; here perhaps,
—And sanctified if such the spot must be!—
Kneeling they pray'd; for Scotland's hills and dales,
Pour'd out their hearts, for liberty of soul,
And for serener times.
| The Legend of Genevieve | |