YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS,
COMPOSED (TWO EXCEPTED) DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, AND ON
THE ENGLISH BORDER, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1831.
TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ., AS A TESTIMONY OF FRIENDSHIP, AND ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF INTELLECTUAL
OBLIGATIONS, THESE MEMORIALS ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.
Rydal Mount, Dec. 11, 1834.
I.
[The gallant Youth, who may have gained]
[_]
[The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed with Sir Walter
Scott, and other Friends visiting the Banks of the Yarrow under his
guidance, immediately before his departure from Abbotsford, for Naples.
The title Yarrow Revisited will stand in no need of explanation, for
Readers acquainted with the Author's previous poems suggested by that
celebrated Stream.]
The gallant Youth, who may have gained,
Or seeks, a ‘winsome Marrow,’
Was but an Infant in the lap
When first I looked on Yarrow;
Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate
Long left without a warder,
I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee,
Great Minstrel of the Border!
Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day,
Their dignity installing
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves
Were on the bough, or falling;
But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed—
The forest to embolden;
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot
Transparence through the golden.
For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on
In foamy agitation;
And slept in many a crystal pool
For quiet contemplation:
No public and no private care
The freeborn mind enthralling,
We made a day of happy hours,
Our happy days recalling.
Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth,
With freaks of graceful folly,—
Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve,
Her Night not melancholy;
Past, present, future, all appeared
In harmony united,
Like guests that meet, and some from far,
By cordial love invited.
And if, as Yarrow, through the woods
And down the meadow ranging,
Did meet us with unaltered face,
Though we were changed and changing;
If, then, some natural shadows spread
Our inward prospect over,
The soul's deep valley was not slow
Its brightness to recover.
Eternal blessings on the Muse,
And her divine employment!
The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons
For hope and calm enjoyment;
Albeit sickness, lingering yet,
Has o'er their pillow brooded;
And Care waylays their steps—a Sprite
Not easily eluded.
For thee, O Scott! compelled to change
Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot
For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes;
And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot
For mild Sorento's breezy waves;
May classic Fancy, linking
With native Fancy her fresh aid,
Preserve thy heart from sinking!
O! while they minister to thee,
Each vying with the other,
May Health return to mellow Age,
With Strength, her venturous brother;
And Tiber, and each brook and rill
Renowned in song and story,
With unimagined beauty shine,
Nor lose one ray of glory!
For Thou, upon a hundred streams,
By tales of love and sorrow,
Of faithful love, undaunted truth,
Hast shed the power of Yarrow;
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen,
Wherever they invite Thee,
At parent Nature's grateful call,
With gladness must requite Thee.
A gracious welcome shall be thine,
Such looks of love and honour
As thy own Yarrow gave to me
When first I gazed upon her;
Beheld what I had feared to see,
Unwilling to surrender
Dreams treasured up from early days,
The holy and the tender.
And what, for this frail world, were all
That mortals do or suffer,
Did no responsive harp, no pen,
Memorial tribute offer?
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self?
Her features, could they win us,
Unhelped by the poetic voice
That hourly speaks within us?
Nor deem that localised Romance
Plays false with our affections;
Unsanctifies our tears—made sport
For fanciful dejections:
Ah, no! the visions of the past
Sustain the heart in feeling
Life as she is—our changeful Life,
With friends and kindred dealing.
Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day
In Yarrow's groves were centred;
Who through the silent portal arch
Of mouldering Newark enter'd;
And clomb the winding stair that once
Too timidly was mounted
By the ‘last Minstrel,’ (not the last!)
Ere he his Tale recounted.
Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream!
Fulfil thy pensive duty,
Well pleased that future Bards should chant
For simple hearts thy beauty;
To dream-light dear while yet unseen,
Dear to the common sunshine,
And dearer still, as now I feel,
To memory's shadowy moonshine!
II. ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES.
A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height:
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might
Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes;
Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue
Than sceptered king or laurelled conqueror knows,
Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true,
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!
III. A PLACE OF BURIAL IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND.
Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep
That curbs a foaming brook, a Grave-yard lies;
The hare's best couching-place for fearless sleep;
Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous eyes,
Enter in dance. Of church, or sabbath ties,
No vestige now remains; yet thither creep
Bereft Ones, and in lowly anguish weep
Their prayers out to the wind and naked skies.
Proud tomb is none; but rudely-sculptured knights,
By humble choice of plain old times, are seen
Level with earth, among the hillocks green:
Union not sad, when sunny daybreak smites
The spangled turf, and neighbouring thickets ring
With jubilate from the choirs of spring!
IV. ON THE SIGHT OF A MANSE IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND.
Say, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills—
Among the happiest-looking homes of men
Scatter'd all Britain over, through deep glen,
On airy upland, and by forest rills,
And o'er wide plains cheered by the lark that trills
His sky-born warblings—does aught meet your ken
More fit to animate the Poet's pen,
Aught that more surely by its aspect fills
Pure minds with sinless envy, than the Abode
Of the good Priest: who, faithful through all hours
To his high charge, and truly serving God,
Has yet a heart and hand for trees and flowers,
Enjoys the walks his predecessors trod,
Nor covets lineal rights in lands and towers.
V. COMPOSED IN ROSLIN CHAPEL, DURING A STORM.
The wind is now thy organist;—a clank
(We know not whence) ministers for a bell
To mark some change of service. As the swell
Of music reached its height, and even when sank
The notes, in prelude, Roslin! to a blank
Of silence, how it thrilled thy sumptuous roof,
Pillars, and arches,—not in vain time-proof,
Though Christian rites be wanting! From what bank
Came those live herbs? by what hand were they sown
Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem unknown?
Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche
Share with their sculptured fellows, that, green-grown,
Copy their beauty more and more, and preach,
Though mute, of all things blending into one.
VI. THE TROSACHS.
There's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
But were an apt confessional for One
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October's workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!
VII.
[The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute]
The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute;
The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy
Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy;
The target mouldering like ungathered fruit;
The smoking steam-boat eager in pursuit,
As eagerly pursued; the umbrella spread
To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's head—
All speak of manners withering to the root,
And of old honours, too, and passions high:
Then may we ask, though pleased that thought should range
Among the conquests of civility,
Survives imagination—to the change
Superior? Help to virtue does she give?
If not, O Mortals, better cease to live!
VIII. COMPOSED IN THE GLEN OF LOCH ETIVE.
“This Land of Rainbows spanning glens whose walls,
Rock-built, are hung with rainbow-coloured mists—
Of far-stretched Meres whose salt flood never rests—
Of tuneful Caves and playful Waterfalls—
Of Mountains varying momently their crests—
Proud be this Land! whose poorest huts are halls
Where Fancy entertains becoming guests;
While native song the heroic Past recals.”
Thus, in the net of her own wishes caught,
The Muse exclaimed; but Story now must hide
Her trophies, Fancy crouch; the course of pride
Has been diverted, other lessons taught,
That make the Patriot-spirit bow her head
Where the all-conquering Roman feared to tread.
IX. EAGLES.
[_]
Composed at Dunollie Castle in the Bay of Oban.
X. IN THE SOUND OF MULL.
Tradition, be thou mute! Oblivion, throw
Thy veil in mercy o'er the records, hung
Round strath and mountain, stamped by the ancient tongue
On rock and ruin darkening as we go,—
Spots where a word, ghost-like, survives to show
What crimes from hate, or desperate love, have sprung;
From honour misconceived, or fancied wrong,
What feuds, not quenched but fed by mutual woe.
Yet, though a wild vindictive Race, untamed
By civil arts and labours of the pen,
Could gentleness be scorned by those fierce Men,
Who, to spread wide the reverence they claimed
For patriarchal occupations, named
Yon towering Peaks, ‘Shepherds of Etive Glen
?’
XI. SUGGESTED AT TYNDRUM IN A STORM.
Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook,
And all that Greece and Italy have sung
Of Swains reposing myrtle groves among!
Ours couch on naked rocks,—will cross a brook
Swoln with chill rains, nor ever cast a look
This way or that, or give it even a thought
More than by smoothest pathway may be brought
Into a vacant mind. Can written book
Teach what they learn? Up, hardy Mountaineer!
And guide the Bard, ambitious to be One
Of Nature's privy council, as thou art,
On cloud-sequestered heights, that see and hear
To what dread Powers He delegates his part
On earth, who works in the heaven of heavens, alone.
XII. THE EARL OF BREADALBANE'S RUINED MANSION, AND FAMILY BURIAL-PLACE, NEAR KILLIN.
Well sang the Bard who called the grave, in strains
Thoughtful and sad, the ‘narrow house.’ No style
Of fond sepulchral flattery can beguile
Grief of her sting; nor cheat, where he detains
The sleeping dust, stern Death. How reconcile
With truth, or with each other, decked remains
Of a once warm Abode, and that new Pile,
For the departed, built with curious pains
And mausolean pomp? Yet here they stand
Together,—'mid trim walks and artful bowers,
To be looked down upon by ancient hills,
That, for the living and the dead, demand
And prompt a harmony of genuine powers;
Concord that elevates the mind, and stills.
XIII. ‘REST AND BE THANKFUL!’
At the Head of Glencroe.
Doubling and doubling with laborious walk,
Who, that has gained at length the wished-for Height,
This brief this simple way-side Call can slight,
And rests not thankful? Whether cheered by talk
With some loved friend, or by the unseen hawk
Whistling to clouds and sky-born streams, that shine
At the sun's outbreak, as with light divine,
Ere they descend to nourish root and stalk
Of valley flowers. Nor, while the limbs repose,
Will we forget that, as the fowl can keep
Absolute stillness, poised aloft in air,
And fishes front, unmoved, the torrent's sweep,—
So may the Soul, through powers that Faith bestows,
Win rest, and ease, and peace, with bliss that Angels share.
XIV. HIGHLAND HUT.
See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot,
Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may,
Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray
Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot.
The limpid mountain rill avoids it not;
And why shouldst thou?—If rightly trained and bred,
Humanity is humble, finds no spot
Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread.
The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof,
Undressed the pathway leading to the door;
But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor;
Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof,
Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials fewer,
Belike less happy.—Stand no more aloof!
This sonnet describes the exterior of a Highland hut, as often
seen under morning or evening sunshine. To the authoress of
the “Address to the Wind,” and other poems, in these volumes,
who was my fellow-traveller in this tour, I am indebted for the
following extract from her journal, which accurately describes,
under particular circumstances, the beautiful appearance of the
interior of one of these rude habitations.
‘On our return from the Trosachs the evening began to
darken, and it rained so heavily that we were completely wet
before we had come two miles, and it was dark when we landed
with our boatman, at his hut upon the banks of Loch Katrine.
I was faint from cold: the good woman had provided, according
to her promise, a better fire than we had found in the morning;
and, indeed, when I sat down in the chimney-corner of her smoky
biggin, I thought I had never felt more comfortable in my life:
a pan of coffee was boiling for us, and, having put our clothes in
the way of drying, we all sat down thankful for a shelter. We
could not prevail upon our boatman, the master of the house, to
draw near the fire, though he was cold and wet, or to suffer his
wife to get him dry clothes till she had served us, which she did
most willingly, though not very expeditiously.
‘A Cumberland man of the same rank would not have had
such a notion of what was fit and right in his own house, or,
if he had, one would have accused him of servility; but in the
Highlander it only seemed like politeness (however erroneous
and painful to us), naturally growing out of the dependence of
the inferiors of the clan upon their laird; he did not, however,
refuse to let his wife bring out the whisky bottle for his refreshment
at our request. “She keeps a dram,” as the phrase
is: indeed, I believe there is scarcely a lonely house by the
wayside, in Scotland, where travellers may not be accommodated
with a dram. We asked for sugar, butter, barley-bread, and
milk; and, with a smile and a stare more of kindness than
wonder, she replied, “Ye'll get that,” bringing each article separately.
We caroused our cups of coffee, laughing like children
at the strange atmosphere in which we were: the smoke came
in gusts, and spread along the walls; and above our heads in
the chimney (where the hens were roosting) it appeared like
clouds in the sky. We laughed and laughed again, in spite
of the smarting of our eyes, yet had a quieter pleasure in observing
the beauty of the beams and rafters gleaming between
the clouds of smoke: they had been crusted over, and varnished
by many winters, till, where the firelight fell upon them, they
had become as glossy as black rocks, on a sunny day, cased
in ice. When we had eaten our supper we sat about half an
hour, and I think I never felt so deeply the blessing of a hospitable
welcome and a warm fire. The man of the house repeated
from time to time that we should often tell of this night
when we got to our homes, and interposed praises of his own
lake, which he had more than once, when we were returning in the
boat, ventured to say was “bonnier than Loch Lomond.” Our
companion from the Trosachs, who, it appeared, was an Edinburgh
drawing-master going, during the vacation, on a pedestrian
tour to John o'Groat's house, was to sleep in the barn with my
fellow-travellers, where the man said he had plenty of dry hay.
I do not believe that the hay of the Highlands is ever very
dry, but this year it had a better chance than usual: wet or
dry, however, the next morning they said they had slept comfortably.
When I went to bed, the mistress, desiring me to
“go ben,” attended me with a candle, and assured me that the
bed was dry, though not “sic as I had been used to.” It was of
chaff: there were two others in the room, a cupboard and two
chests, upon one of which stood milk in wooden vessels, covered
over. The walls of the house were of stone unplastered: it consisted
of three apartments, the cowhouse at one end, the kitchen
or house in the middle, and the spence at the other end; the
rooms were divided, not up to the rigging, but only to the
beginning of the roof, so that there was a free passage for light
and smoke from one end of the house to the other. I went
to bed some time before the rest of the family; the door was
shut between us, and they had a bright fire, which I could not
see, but the light it sent up amongst the varnished rafters and
beams, which crossed each other in almost as intricate and fantastic
a manner as I have seen the under-boughs of a large
beech tree withered by the depth of shade above, produced the
most beautiful effect that can be conceived. It was like what
I should suppose an underground cave or temple to be, with a
dripping or moist roof, and the moonlight entering in upon it
by some means or other; and yet the colours were more like
those of melted gems. I lay looking up till the light of the
fire faded away, and the man and his wife and child had crept
into their bed at the other end of the room: I did not sleep much,
but passed a comfortable night; for my bed, though hard, was
warm and clean: the unusualness of my situation prevented
me from sleeping. I could hear the waves beat against the
shore of the lake; a little rill close to the door made a much
louder noise, and, when I sat up in my bed, I could see the
lake through an open window-place at the bed's head. Add to
this, it rained all night. I was less occupied by remembrance
of the Trosachs, beautiful as they were, than the vision of the
Highland hut, which I could not get out of my head; I thought
of the Faery-land of Spenser, and what I had read in romance
at other times; and then what a feast it would be for a London
Pantomime-maker could he but transplant it to Drury-lane, with
all its beautiful colours!’
—MS.
XV. THE HIGHLAND BROACH.
[_]
The exact resemblance which the old Broach (still in use, though rarely
met with, among the Highlanders) bears to the Roman Fibula must strike
every one, and concurs, with the plaid and kilt, to recal to mind the communication
which the ancient Romans had with this remote country.
If to Tradition faith be due,
And echoes from old verse speak true,
Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore
Glad tidings to Iona's shore,
No common light of nature blessed
The mountain region of the west,
A land where gentle manners ruled
O'er men in dauntless virtues schooled
That raised, for centuries, a bar
Impervious to the tide of war:
Yet peaceful Arts did entrance gain
Where haughty Force had striven in vain;
And, 'mid the works of skilful hands,
By wanderers brought from foreign lands
And various climes, was not unknown
The clasp that fixed the Roman Gown;
The Fibula, whose shape, I ween,
Still in the Highland Broach is seen,
The silver Broach of massy frame,
Worn at the breast of some grave Dame
On road or path, or at the door
Of fern-thatched hut on heathy moor:
But delicate of yore its mould,
And the material finest gold;
As might beseem the fairest Fair,
Whether she graced a royal chair,
Or shed, within a vaulted hall,
No fancied lustre on the wall
Where shields of mighty heroes hung,
While Fingal heard what Ossian sung.
The heroic Age expired—it slept
Deep in its tomb:—the bramble crept
O'er Fingal's hearth; the grassy sod
Grew on the floors his sons had trod:
Malvina! where art thou? Their state
The noblest-born must abdicate;
The fairest, while with fire and sword
Come Spoilers—horde impelling horde,
Must walk the sorrowing mountains, drest
By ruder hands in homelier vest.
Yet still the female bosom lent,
And loved to borrow, ornament;
Still was its inner world a place
Reached by the dews of heavenly grace;
Still pity to this last retreat
Clove fondly; to his favourite seat
Love wound his way by soft approach,
Beneath a massier Highland Broach.
When alternations came of rage
Yet fiercer, in a darker age;
And feuds, where, clan encountering clan,
The weaker perished to a man;
For maid and mother, when despair
Might else have triumphed, baffling prayer,
One small possession lacked not power,
Provided in a calmer hour,
To meet such need as might befal—
Roof, raiment, bread, or burial:
For woman, even of tears bereft,
The hidden silver Broach was left.
As generations come and go,
Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow;
Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away,
And feeble, of themselves, decay;
What poor abodes the heir-loom hide,
In which the castle once took pride!
Tokens, once kept as boasted wealth,
If saved at all, are saved by stealth.
Lo! ships, from seas by nature barred,
Mount along ways by man prepared;
And in far-stretching vales, whose streams
Seek other seas, their canvass gleams.
Lo! busy towns spring up, on coasts
Thronged yesterday by airy ghosts;
Soon, like a lingering star forlorn
Among the novelties of morn,
While young delights on old encroach,
Will vanish the last Highland Broach.
But when, from out their viewless bed,
Like vapours, years have rolled and spread;
And this poor verse, and worthier lays,
Shall yield no light of love or praise;
Then, by the spade, or cleaving plough,
Or torrent from the mountain's brow,
Or whirlwind, reckless what his might
Entombs, or forces into light;
Blind Chance, a volunteer ally,
That oft befriends Antiquity,
And clears Oblivion from reproach,
May render back the Highland Broach
.
XVI. THE BROWNIE.
[_]
[Upon a small island not far from the head of Loch Lomond, are some
remains of an ancient building, which was for several years the abode of a
solitary Individual, one of the last survivors of the clan of Macfarlane,
once powerful in that neighbourhood. Passing along the shore opposite
this island in the year 1814, the Author learned these particulars, and that
this person then living there had acquired the appellation of ‘The
Brownie.’ See “The Brownie's Cell,” p. 40, to which the following is a
sequel.]
XVII. TO THE PLANET VENUS, AN EVENING STAR.
[_]
Composed at Loch Lomond.
XVIII. BOTHWELL CASTLE.
(Passed unseen, on account of stormy weather.)
Immured in Bothwell's towers, at times the Brave
(So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn
The liberty they lost at Bannockburn.
Once on those steeps I roamed at large,
The following is from the same MS., and gives an account of
the visit to Bothwell Castle here alluded to:—
‘It was exceedingly delightful to enter thus unexpectedly upon
such a beautiful region. The castle stands nobly, overlooking
the Clyde. When we came up to it, I was hurt to see that
flower-borders had taken place of the natural overgrowings of
the ruin, the scattered stones, and wild plants. It is a large and
grand pile of red freestone, harmonising perfectly with the rocks
of the river, from which, no doubt, it has been hewn. When I
was a little accustomed to the unnaturalness of a modern garden,
I could not help admiring the excessive beauty and luxuriance
of some of the plants, particularly the purple-flowered clematis,
and a broad-leafed creeping plant without flowers, which scrambled
up the castle wall, along with the ivy, and spread its vine-like
branches so lavishly that it seemed to be in its natural situation,
and one could not help thinking that, though not self-planted
among the ruins of this country, it must somewhere have its native
abode in such places. If Bothwell Castle had not been close to
the Douglas mansion, we should have been disgusted with the
possessor's miserable conception of adorning such a venerable
ruin; but it is so very near to the house, that of necessity the
pleasure-grounds must have extended beyond it, and perhaps the
neatness of a shaven lawn and the complete desolation natural
to a ruin might have made an unpleasing contrast; and,
besides being within the precincts of the pleasure-grounds,
and so very near to the dwelling of a noble family, it has
forfeited, in some degree, its independent majesty, and becomes
a tributary to the mansion: its solitude being interrupted,
it has no longer the command over the mind in sending
it back into past times, or excluding the ordinary feelings which
we bear about us in daily life. We had then only to regret
that the castle and the house were so near to each other; and it
was impossible not to regret it; for the ruin presides in state
over the river, far from city or town, as if it might have a
peculiar privilege to preserve its memorials of past ages, and
maintain its own character for centuries to come. We sat upon
a bench under the high trees, and had beautiful views of the
different reaches of the river, above and below. On the opposite
bank, which is finely wooded with elm and other trees, are the
remains of a priory built upon a rock; and rock and ruin are so
blended, that it is impossible to separate the one from the other.
Nothing can be more beautiful than the little remnant of this
holy place; elm trees (for we were near enough to distinguish
them by their branches) grow out of the walls, and overshadow
a small, but very elegant window. It can scarcely be conceived
what a grace the castle and priory impart to each other; and
the river Clyde flows on, smooth and unruffled below, seeming
to my thoughts more in harmony with the sober and stately
images of former times, than if it had roared over a rocky
channel, forcing its sound upon the ear. It blended gently with
the warbling of the smaller birds, and the chattering of the
larger ones, that had made their nests in the ruins. In this
fortress the chief of the English nobility were confined after the
battle of Bannockburn. If a man is to be a prisoner, he scarcely
could have a more pleasant place to solace his captivity; but I
thought that, for close confinement, I should prefer the banks of
a lake, or the seaside. The greatest charm of a brook or river
is in the liberty to pursue it through its windings: you can then
take it in whatever mood you like; silent or noisy, sportive or
quiet. The beauties of a brook or river must be sought, and the
pleasure is in going in search of them; those of a lake or of the
sea come to you of themselves. These rude warriors cared
little, perhaps, about either; and yet, if one may judge from the
writings of Chaucer, and from the old romances, more interesting
passions were connected with natural objects in the days of
chivalry than now; though going in search of scenery, as it is
called, had not then been thought of. I had previously heard nothing
of Bothwell Castle, at least nothing that I remembered;
therefore, perhaps, my pleasure was greater, compared with what
I received elsewhere, than others might feel.’
—MS. Journal.
and have
In mind the landscape, as if still in sight;
The river glides, the woods before me wave;
Then why repine that now in vain I crave
Needless renewal of an old delight?
Better to thank a dear and long-past day
For joy its sunny hours were free to give
Than blame the present, that our wish hath crost.
Memory, like sleep, hath powers which dreams obey,
Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive:
How little that she cherishes is lost!
XIX. PICTURE OF DANIEL IN THE LION'S DEN, AT HAMILTON PALACE.
Amid a fertile region green with wood
And fresh with rivers, well did it become
The ducal Owner, in his palace-home
To naturalise this tawny Lion brood;
Children of Art, that claim strange brotherhood
(Couched in their den) with those that roam at large
Over the burning wilderness, and charge
The wind with terror while they roar for food.
Satiate are these; and stilled to eye and ear;
Hence, while we gaze, a more enduring fear!
Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave
Daunt him—if his Companions, now be-drowsed
Outstretched and listless, were by hunger roused:
Man placed him here, and God, he knows, can save.
XX. THE AVON.
[_]
(A feeder of the Annan.)
XXI. SUGGESTED BY A VIEW FROM AN EMINENCE IN INGLEWOOD FOREST.
The forest huge of ancient Caledon
Is but a name, no more is Inglewood,
That swept from hill to hill, from flood to flood:
On her last thorn the nightly moon has shone;
Yet still, though unappropriate Wild be none,
Fair parks spread wide where Adam Bell might deign
With Clym o' the Clough, were they alive again,
To kill for merry feast their venison.
Nor wants the holy Abbot's gliding Shade
His church with monumental wreck bestrown;
The feudal Warrior-chief, a Ghost unlaid,
Hath still his castle, though a skeleton,
That he may watch by night, and lessons con
Of power that perishes, and rights that fade.
XXII. HART'S-HORN TREE, NEAR PENRITH.
Here stood an Oak, that long had borne affixed
To his huge trunk, or, with more subtle art,
Among its withering topmost branches mixed,
The palmy antlers of a hunted Hart,
Whom the Dog Hercules pursued—his part
Each desperately sustaining, till at last
Both sank and died, the life-veins of the chased
And chaser bursting here with one dire smart.
Mutual the victory, mutual the defeat!
High was the trophy hung with pitiless pride;
Say, rather, with that generous sympathy
That wants not, even in rudest breasts, a seat;
And, for this feeling's sake, let no one chide
Verse that would guard thy memory, Hart's-horn Tree
‘In the time of the first Robert de Clifford, in the year 1333 or
1334, Edward Baliol king of Scotland came into Westmoreland,
and stayed some time with the said Robert at his castles of
Appleby, Brougham, and Pendragon. And during that time
they ran a stag by a single greyhound out of Whinfell Park to
Redkirk, in Scotland, and back again to this place; where, being
both spent, the stag leaped over the pales, but died on the other
side; and the greyhound, attempting to leap, fell, and died on
the contrary side. In memory of this fact the stag's horns
were nailed upon a tree just by, and (the dog being named
Hercules) this rhythm was made upon them:
‘Hercules kill'd Hart a greese,
And Hart a greese kill'd Hercules.’
The tree to this day bears the name of Hart's-horn Tree. The
horns in process of time were almost grown over by the growth of the tree, and another pair was put up in their place.’
—Nicholson and Burns's History of Westmoreland and Cumberland.
The tree has now disappeared, but I well remember its imposing
appearance as it stood, in a decayed state, by the side of the
high road leading from Penrith to Appleby. This whole neighbourhood
abounds in interesting traditions and vestiges of
antiquity, viz., Julian's Bower; Brougham and Penrith Castles;
Penrith Beacon, and the curious remains in Penrith Churchyard;
Arthur's Round Table, and, close by, Maybrough; the
excavation, called the Giant's Cave, on the banks of the Emont;
Long Meg and her Daughters, near Eden, &c. &c.
!
XXIII. FANCY AND TRADITION.
The Lovers took within this ancient grove
Their last embrace; beside those crystal springs
The Hermit saw the Angel spread his wings
For instant flight; the Sage in yon alcove
Sate musing; on that hill the Bard would rove,
Not mute, where now the linnet only sings:
Thus every where to truth Tradition clings,
Or Fancy localises Powers we love.
Were only History licensed to take note
Of things gone by, her meagre monuments
Would ill suffice for persons and events:
There is an ampler page for man to quote,
A readier book of manifold contents,
Studied alike in palace and in cot.
XXIV. COUNTESS' PILLAR.
[_]
[On the roadside between Penrith and Appleby, there stands a pillar with
the following inscription:—
‘This pillar was erected, in the year 1656, by Anne Countess Dowager
of Pembroke, &c. for a memorial of her last parting with her pious mother,
Margaret Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d of April, 1616; in
memory whereof she hath left an annuity of 4l. to be distributed to the
poor of the parish of Brougham, every 2d day of April for ever, upon the
stone table placed hard by. Laus Deo!’]
XXV. ROMAN ANTIQUITIES.
[_]
(From the Roman Station at Old Penrith.)
XXVI. APOLOGY, For the Foregoing Poems.
No more: the end is sudden and abrupt,
Abrupt—as without preconceived design
Was the beginning; yet the several Lays
Have moved in order, to each other bound
By a continuous and acknowledged tie
Though unapparent—like those Shapes distinct
That yet survive ensculptured on the walls
Of palaces, or temples, 'mid the wreck
Of famed Persepolis; each following each,
As might beseem a stately embassy,
In set array; these bearing in their hands
Ensign of civil power, weapon of war,
Or gift to be presented at the throne
Of the Great King; and others, as they go
In priestly vest, with holy offerings charged,
Or leading victims drest for sacrifice.
Nor will the Power we serve, that sacred Power,
The Spirit of humanity, disdain
A ministration humble but sincere,
That from a threshold loved by every Muse
Its impulse took—that sorrow-stricken door,
Whence, as a current from its fountain-head,
Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings flowed,
Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength
From kindred sources; while around us sighed
(Life's three first seasons having passed away)
Leaf-scattering winds; and hoar-frost sprinklings fell
(Foretaste of winter) on the moorland heights;
And every day brought with it tidings new
Of rash change, ominous for the public weal.
Hence, if dejection has too oft encroached
Upon that sweet and tender melancholy
Which may itself be cherished and caressed
More than enough; a fault so natural
(Even with the young, the hopeful, or the gay)
For prompt forgiveness will not sue in vain.
