Miscellaneous Poems.
A Winter Ramble.
We had left the town behind us for a roaming holiday, Beneath an arc of gloom, all dark and indistinct it lay, And the fog was wreathed about it like a robe of iron-gray.
But a carpeting of leaflets, and a canopy of blue, And the mystery of ether as the warming sunshine grew, Sent a mellow thrill of happiness our eager spirits through.
And over lanes, where Winter bluff had shook his hoary beard, Where in the naked hedgerows the broodless nests appear’d, And the brown leaves of the beech-tree were with silver gloss veneer’d.
We wandered and we pondered till half the morn was spent, And the red orb through the tangled boughs his cunning vigour sent, And the valley mists all melted at his glance omnipotent.
Dim on a sloping hill-side, clothed in a misty pall, Stands a turret grey and hoary, where the ancient ivies crawl, Their Arab arms round casement, sill, and door, and mould’ring wall.
And there we halted half-an-hour within a roofless hall, ’Neath a bower of wildest ivy hanging downwards from the wall, Bearing in its grand luxuriance a flower funereal.
There we talked of the gay plumes erst bent to pass the lintel old, The maidens that were moved to smile at gallant wooers bold, The jovial nights of brave carouse, the wine-cups manifold.
And all the faded glories of the mediæval time, When the age was in its manhood, and the land was in its prime, And manly deeds were chanted in a bold heroic rhyme.
Then, plucking each a sprig, bedecked with simple yellow flower, We scrambled sadly downwards from our old enchanted bower, And the glory of the sunshine fell upon us like a shower.
Once more beneath the concave of a clear effulgent sky, Where flocks of cawing rooks to the mansion wavered by— A mansion standing coldly ’mid a windy rookery.
And over breezy mountains, where the poacher, with his gun, Stood lonely as a boulder-stone ’tween earth and shining sun, We wandered and we pondered till the winter day was done.
The Home-Comer.
My Brown Little Brother of Three.
“Happy child! Thou art so exquisitely wild, I think of thee with many tears, For what may be thy lot in future years.” Wordsworth.
The “Auld Aisle”—a Burying-Ground.
The wreck of centuries is buried here; The very monuments are hoar with age; The empty tower that sentinels them all Wails when the gusts wild wander o’er the earth, And creaks the rusty gate with careless Time. Methinks I see the silent funeral Wend slowly up this hill with soulless load. Backward swings sullen the disusëd gate, And quiet, with measured steps, they enter here, And cross the moundy sward, amongst the stones, To where the red clay gapes. How mournfully Are the last rites paid to a fleshly frame! Behold the old man with the sunken eyes And broken heart. This was his eldest-born. A black-eyed boy he was, and in his youth He was his joy and hope. And oft he gazed Into his laughing face, and dreamed of times When in his youthful strength he would him shield, And help him to the stone before the door In summer time, when streamlets murmured clear. So he grew up, but scorned the homely ways Of the grey place of his nativity. He saw the sun rise from behind the hills, His well-thumbed book firm clasped in his young hand. He saw it sink within the breezy glen, And all the birds shrink from its burning face To shade in nests, his book firm clasped in hand. But most he pondered over nature’s book— The bubbled rill and the green-bladed corn, The lowly wild-flowers and the leafy trees Alive with music. His father wondered strange, And prouder grew of his bold quiet son, Who spoke without restraint or lowly eye Unto God’s minister. And he would tell At other fire-sides of his wondrous ways, The oft-trimmed lamp when others were indrawn; Nor did he check the working of the mind And wearing of the flesh. He knew no harm. So time grew older still, and he went off, With paler face and heavier looks, to where The sons of learning prosecute their toils.
But here he pined like a transplanted flower Borne from its native soil. No grass was here, Where he might lie, and watch the mighty clouds All floating in the blue. No lark was here, In love with angels, but the place was lone And dark and cold. No milkmaid’s song was here, Hushed when he passed upon the mountain side, And anxious eye that gazed till he was gone. And ’mid the throng of battling human kind, No simple eye nor horny hand sought his, Or voice, with homely accents, spoke relief. All was unknown, unheeded, but his books, Which were his very self, his only friend.
And rich he was in lore, and strong in hope, But heaven was panting for an inmate more: In heaven his place was vacant; as at home. And time grew older still, and he came home To see his father, but he ne’er went back. His body could not hold his restless soul, That longed, with eagle strength, to pierce the clouds, And so it burst this yielding bond on earth, Already, by a lengthened struggle, weak. His father saw him die. He never left His bedside; but with eyes that seemed as glazed, For ever staring at the sharpened face, He stood and stood and wept not. In that time His son saw heaven and chided all delay. His father knew not of the words of blame That blest his dying breath. He seized the clay, And clutched it desperately unto his breast. The arms fell down, nor gave returning press. And that crush broke the doting father’s heart. This is the grave beside that white gravestone: Hold back the nettles while I read its lay:—
Beneath me lies the rotting faded mask Of a young mind that studied heaven well; Ne’er in the sun of pleasure did he bask, But loved hope’s shadow and fair virtue’s dell. He died while on the road to yonder sky, And every one that wanders careless here, Tread soft, and hark! Is not time hurrying by? Begone and pray; the Day of Judgment’s near!
I have seen children playing in this place, Have heard the voice of psalms sound plaintive here, And sighs commingle with these strains of love, For memory is dewy with salt tears.
Yet some lie here unknown to all. They came Parentless, and they died and buried were By careless hands, that threw the wormy clods All hastily upon the coffin lid And then went home. Perhaps some empty chair, Like to a last year’s nest, still waits for them. Perhaps a nightly prayer still ascends Among the breathings of a family home, To hasten their return. Let us away And gather stones and place them at their heads.
Could all the tales that wait around the graves, Like volumes of wet sighs, be garnered up: How hollow would each swelling heap resound.
Here one who died in mirth, and while the laugh, The merry laugh of joy did paint his face, Death frowned, and smote the smiling victim dead.
Here one who wept to see the flushing sun Glide reddening from his window bars, and set To rise again, and dry the silent dew From his damp grave.
Here one who lingered long, And every morn the fields missed knots of flowers Borne to his bedside. And his eyes grew wild When the sun’s withering gaze stared in upon them, And he would press them to his fluttering heart, And face the mighty orb, defiant-like, As if to hurl it from the empty sky, For daring thus to blight his darling flowers. Poor fellow, he was mad.
May God forbid That clownish foot should crush the gentle clay, Or break the daisy stalks or primrose buds, That bloom beside the low white marble stone In yon lone spot.
To Jeanette.
“I did hear you talk Far above singing; after you were gone, I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched What stirred it so! Alas! I found it love.”
I write thy name, and kiss it, dear Jeanette, in most impulsive fear! I whisper it into my heart, And then its music makes me start In sudden gladness. I am fain To let the echo die again! Thy image groweth out of air Until, entranced, I pause and stare Into thy dear ideal eyes— The shadow of God’s paradise.
I am in love with thee, thou dear Jeanette, and keep my spirit clear For thy embrace. It cannot be That thou wilt keep aloof from me Like that immortal Florentine Whom Tasso lov’d. O I would pine Into a pale accusing dream To haunt thy pillow, and would seem So fond and sad, thy heart would fret For its unkindness, good Jeanette!
O many a long glad summer day I laughed at love, and deemed his sway The tinkle of an idle tongue, A fancy only to be sung. But thou all-beautiful! hast more Of this, the thrilling passion—love— In one soft tress of plaited gold, Than blessed Petrarch could unfold. I love thee, dear Jeanette! I love Thee, O how dearly! Far above All singing is my love for thee, Thou paradise of ecstasy! Make me immortal with a kiss Of earnest pressure, and all bliss Is mine for ever, ever! Dear Jeanette, beloved, adored in fear!
The Poet and his Friend.
And, sitting by the still translucent water, In pleasaunce sweet we quaffed the liquid cold; Lo! as we drank, there passed a fairer daughter Of Beauty than Fidessa. Then the old— Yet never old, immortal song of glory, Breathing of summer bower and emerald lea, And fountain bubbling coldly—Spenser’s story Thrilled all our brains to living ecstasy: Such power had maiden floating onward maidenly.
And pondered we, above that placid wave, How we were thrown upon a colder day; Yet, by the sword of Arthur! quite as brave, As wondrous willing for the haughty fray As Arthegal and Guyon. So we rose And joined our hands in fervent heat, and swore By old Renown’s endeavours, and by those Who battled well and won, to dream no more, But through a sea of fears to struggle for the shore.
I think no good of him who takes his ease, As pigeon-livered in the human game As Braggadocio: on the tranquil seas All ships sail nobly; but whoe’er is tame To face the waves when fringed with windy spray, Is but a coward. Let him live, then rot! No man shall speak of him, no pilgrim lay A twist of wild-flowers on the common spot That marks his meagre dust—the poltroon is forgot.
But, good friend! we shall fight. Even he who fails In a great cause is noble. Time will show The best and worst of it; and while it hails Some worthy Song-kings of the long-ago, Perhaps our names will echo with the rest, And in no feebleness. Meantime, oh fight! In the thick hurry of the battle press’d, Clothed on with resolution, the soul’s might— Be Hector or Achilles!—God defend the right!
The Two Streams.
Evening.
The Love-Tryst.
O hasten, hasten down your azure road, And darken all the golden zones of heaven, Bright Sun, for I am weary for my love.
An Epistle to a Friend.
Not all the sweets of Castaly— That river Heliconian, Adorn’d with swans of queenly snow, Of ancient brood Strymonian; Not all the maiden Muses nine, With tresses loosely flowing, Could magnetise a single line, Or set my quill a-going;
Until I thought of thee, dear friend— Best loved, though long unheeded; Then forth the virgin pages came, And quick my fingers speeded. This very hour I’ll make amends, This lonely hour quiescent, When all the stars are in the blue, ’Mid lustre irridescent.
And, from the slopes I know right well, All shagg’d with bending thistle, The homeless wind comes with a swell, And enters with a whistle; Till brightlier glows the cosy fire, And cheerier my bosom, In thinking on the shivering woods, And vales without a blossom.
You know the Luggie, natal stream!— On earth to us none dearer— Where Lady Luna, mirror’d, burns, With all her handmaids near her. The time may come when haughty Fame With laurel shall console us; Then we shall halo it with song Till it outflow Pactolus!
The woods, the vales, the hawthorn dales, The hoary hamlet Caurnie Shall be of goodlier report Than genius-hallowed Ferney. And though I speak like boaster vain, I speak not without thinking; Already on thy noble brow I see a chaplet twinkling!
Heaven knows! amid the march of Time I am a simple dreamer; Can see more in the patient moon— Yon radiant crescent-gleamer— Than all the banner’d pomp of war, Or progress politician; Than all the mockeries of rank, And haughtiness patrician.
No golden key, however bright, Can pass the fragrant portal Of Fame’s grand temple-dome, or make A simpleton immortal. Then what is wealth to our desire? (A burning tear-drop pays us) A rushlight to the morning star, To Homer but a Crœsus.
Then, Willie, though a careless dog, In brotherhood excuse me, Nor with neglect, and haughty look, Most wantonly abuse me. I’ve suffer’d much and suffer’d long, Dear heart! since last we ponder’d On gentle love, within that hall Where ancient ivies wander’d.
Nor think my love one jot the less— Than love I sought in passion— Because I thus have treated thee In unpoetic fashion. Let this suffice for evermore: I plead a self-conviction, And thy frank spirit never shall Increase my sad affliction.
Then sure I’ll see thee yet again, Before another morrow Steals up the east—shall see thee, friend! In a delightful sorrow. With silent gratitude, I speak A blessing on our meeting, And may the light of friendship touch Our spirits at the greeting!
A Vision of Venice.
From the calm Transparent waters float some thrilling sounds Of Amphionic music, and the words Are Tasso’s, where he passions for his love, That lady Florentine so lily-smooth, Clothed on with haughtiness!
At the black stair Of palace rising shadowy from the wave, Two singing gondolieri wait a freight Of loveliness. A tremulous woman, robed In dazzling satin, and whose dimpled arms, And milky heaving breasts of living snow Shine through their veil diaphanous, floats down From the wide portal; and the ivory prow Of the soft-cushion’d gondola (as she Steps lightly from the marble to her place) Dips, rises, dips again; then through the blue Swift glides into the sunset.
Oh, the glow Of that rich sunset dims whate’er I see In this my own dear valley! O’er the hills— Those craggy Euganean hills, whose peaks Wedge the clear crystalline—a blazonry Of clouds pavilion’d, folded, interwound Inextricably, load the breezeless west With awe and glory. The effulgence gleams Upon a vision’d Belmont, home of her Who loved as Shakespeare’s women do; and gleams Upon those walls wherein Othello’s spear Stabb’d clinging innocence; where that poor wife, The love-Cassandra Belvidera, gave Her soul in martyrdom to love and woe.
And shall I never that far town behold, Crested with sparkling columns, fiery towers, Praxitelean masonry?—behold Venice, the mart of nations, ere I die? By Heaven! her common merchants princes were Unto the continents; her traffickers The honourable of the earth! She stood A crownèd city, and the fawning sea Licked her white feet; and the eternal sun Kissed with departing beam her brow of snow!
Woe to this Venice, with her crown of pride! The Lady of the kingdoms, the perfection Of beauty, and the joy of the whole earth! Through her pavilions shall the crannying winds Whistle, and all her borders in the sea Crumble their Parian wonder. Woe to her, Whose glorious beauty is a fading flower! Her sober-suited nightingales, with notes Of smooth liquidity and softened stops, Solace the brakes; and ’mid her ancient streets Tawny, the gleaming and harmonious sea Makes silvery melody of bygone days. O white Enchantment! Ocean-spouse of old! When thy high battlements and bulging domes, By sunset purpled, trembled in the wave! Now o’er thy towers the Lord hath spread his hand, And as a cottage shalt thou be removed; Like Nineveh, or cloudy Babylon!
The Anemone.
Beneath a clump of furze it grew; And never mortal eye did view Its rathe and slender beauty, till I saw it in no mocking mood; For with its sweetness did it fill To me the ample solitude. A fond remembrance made me see Strange light in the anemone.
One April day when I was seven, Beneath the clear and deepening heaven, My father, God preserve him! went With me a Scottish mile and more; And in a playful merriment He deck’d my bonnet o’er and o’er— To fling a sunshine on his ease— With tenderest anemones.
Now, gentle reader, as I live, This snowy little bloom did give My being most endearing throes. I saw my father in his prime; But youth it comes, and youth it goes, And he has spent his blithest time: Yet dearer grown thro’ all to me, And dearer the anemone.
So with the spirit of a sage I pluck’d it from its hermitage, And placed it ’tween the sacred leaves Of Agnes’ Eve at that rare part Where she her fragrant robe unweaves, And with a gently beating heart, In troubled bliss and balmy woe, Lies down to dream of Porphyro.
Let others sing of that and this, In war and science find their bliss; Vainly they seek and will not find The subtle lore that nature brings Unto the reverential mind, The pathos worn by common things, By every flower that lights the lea, And by the pale anemone.
The Yellowhammer.
When delicate April in each dell Was silently completing Her ministry in bud and bell, To grace the summer’s meeting; My birchen tree of glossy rind Determined not to be behind; So with a subtle power The buds began to flower.
And I could watch from out my house The twigs with leaflets thicken; From glossy rind to twining boughs The milky sap ’gan quicken. And when the fragrant form was green No fairer tree was to be seen, All Gartshore woods adorning, Where doves are always mourning.
But never dove with liquid wing, Or neck of changeful gleaming, Came near my garden tree to sing Or croodle out its meaning. But this sweet day, an hour ago, A yellowhammer clear and low, In love and tender pity Thrilled out his dainty ditty.
And I was pleased, as you may think, And blessed the little singer: ‘O fly for your mate to Luggie brink, Dear little bird! and bring her; And build your nest among the boughs, A sweet and cosy little house Where ye may well content ye, Since true love is so plenty.
And when she sits upon her nest, Here are cool shades to shroud her.’ At this the singer sang his best, O louder yet, and louder; Until I shouted in my glee, His song had so enchanted me. No nightingale could pant on In joy so wise and wanton.
But at my careless noise he flew, And if he chance to bring her A happy bride the summer thro’ ’Mong birchen boughs to linger, I’ll sing to you in numbers high A summer song that shall not die, But keep in memory clearly The bird I love so dearly.
The Cuckoo.
O why within that lusty wood Did I the fairy sight behold? O why within that solitude Was I thus blindly overbold? My heart, forgive me! for indeed I cannot speak my thrilling pain: The wonder vanished from the earth, The passion from my brain.
Fame.
A Fragment.
Honeysuckle.
Where the Lilies used to Spring.
When the sun is high in the summer sky, And the lake is deep with clouds; When gadflies bite the prancing kine, And light the lark enshrouds— Then the butterfly, like a feather dropped From the tip of an angel’s wing, Floats wavering on to the glancing spot Where the lilies used to spring!
When the wheat is shorn and the burns run brown, And the moon shines clear at night; When wains are heaped with rustling corn, And the swallows take their flight; When the trees begin to cast their leaves, And the birds, new-feathered, sing— Then comes the bee to the glancing spot Where the lilies used to spring!
When the sky is grey and the trees are bare, And the grass is long and brown, And black moss clothes the soft damp thatch, And the rain comes weary down, And countless droplets on the pond Their widening orbits ring— Then bleak and cold is the silent spot Where the lilies used to spring!
Snow.
O weary passed each winter day, And windily howled each winter night; O miry grew each village way, And mists enfolded every height; And ever on the window pane A froward gust blew down with rain, And day by day in tawny brown The Luggie stream came heaving down:— I could have fallen asleep and dreamed Until again spring sunshine gleamed.
And what! said I, is this the mode That Winter kings it now-a-days? The Robin keeps its own abode, And pipes his independent lays. I’ve seen the day on Merkland hill, That snow has fallen with a will, Even in November! Now, alas; The whole year round we see the grass:— Ah, winter now may come and go Without a single fall of snow.
It was the latest day but one Of winter, as I questioned thus; And sooth! an angry mood was on, As at a thing most scandalous;— When lo! some hailstones on the pane With sudden tinkle rang amain, Till in an ecstasy of joy I clapp’d and shouted like a boy— Oh, rain may come and rain may go, But what can match the falling snow!
It draped the naked sycamore On Foordcroft hill, above the well; The elms of Rosebank o’er and o’er Were silvered richly as it fell. The distant Campsie peaks were lost, And farthest Criftin with his host Of gloomy pine-trees disappeared, Nor even a lonely ridge upreared.— Oh, rain may come and rain may go, But what can match the falling snow!
Afar upon the Solsgirth moor, Each heather sprig of withered brown Is fringed with thread of silver pure As slow the soft flakes waver down; And on Glenconner’s lonely path, And Gartshore’s still and open strath, It falleth, quiet as the birth Of morning o’er the quickening earth.— Oh, rain may come and rain may go, But what can match the falling snow!
And all around our Merkland home Is laid a sheet of virgin lawn; On fairer, softer, ne’er did roam The nimble Oread or Faun. There is a wonder in the air, A living beauty everywhere; As if the whole had ne’er been planned, But touched by Merlin’s famous wand, Suddenly woke beneath his hand To potent bliss in fairy show— A mighty ravishment of snow!
October.
O for a quill pluck’d from the soaring wing Of an archangel, dipped in holy dew, To catch thy latest looks, thou loveliest October, o’er the many-coloured woods! October! vastlier disconsolate Than Saturn guiding melancholy spheres, Through ante-mundane silence and ripe death. Ere the last stack is housed, and woods are bare, And the vermilion fruitage of the brier Is soaked in mist, or shrivelled up with frost; Ere warm Spring nests are coldly to be seen Tenantless, but for rain and the cold snow, While yet there is a loveliness abroad,— The frail and indescribable loveliness Of a fair form Life with reluctance leaves, Being there only powerful,—while the earth Wears sackcloth in her great prophetic grief:—
Then the reflective melancholy soul,— Aimlessly wandering with slow falling foot The heath’ry solitude, in hope to assuage The cunning humour of his malady,— Loses his painful bitterness, and feels His own specific sorrows one by one Taken up in the huge dolour of all things.
O the sweet melancholy of the time When gently, ere the heart appeals, the year Shines in the fatal beauty of decay! When the sun sinks enlarged on Carronben, Nakedly visible without a cloud, And faintly from the faint eternal blue (That dim, sweet harebell-colour) comes the star Which evening wears;—when Luggie flows in mist, And in the cottage windows one by one, With sudden twinkle household lamps are lit, What noiseless falling of the faded leaf!
Sweet on a blossoming summer’s afternoon, When Fancy plays the wizard in the brain, Idly to saunter thro’ a lusty wood! But sweeter far—by how much sweeter, God Alone hath knowledge—in a pensive mood, Outstretched on green moss-velvet floss’d with thyme, To watch the fall o’ the leaf before the moon Shines out in sweet completion circular. For when the sunset hath withdrawn its gold And glimmering, like the surcease Of rich, low melody, erst inaudible streams Find voices in their still unwearied flow; And winds that have been much above the moors And mountains, have a deadly feel of cold, Forespeaking clear blue dawns and frosty chill.
The Roman Dyke.