A PARTING SONG.
“O mes amis! rapellez-vous quelquefois mes vers! mon ame y est empreinte.”—Corinne.
When will ye think of me, my friends?
When will ye think of me?—
When the last red light, the farewell of day,
From the rock and the river is passing away—
When the air with a deepening hush is fraught,
And the heart grows burden’d with tender thought,
Then let it be!
When will ye think of me, kind friends?
When will ye think of me?—
When the rose of the rich midsummer-time
Is fill’d with the hues of its glorious prime—
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,
From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread—
Then let it be!
When will ye think of me, sweet friends?
When will ye think of me?—
When the sudden tears o’erflow your eye
At the sound of some olden melody—
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream,
When ye feel the charm of a poet’s dream—
Then let it be!
Thus let my memory be with you, friends!
Thus ever think of me!
Kindly and gently, but as of one
For whom ’tis well to be fled and gone—
As of a bird from a chain unbound,
As of a wanderer whose home is found—
So let it be.
[“The description of her feelings, when the actual parting took place, proves that there was no exaggeration in the affectionate sadness of her ‘Farewell to Wales,’ and the blessing she thus fondly left with it:—
‘The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear—
Farewell! and a blessing be with thee, green land!
On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain air,
On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel’s free hand,
From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed,
As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead!
‘Oh! that Tuesday morning!’ (thus she wrote in her first letter to St Asaph.) ‘I literally covered my face all the way from Bronwylfa, until the boys told me we had passed the Clwyd range of hills. Then something of the bitterness was over.
‘Miss P. met me at Bagillt, and on board the packet we found Mr D., who was kinder to me than I can possibly tell you. He really watched over me all the way with a care I shall not soon forget; and notwithstanding all you may say of female protection, I felt that of a gentleman to be a great comfort, for we had a difficult and disagreeable landing. As we entered the port, a vessel, coming out, struck against ours, and caused a great concussion: there was no danger, I imagine, but it gave one a faint notion of what the meeting must have been between the Comet and the Aire. We had a pretty sight on the water; another packet, loaded, clustered all over with blue-coat boys, sailed past. It was their annual holiday, on which they have a water excursion; and as they went by, all the little fellows waved their hats, and sent forth three cheers, which made our vessel ring again. Only imagine a ship-load of happiness! That word reminds me of my own boys, who are enjoying themselves greatly. Of myself, what can I say to you?... When I look back on the short time that has elapsed since I left this place, I am astonished; I seem in it to have lived an age of deep, strong, vain feeling.” —Memoir, p. 151-3.]
WE RETURN NO MORE![395]
“When I stood beneath the fresh green tree,
And saw around me the wide field revive
With fruits and fertile promise; and the Spring
Come forth, her work of gladness to contrive,
With all her reckless birds upon the wing,
I turn’d from all she brought to all she could not bring.”
Childe Harold.
“We return!—we return!—we return no more!”
So comes the song to the mountain shore,
From those that are leaving their Highland home
For a world far over the blue sea’s foam:
“We return no more!” and through cave and dell
Mournfully wanders that wild farewell.
“We return!—we return!—we return no more!”
So breathe sad voices our spirits o’er;
Murmuring up from the depths of the heart,
Where lovely things with their light depart:
And the inborn sound hath a prophet’s tone,
And we feel that a joy is for ever gone.
“We return!—we return!—we return no more!”
Is it heard when the days of flowers are o’er?
When the passionate soul of the night-bird’s lay
Hath died from the summer woods away?
When the glory from sunset’s robe hath pass’d,
Or the leaves are borne on the rushing blast?
No! It is not the rose that returns no more;—
A breath of spring shall its bloom restore;
And it is not the voice that o’erflows the bowers
With a stream of love through the starry hours;
Nor is it the crimson of sunset hues,
Nor the frail flush’d leaves which the wild wind strews.
“We return!—we return!—we return no more!”
Doth the bird sing thus from a brighter shore?
Those wings that follow the southern breeze,
Float they not homeward o’er vernal seas?
Yes! from the lands of the vine and palm
They come, with the sunshine, when waves grow calm.
“But we!—we return!—we return no more!”
The heart’s young dreams, when their spring is o’er;
The love it hath pour’d so freely forth—
The boundless trust in ideal worth;
The faith in affection—deep, fond, yet vain—
These are the lost that return not again!
[395] Ha til!—ha til!—ha til mi tulidle!—“we return!—we return!—we return no more!”—the burden of the Highland song of emigration.