THOUGHTS.
In sooth 'tis pleasant on a summer morn,
When the bright sun ascends the orient sky,
And on the mountain zephyr health is borne,
While we inhale it as it murmurs by;
On some lone hill in musing mood to lie,
Then as we watch the day's advancing light,
We learn from it that we but live to die.
The sun will set though shining e'er so bright,
A few short fleeting hours, and all again is night.
Yet sunshine seldom cheers the lot of life,
'Tis all a scene of ling'ring pain and woe,
A pilgrimage of fruitless care and strife,
A tide of sorrow that doth ceaseless flow;
Yet some have thought they felt a joy below,
Which to their darker hours did solace prove,
Making their hearts with blissful feelings glow;
And not of earth it seems, but from above
It comes to cheer mankind, and mortals call it love.
That thought is vain as love's own happiness,
For soon love's sweet illusion is no more;
Then fly those hopes that promised lasting bliss—
And when the dream of ecstasy is o'er,
We wake, to life, far sadder than before.
It shoots athwart our visions, like the gleam
Of flitting sunshine o'er a desert shore,
Making the wilderness more dreary seem—
Oh! love is all too like the visions of a dream.
It boots not now to ponder o'er the past,
Joy blasted oft will mar life's fairest scene;
The beauty of the sky is overcast,
Dark clouds now brood where brightness late hath been;
And thorns appear where once sweet flowers were seen.
Yet hope beams on my soul her soothing light,
Like the first dawning of the morn serene,
Tinging my darkened soul with hues more bright—
Love ever sorrow brings, as twilight brings the night.
'Tis piety alone that can impart
A peace of mind that ne'er will fade away,
A bliss that calms the passions of the heart,
A hope that soothes us even in decay,
Inspires the thought and elevates the lay;
'Tis this that gives a glory to that hour,
When death relentless seizes on his prey;
Then yet may pleasure dwell in earthly bower,
Though man buds, blooms, and withers, like a summer flower.
LOCH AWE. [(3)]
Oh Lake! how gentle and how fair art thou,
Above thee and around thee, mountains rise
E'en like a diadem on queenly brow;
Crested in light the snow in masses lies
On Cruachan's cleft head—the eagle flies
In circles o'er thee, and his eyrie makes
Afar upon its summit, from the eyes
Of man removed, for his wild fledgelings' sakes.—
Sinless and still thou art, most beautiful of lakes!
Four fairy isles,—like smiles in woman's eye,
Or gems upon her bosom—rise beside
Thy spreading waters, dreamy as the sky,
Whose glories are reflected in thy tide;
While shrubs and flowers are growing in their pride,
And ancient trees, where'er our eyes we turn—
And, like a melody, thy echoes glide
Within the memory—while grey and stern
Stands, like a spirit of the past, lone old Kilchurn.
Changeless as Heaven, thoughtful as the stars,
Whose light thou mak'st thy lover, ever true;
Sweet are thy glades and glens; no discord mars
Their quiet now—as when the Bruce o'erthrew
The men of Lorn, and gained his crown anew—
Save when sweeps by the spirit of the storm;
Fearful and wonderful is then thy hue,
And terrible thy wailings, as thy form,
While Cruachan's wild shriek is heard to far Cairngorm.
Home of the hunter! birth-place of the Gael!
Why do my musings still return to thee?
Why does the hymn of holy Innis-hail,
Like rhyme of childhood, haunt my memory?
My boy-years have departed, since to me
Thy wildness, solitude, and grandeur brought
Sources of inspiration, ne'er to be
Forgotten or forborne—my mind has sought
Relief from homely scenes, recurring to remote.
THE WOLF. [(4)]
A Fragment.
'Tis evening,—one of those rich eves in June,
That look as bright, and feel as warm as noon;
The setting sun its parting ray has thrown
Italia's smiling groves and bowers upon:
Amid the balm of meadow, vale, and hill,
Where all is beautiful, and all is still;
A bard would deem, 'neath such a tranquil sky,
He heard the stream of time while rushing by:
'Tis the soft hour, to love that doth belong,
To village pastime, and to village song:
But why do happy peasants meet no more?
The village song, the village dance is o'er:
Why is the tabor silent on the plain?
Why does the mountain-pipe refuse its strain?
Where is the lover fond, the trusting maid?
They shun each other, and desert the shade.
Is this Italia's sky, so calm, so fair?
Where are its joyous sons, its laughing daughters where?
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
Hark! 'tis a wild, a solitary cry,
Unheard till now beneath Italia's sky;
And well Italia's sons may shrink to hear
A cry, that fills all who have heard with fear,—
It is the Alpine wolf's terrific bay,
Roaming abroad ferocious for its prey:
Soon as the sun of earth its farewell takes,
The Alpine wolf his solitude forsakes,
And, like a demon, rushing to the plain,
Scatters the flock, and panic-strikes the swain.
One summer eve, a monster of the kind,
Hungry for prey, had left his troop behind;
Ranging alone, he spread dismay where'er
His bay was heard, as if a host were there:
Beneath his tusk of steel, his breath of flame,
Italia's bowers a wilderness became:
Grain for a while and sheep he stole away,
But, quitting these, he sought a nobler prey,—
The tender babe, even in its mother's view,
He bore to crags, where no one dared pursue:
Until the province, late the happiest one
That brightens 'neath Italia's gorgeous sun,
Became, throughout, all desolate and lone,
For there the fell destroyer forth had gone.
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
Lo! like a pageant, slowly up the vale,
A band advances, clad in glittering mail;
While, in the front, a knight of noble mien,
And lofty plume, above the rest is seen:
The peasants from their huts look forth with fear,
But dare not quit them, lest the wolf be near;
And then the chief, advancing from the rest,
At sound of trump, the peasants thus addressed,—
"A purse of gold, and his own diamond ring,
As a reward, are offered by the king,
To him who slays the wolf!" The trumpet's blast
Re-echoed loud, as that gay pageant passed.
Meanwhile, each swain, in hope to gain the prize,
Shouldering his gun, to kill the monster tries;
But home returning oft without his prey,
All left the task to Giulio to essay,—
For Giulio was the best, the bravest youth
Within the province, or the realm, in sooth:
Kind to his mates, and to his mistress true,
Foremost in pastime and in peril too;
Whene'er the river overflowed its bounds,
And the wild flood o'erswept the pleasant grounds,
Bearing away, in its retiring course,
The helpless flocks, too feeble for its force,
Giulio was first among the village brave,
To stretch the hand to succour and to save;
He was a marksman too, and well could hit
The target's eye, when all fell wide of it:
Him, therefore, did they fix upon to be
Their champion—their meadows rich to free
From the destroyer—each resigned his claim
To the reward,—Let Giulio win the same!
And Giulio ranged afar from morn till eve,
But still no wolf could Giulio perceive;
He searched each wood, explored each copse and cave,
As a fierce gnome invades the quiet grave;
Still did he hear his roar, his ravage see.
But, still unseen himself, the wolf continued free.
Three days had sped, and Giulio had not traced
The monster out, although he tracked his waste;
And standing on a mountain's rugged brow,
Giulio, despairing, breathed to Heaven a vow,
That he would bring the wolf in triumph slain,
Or never see his native home again,
And Giulio's vow was kept—the monster fell,
But not by him—a sadder tale I tell!
One eve—it was the fourth—he threw him down,
Fatigued and foot-sore, on the mountain brown;
No wolf as yet had crossed his anxious way,
Although, where'er he roamed, he heard his bay;
Loth to return until the wolf he slew,
Yet, ah! his heart, to love, to feeling, true,
Led him to where his lover's hut arose,
As if her vicinage could soothe his woes.
There for awhile he lingered, and he wept
The tear of fond remembrance—slumber crept
Upon his eyes, for he was overspent,
Wasted for want of needful nourishment:
Before him in the moonlight rolled a stream,
Whose murmur lulled him to a blissful dream:
A dream of love, of happiness and pride,—
He thought he slew the wolf, and won his blushing bride.
Beyond the river, to its very edge
Along the bank, there grew a bushy hedge,
Where oft alone, beneath the twilight dim,
The lovely maid would steal to think of him;—
A stir!—a motion!—it was not the breeze
That shook the hedge,—for why waved not the trees?
He started and awoke—again it shook,—
His gun was in his hand—one hurried look,
One rapid touch—the fatal ball was sped,—
A long wild shriek was heard, and Giulio's dream was read.
In triumph now, he thought of home again,—
The prize was his, the wolf at length was slain—
Swift as the ball that from his rifle flew,
He reached the river, and swam gaily through:
The corpse lay there before him in the light!—
Why breaks that mournful shriek upon the night?
Why motionless stands Giulio gazing there,
A form of stone, a statue of despair?
At length he spoke—"Is this the wolf I've sought
In glen, and mount, and precipice remote?
Its skin is soft, its eyes are bright and fair,
And still they smile on me,—the wolf's should glare;
But sweet though sad, still do they charm my view,
Like my fair bride's, the beautiful, the blue—
The wolf!—ah, horror! 'tis herself I've slain!
I feel it, like a fire within my brain,
And on my heart—no tear is in mine eye—
For her alone I lived,—with her I die."
The stream is near, he lifts her as a child,
While from his o'erpressed heart there bursts a wild
And fiendish laugh,—the peasants wondering hear,
And in a crowd assemble, half in fear:
In the broad moonlight then, as in a dream,
A figure rushed before them to the stream;
That form did bear another—on the brink
He pauses not—one plunge—they sink! they sink!
'Twas Giulio and his bride!—they rise no more,—
And onward rolls the stream as smoothly as before.