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.
