Wandering thus, through the fields, with Sabbath influences all around us, it is impossible not to be grateful and devout. A holy calm steals upon the mind—a heavenly beatitude, akin to that of angels and the spirits of just men made perfect.
"Oh Scotland! much I love thy tranquil dales;
But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun
Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight,
Wandering and stopping oft, to hear the song
Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs;
Or when the simple service ends, to hear
The lifted latch, and mark the grey-haired man,
The father and the priest, walk forth alone
Into his garden plat and little field,
To commune with his God in secret prayer—
To bless the Lord that in his downward years
His children are about him: sweet, meantime
The thrush that sings upon the aged thorn,
Brings to his view the days of youthful years,
When that same aged thorn was but a bush!
Nor is the contrast between youth and age
To him a painful thought; he joys to think
His journey near a close; heaven is his home."
Thus, in his own simple and charming style, Grahame describes the Sabbath evening. So beautiful it is, so Sabbath-like, in its spirit and tone, that we venture one extract more.
"Now, when the downward sun has left the glens,
Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced
Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic
The shepherd's shadow, thrown athwart the chasm,
As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies.
How deep the hush! the torrent's channel dry,
Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt.
But hark, a plaintive sound floating along!
'Tis from yon heath-roofed shieling; now it dies
Away, now rises full; it is the song
Which He, who listens to the hallelujahs
Of choiring seraphim, delights to hear;
It is the music of the heart, the voice
Of venerable age, of guileless youth,
In kindly circle seated on the ground
Before their wicker door. Behold the man,
The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks
Beam in the parting ray; before him lies,
Upon the smooth-cropt sward the open book,
His comfort, stay, and ever new delight;
While heedless at his side, the lisping boy
Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch."
CHAPTER XVII.
Lochleven—Escape of Queen Mary from Lochleven Castle—Michael Bruce—Sketch of his Life—Boyhood—College Life—Poetry—"Lochleven"—Sickness—"Ode to Spring"—Death—"Ode to the Cuckoo."
Pursuing our journey southward, next day finds us on the banks of Lochleven, distinguished not so much from the beauty of its situation, as from its poetic and historical associations. It is adorned with four small islands, the principal of which are St. Serf's Isle near the east end, so called from its having been the site of a priory dedicated to St. Serf, and another near the shore on the west side, which immediately attracts the eye, from its containing the picturesque ruins of Lochleven Castle, in which Mary, Queen of Scots, was confined, and from which she made her wonderful escape. Here, also, Patrick Graham, Archbishop of St. Andrews, and grandson of Robert the Third, was imprisoned, in consequence of a generous attempt to reform the profligate lives of the Catholic clergy. In this place he died, and was buried in the monastery of St. Serf. The keys of the castle, thrown into the lake at the time of Queen Mary's flight, have recently been found by a young man belonging to Kinross, and are now in the possession of the Earl of Morton.
The castle, with its massive tower yet standing, looks dismal enough, but how much it is beautified by the fine old trees and shrubbery which encircle it, and the mellow light which mantles its hoary sides!