I see, but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
A ray of Fancy still survives—
Her sunshine plays upon thee!
Thy ever youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure;
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
Accordant to the measure.
The vapors linger round the Heights,
They melt,—and soon must vanish;
One hour is their's, nor more is mine—
Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know, where'er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
Will dwell with me, to heighten joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow.
CHAPTER XX.
Hamlet and Church-yard of Ettrick—Monument to Thomas Boston—Birth-place of the Ettrick Shepherd—Altrieve Cottage—Biographical Sketch of the Ettrick Shepherd—The Town of Selkirk—Monument to Sir Walter Scott—Battle-field of Philiphaugh.
Proceeding westward from St. Mary's Lake about half a mile, we come to the hill of Merecleughhead, where King James the Fifth entered the district to inflict summary vengeance upon the outlaws who frequented the Ettrick Forest in the days of old, a circumstance which gave rise to many of the old Scottish ballads. At the centre of the parish lie the hamlet and church-yard of Ettrick, on the stream of that name. Entering the burying-ground we behold the recently erected tomb of Thomas Boston, author of the well known work called "The Fourfold State," one of the best and holiest men that ever "hallowed" the "bushy dells" of Ettrick. With apostolic fervor did he preach the Gospel among these hills and vales, and his work, for more than three generations, has instructed the Scottish peasantry in the high doctrines of the Christian faith. His memory will ever be fragrant among the churches of Scotland. Not far from the burying-ground a house is pointed out in which the celebrated "Ettrick Shepherd" was born. Passing to the east end of the lake we see before us Altrieve Cottage, "bosomed low mid tufted trees," and nearly encircled by the "sweet burnie," in whose limpid waters the green foliage is mirrored. Here the poet lived, in the latter period of his life, and here also he died. The scenes around, moor, mountain and glen, lake, river and ruin, are hallowed by the genius of the "shepherd bard," who, to quote his own words,
"Found in youth a harp among the hills,
Dropt by the Elfin people; and whilst the moon
Entranced, hung o'er still Saint Mary's loch,
Harped by that charmed water, so that the swan
Came floating onwards through the water blue,—
A dream-like creature, listening to a dream;
And the queen of the fairies rising silently
Through the pure mist, stood at the shepherd's feet,
And half forgot her own green paradise,
Far in the bosom of the hill—so wild!
So sweet! so sad! flowed forth that shepherd's lay."
James Hogg, born in 1772, was descended from a family of shepherds, and spent his boyhood and youth herding his flocks among the hills. Far from the bustle of the world, in the deep solitudes of nature, his young and vigorous imagination became familiar with all wild and beautiful sights, all sweet and solemn sounds. Alone with nature during the day, he spent his evening hours in listening to ancient ballads and legends, of which his mother was a great reciter. This fed his imagination, and supplied it with an infinite variety of strange and beautiful imagery. To this fact he has himself thus strikingly referred.
"O list the mystic lore sublime,
Of fairy tales of ancient time!
I learned them in the lonely glen,
The last abodes of living men;
Where never stranger came our way,
By summer night or winter day;
Where neighboring hind or cot was none—
Our converse was with heaven alone—
With voices through the cloud that sung
And brooding storms that round us hung.
O lady judge, if judge ye may,
How stern and ample was the sway
Of themes like these, when darkness fell
And gray-haired sires the tales would tell!
When doors were barred and elder dame
Plied at her task beside the flame,
That through the smoke and gloom alone
On dim and cumbered faces shone—
The bleat of mountain goat on high,
That from the cliff came quavering by;
The echoing rock, the rushing flood,
The cataract's swell, the moaning wood;
The undefined and mingled hum—
Voice of the desert never dumb!
All these have left within this heart
A feeling tongue can ne'er impart
A wildered and unearthly flame,
A something that's without a name."