THE POEMS OF DAVID GRAY.

PUBLISHED BY
JAMES MACLEHOSE, GLASGOW.

MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON.

• London,    Hamilton, Adams and Co.
• Cambridge,     Macmillan and Co.
• Edinburgh,   Edmonston and Douglas.
• Dublin,      W. H. Smith and Son.

MDCCCLXXIV.

THE
POETICAL WORKS
OF
DAVID GRAY

A NEW AND ENLARGED EDITION, EDITED BY

HENRY GLASSFORD BELL

Glasgow

JAMES MACLEHOSE

PUBLISHER TO THE UNIVERSITY

LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO.
1874

All rights reserved

PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY
MACLEHOSE AND MACDOUGALL,
GLASGOW.

TO

The Memory of

HENRY GLASSFORD BELL,

LATE SHERIFF OF LANARKSHIRE,

THIS VOLUME,
ON WHICH HIS LATEST LITERARY LABOUR
WAS BESTOWED,

IS

Affectionately Dedicated.

INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

This new Edition of the Works of David Gray, containing, it is believed, all the maturely finished poems of the author, is a double memorial. It commemorates “the thin-spun life” of a man of true genius and rare promise, and the highly cultured judgment and tender sympathies of a critic who has passed away in the vigorous fulness of his years.

A specimen page of “The Luggie,” forwarded with an appreciative letter from a friend, reached the author on the day before his death. He received it as “good news”—the fragmentary realization of his ambitious dreams—and, in the hope that his name might not be wholly forgotten, said he could now enter “without tears” into his rest.

Within a week before his removal from amongst us, Mr. Glassford Bell was engaged in correcting the proofs of the present edition. He had selected from a mass of MSS. and other material what new pieces he thought worthy of insertion in this enlarged edition—he had rearranged the whole and finally revised the greater part of the volume, which it was his intention to preface with a Memoir and Criticism. He looked forward to accomplishing this labour of love in a period of retirement from more active work which he had proposed to pass in Italy.

It has been thought inadvisable to commit to other hands the unexpectedly interrupted task. For a statement of the few and simple vicissitudes of the Poet’s career, as well as a brief but discriminating estimate of his rank in our literature, the reader is referred to the speech—at the close of the volume—delivered by Mr. Bell, nine years ago, on the inauguration of the Monument in the “Auld Aisle” Burying-ground. Of the movement which resulted in this tribute to departed genius, the late Sheriff was one of the most active promoters. Himself a poet, and a generous patron of all genuine art, the West of Scotland has known no “larger heart” or “kindlier hand.” There is something suggestive in the fact that his last effort was to throw another wreath on the early tomb of David Gray.

March, 1874.

CONTENTS.

The Luggie.

The Luggie.

And unto thee, my friend! thou prime of soul ’Mong men; I gladly bring my firstborn song! Would it were worthier for thy noble sake, True poet and true English gentleman! Thy favours flattered me, thy praise inspired: Thy utter kindness took my heart, and now Thy love alleviates my slow decline.

Beneath an ash in beauty tender leaved, And thro’ whose boughs the glimmering sunshine flow’d In rare ethereal jasper, making cool A chequered shadow in the dark-green grass, I lay enchanted. At my head there bloomed A hedge of sweet-brier, fragrant as the breath Of maid belovëd when her cheek is laid To yours in downy pressure, soft as sleep. A bank of harebells, flowers unspeakable For half-transparent azure, nodding, gleamed As a faint zephyr, laden with perfume, Kissed them to motion, gently, with no will. Before me streams most dear unto my heart, Sweet Luggie, sylvan Bothlin—fairer twain Than ever sung themselves into the sea, Lucid Ægean, gemmed with sacred isles— Were rolled together in an emerald vale; And into the severe bright noon, the smoke In airy circles o’er the sycamores Upcurled—a lonely little cloud of blue Above the happy hamlet. Far away, A gently-rising hill with umbrage clad, Hazel and glossy birch and silver fir, Met the keen sky. Oh, in that wood, I know, The woodruff and the hyacinth are fair In their own season; with the bilberry Of dim and misty blue, to childhood dear. Here, on a sunny August afternoon, A vision stirred my spirit half-awake To fling a purer lustre on those fields That knew my boyish footsteps; and to sing Thy pastoral beauty, Luggie, into fame. Now, while the nights are long, by the dear hearth Of home I write; and ere the mavis trills His smooth notes from the budding boughs of March, While the red windy morning o’er the east Widens, or while the lowly sky of eve Burns like a topaz;—all the dear design May reach completion, married to my song As far as words can syllable desire.

May yet the inspiration and delight That proved my soul on that Autumnal day, Be with me now, while o’er the naked earth Hushfully falls the soft, white, windless snow!

Once more, O God, once more before I die, Before blind darkness and the wormy grave Contain me, and my memory fades away Like a sweet-coloured evening, slowly sad— Once more, O God, thy wonders take my soul. A winter day! the feather-silent snow Thickens the air with strange delight, and lays A fairy carpet on the barren lea. No sun, yet all around that inward light Which is in purity,—a soft moonshine, The silvery dimness of a happy dream. How beautiful! afar on moorland ways, Bosomed by mountains, darkened by huge glens, (Where the lone altar raised by Druid hands Stands like a mournful phantom), hidden clouds Let fall soft beauty, till each green fir branch Is plumed and tassel’d, till each heather stalk Is delicately fringed. The sycamores, Thro’ all their mystical entanglement Of boughs, are draped with silver. All the green Of sweet leaves playing with the subtle air In dainty murmuring; the obstinate drone Of limber bees that in the monkshood bells House diligent; the imperishable glow Of summer sunshine never more confessed The harmony of nature, the divine Diffusive spirit of the Beautiful. Out in the snowy dimness, half revealed Like ghosts in glimpsing moonshine, wildly run The children in bewildering delight. There is a living glory in the air— A glory in the hush’d air, in the soul A palpitating wonder hush’d in awe.

Softly—with delicate softness—as the light Quickens in the undawned east; and silently— With definite silence—as the stealing dawn Dapples the floating clouds, slow fall, slow fall, With indecisive motion eddying down, The white-winged flakes—calm as the sleep of sound, Dim as a dream. The silver-misted air Shines with mild radiance, as when thro’ a cloud Of semi-lucent vapour shines the moon. I saw last evening (when the ruddy sun, Enlarged and strange, sank low and visibly, Spreading fierce orange o’er the west), a scene Of winter in his milder mood. Green fields, Which no kine cropped, lay damp; and naked trees Threw skeleton shadows. Hedges thickly grown, Twined into compact firmness with no leaves, Trembled in jewelled fretwork as the sun To lustre touched the tremulous waterdrops. Alone, nor whistling as his fellows do In fabling poem and provincial song, The ploughboy shouted to his reeking team; And at the clamour, from a neighbouring field Arose, with whirr of wings, a flock of rooks More clamorous; and thro’ the frosted air, Blown wildly here and there without a law, They flew, low-grumbling out loquacious croaks. Red sunset brightened all things; streams ran red Yet coldly; and before the unwholesome east, Searching the bones and breathing ice, blew down The hill with a dry whistle, by the fire In chamber twilight rested I at home.

But now what revelation of fair change, O Giver of the seasons and the days! Creator of all elements, pale mists, Invisible great winds and exact frost! How shall I speak the wonder of thy snow? What though we know its essence and its birth, Can quick expound in philosophic wise, The how, and whence, and manner of its fall; Yet, oh, the inner beauty and the life— The life that is in snow! The virgin-soft And utter purity of the down-flake Falling upon its fellow with no sound! Unblown by vulgar winds, innumerous flakes Fall gently, with the gentleness of love! Between its spotless-clothëd banks, in clear Pellucid luculence, the Luggie seems Charmed in its course, and with deceptive calm Flows mazily in unapparent lapse, A liquid silence. Every field is robed, And in the furrow lies the plough unused. The earth is cherished, for beneath the soft Pure uniformity, is gently born Warmth and rich mildness fitting the dead roots For the resuscitation of the spring.

Now while I write, the wonder clothes the vale, Calmed every wind and loaded every grove; And looking thro’ the implicated boughs I see a gleaming radiance. Sparkling snow Refined by morning-footed frost so still Mantles each bough; and such a windless hush Breathes thro’ the air, it seems the fairy glen About some phantom palace, pale abode Of fabled Sleeping Beauty. Songless birds Flit restlessly about the breathless wood, Waiting the sudden breaking of the charm; And as they quickly spring on nimble wing From the white twig, a sparkling shower falls Starlike. It is not whiteness, but a clear Outshining of all purity, which takes The winking eyes with such a silvery gleam. No sunshine, and the sky is all one cloud. The vale seems lonely, ghostlike; while aloud The housewife’s voice is heard with doubled sound. I have not words to speak the perfect show; The ravishment of beauty; the delight Of silent purity; the sanctity Of inspiration which o’erflows the world, Making it breathless with divinity. God makes His angels spirits—that is, winds— His ministers a flaming fire. So, heart! (Weak heart that fainted in thy loneliness) In the sweet breezes spirits are alive; God’s angels guide the thunder-clouds; and God Speaks in the thunder truly. All around Is loving and continuous deity; His mercy over all His works remains. And surely in the glossy snow there shines Angelic influence—a ministry Devout and heavenly, that with benign Action, amid a wondrous hush lets fall The dazzling garment on the fostered fields.

So thus with fair delapsion softly falls The sacred shower; and when the shortened day Dejected dies in the low streaky west, The rimy moon displays a cold blue night, And keen as steel the east wind sprinkles ice. Thicker than bees, about the waxing moon Gather the punctual stars. Huge whitened hills Rise glimmering to the blue verge of the night, Ghostlike, and striped with narrow glens of firs Black-waving, solemn. O’er the Luggie stream Gathers a veiny film of ice, and creeps With elfin feet around each stone and reed, Working fine masonry; while o’er the dam Dashing, a noise of waters fills the clear And nitrous air. All the dark wintry hours Sharply the winds from the white level moors Keen whistle. Timorous in homely bed The schoolboy listens, fearful lest gaunt wolves Or beasts, whose uncouth forms in ancient books He has beheld, at creaking shutters pull Howling. And when at last the languid dawn In windy redness re-illumes the east With ineffectual fire, an intense blue Severely vivid o’er the snowy hills Gleams chill, while hazy half-transparent clouds Slow-range the freezing ether of the west. Along the woods the keenly vehement blasts Wail, and disrobe the mantled boughs, and fling A snow-dust everywhere. Thus wears the day: While grandfather over the well-watched fire Hangs cowering, with a cold drop at his nose.

Now underneath the ice the Luggie growls, And to the polished smoothness curlers come Rudely ambitious. Then for happy hours The clinking stones are slid from wary hands, And Barleycorn, best wine for surly airs, Bites i’ th’ mouth, and ancient jokes are crack’d. And oh, the journey homeward, when the sun, Low-rounding to the west, in ruddy glow Sinks large, and all the amber-skirted clouds, His flaming retinue, with dark’ning glow Diverge! The broom is brandished as the sign Of conquest, and impetuously they boast Of how this shot was played—with what a bend Peculiar—the perfection of all art— That stone came rolling grandly to the Tee With victory crown’d, and flinging wide the rest In lordly crash! Within the village inn, What time the stars are sown in ether keen, Clear and acute with brightness; and the moon Sharpens her semicircle; and the air With bleakly shivering sough cuts like a scythe, They by the roaring chimney sit, and quaff The beaded ‘Usqueba’ with sugar dash’d. Oh, when the precious liquid fires the brain To joy, and every heart beats fast with mirth And ancient fellowship, what nervy grasps Of horny hands o’er tables of rough oak! What singing of Lang Syne till teardrops shine And friendships brighten as the evening wanes!

Now the dead earth, wrapt solemnly, expects The punctual resurrection of the Spring. Shackled and bound, the coldly vigilant frost Stiffens all rivers, and with eager power Hardens each glebe. The wasted country owns The keen despotic vehemence of the North; And, with the resignation that obtains Where he is weak and powerless, man awaits, Under God’s mercy, the dissolvent thaw.

O All-beholding, All-informing God Invisible, and only through effects Known and belov’d, unshackle the waste earth! Soul of the incomplete vitality In atom and in man! Soul of all Worlds! Leave not Thy glory vacant, nor afflict With fear and hunger man whom Thou hast made. Thou from Thy chambers waterest the earth; Thou givest snow like wool; and scatterest wide Hoarfrost like ashes. Casting forth Thy ice Like morsels, who can stand before Thy cold? Thou sendest forth Thy word, and lo! they melt; Causing Thy wind to blow, the waters flow.[A]

Soon the frozen air receives the subtle thaw: And suddenly a crawling mist, with rain Impregn’d, the damp day dims, and drizzling drops Proclaim a change. At night across the heavens Swift-journeying, and by a furious wind Squadron’d, the hurrying clouds range the roused sky, Magnificently sombrous. The wan moon, Amazed, gleams often through a cloudy rack, Then, shuddering, hides. One earnest wakeful star Of living sapphire drooping by her side, A faithful spirit in her lone despair, Outshines the cloudy tempest. Then the shower Falls ceaseless, and night murmurs with the rain. And in the sounding morning what a change! The meadows shine new-washed; while here and there A dusky patch of snow in shelter’d paths Melts lonely. The awakened forest waves With boughs unplumed. The white investiture Of the fair earth hath vanished, and the hills That in the evening sunset glowed with rose And ineffectual baptism of gold, Shine tawdry, crawled upon by the blind rain. Now Luggie thunders down the ringing vale, Tawnily brown, wide-leaving yellow sand Upon the meadow. The South-West, aroused, Blustering in moody kindness, clears the sky To its blue depths by a full-wingëd wind, Blowing the diapason of red March.

Blow high and cleanse the sky, O South-West wind! Roll the full clouds obedient; overthrow White crags of vapour in confusion piled Precipitate, high-toppling, undissolved; And while with silent workings they are spread And scattered, broken into ruinous pomp By Thy invisible influence, what calm And sweet disclosure of the upper deep Cerulean, the atmospheric sea! Blow high and sift the earth, thou South-West wind! Now the dull air grows rarer, and no more The stark day thickens towards evenfall; Nor from the solid cloud-gloom drips the rain: But in a sunset mild and beautiful The day sinks, till in clear dilucid air, As in a chamber newly decorate, The golden Phœbe reddens with the wind. No more through hoary mists and low-hung clouds The eternal hills—bones of the earth—upheave Their deity for worship: but severe Against the clear sky outlined, each sharp crag Uplifts its scarred magnificence to Heaven. From breezy ledge the eagle springs aloft, And, beating boldly up against the wind With inconceivable velocity, Stretches to upper ether, and renews Haughty communion with the regal sun! Blow high, O deep-mouth’d wind from the South-West! And in the caves and hollows of the rocks Moan mournfully, for desolation reigns. Through the unknown abysses and foul chasms, Sacred to horror and eternal damps And darkness ever-cumbent, blindly howl Till the hoarse dragons, wailing in their woe Infernal, answer from accursed dens.

Pleasant to him who long in sick-room pent, Surveying still the same unchanging hills Belted with vapour, muffled up in cloud; The same raw landscape soaked in ceaseless rain; Pleasant to him the invigorating wind. Roused from reclusive thought by the deep sound And motion of the forest (as a steed When shrills the silver trumpet of the onset), He rushes to communion with old forms. Like a fair picture suddenly uncovered To an impatient artist, the fair earth, Touched with the primal glory of the Spring, Flings an indefinite glamour on his soul. With indistinct commotion he perceives All things, and his delight is indistinct. Earth’s forms and ever-living beauty strike Amazement through his spirit, till he feels As one new-born to being undeflowered. The sudden music from the budding woods, The lark in air, startles and overjoys. O Laverock! (for thy Scottish name to me Sounds sweetest) with unutterable love I love thee, for each morning as I lie Relaxed and weary with my long disease, One from low grass arises visibly And sings as if it sang for me alone. Among a thousand I could tell the tones Of this, my little sweet hierophant! To fainting heart and the despairing soul What is more soothing than the natural voice Of birds? One Candlemas, many years ago, When weak with pain and sickness, it infused Into my soul a bliss delectable. For suddenly into the misty air A mellow, smooth and liquid music, clear As silver, softer than an organ stop Ere the bass grumbles, rose. The blunted winds, No longer edged severely with keen frost, Forgot to whisper, and a summer-calm Pervaded soul and sense. No violet As yet breathed perfume; from the darkling sward No snowdrop boldly peeped; and even the ash, Whence flowed the sound, unfolded not her buds To blacken while the embryo gathered green. And yet this hardy herald of the Spring Chaunted rich harmony, daintily carved out Her voice, and through her sleek throat sobb’d her soul In a delicious tremble. As she tuned Her pliant song, slow from the closing sky The sacred snow fell calm. Yet through the shower, Hushing all nature into silence, clear The Feltie-flier[B] trilled her slippery close In panting rapture, from the whitening ash. I stood all wonder; and to this late hour Remember the dear song with ravishment; Nor ever comes a merry Candlemas day But I am out to hear. And if perchance Some warbler sprinkle on the vacant air Its homeless notes, the bird seems to my heart The individual bird of comely grey That sang her pliant strain through falling snow.

Now, when the crumbling glebe is by the wind Unbound, and snows adown the mountains hoar Glide liquid, from the furrow loose the plough. Enyoke the willing horses, and upturn With deep-pressed share the saponaceous loam. From morn to even with progression slow The ploughboy cuts his awkward parallels, And soberly imbrowns the decent fields. It was a hazy February day Ten years ago, when I, a boy of ten, Beheld a country ploughing-match. The morn Lighted the east with a dim smoky flare Of leaden purple, as the rumbling wains Each with a plough light-laden (while behind Trotted a horse sleek-comb’d and tail bedight With many coloured ribbons) by our home Went downwards to the rich fat meadow-grounds Bounding the Luggie. Many a herd of beeves Dew-lapp’d had fattened there, and headlong oft O’er the hoof-clattering turf they wildly ran, Lashing with swinging tail the thirsty flies. But now the smooth expanse of level green Was quickly to be changed to sober brown; And twenty ploughs by twenty ploughmen held To cut with shining share the living turf. Oh many a wintry hour, thro’ wind and rain, In valleys gloom’d, or by the bleak hill-side Lonely, these twenty had themselves inured And stubborn’d to perfection. Many a touch And word of honest kindness had been used To the dear faithful horses snooving on In quiet patience, jutting noble chests. Now the big day, expected long, was come: And, with proud shoulders yoked, conscious they stood Patient and unrefusing; while behind, All ready stripped, brown brawny arms displayed— Arms sinewed by long labour—eager swains O’er-leaning slight, with cautious wary hold The plough detain. At the commencing sign A simultaneous noise discordant tears The air thick-closing to a hazy damp. Sudden the horses move, and the clear yokes, Well polished, clatter. With an artful bend The gleaming coulter takes the grass and cuts The greenly tedded blades with nibbling noise Almost unheard. The smooth share follows fast; And from its shining slope the clayey glebe In neat and neighbouring furrows sidelong falls. Thus till the dank, raw-cold, and unpurged day Gathering its rheumy humours threatens rain; And the bleak night steals up the forlorn east. And when the careful verdict is preferr’d By the wise judge (a gray-hair’d husbandman, Himself in his fresh youth a ploughboy keen), Some bosoms fire exultant. Others, slow Their reeking horses harnessed, lag along Heart-sad and weary; and the rumbling noise Of homeward-going carts for miles away Is heard, till night brings silence and repose.

But never with sad motions of the soul, Despairing, yoked his sleek and smoking team For homeward journey my belovëd friend! He the great prize, the guinea all of gold, Gained thrice and grew a very famous man; Till Death, the churl accurs’d, him in his prime Bore to the border-land of wonder. Then I felt the blank in life when dies a friend. Inexplicable emptiness and want Unsatisfied! The unrepealable law Consumed the living while the dead decayed. No more, no more thro’ glorious nights of May We wander, chasing pleasure as of old. First night of May! and the soft-silvered moon Brightens her semicircle in the blue; And ’mid the tawny orange of the west Shines the full star that ushers in the even! On the low meadows by the Luggie-side Gathers a semi-lucent mist, and creeps In busy silence, shrouding golden furze And leafy copsewood. Thro’ the tortuous dell Like an eternal sound the Luggie flows In unreposing melody. And here, Three perfect summers gone, my dear first friend Was with me; and we swore a sudden oath, To travel half-a-dozen miles and court Two sisters, whose sweet faces sunshine kissed To berry brown and country comeliness— Kiss-worthier than the love of Solomon. So singing clearly with a merry heart Old songs—It was upon a Lammas nicht; And that sweet thing by gentle Tannahill, Married to music sweeter than itself; The Lowland Lassie—thro’ dew-silvered fields We hastened ’mid the mist our footsteps raised Until we reached the moorland. From its bed Among the purplish heather whirring rose The plover, wildly screaming; and from glens Of moaning firs the pheasant’s piercing shriek Discordant sounded. Then, ’mong elder trees Throwing antique fat shadows, soon we saw The window panes, moon-whitened; and low heard Bawtie, the shaggie collie, grumble out His disapproval in a sullen growl. But slyly wearing nearer, cried my friend, “Whisht, Bawtie! Bawtie!” and the fellow came Whining, and laid a wet nose in his palm Obedient, while I tinkled on the panes A fairy summons to the souls within. The door creaked musically, and a face Peeped smiling, till I whispered, “Open, Kate!” And thro’ the moonshine came the low sweet quest— “Oh! is it you?” My answer was a kiss. Then entering the kitchen paved with stone, We kicked the sparkling faggot till it blazed; And sitting round it, many a tale of love Was told, until the chrysolite of dawn Burned in the east, and from the mountain rolled The sarcenet mists far-flaming with the morn. This was my first of May three years ago: Now in a churchyard by the Bothlin side— The Auld Aisle—moulders my first friend, and keeps An early tryste with God, the All in All.

We sat at school together on one seat, Came home together thro’ the lanes, and knew The dunnock’s nest together in the hedge, With smooth blue eggs in cosy brightness warm. And as two youngling kine on cold Spring nights Lie close together on the bleak hill-side For mutual heat, so when a trouble came We crept to one another, growing still True friends in interchange of heart and soul. But suddenly death changed his countenance, And grav’d him in the darkness far from me. O Friendship, prelibation of divine Enjoyment, union exquisite of soul, How many blessings do I owe to thee, How much of incommunicable woe! The daisies bloom among the tall green blades Upon his grave, and listening you may hear The Bothlin make sweet music as she flows; And you may see the poplars by her brink Twinkle their silvery leaflets in the sun. O little wandering preacher, Bothlin brook! Wind musically by his lonely grave. O well-known face, for ever lost! and voice, For ever silent! I have heard thee sing In village inns what time the silver frost Curtained the panes in silent ministry, Sing old Scotch ballads full of love and woe, While the assimilative snow fell white and calm With ceaseless lapse. And I have seen thee dance Wild galliards with the buxom lasses, far In lone farm-houses set on whistling hills, While the storm thickened into thunder-cloud. Dear mentor in all rustic merriment, Ever as hearty as the night was long! I miss thee often, as I do to-night, And my heart fills; and thy belovëd songs The music and the words ring in my ears, Then Lowland lassie wilt thou go—until My eyes are full of tears, dear heart! dear heart! And I could pass the perilous edge of death To see thy dear, clear face, and hear again The old wild music as of old, of old.

But as the Luggie with a plaintive song Twists thro’ a glen of greenest gloom, and gropes For open sunshine; and, the shadows past, Glides quicker-footed thro’ divided meads With sliding purl, so from that tale of gloom My song with happier motions seeks the calm And quiet smoothness of a silver end. From orient valleys where as lucent dew As ever jewelled Hermon, falls and shines Fulfilled by sunrise; where slant arrow-showers Of golden beams make every twinkling drop A diamond, and every blade of grass A glory;—comes the earth-born wanderer Sweet Luggie, singing. Over the mill-dam Sounding, a cataract in miniature, White-robed it dashes thro’ unceasing mist. Thro’ ivied bridge, adown its rocky bed Shadowed by wavy limes whose branches bend Kissing the wave to ripples, on it purls Abrupt, capricious, past the hazel bower Where marriageable maid is being woo’d; And as on sward of velvet by her side Her lover low reclines, while his dear tongue Voices warm passion—she confiding lays All her mild beauty in his manly breast Blushing. Ah, Luggie! sure you murmur now Clearly and dearly o’er thy pumy stones! And when amid a pause of thought they hear Thy babblement of music, never a shade Darkens their souls. Thy song is happiness, A revelation of sweet sympathies By them interpreted; for never yet Was Nature sullen when the spirit shone. This is in twilight, when that only star White Hesperus from chastest azure grows; And as night trails her thousand shadows slow Over the spinning world, the streamlet sings Her mother earth asleep. O Autumn nights! When skies are deeply blue, and the full moon Soars in voluptuous whiteness, Juno-like, A passionate splendour; when in the great south Orion like a frozen skeleton Hints of his ancient hugeness and mail’d strength; And Cassiopeia glimmers cold and clear Upon her throne of seven diamonds! In the thick-foliaged brake, the nightingale Of Scotland, chirping stonechacker, prolongs With whit, whit, chirr-r the day’s full melody. Far-sounding thro’ blue silence and smooth air, The drumming noise of the hoarse waterfall Is heard unheeded all by homely fires, And heard unheeded all in hazel bower Where love wings hours of serene joy; and still As roams with eerie wail the unbodied wind Thro’ ghostly glen of pine, the maiden clings More closely, till two firm entwining arms Press comfort; and there is a touch of lips.

Now in this season—ere the flickering leaves, Touch’d with October’s fiery alchemy, Grow sere and crisp—is shorn the meadow-hay. Mingled with spiral orchis, dim blue-bell Of delicatest azure, crowfoot smooth, And ox-eye flaunting with faint flowers wild, Nameless to me—the fragrant rye-grass grew. Now with a measured sweep the keen-edged scythe Cuts all to wither in the imbrowning sun. Two golden days o’erpast (with eves of cloud Magnificently coloured, heaped and strewn Confusedly) the country lasses come Bare-armed, bare-ancled; and ’mid honest mirth And homely jests with tinkling laughter winged, Gather the fading balm. With kindling eyes, And all the life of maidenhood aflame In little tremulous pants,—they carry light The warm load to the stack. Oh, many a time The old man, building slow the rising stack, Saw and reproved not our wild merriment: Remembering, half-sad, his own fresh youth When beauty was a magic to the soul And a fair face a charm; when a lip-touch Was necromancy; and the perfect life A wondrous yearning after womanhood. But at the breathless nerve-dissolving noon, When hot the undiminished sun downthrows Direct his beams, they from the field retire To cool consoling grove, or haply seek The drowsy pool by beechen shadow chilled, To lave the limbs relaxed. With eager leap, Headlong they plunge from the enamelled bank Into the liquid cold, and slowly move With measured strokes and palms outspread; while oft, When the clear water rises o’er the lip Dallying, they uptilt the swelling chest In unspent vigour. Oh, the pleasant time! Pleasant beneath embowering trees, when day Hides with her silken mists the distant scene And breathes afar a nerve-dissolving steam— Pleasant in sweet consolatory shade To wander pensive. Then the soul serenes The turbulent passions, and in devout trance, Unconscious of celestial power, reveals The God reflected in fair natural forms. For as the Sun disdains the vulgar gaze In his uplifted sphere, yet in the broad Grey Ocean shews a softer face, so God In nature shines. Oh, sweet the bowery path Of fair Glenconner, where in volant youth I saw the heroes of divine Romance. No pathway winding through fresh orange groves, Leading to white Campanian city, set Inviolably by the sapphire sea, Can fair Glenconner’s umbrage-shadowed way Excel. The bird-embowering beechen boughs, Kissing each other, on the dusty way Throw trembling shadows; and when warm west winds Roam hither in voluptuous unconcern, There is a music and a fragrancy Upon Glenconner, like the music hymned By quires angelic on cerulean floors. Deem not I speak in vanity, or speak In false hyperbole, as poets do When languaging in love the radiance Of maids; but there is beauty and delight And passive feeling sweeter than all sense, To him who walks beneath the boughs, and hears The humming music like the sound of seas. There have I dreamed for hours—and gathered there The homely inspiration which fulfils The yearning of my soul. There have I felt The unconfined divinity which lies In beauty; and when the eternal stars Have twinkled silver thro’ illumined leaves, I could not choose but worship.

O fair eves Of undescribable sweetness long ago! When gloaming caught me musing unawares, Musing alone beneath the whispering leaves That overshade Glenconner. Hour of calm Suggestive thought, when, like a robe, the earth Puts on a shadowy pensiveness, and stills The music of her motions multiform. Day lingered in the west; and thro’ a sky Of thinly-waning orange, sullen clouds Of amethyst, with flamy purple edged, Moved evenly in sluggish pilotage. The windless shades of quiet eventide Slow gathered, and the sweet concordant tones Of melody within the leafy brake Died clearly, till the Mavis piped alone; Then softly from the jasper sky, a star Drew radiant silver, brightening as the west Darkened. But ere the semicircled moon Shed her white light adown the lucent air, The Mavis ceased, and thro’ the thin gloom brake The Corncraik’s curious cry, the sylvan voice Of the shy bird that haunts the bladed corn; And suddenly, yet silently, the blue Deepened, until innumerous white stars Thro’ crystal smooth and yielding ether drooped, Not coldly, but in passionate June glow. The Corncraik now, ’mong tall green bladed corn Breasted her eggs with feathers dew-besprent, And stayed her human cry. The silence left A gap within the soul, a sudden grief, An emptiness in the low sighing air. Then swooning through full night, the summer’d earth Bosom’d her children into tender rest; Now delicately chambered ladies breathe Their souls asleep in white-limb’d luxury. O Virgins purest lipped! with snowy lids Soft closed on living eyes! O unkissed cheeks, Half-sunk in pillowy pressure, and round arms In the sweet pettishness of silver dreams Flung warm into the cold unheeding air! Sleep! soft bedewer of infantine eyes, Pouter of rosy little lips! plump hands Are doubled into deeply-dimpled fists And stretched in rosy langour, curls are laid In fragrance on the rounded baby-face, Kiss-worthy darling! Stiller of clear tongues And silvery laughter! Now the musical noise Of little feet is silent, and blue shoes No more come pattering from the nursery door. Death is not of thee, Sleep! Thy calm domain Is tempered with a dreamy bliss, and dimmed With haunted glooms, and richly sanctified With the fine elements of Paradise. Burn in the gleaming sky, ye far-off Stars! And thou, O inoffensive Crescent! lift The wonder of thy softness, the white shell Of thy clear beauty, till the wholesome dawn Wither thy brightness pale, and borrowed pride!

But sleep supine, on indolent afternoon Ere the winds wake, and holy mountain airs Descend, is sweet. Oh, let the bard describe The sacred spot where, underneath the round Green odoriferous sycamore, he lay Sleepless, yet half-asleep, in that one mood When the quick sense is duped, and angel wings Make spiritual music. Sweet and dim The sacred spot, belovëd not alone For its own beauty: but the memories, The pictures of the past which in the mind Arise in fair profusion, each distinct With the soft hue of some peculiar mood, Enchant to living lustre what before Was to the untaught vision simply fair. In a fair valley, carpeted with turf Elastic, sloping upwards from the stream, A rounded sycamore in honied leaves Most plenteous, murmurous with humming bees, Shadows a well. Darkly the crystal wave Gleams cold, secluded; on its polished breast Imaging twining boughs. No pitcher breaks Its natural sleep, except at morn and eve When my good mother thro’ the dewy grass Walks patient with her vessels, bringing home The clear refreshment. Every blowing Spring, A snowdrop, with pure streaks of delicate green Upon its inmost leaves, from withered grass Springs whitely, and within its limpid breast Is mirror’d whitely. Not a finger plucks This hidden beauty; but it blooms and dies, In lonely lustre blooms and lonely dies— Unknown, unloved, save by one simple heart Poetic, the creator of this song. And after this frail luxury hath given Its little life in keeping to the soul Of all the worlds, a robin builds its nest In lowly cleft, a foot or so above The water. His dried leaves, and moss, and grass He hither carries, lining all with hair For softness. I have laid the hand that writes These rhymes belovëd, on the crimson breast, Sleek-soft, that panted o’er the five unborn; While, leaf-hid, o’er me sang the watchful mate Plaintive, and with a sorrow in the song, In silvan nook where anchoret might dwell Contented. Often on September days, When woods were efflorescent, and the fields Refulgent with the bounty of the corn, And warming sunshine filled the breathless air With a pale steam,—in heart-confused mood Have I worn holidays enraptured there; For, O dear God! there is a pure delight In dreaming: in those mental-weary times, When the vext spirit finds a false content In fashioning delusions. Oh, to lie Supinely stretched upon the shaded turf, Beholding thro’ the openings of green leaves White clouds in silence navigating slow Cerulean seas illimitable! Hushed The drowsy noon, and, with a stilly sound Like harmony of thought, the Luggie frets— Its bubbling mellowed to a musical hum By distance. Then the influences faint, Those visionary impulses that swell The soul to inspiration, crowding come Mysterious: and phantom memory (Ghost of dead feeling) haunts the undissolved, The unsubvertive temple of the soul!

But as thro’ loamy meadows lipping slow Eats the fern-fringëd Luggie; and in spray Leaps the mill-dam, and o’er the rocky flats Spreads in black eddies; so my firstborn song Hastes to the end in heedless vagrancy. O ravishingly sweet the clacking noise Of looms that murmur in our quiet dell! No fairer valley Dyer ever dreamed— Dyer, best river-singer, bard among Ten thousand. Reader, hasten ye and come, And see the Luggie wind her liquid stream Thro’ copsy villages and spiry towns; And see the Bothlin trotting swift of foot From glades of alder, eager to combine Her dimpling harmony with Luggie’s calm Clear music, like the music of the soul. But where you see the meeting, reader, stay, O stay and hear the music of the looms. Thro’ homely rustic bridge with ivy shagged (Which you shall see if ever you do come A summer pilgrim to our valley fair), The Luggie flows with bells of foam-like stars About its surface. A smooth bleaching-green Spreads its soft carpet to the open doors Of simple houses, shining-white. Blue smoke Curls thro’ the breathing air to the tree-tops Thin spreading, and is lost. A humming noise Industrious is heard, the clack of looms, Whereon sit maidens, homely fair, and full Of household simpleness, who sing and weave, And sing and weave thro’ all the easy hours, Each day to-morrow’s counterpart, and smooth Memory the mirror wherein golden Hope, Contented, sees herself. Here dwell an old Couple whose lives have known twice forty years (My mother’s parents), their sage spirits touched With blest anticipation of a home Celestial bright, wherein they may fulfil The life which death discovers. Last winter night I, an accustomed visitant, beheld The dear old pair. He in an easy chair Lay dozing, while beside her noiseless wheel She sat, her brow into her lap declined, And half asleep! Sure sign, my mother said, Of the conclusion of mortality. A boy of ten, their grandson, on the floor Lay stretched in early slumber; all the three Unconscious of my entrance. A strange sight, Fraught with strange lessons for the human soul. In the first portion of her married life, This woman, now, alas! so weary, old, Bore daughters five; of well-beloved sons An equal number. Some of them died young, But six are yet alive, and dwelling all Within a mile of her own house. The flower, The idol of the mother, and her pride, Dear magnet of all hopes, embodiment Of heavenly blessings, was the youngest son, Youngest of all. Me often has she told How not a man could fling the stone with him; That in his shoes he outran racers fleet Barefooted; dancing on the shaven green On summer holidays and autumn eves (As to this day they do) his laugh was clearest, Lightest his step; and he could thrill the hearts Of simple women by a natural grace, And perilous recital of love tales. I cannot tell by what mysterious means, Day-dream, or silver vision of the night, Or sacred show of reason, picturing A smooth ambition and calm happiness For years of weaker age—but suddenly In prime of life there flowered in his soul An inextinguishable love to be A minister of God. When holy schemes Govern the motions of the spirit, ways Are found to compass them. With wary care, Frugality praiseworthy, and the strength Of two strong arms, he in the summer months Hoarded a competence equivalent To all demands, until the session’s end. Whate’er by manual labour he had gained Thro’ the clear summer months in verdant fields, With brooks of silver laced, and cool’d with winds, Was spent in winter in the smoky town. But when, his annual course of study past, He with his presence blessed his father’s house, With what a sacred sanctity of hope Eager his mother dreamed, or garrulous Spake of him everywhere—his foreign ways, And midnight porings o’er uncanny books. His father, with a stern delight suffused, Grew a proud man of some importance now In his own eyes; for who in all the vale Had e’er a son so noble and so learned, So worthy as his own? So time wore on: but when three years complete Had perfected their separate destinies, A change stole o’er the current of their lives, As a cloud-shadow glooms the crystal stream. Their son came home, but with his coming came Sorrow. A hue too beautifully fair Brighten’d his cheek, as sunlight tints a cloud. His face had caught a trick of joy more sad Than visible grief; and all the subtle frame Of human life, so wonderfully wrought, A mystery of mechanism, was wearing In sore uneasy manner to the grave. What need to tell what every heart must know In sympathy prophetical? Long time, A varied year in seasons four complete (For the white snowdrop o’er my mother’s well Twice oped its whitest leaves among the green), He lay consuming. It must needs have been A weary trial to the thinking soul, Thus with a consciousness of coming death, The grim Attenuation! evermore Nearing insatiate. At her spinning-wheel His mother sat; and when his voice grew faint, A simple whistle by his pillow lay, And at its sound she entered patient, sad, Her soothing love to minister, her hope To nourish to its fading. But his breath Grew weaker ever; and his dry pale lips Closing upon the little instrument, Could not produce a faintly audible note! A little bell, the plaything of a child, Now at his bedside hung, and its clear tones Tinkled the weary summons. Thus his time Narrowed to a completion, and his soul, Immortal in its nature, thro’ his eyes Yearning, beheld the majesty of Him Great in His mystery of godliness, Fulfiller of the dim Apocalypse! Twelve years have passed since then, and he is now A happy memory in the hearts of those Who knew him; for to know him was to love. And oft I deem it better, as the fates, Or God, whose will is fate, have proven it; For had he lived and fallen (as who of us Doth perfectly? and let him that is proud Take heed lest he do fall) he would have been A sadness to them in their aged hours. But now he is an honour and delight; A treasure of the memory; a joy Unutterable: by the lone fireside They never tire to speak his praise, and say How, if he had been spared, he would have been So great, and good, and noble as (they say) The country knows; although I know full well That not a man in all the parish round Speaks of him ever; he is now forgot, And this his natal valley knows him not.— And this his natal valley knows him not? The well-belovëd, nothing?—the fair face And pliant limbs, poor indistinctive dust? The body, blood, and network of the brain Crumbled as a clod crumbles! Is this all? A turf, a date, an epitaph, and then Oblivion, and profound nonentity! And thus his natal valley knows him not. Trees murmur to the passing wind, streams flow, Flowers shine with dewdrops in the shady glens, All unintelligent creation smiles In loving-kindness; but, like a light dream Of morning, man arises in fair show, Like the hued rainbow from incumbent gloom Elicited, he shines against the sun— A momentary glory. Not a voice Remains to whisper of his whereabouts: The palpable body in its mother’s breast Dissolves, and every feature of the face Is lost in feculent changes. O black earth! Wrap from bare eyes the slow decaying form, The beauty rotting from the living hair, The body made incapable thro’ sin God’s Spirit to contain. Earth, wrap it close Till the heavens vibrate to the trump of doom!

This is not all: for the invisible soul Betrays the soft desire, the quenchless wish, To live a purer life, more proximate To the prime Fountain of all life. The power Of vivid fancy and the boundless scenes (High coloured with the colouring of Heaven), Creations of imagination, tell The mortal yearnings of immortal souls! Now, while around me in blind labour winds Howl, and the rain-drops lash the streaming pane; Now, while the pine-glen on the mountain side Roars in its wrestling with the sightless foe, And the black tarn grows hoary with the storm;— Amid the external elemental war, My soul with calm comportment—more becalmed By the wild tempest furious without— Sits in her sacred cell, and ruminates On Death, severe discloser of new life. When the well-known and once embraceable form Is but a handful of white dust, the soul Grows in divine dilation, nearer God. Therefore grieve not, my heart, that unsustained His memory died among us, that no more, While yet the grass is hoary and the dawn Lingers, he shyly thro’ untrodden fields Brushes his early path: that he no more Beneath the beech, in lassitude outstretched, Ponders the holy strains of Israel’s King; For in translated glory, and new clothed With Incorruptible, he purer air Breathes in a fairer valley. There no storm Maddens as now; no flux, and no opaque, But all is calm, and permanent, and clear, God’s glory and the Lamb illumine all!

Now ends this song—not for self-honour sung, But in the Luggie’s service. It hath been A crownëd vision and a silver dream, That I should touch this valley with renown Eternal, make the fretting waters gleam In light above the common light of earth. The shoreless air of heaven is purer here, The golden beams more keenly crystalline, The skies more deeply sapphired. For to me, About these emerald fields and lawny hills, There linger glories which you cannot see, And influences which you cannot feel, Delight and incommunicable woe! My home is here; and like a patient star, Shining between untroubled Paradise And my own soul, a mother shines therein, The sole perfection of true womanhood: A father—with the wisdom which pertains To grey experience, and that stern delight In naked truth, and reason which belongs To the intense reflective mind—hath told His fifty winters here. And all the hopes Which gild the present; all the sad regrets Which dull the past, are present to my soul In the external forms and colourings Of this dear valley. Therefore do I yearn To make its stream flow in undying verse, Low-singing thro’ the labyrinthine dell!

And let forgiving charity preclude Harsh judgments from the singer: not that he Fearfully would forestal the righteous word, Blameworthy, spoken in kindness, and that truth Which sanctions condemnation. Yet, dear Lord, A youthful flattering of the spirit, touched With a desire unquenchable, displays My hope’s delirium. Oh! if the dream Fade into nothing, into worse than nought, Blackness of darkness like the golden zones Of an autumnal sunset, and the night Of unfulfilled ambition closes round My destiny, think what an awful hell O’erwhelms the conquer’d soul! Therefore, O men Who guard with jealousy and loving care The honour of our sacred literature, Read with a kindness born of trustful hope, Forgiving rambling schoolboy thoughts, too plain To utter with a spasm, or clothe in cold Mosaic fretwork of well-pleasing words, Forgiving youth’s vagaries, want of skill, And blind devotional passion for my home!

In the Shadows.

A POEM IN SONNETS.

Induction.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

“Thou art wearin’ awa’, Jean, Like snaw when it’s thaw, Jean; Thou art wearin’ awa’ To the land o’ the leal.”

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

Miscellaneous Poems.

A Winter Ramble.

We had left the town behind us for a roaming holiday, Beneath an arc of gloom, all dark and indistinct it lay, And the fog was wreathed about it like a robe of iron-gray.

But a carpeting of leaflets, and a canopy of blue, And the mystery of ether as the warming sunshine grew, Sent a mellow thrill of happiness our eager spirits through.

And over lanes, where Winter bluff had shook his hoary beard, Where in the naked hedgerows the broodless nests appear’d, And the brown leaves of the beech-tree were with silver gloss veneer’d.

We wandered and we pondered till half the morn was spent, And the red orb through the tangled boughs his cunning vigour sent, And the valley mists all melted at his glance omnipotent.

Dim on a sloping hill-side, clothed in a misty pall, Stands a turret grey and hoary, where the ancient ivies crawl, Their Arab arms round casement, sill, and door, and mould’ring wall.

And there we halted half-an-hour within a roofless hall, ’Neath a bower of wildest ivy hanging downwards from the wall, Bearing in its grand luxuriance a flower funereal.

There we talked of the gay plumes erst bent to pass the lintel old, The maidens that were moved to smile at gallant wooers bold, The jovial nights of brave carouse, the wine-cups manifold.

And all the faded glories of the mediæval time, When the age was in its manhood, and the land was in its prime, And manly deeds were chanted in a bold heroic rhyme.

Then, plucking each a sprig, bedecked with simple yellow flower, We scrambled sadly downwards from our old enchanted bower, And the glory of the sunshine fell upon us like a shower.

Once more beneath the concave of a clear effulgent sky, Where flocks of cawing rooks to the mansion wavered by— A mansion standing coldly ’mid a windy rookery.

And over breezy mountains, where the poacher, with his gun, Stood lonely as a boulder-stone ’tween earth and shining sun, We wandered and we pondered till the winter day was done.

The Home-Comer.

My Brown Little Brother of Three.

“Happy child! Thou art so exquisitely wild, I think of thee with many tears, For what may be thy lot in future years.” Wordsworth.

The “Auld Aisle”—a Burying-Ground.

The wreck of centuries is buried here; The very monuments are hoar with age; The empty tower that sentinels them all Wails when the gusts wild wander o’er the earth, And creaks the rusty gate with careless Time. Methinks I see the silent funeral Wend slowly up this hill with soulless load. Backward swings sullen the disusëd gate, And quiet, with measured steps, they enter here, And cross the moundy sward, amongst the stones, To where the red clay gapes. How mournfully Are the last rites paid to a fleshly frame! Behold the old man with the sunken eyes And broken heart. This was his eldest-born. A black-eyed boy he was, and in his youth He was his joy and hope. And oft he gazed Into his laughing face, and dreamed of times When in his youthful strength he would him shield, And help him to the stone before the door In summer time, when streamlets murmured clear. So he grew up, but scorned the homely ways Of the grey place of his nativity. He saw the sun rise from behind the hills, His well-thumbed book firm clasped in his young hand. He saw it sink within the breezy glen, And all the birds shrink from its burning face To shade in nests, his book firm clasped in hand. But most he pondered over nature’s book— The bubbled rill and the green-bladed corn, The lowly wild-flowers and the leafy trees Alive with music. His father wondered strange, And prouder grew of his bold quiet son, Who spoke without restraint or lowly eye Unto God’s minister. And he would tell At other fire-sides of his wondrous ways, The oft-trimmed lamp when others were indrawn; Nor did he check the working of the mind And wearing of the flesh. He knew no harm. So time grew older still, and he went off, With paler face and heavier looks, to where The sons of learning prosecute their toils.

But here he pined like a transplanted flower Borne from its native soil. No grass was here, Where he might lie, and watch the mighty clouds All floating in the blue. No lark was here, In love with angels, but the place was lone And dark and cold. No milkmaid’s song was here, Hushed when he passed upon the mountain side, And anxious eye that gazed till he was gone. And ’mid the throng of battling human kind, No simple eye nor horny hand sought his, Or voice, with homely accents, spoke relief. All was unknown, unheeded, but his books, Which were his very self, his only friend.

And rich he was in lore, and strong in hope, But heaven was panting for an inmate more: In heaven his place was vacant; as at home. And time grew older still, and he came home To see his father, but he ne’er went back. His body could not hold his restless soul, That longed, with eagle strength, to pierce the clouds, And so it burst this yielding bond on earth, Already, by a lengthened struggle, weak. His father saw him die. He never left His bedside; but with eyes that seemed as glazed, For ever staring at the sharpened face, He stood and stood and wept not. In that time His son saw heaven and chided all delay. His father knew not of the words of blame That blest his dying breath. He seized the clay, And clutched it desperately unto his breast. The arms fell down, nor gave returning press. And that crush broke the doting father’s heart. This is the grave beside that white gravestone: Hold back the nettles while I read its lay:—

Epitaph.

Beneath me lies the rotting faded mask Of a young mind that studied heaven well; Ne’er in the sun of pleasure did he bask, But loved hope’s shadow and fair virtue’s dell. He died while on the road to yonder sky, And every one that wanders careless here, Tread soft, and hark! Is not time hurrying by? Begone and pray; the Day of Judgment’s near!

I have seen children playing in this place, Have heard the voice of psalms sound plaintive here, And sighs commingle with these strains of love, For memory is dewy with salt tears.

Yet some lie here unknown to all. They came Parentless, and they died and buried were By careless hands, that threw the wormy clods All hastily upon the coffin lid And then went home. Perhaps some empty chair, Like to a last year’s nest, still waits for them. Perhaps a nightly prayer still ascends Among the breathings of a family home, To hasten their return. Let us away And gather stones and place them at their heads.

Could all the tales that wait around the graves, Like volumes of wet sighs, be garnered up: How hollow would each swelling heap resound.

Here one who died in mirth, and while the laugh, The merry laugh of joy did paint his face, Death frowned, and smote the smiling victim dead.

Here one who wept to see the flushing sun Glide reddening from his window bars, and set To rise again, and dry the silent dew From his damp grave.

Here one who lingered long, And every morn the fields missed knots of flowers Borne to his bedside. And his eyes grew wild When the sun’s withering gaze stared in upon them, And he would press them to his fluttering heart, And face the mighty orb, defiant-like, As if to hurl it from the empty sky, For daring thus to blight his darling flowers. Poor fellow, he was mad.

May God forbid That clownish foot should crush the gentle clay, Or break the daisy stalks or primrose buds, That bloom beside the low white marble stone In yon lone spot.

To Jeanette.

“I did hear you talk Far above singing; after you were gone, I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched What stirred it so! Alas! I found it love.”

I write thy name, and kiss it, dear Jeanette, in most impulsive fear! I whisper it into my heart, And then its music makes me start In sudden gladness. I am fain To let the echo die again! Thy image groweth out of air Until, entranced, I pause and stare Into thy dear ideal eyes— The shadow of God’s paradise.

I am in love with thee, thou dear Jeanette, and keep my spirit clear For thy embrace. It cannot be That thou wilt keep aloof from me Like that immortal Florentine Whom Tasso lov’d. O I would pine Into a pale accusing dream To haunt thy pillow, and would seem So fond and sad, thy heart would fret For its unkindness, good Jeanette!

O many a long glad summer day I laughed at love, and deemed his sway The tinkle of an idle tongue, A fancy only to be sung. But thou all-beautiful! hast more Of this, the thrilling passion—love— In one soft tress of plaited gold, Than blessed Petrarch could unfold. I love thee, dear Jeanette! I love Thee, O how dearly! Far above All singing is my love for thee, Thou paradise of ecstasy! Make me immortal with a kiss Of earnest pressure, and all bliss Is mine for ever, ever! Dear Jeanette, beloved, adored in fear!

The Poet and his Friend.

And, sitting by the still translucent water, In pleasaunce sweet we quaffed the liquid cold; Lo! as we drank, there passed a fairer daughter Of Beauty than Fidessa. Then the old— Yet never old, immortal song of glory, Breathing of summer bower and emerald lea, And fountain bubbling coldly—Spenser’s story Thrilled all our brains to living ecstasy: Such power had maiden floating onward maidenly.

And pondered we, above that placid wave, How we were thrown upon a colder day; Yet, by the sword of Arthur! quite as brave, As wondrous willing for the haughty fray As Arthegal and Guyon. So we rose And joined our hands in fervent heat, and swore By old Renown’s endeavours, and by those Who battled well and won, to dream no more, But through a sea of fears to struggle for the shore.

I think no good of him who takes his ease, As pigeon-livered in the human game As Braggadocio: on the tranquil seas All ships sail nobly; but whoe’er is tame To face the waves when fringed with windy spray, Is but a coward. Let him live, then rot! No man shall speak of him, no pilgrim lay A twist of wild-flowers on the common spot That marks his meagre dust—the poltroon is forgot.

But, good friend! we shall fight. Even he who fails In a great cause is noble. Time will show The best and worst of it; and while it hails Some worthy Song-kings of the long-ago, Perhaps our names will echo with the rest, And in no feebleness. Meantime, oh fight! In the thick hurry of the battle press’d, Clothed on with resolution, the soul’s might— Be Hector or Achilles!—God defend the right!

The Two Streams.

Evening.

The Love-Tryst.

O hasten, hasten down your azure road, And darken all the golden zones of heaven, Bright Sun, for I am weary for my love.

An Epistle to a Friend.

Not all the sweets of Castaly— That river Heliconian, Adorn’d with swans of queenly snow, Of ancient brood Strymonian; Not all the maiden Muses nine, With tresses loosely flowing, Could magnetise a single line, Or set my quill a-going;

Until I thought of thee, dear friend— Best loved, though long unheeded; Then forth the virgin pages came, And quick my fingers speeded. This very hour I’ll make amends, This lonely hour quiescent, When all the stars are in the blue, ’Mid lustre irridescent.

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.

From the calm Transparent waters float some thrilling sounds Of Amphionic music, and the words Are Tasso’s, where he passions for his love, That lady Florentine so lily-smooth, Clothed on with haughtiness!

At the black stair Of palace rising shadowy from the wave, Two singing gondolieri wait a freight Of loveliness. A tremulous woman, robed In dazzling satin, and whose dimpled arms, And milky heaving breasts of living snow Shine through their veil diaphanous, floats down From the wide portal; and the ivory prow Of the soft-cushion’d gondola (as she Steps lightly from the marble to her place) Dips, rises, dips again; then through the blue Swift glides into the sunset.

Oh, the glow Of that rich sunset dims whate’er I see In this my own dear valley! O’er the hills— Those craggy Euganean hills, whose peaks Wedge the clear crystalline—a blazonry Of clouds pavilion’d, folded, interwound Inextricably, load the breezeless west With awe and glory. The effulgence gleams Upon a vision’d Belmont, home of her Who loved as Shakespeare’s women do; and gleams Upon those walls wherein Othello’s spear Stabb’d clinging innocence; where that poor wife, The love-Cassandra Belvidera, gave Her soul in martyrdom to love and woe.

And shall I never that far town behold, Crested with sparkling columns, fiery towers, Praxitelean masonry?—behold Venice, the mart of nations, ere I die? By Heaven! her common merchants princes were Unto the continents; her traffickers The honourable of the earth! She stood A crownèd city, and the fawning sea Licked her white feet; and the eternal sun Kissed with departing beam her brow of snow!

Woe to this Venice, with her crown of pride! The Lady of the kingdoms, the perfection Of beauty, and the joy of the whole earth! Through her pavilions shall the crannying winds Whistle, and all her borders in the sea Crumble their Parian wonder. Woe to her, Whose glorious beauty is a fading flower! Her sober-suited nightingales, with notes Of smooth liquidity and softened stops, Solace the brakes; and ’mid her ancient streets Tawny, the gleaming and harmonious sea Makes silvery melody of bygone days. O white Enchantment! Ocean-spouse of old! When thy high battlements and bulging domes, By sunset purpled, trembled in the wave! Now o’er thy towers the Lord hath spread his hand, And as a cottage shalt thou be removed; Like Nineveh, or cloudy Babylon!

The Anemone.

Beneath a clump of furze it grew; And never mortal eye did view Its rathe and slender beauty, till I saw it in no mocking mood; For with its sweetness did it fill To me the ample solitude. A fond remembrance made me see Strange light in the anemone.

One April day when I was seven, Beneath the clear and deepening heaven, My father, God preserve him! went With me a Scottish mile and more; And in a playful merriment He deck’d my bonnet o’er and o’er— To fling a sunshine on his ease— With tenderest anemones.

Now, gentle reader, as I live, This snowy little bloom did give My being most endearing throes. I saw my father in his prime; But youth it comes, and youth it goes, And he has spent his blithest time: Yet dearer grown thro’ all to me, And dearer the anemone.

So with the spirit of a sage I pluck’d it from its hermitage, And placed it ’tween the sacred leaves Of Agnes’ Eve at that rare part Where she her fragrant robe unweaves, And with a gently beating heart, In troubled bliss and balmy woe, Lies down to dream of Porphyro.

Let others sing of that and this, In war and science find their bliss; Vainly they seek and will not find The subtle lore that nature brings Unto the reverential mind, The pathos worn by common things, By every flower that lights the lea, And by the pale anemone.

The Yellowhammer.

When delicate April in each dell Was silently completing Her ministry in bud and bell, To grace the summer’s meeting; My birchen tree of glossy rind Determined not to be behind; So with a subtle power The buds began to flower.

And I could watch from out my house The twigs with leaflets thicken; From glossy rind to twining boughs The milky sap ’gan quicken. And when the fragrant form was green No fairer tree was to be seen, All Gartshore woods adorning, Where doves are always mourning.

But never dove with liquid wing, Or neck of changeful gleaming, Came near my garden tree to sing Or croodle out its meaning. But this sweet day, an hour ago, A yellowhammer clear and low, In love and tender pity Thrilled out his dainty ditty.

And I was pleased, as you may think, And blessed the little singer: ‘O fly for your mate to Luggie brink, Dear little bird! and bring her; And build your nest among the boughs, A sweet and cosy little house Where ye may well content ye, Since true love is so plenty.

And when she sits upon her nest, Here are cool shades to shroud her.’ At this the singer sang his best, O louder yet, and louder; Until I shouted in my glee, His song had so enchanted me. No nightingale could pant on In joy so wise and wanton.

But at my careless noise he flew, And if he chance to bring her A happy bride the summer thro’ ’Mong birchen boughs to linger, I’ll sing to you in numbers high A summer song that shall not die, But keep in memory clearly The bird I love so dearly.

The Cuckoo.

O why within that lusty wood Did I the fairy sight behold? O why within that solitude Was I thus blindly overbold? My heart, forgive me! for indeed I cannot speak my thrilling pain: The wonder vanished from the earth, The passion from my brain.

Fame.

A Fragment.

Honeysuckle.

Where the Lilies used to Spring.

When the sun is high in the summer sky, And the lake is deep with clouds; When gadflies bite the prancing kine, And light the lark enshrouds— Then the butterfly, like a feather dropped From the tip of an angel’s wing, Floats wavering on to the glancing spot Where the lilies used to spring!

When the wheat is shorn and the burns run brown, And the moon shines clear at night; When wains are heaped with rustling corn, And the swallows take their flight; When the trees begin to cast their leaves, And the birds, new-feathered, sing— Then comes the bee to the glancing spot Where the lilies used to spring!

When the sky is grey and the trees are bare, And the grass is long and brown, And black moss clothes the soft damp thatch, And the rain comes weary down, And countless droplets on the pond Their widening orbits ring— Then bleak and cold is the silent spot Where the lilies used to spring!

Snow.

O weary passed each winter day, And windily howled each winter night; O miry grew each village way, And mists enfolded every height; And ever on the window pane A froward gust blew down with rain, And day by day in tawny brown The Luggie stream came heaving down:— I could have fallen asleep and dreamed Until again spring sunshine gleamed.

And what! said I, is this the mode That Winter kings it now-a-days? The Robin keeps its own abode, And pipes his independent lays. I’ve seen the day on Merkland hill, That snow has fallen with a will, Even in November! Now, alas; The whole year round we see the grass:— Ah, winter now may come and go Without a single fall of snow.

It was the latest day but one Of winter, as I questioned thus; And sooth! an angry mood was on, As at a thing most scandalous;— When lo! some hailstones on the pane With sudden tinkle rang amain, Till in an ecstasy of joy I clapp’d and shouted like a boy— Oh, rain may come and rain may go, But what can match the falling snow!

It draped the naked sycamore On Foordcroft hill, above the well; The elms of Rosebank o’er and o’er Were silvered richly as it fell. The distant Campsie peaks were lost, And farthest Criftin with his host Of gloomy pine-trees disappeared, Nor even a lonely ridge upreared.— Oh, rain may come and rain may go, But what can match the falling snow!

Afar upon the Solsgirth moor, Each heather sprig of withered brown Is fringed with thread of silver pure As slow the soft flakes waver down; And on Glenconner’s lonely path, And Gartshore’s still and open strath, It falleth, quiet as the birth Of morning o’er the quickening earth.— Oh, rain may come and rain may go, But what can match the falling snow!

And all around our Merkland home Is laid a sheet of virgin lawn; On fairer, softer, ne’er did roam The nimble Oread or Faun. There is a wonder in the air, A living beauty everywhere; As if the whole had ne’er been planned, But touched by Merlin’s famous wand, Suddenly woke beneath his hand To potent bliss in fairy show— A mighty ravishment of snow!

October.

O for a quill pluck’d from the soaring wing Of an archangel, dipped in holy dew, To catch thy latest looks, thou loveliest October, o’er the many-coloured woods! October! vastlier disconsolate Than Saturn guiding melancholy spheres, Through ante-mundane silence and ripe death. Ere the last stack is housed, and woods are bare, And the vermilion fruitage of the brier Is soaked in mist, or shrivelled up with frost; Ere warm Spring nests are coldly to be seen Tenantless, but for rain and the cold snow, While yet there is a loveliness abroad,— The frail and indescribable loveliness Of a fair form Life with reluctance leaves, Being there only powerful,—while the earth Wears sackcloth in her great prophetic grief:—

Then the reflective melancholy soul,— Aimlessly wandering with slow falling foot The heath’ry solitude, in hope to assuage The cunning humour of his malady,— Loses his painful bitterness, and feels His own specific sorrows one by one Taken up in the huge dolour of all things.

O the sweet melancholy of the time When gently, ere the heart appeals, the year Shines in the fatal beauty of decay! When the sun sinks enlarged on Carronben, Nakedly visible without a cloud, And faintly from the faint eternal blue (That dim, sweet harebell-colour) comes the star Which evening wears;—when Luggie flows in mist, And in the cottage windows one by one, With sudden twinkle household lamps are lit, What noiseless falling of the faded leaf!

Sweet on a blossoming summer’s afternoon, When Fancy plays the wizard in the brain, Idly to saunter thro’ a lusty wood! But sweeter far—by how much sweeter, God Alone hath knowledge—in a pensive mood, Outstretched on green moss-velvet floss’d with thyme, To watch the fall o’ the leaf before the moon Shines out in sweet completion circular. For when the sunset hath withdrawn its gold And glimmering, like the surcease Of rich, low melody, erst inaudible streams Find voices in their still unwearied flow; And winds that have been much above the moors And mountains, have a deadly feel of cold, Forespeaking clear blue dawns and frosty chill.

The Roman Dyke.

Miscellaneous Sonnets.

Ezekiel.

The Mavis.

Despondency.

The Moon.

I.

II.

The Luggie.

I.

II.

III.

Thomas the Rhymer.

The Lime-Tree.

The Brooklet.

Maidenhood.

Sleep.

The Days of Old Mythology.

Discontentment.

Snow.

The Thrush.

Stars.

My Epitaph.

DAVID GRAY. September 27, 1861.

Gray’s Monument.

At the inauguration of the Monument erected to the Poet’s Memory in the “Auld Aisle” Burying Ground, Kirkintilloch, July 29, 1865, Mr. Bell said:—

David Gray, was born on the 29th January, 1838, and reared in his father’s house here at Merkland till he reached his fourteenth year. His parents, seeing as they did his disposition and his genius, thought they might find means to bring up their son for the Church. With that view he was sent into Glasgow, and as he required funds to aid him in the prosecution of his studies, at that very early age he became a pupil-teacher in the city. He contrived also to attend the famous University there for four successive sessions. But during all that time his mind was brimming over with poetry, which rose like a rising tide above his Latin, above his Greek, above his theological studies. He had a very ardent and ambitious fancy; he had high aspirations; he had an earnest belief that he was born to be a poet, and to attain fame. In one so young it might have been thought that this was an overweening conception of his own powers. But in reality it was not. A poet is also a vates or prophet, and there is no reason why he should not be permitted sometimes to prophesy of himself. David Gray prophesied of himself that his name would yet be known to his fellow-countrymen as a poet and a teacher, for every true poet is a true teacher. In May, 1860, when he had so far completed his studies in Glasgow, and had arrived at the age of nearly 22, he started alone for London. He had read of the great literary world of the metropolis, and he was fired with an ambition to mingle in it and to make himself, if possible, known to some of the men there. He was fortunate in forming the acquaintance, very soon after going to London, of Mr. Monckton Milnes, now Lord Houghton, who at once formed a correct appreciation of the poet’s character and genius. Lord Houghton has himself put it upon record that he found in David Gray what appeared to him to be the making of a great man. He has also recorded of him that upon first seeing him he was strongly reminded of the poet Shelley. Gray had a light, well-built form; he had a full brow and an out-looking eye; and he had a sensitive, melancholy mouth. So Lord Houghton speaks of him. He formed also in London other acquaintances of value, including Mr. Oliphant, then Private Secretary to Lord Elgin, now member for the Stirling Burghs. As to Sydney Dobell, the poet, I do not know that he actually formed the personal acquaintance of that gentleman; but he had frequent correspondence with Mr. Dobell, and received from him valuable letters, and suggestions, and assistance. He formed the acquaintance of a very estimable woman—Miss Marian James—herself an authoress of great reputation. Nearer at home he had already attained the friendly companionship of some whom he valued much. I am delighted to see two of those gentlemen present to-night—Mr. W. Freeland, David Gray’s early and attached friend, now of the Herald Office, Glasgow, and Mr. James Hedderwick, himself a poet and an editor of great reputation. He had not, however, been long in London till he was seized with a cold which rapidly assumed the character of consumption. Lord Houghton and others, feeling deeply interested in him, got him sent to the South of England for a time; but the disease making rapid progress, David Gray was seized with an irresistible home-sickness, and notwithstanding all the kindness, and all the attention of his friends in the South, in January, 1861, he made his re-appearance at his father’s house down there in Merkland. He lived there from January, 1861, to the 3d December of the same year, when he died. That is the brief record of this young poet’s life—almost all the incidents in it, all the events connected with it. But who can record, or who shall attempt to record the thousand thoughts and emotions that passed through his mind, that illuminated his fancy, and that kindled his genius? Who shall say how these familiar woods, and fields, and glens, and streams were to him dearer, a thousand times dearer and more romantic, than any woods, or fields, or glens, or streams in any other part of the world. No man but a true poet has that warm affection for home scenes, for his country, for his native land, for the friends of his youth; no man but a true poet has those sentiments in their height and in their depth; and if ever a man entertained them, the poetical remains of David Gray prove that he had them in a deep, pathetic, and most earnest manner. Upon his death-bed, within three days of his death, he received what appears to me to be a particularly beautiful letter from Marian James, breathing that alma gentile which none but a refined and pure woman possesses. I never saw David Gray, but I have seen to-night the humble room in which he was born; I have seen the home in which he was afterwards reared—a simple, rural house, belonging to a simple, honest, and upright family, such a family as Scotland is always proud of—and of such families I am proud to know that Scotland possesses her thousands and tens of thousands. I saw his mother to-night, and was deeply impressed with the apparent simplicity and earnestness of her character. I owe her my gratitude and my thanks for her presenting me with a book which belonged to her son, and which contains many of his private markings. I shall always retain it as a valuable and most esteemed possession. David Gray’s poetical susceptibility was of the most conspicuous description. He had a most refined perception of the beautiful; he had a perception of an interminable vista of beauty and truth. He had noble and pure thoughts, and he has been enabled to express those noble and pure thoughts in very noble and pure language. “The Luggie” is a most remarkable poem, containing many very fine passages, inspired partially, no doubt, by a careful perusal of Thomson’s “Seasons” and Wordsworth’s “Excursion,” and not, therefore, so entirely original as some of the author’s subsequent poems; but with passages breaking out in it every now and then which neither Thomson nor Wordsworth suggested, and which are entirely the conceptions of David Gray’s own genius. “The Luggie,” as has been well said, “may not possess in itself much to attract the painter’s eye, but it has sufficed for a poet’s love.” The series of sonnets entitled “In the Shadows”—written by the poet during his last illness—many of them bearing relation to his own condition, his own life, and his own prospects—appear to me to possess a solemn beauty not surpassed by many of the finest passages in Tennyson’s “In Memoriam,” totally distinct and unlike the “In Memoriam,” but as genuine, as sincere, as heart-stirring, and often as poetical. In the author’s own words, they admit you “to the chancel of a dying poet’s mind;” you feel when you are reading these sonnets that they are written in the sure and immediate prospect of death; but they contain thoughts about life, about the past, and about the future, most powerful and most beautiful. I am not going to ask you to take all this for granted. I think, upon an occasion like this, we ought to show some little reason for the faith that is in us; and, if it will not fatigue you too much, I propose in a few minutes to read two or three of those passages and those sonnets which strike me as worthy of all admiration. I feel confident that these works are destined to take their place amongst standard poetical works in the library of every man of literary taste. We are here, as you have said, upon the occasion of the erection of a monument to David Gray—a monument erected on the spot where he is buried, in a beautiful old churchyard, standing upon the brow of a hill, from which a fine and extensive view of the surrounding valley and hills is commanded. It is a granite monument, and will last, I hope, for centuries. I am sure that in this neighbourhood it will often be visited by persons who feel something like kindred emotions with David Gray, and they will be proud of this neighbourhood that it gave birth in that humble cottage to a man who has added so much charm to its natural scenery. It was felt at the same time, I believe, by the gentlemen in Glasgow who took the principal charge of it, that a great or imposing monument was not the thing that was wanted. A plain, simple, enduring record of respect and esteem was what was wished. Therefore, although the fund I know could have been trebled, quadrupled, with ease, it was thought that when a certain moderate sum was obtained that was enough, and by the aid of the genius of our townsman, Mr. Mossman, I venture to say that an appropriate and suitable monument has now been erected on that spot. I may mention that I find the names in the list of subscribers very varied. Among the Glasgow subscribers I find the name of Mrs. Nichol, widow of the late Professor of Astronomy in our University, who I know took a great interest in David Gray from first to last, and who, I know also, with her usual benevolence, aided in smoothing his dying pillow. I find the name of William Logan, one of the most earnest and attached friends that David Gray ever had; I find Lord Houghton; I find Mr. Bailie Cochrane; I find Mr. Stirling of Keir, the Hon. Julia Fane, the Dowager Duchess of Sutherland, Mr. Macmillan, Mr. MacLehose, Mr. J. A. Campbell, Mr. Hutton, editor of the London Spectator, and many other names. Now Lord Houghton was requested to write an appropriate inscription for this monument. I know it was a labour of love with him, and I know he was anxious to write such an epitaph as would be thought suitable both here and elsewhere; and I venture to say, and I hope you will agree with me, that he has admirably succeeded in the simplicity and truth of that epitaph which has now been engraved on the monument. Such is the young man whose fame we shall not willingly let die, because they who read his works aright derive moral improvement and intellectual benefit from them—because, young as he was when he died, he cherished pure and noble thoughts, and because he has left those pure and noble thoughts as a record to us of his life, and as an incentive to us to endeavour to cherish similar thoughts. Therefore, we owe him a debt of gratitude; and, therefore, without attempting to raise him upon a pinnacle too high—for his life was cut short before the highest aims of his ambition were attained—let it go forth that no true poet in this land, be his position in life what it may, be his birth humble or great—no true poet, no great teacher of the hearts of men, will ever find an ungrateful country in Scotland, as long as it remembers its great poets—as long as it knows that it is the land of Burns. In “The Luggie,” which you are aware is a descriptive and pastoral poem, there are varied moods of thought. There is a good deal of mere description of beautiful scenery, but that, whilst exquisitely done, is also intermingled with many thoughts and feelings which add a richness to the charm of the poet’s description. No mere description of external and lifeless nature, unless brought home to the heart by allusions to human emotion, can ever produce a very strong effect. But David Gray seems to have understood admirably how to combine those two qualities in his descriptive picture, and whilst he describes beautiful external nature, he always takes care at the same time to attract and touch the feelings. I am happy to know that David Gray died in true Christian faith, and amity with all men. I know from the esteemed clergyman who attended him weekly for many a day, that he had those true Christian sentiments which become a man, and most of all become a great man, upon his death-bed. I have had the very greatest satisfaction in being present to-night. I felt it to be an honour to be requested to come here and express my sentiments on such a subject. It is an honour which I feel, and it is a pleasure which I feel still more, for when a man has passed through this world now for a good many years, as I have done, there can be nothing dearer to his heart than expressing sympathy with the great and good, and feeling those expressions of sympathy reflected from the hearts and the eyes of a sympathising audience.

The Monument bears the following inscription:—

this monument of
affection, admiration, and regret,
is erected to

DAVID GRAY,

the poet of merkland,
by friends from far and near,
desirous that his grave should be remembered
amid the scenes of his rare genius
and early death,
and by the luggie, now numbered with the streams
illustrious in scottish song.

Born 29th January, 1838;
Died 3rd December, 1861.

GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS.

Second Edition, just ready, in Extra Fcap. 8vo, Price 6s. 6d.

OLRIG GRANGE,

A Poem in Six Books. Edited by Hermann Kunst, Philol. Professor.

The Tatler in Cambridge.

“One could quote for ever, if a Foolscap Sheet were inexhaustible; but I must beg my Readers, if they want to have a great Deal of Amusement, as well as much Truth beautifully put, to go and order the Book at once. I promise them they will not repent.”

The Examiner.

“The demoralizing influence of our existing aristocratic institutions, on the most gifted and noblest members of the aristocracy has never been so subtly and so powerfully delineated as in ‘Olrig Grange.’”

The Pall Mall Gazette.

“‘Olrig Grange,’ whether the work of a raw or of a ripe versifier, is plainly the work of a ripe and not a raw student of life and nature.... It has dramatic power of a quite uncommon class; satirical and humorous observation of a class still higher, and a very pure and healthy, if perhaps a little too scornful, moral atmosphere.”

The Spectator.

“The story is told in powerful and suggestive verse. The composition is instinct with quick and passionate feeling, to a degree that attests the truly poetic nature of the man who produced it.... The author exhibits a fine and firm discrimination of character, a glowing and abundant fancy, a subtle eye to read the symbolism of nature, and great wealth and mastery of language, and he has employed it for worthy purposes.”

The Academy.

“The pious self-pity of the worldly mother, and the despair of the worldly daughter, are really brilliantly put.”

“The story is worked out with quite uncommon power.”

New Poem, by the author of “Olrig Grange.”

AUSTEN LYELL. A Poem in Six Books.

Extra Fcap. 8vo, Cloth.

[Immediately.

SONGS AND FABLES.

By the late Professor W. Macquorn Rankine,
with 10 Illustrations by J. B. (Mrs. Blackburn).
Extra Fcap. 8vo, Cloth.

[Immediately.

Glasgow: JAMES MACLEHOSE, PUBLISHER TO THE UNIVERSITY.
LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO.

In One Vol., Extra Fcap. 8vo., Cloth, Price 5s.

HILLSIDE RHYMES:

among the rocks he went, and still looked up to sun and cloud and listened to the wind.

Scotsman.

“Let anyone who cares for fine reflective poetry read for himself and judge. Besides the solid substance of thought which pervades it, he will find here and there those quick insights, those spontaneous felicities of language which distinguish the man of natural power from the man of mere cultivation.... Next to an autumn day among the hills themselves commend us to poems like these, in which so much of the finer breath and spirit of those pathetic hills is distilled into melody.”

Glasgow Herald.

“The author of ‘Hillside Rhymes’ has lain on the hillsides, and felt the shadows of the clouds drift across his half-shut eyes. He knows the sough of the fir-trees, the crooning of the burns, the solitary bleating of the moorland sheep, the quiet of a place where the casual curlew is his only companion, and a startled grouse-cock the only creature that can regard him with enmity or suspicion. The silence of moorland nature has worked into his soul, and his verse helps a reader pent within a city to realize the breezy heights, the sunny knolls, the deepening glens, or the slopes aglow with those crackling flames with which the shepherds fire the heather.”

Just Ready, in Extra Fcap. 8vo, Cloth, Price 7s. 6d.

HANNIBAL:

A Historical Drama. By John Nichol, B.A., Oxon.,

Professor of English Language and Literature in the

University of Glasgow.

The Saturday Review.

“After the lapse of many centuries, an English Poet is found paying to the great Carthaginian the worthiest poetical tribute which has as yet, to our knowledge, been offered to his noble and stainless name.”

The Athenæum.

“Probably the best and most accurate conception of Hannibal ever yet given in English. Professor Nichol has done a really valuable work. From first to last of the whole five acts there is hardly a page that sinks to the level of mediocrity.”

The Dublin Telegraph.

“Professor Nichol has just given us a volume which bids fair to open a new era in poetry, and secures to the author a position among the first poets of the day.”

The Morning Post.

“Glasgow has good reason to be proud of her Professor of English Literature, in which he now takes a prominent place by right of his admirable classic drama. Criticism will award him a regal seat on Parnassus, and laurel leaves without stint.”

Glasgow: JAMES MACLEHOSE, PUBLISHER TO THE UNIVERSITY.
LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO.

Footnotes:

[A] Psalm cxlvii. 16-18.

[B] I am almost certain this name of the bird is merely local, but I know no other.—[Mr. Robt. Gray, a well-known authority, says the bird alluded to is the Missel-Thrush.—Ed.]

[C] This is a saying of Socrates.

Transcriber's Notes:

The cover image was created by the transcriber, and is in the public domain.

Uncertain or antiquated spellings or ancient words were not corrected.

Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.

Added subsection “Miscellaneous Poems” to Table of Contents as it is included in the text.