Part 2
'Midst fairy scenes like these, Whose fruitage beautiful allures each sense, And whose green leaves, in blooming eloquence, Exert their aim to please,
Can thought, in its career Of joy, pause midway, and with care alight?-- Can fancy, eagle-winged, restrain its flight, To dream of winter drear?
In noonday's warmest ray We deem that darkness has our clime forsook: Backward or forward we refuse to look; But on the present stay.
Yet let not gloom be here! The Earth rejoices now in Nature's prime; Season of joy,--the holiday of Time,-- The Sabbath of the year!
No. VIII.--THE SUNSHINE OF POETRY.
THINK not the poet's song Worthless or idle; do not deem his lay Fantastic, that he offers by the way, To make it seem less long.
His numbers have their use, Though foolish they may sound to worldling's ear; His own lot, if no other's, they may cheer; His own content produce.
Does he not add a light To earth-born beauty, wanting it unknown? To bloom give balm, to melody a tone, Make brightness seem more bright?
Does he not fill the air With sights, and shapes, and shadows?--make the sky The dwelling-place of beings, which no eye But his can image there?
And more than all, his lay Awakes new feelings in the human heart, And visions bring that never can depart, When once they feel his sway.
To him the power is given To soothe the broken heart, the care-worn mind; And the waked soul in dreams ecstatic bind, And bear away to heaven:
For to none else does earth Look with so fair a promise; yea, to none Speaks she with such an eloquence of tone, Or to such thoughts gives birth,
Ah! who may analyse The cloistered feelings of the poet's soul, When Nature's impulse vibrates through the whole, And Truth, that never dies!
Creation's beauties bring Renewed enjoyment, and his genius fire; For every sight, and every sound, inspire His inmost heart to sing!
His birthright is to live In citizenship with Nature;--to hold Communion with her mysteries, his old And high prerogative!
Seeks he for wealth, denied By worldlings, lucre-led, of sordid mind; His heritage,--free, fertile, unconfined,-- Is Nature's pastures wide.
Pants he for peace, to throw A solace on his soul? The voice that breathes Its music, 'mong the wild flowers' clustering wreaths, Does to his heart bestow
A bliss that none can share, Save him whom Nature to some far-sought wild Has led, anointed as her chosen child, And made her sacred care.
Where'er the breezes roam, The mountains soar, or ocean's wave is thrown, The poet's spirit, free as Nature's own, Finds for itself a home!
No. IX.--AUTUMN, IN ITS FIRST ASPECT.
THE orchard's plenteous store, The apple-boughs o'erburdened with their load, That passers-by may gather from the road, Hang now the near walls o'er:
And filberts, bursting fair, Seduce the loiterer to reach the hand, And pluck the offered treasures of the land, With wood-nuts that are there.
The still hill-sides are clad With bloom; the distant moorland now is bright With blossom, and with beauty; the rich sight The heart of man makes glad.
The hamlet is at peace; And, in the ripened fields, the reapers ply Their useful labour; while a golden sky Smiles on the soil's increase.
To the romantic spring, That gushes lone beneath the neighbouring hill, The cottage maidens go, their jars to fill, While carols rude they sing!
Sweet is the cuckoo's song In early Spring, and musical and blessed The nightingale--young Summer's lutenist-- Pours its gay notes-along;
And, in the thunder's roar, In Autumn, when the sudden lightnings flash, Sweet sings the missel-thrush amid the crash, The bursting tempest o'er!
As solitary tree, That, pilgrim-like, scathless, amid the shock Of rudest storms, that burst the sterner rock, Stands in its grandeur free.
But sweeter than them all, And softer than the voice of love returned, Are the untutored lays of lips sunburned, From village maids that fall!
To schoolboys' feelings dear Is rich-toned Autumn. Oh! with what a zest They plunge in stream retired,--despoil a nest,-- Or ramble far and near.
How oft, when changeful Time Has sprinkled o'er our locks its silver threads, Remembrance brings to mind--and gladness sheds-- The pastimes of our prime!
The lowing of the kine, In distant meadow-glades, comes on the ear, With taste of nature fresh, like far-off cheer Of rustics, as they join
The merry dance at eve; Each rural sound has in it joy and health: Man now should garner thought, as well as wealth, And gladly truth receive.
The calm and picturesque; The foliaged cedar, and the wreathëd beech, More glowing thoughts and impulses can teach Than Learning from his desk!
No. X.--AUTUMN, IN ITS SECOND ASPECT.
NOW, Autumn's mantle brown Falls on the woods and fields, the leaves are sere, And, like sad offerings to the rifled year, They drop in clusters down:
The land is lone and bare; The grateful trees themselves of leaves divest To form a covering for earth's naked breast, With reverential care;
For why should they be left In all their foliage, when the sunshine's grace Is gone from off the hills, and Nature's face Is of its charms bereft?
The distance grey, becomes Like a thin thread of silver, long drawn out;-- But hark the cheerful tabor, and the shout! The sound of merry drums!
Now sportive Harvest-Home By vintagers and villagers is held, And heart-bright wine, and strong-lipped ale are welled, Like water at the foam:
And labourers rejoice, That fruits of field and orchard all are housed; And the glad song of thankfulness is roused From every manly voice!
The high ancestral hall,-- Where Health delights to dwell, and generous Mirth Holds, when the corn is gathered from the earth, A grateful festival,--
Adorns the waning scene. Here may be heard, when in a musing mood, The cawing of the old rooks in the wood, That flanks it like a screen.
Is there not much to cheer In the glad sounds that still from hill and vale, And glen remote, come echoed on the gale To greet th' excited ear?
Lo! o'er the changing sward Sweep now the huntsmen in the rapid chace, The deep-toned yell of hounds, mouthing the trace Of the fleet deer, is heard.
In lone and hoary wood, Where the wild cherry and the yellow elm Commingled with the oak, the soul o'erwhelm With visions many-hued;
There comes a solemn tone, Like what is felt, in passing down the while Some old cathedral's venerable aisle,-- A feeling all its own!
But now, at close of day, When the damp vapoury veil of eve is gone, Of gathering winds, the mournful dirge-like moan, Sounds wildly far away.
For winter casts its shade Before it, and the year begins to feel Its chilling influences on it steal, Like touches of the dead!
No. XI.--SUNSET.
LIGHT on the landscape shines Awhile, ere vanishing, as loth to leave;-- Upon the mead, the wearied ox at eve Familiarly reclines.
The plough is left a-field, And the rude labourer, from his toil set free, Leads his tired steads forth o'er the upturned lea, Refreshing drink to yield.
The hills with light are dyed; And pointing spires peer o'er the distant trees, As one tall vessels in the horizon sees, Careering in their pride!
Each meek flower, white and red, That tufts the meadow, in fresh odour sleeps, Ere the departing Day from off the steeps Lifts his resplendent head.
The golden-tissued clouds, Amid which now the Sun, world-worshipped, sinks, Retain his glory still upon their brinks, As gloom the earth enshrouds!
Slowly the darkness creeps Up the lone hill-sides, shadow-like, by sighs Of ev'ning lullabyed, as on man's eyes Steals slumber ere he sleeps!
Thus on the mountain-oak, And on the hoary castle's ruined walls, The rotting ivy, clinging as it falls, Seems their past strength to mock.
Exalted are the thoughts That rise within our souls at such a time; The vast, the wild, the awful, the sublime, Embodied, round us floats!
And the hushed spirit seems To listen to the tones from giants flung; Echoes of war-songs, that of old were sung, Now rush like mountain streams:
And what come on the sight Are not the puny visions of the day; The near and the familiar pass away, With the departing light:
Each mountain range that towers In desert grandeur o'er the darkening scene, Looks like a spirit standing now between Another world and ours!
Oh! ye time-honoured hills, The Ancient, the Immortal--is it not A high-born privilege ne'er to be forgot, To feel none of earth's ills?
Sublime ye are as Heaven! Though bleak not barren, silent yet not dumb, From out your shadows health and music come, And thronging thoughts are given!
Not worthless is your aim, To stand from age to age, from hour to hour, The Almighty's temple, token of his power, And record of his name!
No. XII.--TWILIGHT.
NOW enter we within The shadows of the ev'ning, as they wind Around the mountains' summits, and remind Our startled souls of sin,
Coiling, like serpent twist, Round every thought and impulse; thus the night Brings down its sable curtain o'er the sight, And veils the world in mist.
The shrill-piped curlew's song Wanders, like poesy, in distant glades; And inexpressive notes that to eve's shades Are fitted, pass along!
The beetle's drone is heard, Dull, sluggish, heavy, in the dark-hued lane: And, hark! afar, the melancholy strain Of Echo!--twilight's bard!
At this lone hour we seek Some quiet spot, to meditation free;-- When the Material we do not see, Then Fancy may bespeak
Aught that she will;--the dim And shadowy her peopled world, she finds Forms in the darkness;--in the troublous winds Can trace a conqueror's hymn!
Sleep has its dreams, and night Its inspirations,--bounding, changing still,-- Imagination on some shrouded hill Does, eagle-like, alight.
Ah! not an hour ago Here hamlets stood, and palaces, and fields: What man has furnished, what creation yields, And what the earth does grow:
And now, where are they all? Gone with the mighty, vanished with the past: For twilight, enviously, has o'er them cast Her black unpiercing pall,
And shut all out to sight.-- Oh! bat-eyed vision! Oh! weak mortal eyes! Are there no mountains left--no shining skies-- No rivers clothed in light?
Are there no happy broods Of little flowers in rustic ways remote? No pathways to the woods? And, oh! fell thought, No golden-foliaged woods?
Such fancies rise to sight In night's tranquillity, where Thought is born;-- But back the laughing world will come with morn-- Life is not all a blight!
Should clouded be to-day, Bring yesterday, and all its joys to view;-- Though no to-morrow offers to renew Their smile--'tis not away!
'Twill dawn in after-time On memory.--The charm of Nature's looks, The voice of birds, the minstrelsy of brooks, Live ever in their prime!
No. XIII.--MOONLIGHT ON LAND.
THE early bridal Moon Comes in her splendour forth, and walks between The stars of Heaven, like an anointed queen Amid her maids at noon.
Now from the sleeping hills The spectral mist-wreaths quickly pass away, Beneath her pale, but earth enamoured ray, And glory all things fills.
Forth let us wander, led By odours sweet; leaving th' accustomed way, The valley seek we, where the moonbeams stray, Like May-flowers newly shed!
The distant streamlets sing Their vesper hymn.--Is there a voice below Can give such music, mingled with such woe, Or can such rapture bring?
In the far wild we hear That soothing tone its murmurings repeat, And the more sad, the sweeter, as is meet The spirit lone to cheer.
Fair is the sky, and fair The earth; and yet 'tis but the moon, this night, That lights them both, and makes them look so bright,-- Clothes them in beauty rare!
And who are they that come Into the moonlight from the tranquil shade, And then shrink back, as to be seen afraid, With feelings that are dumb? Two lovers fond and true Holding communion with each other's hearts;-- The first pure glow of love that ne'er departs, Which moonlight scenes renew.
Who has not on the moon Looked long and musingly, and, looking, dreamed Of love and loveliness? Who has not deemed Its ray a granted boon?
The unveiled orb of night-- To which the sighs and orisons, flow'r-wreathed, Of lovers in all ages have been breathed,-- Bathes all she sees in light.
Her tracery is rich With images Mosaic, soft inlaid;-- Forms, heav'n-traced, slumber 'twixt the light and shade, In every quiet niche.
Moonlight is not like eld,-- For it is young, and bright, and fresh and clear; But age the features sharpens, and brings near Resemblances withheld: So moonlight in its pride Outlines the landscape, and brings out to view Scenes of bright promise, and of fairy hue, By glen and mountain side!
In moonlit mead or dell My soul endenizened, imbibes a tone Of nature-nurtured truth, which still is prone A plaintive tale to tell.
No. XIV.--MOONLIGHT AT SEA.
HOW beautiful the chaste And glorious moonlight glitters on the wave! Like diamond glancing upward from its cave, By rushing waters paced!
The home-bound seaman hails Its ray auspicious, as it gayly flits Before him on his ocean-path, or sits Like silver on the sails!
Profusely thrown in showers The dancing beam with every wave curl dips, Like sunlight sprinkled on the bearded lips Of humble meadow-flowers.
On the lone beetling cliff, Where moonlight streams in all its glory bright, I see below the fishers, by its light, Haul beechward their rude skiff:
And high above, the cot Which they call home, stands in the glad moonlight, Dear to their hearts and welcome to their sight, When they are far afloat.
Here, as I linger, rapt, In the lone presence of the ocean free, Suspended like a bird above the sea, My bounding soul is apt
To mingle, as its own, Among the waters, like a privileged thing; Or, as a seamew spreads its radiant wing, On the wild breezes thrown,
To wander far away Above the breakers, and then strength inhale; Or float, like one inspired, upon the gale, And all its might survey.
The grey sea, like grey time, Rolls onward till it traces its fixed bound, And then resumes its slow accustomed round, Fettered like measured rhyme!
The hollow of God's hand Might hold it; and, though restless in its pride, It cannot outflow its appointed tide, Or overrun the land.
When the rude tempest sings, And waves run high, and harsh the thunder's threats Assail the ear, the seaman ne'er forgets The promise moonlight brings:
Amid the lashing foam, When its soft smile anoints the boiling wave; It tracks his pathway, prompts his soul to brave Whatever perils come.
Homeward his vessel drifts, With beauty fair behind it and before; Hope leads it onward to the wished-for shore, And all the heart uplifts.
Like mellow light of years, Long since evanished, on the memory, The moonlight falls upon the bounding sea, And the whole present cheers!
No. XV.--HOME SCENES.
AS young bird from its nest, At morn, floats upward--onward--and away; And when the night brings down its shadows grey. Returns unto its rest,
Ev'n thus the youthful mind Goes forward to the world; partakes its cares And fleeting joys,--is tempted by its snares; But can no refuge find:
The freshness of his home Goes with him, guidingly, where'er he wends; A star-like light upon his steps attends-- A ray from Heaven's bright dome!
In all his toil and fret, The quiet fields and gentle streams he knew, When youth clothed all around in fairest hue, His soul can ne'er forget:
For still their memories come, Like poetry, to his spirit;--as a tone Of music's echo on the waters thrown, And heard 'mid evening's gloom.
In brumal age, the dreams Of home refresh the soul, as purples pied Peep up from out the snows, and smile beside Winter's deserted streams;
As violets on a rock They cheer the solitude,--their promise dawns Upon the mind, like moonlight o'er the lawns-- Or joy to one grief-broke.
Home of our youth, what spot On earth is like thee? Scenes of early days, Oh! where upon your equals can we gaze? What palace like the cot
Where childhood first its eyes Oped to the day, and marvelled what could be The world around it? Is there aught we see Can be compared to skies
Like those which earliest shone Upon our path, and like a sunray bright, Brought with it, freshly, dawnings of the light That ne'er can be forgone?
Landscapes of other climes, Though bountiful in beauty, what are ye To the fair scenes of home, where'er it be? Sacred as churchward chimes.
High may the mountains tower Into the heavens, and grandeur fill the scene, The valleys and the pastures may be green, The hill-sides still in flower,
Of other lands, where stray The exile's feet; but none are e'er so fair Unto his soul, as the blest landscapes where His visions fly away.
Those sordid cares beside, That cloud the mind, 'mong earth-born woes and ills. Come soothing thoughts of home, as 'tween far hills The gentle streamlets glide!
POETICAL ASPIRATIONS.
A SMALL volume of poems, entitled "POETICAL ASPIRATIONS," was published by me, my first adventure, in 1830, and was favourably received. That volume was dedicated to MRS ROBERTSON of EDNAM HOUSE, Kelso, a lady whose many virtues are universally acknowledged wherever she is known, and whose kindness to me it will always be my pride to remember. A second edition, with additional poems, appeared in 1833. From the latter volume I have selected the following pieces, the remainder, bearing evident marks of inexperience and juvenility of taste, not being deemed worthy of further reprint.
POETICAL ASPIRATIONS.
THE ALPINE HORN. (1)
SUNSET is streaming o'er the snow-clad crown Of the high Alps, while darkness settles down Through all their countless valleys and defiles, Mixing with shade, where sunlight never smiles: Ere from the topmost peak, its latest ray Has, with its wing of glory, sped away, The mountain shepherd's horn has sounded there, Like the Muezzin's evening call to prayer; "Praise God the Lord!" and hark! from all around A thousand voices answer to the sound: From every clift, and crag, and ledge, and linn, The notes of worship and of praise begin. "Praise God the Lord!" the echoes catch the strain, And far and near repeat the sound again; They wake it in the wild and in the wood, Through all the shades of that far solitude: Bearing it on, o'er valley and ravine, Where, till this hour, such sound has never been; Then, in the distance, fainter grown the lay, The lingering notes at length dissolve away.
When all is silent, on the mountain sod The humble shepherds bend the knee to God; They kneel in darkness and in peace, to share The sweet and social intercourse of prayer: With gleams of manly thought, their prayers arise, Like incense from the altar, to the skies. Their temple is the mountain and the mist, And theirs the shrine where minister the blest; They kneel before the Spirit of the world, He who this universe of mountains hurled Together with a word, and chaos spread Mid majesty and grandeur, dark and dread. Prostrate in presence of the Great First Cause, They own his power, while they obey his laws: Their thoughts are deeper than th' abyss beneath, Yet while their humble orisons they breathe, Their souls are soaring far beyond each height On which the stars are clustering, with the night; And while they view, with soul-admiring glance, The world of fancy, nature, and romance, That circles round their native rocks, they deem The glories of the earth an empty dream.
But hark! that horn again resounds aloud, Like sudden music bursting from a cloud: "Good night!" "Good night!" along the mountain breaks, "Good night!" "Good night!" again each echo wakes; And all the scene, below, around, above, Teems with "Good night!" the evening pledge of love. The eagle, soaring, waits upon the wing, Charmed with the notes the syren echoes sing; The startled chamois bounds along the hill, Yet, half-enraptured, turns to listen still; From mount to valley, and from wold to wild, The sounds are borne along, till, faint and mild, "Good night," shall linger in the echoes' song, When all to silence and to sleep belong.
REFLECTIONS ON DEATH.
ONE day--the sunbeams danced along the glade As lovers dance upon their bridal eve-- I wandered to the wood, where all was bloom; The earth breathed fresh with fragrance, and the trees Dropped, as it were, the dew of silent joy. I loved to listen to the song of birds, Whose music wild, yet sweet, came o'er the ear, Telling of ecstasy; and, more than all, I loved to view the flowers, those stars of earth, As stars are flowers of heaven, those glimpses bright Of a far higher, purer, lovelier world; Those day dreams of Creation, blooming wild, Scattered on earth, like angel-smiles in heaven. Oh! I was happy then, for all above, And all below, was fair, and pure, and bright; And then I thought that happier still I'd be If my freed soul could fleet, as dew from grass, When the glad morning sun is shining forth, Passing so silently away from earth; If that were all--if death itself were _death_-- But after death comes life, more true than this.