Part 3

I lay and listened to a wild bird's song, A little shining, singing, flutt'ring thing: Its song was full of sweetness and of love: When, lo! it fell before me on the ground, And found its grave among a bank of flowers-- Who would not die, to find a grave so sweet? I ran and lifted it--'twas cold and stiff, And in its little heart an arrow sought Unsanctified admittance, quivering there, Like an unwelcome messenger of fate. The spoiler came--I drew his arrow out, And threw it on the earth--he trod it down, As he passed onward in his careless path.

And this is death! How sudden, and how strong! His harvest ne'er begins nor ends, for still His scythe is ready ere the corn is ripe, We cannot shun the stroke; but if prepared To meet it when it falls, its sting is gone!

Yet death itself is never terrible, But 'tis the thought of what comes after death That wakes the coward in the soul of man-- Of man carnal and unregenerate. In the lone grave the body soon is clothed In vileness, and this most delicate frame Becomes the food of worms, the gorging feast Of those vile particles of putresence We loathe in life to look at--which we spurn And trample on with horror. =Pride=, bend low! And meditate on this, that slimy worms, Gnome-like and insatiate epicures, Must feed on us to fulness, as on dainties, When we, like they themselves, become corruption! This is the pang, the poison, that makes dark The brightest joys, and chills the warmest hopes Of all who look no farther than the grave,-- That calms the laughing thought within the heart: This is the weapon that affrights the bold, Makes foolishness of wisdom, and creates The fear of death, because it terminates But in corruption and the feast of worms.

To go into the grave--if that were all, No one would shrink from it; but that the thought That this fair form should formless be, the shape Be shapeless, decomposed, and fall to nought, Preys on the mind, and hinders it from rest. And few there are who seek the saving peace That here can reconcile us to our doom. The soul remains entire, though in the grave The body lies, and slowly wastes away. Then let us strive to find, through God's good grace, That faith by which alone the soul becomes "One perfect Chrysolite," and in Christ's blood, Relieved from stain of guilt, is rendered fit To stand, approved, before a holy God.

THROUGH THE WOOD.

MODERN BALLAD.

THROUGH the wood, through the wood, Warbles the merle! Through the wood, through the wood, Gallops the earl! Yet he heeds not its song As it sinks on his ear, For he lists to a voice Than its music more dear.

Through the wood, through the wood, Once and away, The castle is gained, And the lady is gay: When her smile waxes sad, And her eyes become dim; Her bosom is glad, If she gazes on him!

Through the wood, through the wood, Over the wold, Rides onward a band Of true warriors bold; They stop not for forest, They halt not for water; Their chieftain in sorrow Is seeking his daughter.

Through the wood, through the wood, Warbles the merle; Through the wood, through the wood, Prances the earl; And on a gay palfrey Comes pacing his bride; While an old man sits smiling, In joy, by her side.

SONG OF THE EXILE.

BANISHED for ever! From the scene of my birth, For ever! for ever! From all I loved dearest, and cherished on earth, From the smile of my friends, and the home of their hearth, To come again never!

Banished for ever! From hope and from home, For ever! for ever! Away in the desert of distance to roam, Like a ship tempest-tost on the wild sea-wave's foam, To land again never!

Banished for ever! When all have gone by, For ever! for ever! The gladness of earth, and the brightness of sky, There's no fear but to live, and no hope but to die-- To _feel_ again never!

Banished for ever! 'Tis madness to me, For ever! for ever! To think of the land I shall ne'er again see, Of the days that have been, and the days that shall be-- That thought leaves me never!

Banished for ever! Be this my adieu-- For ever! for ever! Let me roam where I will, ne'er again shall I view, Scenes so cherished and fair, friends so kind and so true; Oh, never! oh, never!

Banished for ever! Dear land of my birth, We sever! we sever! An exile from all I love dearest on earth, From the smile of my friends, from the home of their hearth-- For ever! for ever!

TO FAME.

IN the seclusion of my solitude, Thy echo reached me, and awoke a brood Of slumbering fancies into life and light; A spell seemed thrown around me, and my mind Was full of unfixed images; the bright And ready impulses of thought, confined And struggling to be free; a light had dawned Across my path, as if by Heaven's command.

A lofty and immeasurable longing Sprung up within my breast, beyond control, A throbbing multitude of fancies thronging Strove to o'ermaster and o'ermatch the whole: Creation rose from chaos, as at first, A water in the wilderness to quench my thirst. The complicated elements of Mind, No longer dim, confused, and undefined, Rolled into order, and the springs of thought Became then less obscure, and less remote. My mind, not yet in union with its thoughts, Seemed sad and solitary; o'er it swept A calmness like the soft sun-breeze that floats Above the wave, that light and languid leapt: Then high imaginations, restless, past Into being--various, vivid, vast-- And thought, admixing with the mind's emotion, Assumed a depth and fervour of devotion, The semblance and the hope, if not the true Sole inspiration of poetic lore; Then truth, at times, like light, came struggling through, And I was sad and heart-forgone no more.

For thou became my mistress--I have thrown My heart and hope on thee--I cannot bear That, with my life, my name should pass away, And be forgot, when I am dead and gone; And in the grave, when mouldering in decay, That my remembrance should be buried there. I care not for the world, or the world's ways, I scorn alike its censure and its praise; But from the mental few, by heaven designed To rate and recognise a kindred mind, A sure approval I will strive to gain, For this is fame indeed,--all other is but vain.

TO A BEE.

HA! pretty little bee, So artless, blithe, and free! Whither are you wandering Thus so gaily on the wing? To every flower o'erhung with dew, Whose leaves are blossoming for you; To the wild flowers far away, Bright and beautiful as they; From each blooming one to sip Sweets, like those of woman's lip, Oh! happy, happy, happy bee, Would it were as free to me! Away! away! for ever thus Your airy flight has past from us; And you are gone where flowers invite, A pilgrimage of rich delight.

But come not near the hollyhock, (2) Let not its blooms your fancy mock; Shun its nectaries so fair, Death is ever lurking there; On its petals if you light, You'll be seized with instant blight. Shun it as you onward fly! Sip its poison and you die! But hie thee to the lavender, Pretty little pilferer! Or the limetree, in whose breast You oft have sipped yourself to rest. Go, wanderer, to the healthful wild, By the heath-flower's bloom beguiled, Where sunshine, like a robe of gold, Flings its fond light o'er wood and wold; There, in the calyx of the flower, You love the best at noontide hour, Prepare the mead, whose luscious draught, The best of former nations quaff'd. Little rambler, do you know Why it is we love you so? It is for the ceaseless hymn, That you warble, as you swim Through the odoriferous air, Light as fairy gossamer-- 'Tis, for you are always gay, Making life a holiday, Flying leisurely o'er earth, A wingëd messenger of mirth.

When you meet the butterfly, 'Neath the lovely summer sky, Do you show to her the bower, That contains the sweetest flower? Or do you take herself to be, While thus wandering so free, A floweret floating on the air, Making all delightful there?

When the moon bursts forth above, Tinging all with light and love, When with soft and silky trace, Slumber finds a resting place On the eyes of bees and men; Snug within some floweret then You have made your bed, till day Shows the sweets your dreams pourtray.

THE STORM.

THE waves rise in rebellion--far away The wreck-doomed ship is borne resistless on; And hark! the screaming sea-mews trill their lay Of terrible delight--its echo's moan Dies wildly on the tempest, and the spray Dashes around us, chilling hope to stone; And vast and fathomless the mountain waves, Yawning around us, marshall forth our graves.

The clouds move like the billows o'er the ocean, Clashing in fury as they hurry by; They mingle fiercely, and in rude commotion, As if a hurricane swept o'er the sky. Now, let the soul rely on her devotion, Now, let the prayer to HIM be lifted high, Who stills the storm, and calms the mighty wave, "And strong to smite, is also strong to save."

See! yon poor wretch dashed from the vessel's prow-- He catches at the spar that hurries past, 'Tis vain! the waves are mightier still--and now, Beneath their force his strength gives way at last: Onward we drift--but, lo! o'er heaven's brow The moon her welcome light, at length, has cast, Like hope o'er madness, but it tends to show The life that smiles above, the death that yawns below.

"LAZARUS, COME FORTH."

THUS Jesus spoke--the earth dismayed Opened its womb; The dead man heard, his Lord obeyed; He left his tomb: And thousands, unbelievers, saw The power of God; Then they believed his holy law, And word, that burst the sod.

Thus when he frees the wicked heart From earth's control, Sin and ungodliness depart From the waked soul. He cleans it by his blood and death-- To it is given To know, all peace, all hope, all faith, All ante-taste of heaven.

SONNET.

ON THE APPROACH OF SUMMER.

SUMMER approaches, filling earth with flowers, The skies with beauty, and the woods with song, While April, like a coy bride, wends along In tearful smiles, half-wooed by the gay hours. All nature breathes a welcome to young May, Summer's bright harbinger, who bears her smile Through every land, with blooming health the while, And all are blest who feel her gladd'ning ray. How pleasant 'tis beneath the summer noon, When the soft wind hath lulled itself asleep, On some fair hill a festival to keep, While fancy on the wing revisits soon Th' o'erarching world, the true, the pure, the fair, Gath'ring with bliss all inspiration there.

BEAUTY.

OH! brighter than the brightest star, That glimmers through the haze of night, When the blue vault of heaven afar, Is studded o'er with silver light; And brighter than that brilliant sky, May be the glance of woman's eye.

Oh! lovely as the golden ray Of sunshine sleeping on the glade, When morning brightens into day, And in its radiance melts the shade; And lovelier than that gorgeous sun, May be the smile from woman won.

But beauty does not deign to shine, In brightness from a woman's eye; Nor does she in a smile recline, Blooming, as flowerets do, to die; All earth-born charms shall fade in death: Nor change nor ruin beauty hath.

She dwells but in the pious mind, Apart for ever from decay; Where lives the light of heavenly kind, That shines "unto the perfect day;" Where Faith and Hope their joy impart-- Her home is in the virtuous heart.

TO M. J. R.

IS there within my heart a spot Where thy bright image liveth not, In its most joyful guise? Ah, no! though all may be forgot, Save sorrow, care, and pain, Yet it securely lies Within my bosom's secret bowers; Like dew, descending from above, On Autumn's seared and withered flowers, Reviving it again To happiness and love.

SONNET.

A CONTRAST.

THE flowers that, unrefreshed with rain or dew, Pine 'neath the scorching summer's sun away, Are but the emblems--purer still than they-- Of hearts that ne'er the blight of sorrow knew, To contrast with their gladness--for the breast That welcomes joy back to its shrine again, After a weary interval of pain, Enjoys the feeling with a warmer zest: And when at length the dew-drop lingers o'er The flowers that sickened with its long delay, How sweetly do they own its former sway, And bloom again more lovely than before. Who would not, for a while then, cherish grief, To taste the bliss, the rapture of relief?

SONNET.

ROSLIN.

ROSLIN! thy scattered beauties, rich and wild, Lie like a garden-map before me spread; In all thy fairy scenes I gladly tread, Where sleeps the sun-smile--and the breeze so mild Enamoured sighs, as to thy presence wed. Down through thy vale--so lovely and so sweet, Yet so retiring, like some blushing maid Apprized of her own beauty--oft I meet, Two pensive lovers whispering their vows. Thy woods and thy ravines, thy rocks and caves, Contain the gleams of grandeur, o'er the brows Of thy dark crags, the heath-flower freely waves. Here Drummond sung, sweetly and well, for he In thy retreats became inspired by thee.

ON THE BIRTH OF A NIECE.

E. W. G.

_11th August, 1828._

THE evening sun had o'er the heavens rolled His brilliant robe of glory and of gold; The angels round the throne had just begun Their vesper hymn of praise--the sweetest one; The stars were trimming then their lamps of light, Like watchers, ready for the coming night; The earth rejoiced through all her numerous fields, Blest with the crop that generous autumn yields: The meadow streams subduing music stole, Like dreams of rapture, to the fainting soul,-- When thou sprung into being, like the ray Of early morn, the gleam of dawning day. Stranger! so bright, so innocent, so fair, We give thee welcome to our world of care; Come to partake our sorrow--thou hast known The pang already, by that stifled moan-- When rosy pleasure shall her smiles renew, Come with thy kindred heart, and share them too. We bless thee, babe! for we have need to bless A fellow-pilgrim in a world like this, Where mirth is mockery, and joy a dream, And we are never happy--though we seem. Oh! may'st thou never know the ills that we Have known, and shall know, ere we cease to be: Be thou thy mother's comfort! thou wert blest Wert thou, like her, the purest and the best.

ON HER DEATH,

_At the Age of Two Years and Two Months._

NOT long beside us did the cherub stay: God's will be done! He gave and took away; It seemed as if blest memories of heaven, From whence she came, were to her visions given, And, tiring soon of earth, whose breath was pain, Longed to return, and be at rest again. Too pure for earth, too innocent for grief, Sweet was her promise, as her sojourn brief.

SONNET.

TO HAPPINESS.

OH! I do hail thee, Happiness, when thou Dost shine athwart my path with light and love, Dispensing joy, like Heaven's aërial bow, When gathering clouds lour darkly from above. Oh! I do hail thee, Happiness--the aim And promise of my being live in thee; I pine for thee as poets pine for fame, Or slaves and captives for their liberty; But fleeting art thou in this vale of strife, A meteor gleaming o'er a desert heath-- So seldom comes thy smile to cheer our life, We learn to hope 'twill visit us in death; In what bright bower, supremest blessing, may A mortal find thy never-dying ray?

THOUGHTS.

IN sooth 'tis pleasant on a summer morn, When the bright sun ascends the orient sky, And on the mountain zephyr health is borne, While we inhale it as it murmurs by; On some lone hill in musing mood to lie, Then as we watch the day's advancing light, We learn from it that we but live to die. The sun will set though shining e'er so bright, A few short fleeting hours, and all again is night.

Yet sunshine seldom cheers the lot of life, 'Tis all a scene of ling'ring pain and woe, A pilgrimage of fruitless care and strife, A tide of sorrow that doth ceaseless flow; Yet some have thought they felt a joy below, Which to their darker hours did solace prove, Making their hearts with blissful feelings glow; And not of earth it seems, but from above It comes to cheer mankind, and mortals call it love.

That thought is vain as love's own happiness, For soon love's sweet illusion is no more; Then fly those hopes that promised lasting bliss-- And when the dream of ecstasy is o'er, We wake, to life, far sadder than before. It shoots athwart our visions, like the gleam Of flitting sunshine o'er a desert shore, Making the wilderness more dreary seem-- Oh! love is all too like the visions of a dream.

It boots not now to ponder o'er the past, Joy blasted oft will mar life's fairest scene; The beauty of the sky is overcast, Dark clouds now brood where brightness late hath been; And thorns appear where once sweet flowers were seen. Yet hope beams on my soul her soothing light, Like the first dawning of the morn serene, Tinging my darkened soul with hues more bright-- Love ever sorrow brings, as twilight brings the night.

'Tis piety alone that can impart A peace of mind that ne'er will fade away, A bliss that calms the passions of the heart, A hope that soothes us even in decay, Inspires the thought and elevates the lay; 'Tis this that gives a glory to that hour, When death relentless seizes on his prey; Then yet may pleasure dwell in earthly bower, Though man buds, blooms, and withers, like a summer flower.

LOCH AWE. (3)

OH LAKE! how gentle and how fair art thou, Above thee and around thee, mountains rise E'en like a diadem on queenly brow; Crested in light the snow in masses lies On Cruachan's cleft head--the eagle flies In circles o'er thee, and his eyrie makes Afar upon its summit, from the eyes Of man removed, for his wild fledgelings' sakes.-- Sinless and still thou art, most beautiful of lakes!

Four fairy isles,--like smiles in woman's eye, Or gems upon her bosom--rise beside Thy spreading waters, dreamy as the sky, Whose glories are reflected in thy tide; While shrubs and flowers are growing in their pride, And ancient trees, where'er our eyes we turn-- And, like a melody, thy echoes glide Within the memory--while grey and stern Stands, like a spirit of the past, lone old Kilchurn.

Changeless as Heaven, thoughtful as the stars, Whose light thou mak'st thy lover, ever true; Sweet are thy glades and glens; no discord mars Their quiet now--as when the Bruce o'erthrew The men of Lorn, and gained his crown anew-- Save when sweeps by the spirit of the storm; Fearful and wonderful is then thy hue, And terrible thy wailings, as thy form, While Cruachan's wild shriek is heard to far Cairngorm.

Home of the hunter! birth-place of the Gael! Why do my musings still return to thee? Why does the hymn of holy Innis-hail, Like rhyme of childhood, haunt my memory? My boy-years have departed, since to me Thy wildness, solitude, and grandeur brought Sources of inspiration, ne'er to be Forgotten or forborne--my mind has sought Relief from homely scenes, recurring to remote.

THE WOLF. (4)

_A Fragment._

'TIS evening,--one of those rich eves in June, That look as bright, and feel as warm as noon; The setting sun its parting ray has thrown Italia's smiling groves and bowers upon: Amid the balm of meadow, vale, and hill, Where all is beautiful, and all is still; A bard would deem, 'neath such a tranquil sky, He heard the stream of time while rushing by: 'Tis the soft hour, to love that doth belong, To village pastime, and to village song: But why do happy peasants meet no more? The village song, the village dance is o'er: Why is the tabor silent on the plain? Why does the mountain-pipe refuse its strain? Where is the lover fond, the trusting maid? They shun each other, and desert the shade. Is _this_ Italia's sky, so calm, so fair? Where are its joyous sons, its laughing daughters where? · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·

Hark! 'tis a wild, a solitary cry, Unheard till now beneath Italia's sky; And well Italia's sons may shrink to hear A cry, that fills all who have heard with fear,-- It is the Alpine wolf's terrific bay, Roaming abroad ferocious for its prey: Soon as the sun of earth its farewell takes, The Alpine wolf his solitude forsakes, And, like a demon, rushing to the plain, Scatters the flock, and panic-strikes the swain.

One summer eve, a monster of the kind, Hungry for prey, had left his troop behind; Ranging alone, he spread dismay where'er His bay was heard, as if a host were there: Beneath his tusk of steel, his breath of flame, Italia's bowers a wilderness became: Grain for a while and sheep he stole away, But, quitting these, he sought a nobler prey,-- The tender babe, even in its mother's view, He bore to crags, where no one dared pursue: Until the province, late the happiest one That brightens 'neath Italia's gorgeous sun, Became, throughout, all desolate and lone, For there the fell destroyer forth had gone. · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·

Lo! like a pageant, slowly up the vale, A band advances, clad in glittering mail; While, in the front, a knight of noble mien, And lofty plume, above the rest is seen: The peasants from their huts look forth with fear, But dare not quit them, lest the wolf be near; And then the chief, advancing from the rest, At sound of trump, the peasants thus addressed,-- "A purse of gold, and his own diamond ring, As a reward, are offered by the king, To him who slays the wolf!" The trumpet's blast Re-echoed loud, as that gay pageant passed.