Part 4

Meanwhile, each swain, in hope to gain the prize, Shouldering his gun, to kill the monster tries; But home returning oft without his prey, All left the task to Giulio to essay,-- For Giulio was the best, the bravest youth Within the province, or the realm, in sooth: Kind to his mates, and to his mistress true, Foremost in pastime and in peril too; Whene'er the river overflowed its bounds, And the wild flood o'erswept the pleasant grounds, Bearing away, in its retiring course, The helpless flocks, too feeble for its force, Giulio was first among the village brave, To stretch the hand to succour and to save; He was a marksman too, and well could hit The target's eye, when all fell wide of it: Him, therefore, did they fix upon to be Their champion--their meadows rich to free From the destroyer--each resigned his claim To the reward,--Let Giulio win the same!

And Giulio ranged afar from morn till eve, But still no wolf could Giulio perceive; He searched each wood, explored each copse and cave, As a fierce gnome invades the quiet grave; Still did he hear his roar, his ravage see. But, still unseen himself, the wolf continued free.

Three days had sped, and Giulio had not traced The monster out, although he tracked his waste; And standing on a mountain's rugged brow, Giulio, despairing, breathed to Heaven a vow, That he would bring the wolf in triumph slain, Or never see his native home again, And Giulio's vow was kept--the monster fell, But not by him--a sadder tale I tell!

One eve--it was the fourth--he threw him down, Fatigued and foot-sore, on the mountain brown; No wolf as yet had crossed his anxious way, Although, where'er he roamed, he heard his bay; Loth to return until the wolf he slew, Yet, ah! his heart, to love, to feeling, true, Led him to where his lover's hut arose, As if her vicinage could soothe his woes. There for awhile he lingered, and he wept The tear of fond remembrance--slumber crept Upon his eyes, for he was overspent, Wasted for want of needful nourishment: Before him in the moonlight rolled a stream, Whose murmur lulled him to a blissful dream: A dream of love, of happiness and pride,-- He thought he slew the wolf, and won his blushing bride.

Beyond the river, to its very edge Along the bank, there grew a bushy hedge, Where oft alone, beneath the twilight dim, The lovely maid would steal to think of him;-- A stir!--a motion!--it was not the breeze That shook the hedge,--for why waved not the trees? He started and awoke--again it shook,-- His gun was in his hand--one hurried look, One rapid touch--the fatal ball was sped,-- A long wild shriek was heard, and Giulio's dream was read.

In triumph now, he thought of home again,-- The prize was his, the wolf at length was slain-- Swift as the ball that from his rifle flew, He reached the river, and swam gaily through: The corpse lay there before him in the light!-- Why breaks that mournful shriek upon the night? Why motionless stands Giulio gazing there, A form of stone, a statue of despair? At length he spoke--"Is _this_ the wolf I've sought In glen, and mount, and precipice remote? Its skin is soft, its eyes are bright and fair, And still they smile on me,--the wolf's should glare; But sweet though sad, still do they charm my view, Like my fair bride's, the beautiful, the blue-- The wolf!--ah, horror! 'tis herself I've slain! I feel it, like a fire within my brain, And on my heart--no tear is in mine eye-- For her alone I lived,--with her I die." The stream is near, he lifts her as a child, While from his o'erpressed heart there bursts a wild And fiendish laugh,--the peasants wondering hear, And in a crowd assemble, half in fear: In the broad moonlight then, as in a dream, A figure rushed before them to the stream; That form did bear another--on the brink He pauses not--one plunge--they sink! they sink! 'Twas Giulio and his bride!--they rise no more,-- And onward rolls the stream as smoothly as before.

THE APRIL CLOUD.

FAIR as the feather of a dove That has in gloom been dipt; Like to a smile, that, flung from love, Its banishment hath wept; See yonder little cloud swims by, As if it sprung to birth, Mid summer sunshine of the sky, And winter storms of earth.

Alas! there ne'er was angel yet Who from her heaven took wing, But when the air of earth she met Became a fallen thing: And thus yon cloud, that seems so dim, When near our earth 'tis driven, Would look all light, if it would skim Far upward nearer Heaven.

SPRING.

CAN aught be more magnificent than Spring? Mountain and mead, and foliage and flower, Assume a bridal look, as if the Sun Had solemnized his nuptials with the Earth. A green and growing grandeur consecrates The general land, like an anointed Queen; The soil begins to quicken with the birth, And bounteously proseminates its gifts; A glory reigns supreme o'er all, a Balm That moves, like Inspiration, in the soul, And gives a motive to each quiet thought, Stirring, in transport, like a little bird. Creation seems a path to brighter worlds-- A track to better homes. A permeant good Pervades the Universe, and all is joy. The river runs, like one of nimble foot, And smiling aspect, to embrace the sea, Henceforth incorporate; even as the youth, Of fervent spirit and of sanguine hope, Comes from his home obscure, and wanders forth To mingle with the world, and there is lost. The ruminating Ocean is at peace, And its faint murmur--for its voice is ne'er All silent--like a half forgotten tone Seems but the echo of a broken chime, As if a part of memory, pilgrim-like, Had gone in quest of all, and died away Amid the distant traces of the past. The gentle breeze comes from its groves of spice, And fragrance bears throughout the Virgin air; And hark! the woodland music--warblings soft Steal on the gladdened ear--from every hedge, From every forest dim, a voice proceeds Of deep-felt rapture, praise and gratitude. The swan disports upon the quiet lake, And shares the cheerfulness that all enjoy; While thoughts, without a voice, of Heaven remote In the still waters mirrored, stir its breast.-- All circumstance of language is too faint The beautiful of Nature to pourtray; The eloquent sense, the feeling sensitive, Alone holds free communion with her charms: While thought awakes, like day-dawn, and goes forth To gather stores of knowledge;--like a draught Of the pure fountain to the unrefreshed, The bloom of Spring exhilarates the mind, And gives a tone to virtue--its approach Is as the coming of sweet health to one Long time afflicted, for its bloom is blest.

POESY.

ITS sweetest song the cygnet sings As a soft prelude to its death, And in that song expends its breath;-- What boots it that the Poet flings His wildest notes on high, Or strikes with truest hand the strings, If all his strains must die? And why should he his notes prolong, If no one listens to his song?

Yet can the Poet ne'er resign The lyre he loves, for it alone Consoles him, when all else is gone; Its spirit, like the breath divine, That stirred the water's face, Pervades ev'n to the farthest line Of universal space; And music through the whole is flung, As when the morning angels sung.

An echo lingers on each peak, In every vale, on every hill-- Should men not listen, angels will; For Poesy shall never speak, Shall never sing in vain; In solitude the breeze shall seek And still repeat her strain, Where'er, like an aërial tone, Her spirit and her voice have gone.

She moves o'er flowers--her handmaid fair, Bright Summer, in a joyous dance Doth still before her path advance, Sweet blossoms strewing every where, Which, falling, grow divine; Fresh incense crowds upon the air, And floats above her shrine, Like beauty, when her welcome voice Makes the whole universe rejoice.

Why then should her adorer fear, Or why her votary despond?-- Partaker of a bliss beyond All feelings, all enjoyments here, His impulses sublime Soar, ev'n in this contracted sphere, O'er nature and o'er time; And her undying triumphs spread A glow like glory round his head.

SONNET.

TO A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR.

'TIS evening, and the summer has put on Her richest dress, her way with flowers is strewed, Beauty and music dwell in every wood, And bower and meadow, hill and valley lone; A gentle shower is o'er, the earth has wept Its fragrance into freshness. In this hour,-- When in a flood of glory all is dipped, By the soft influence of a higher power,-- My spirit leaves its prison-house, and flies Towards the sweet haunts of thy pleasant home, Where, lover-like, thy river[1] loves to roam;-- 'Tis there I see thee with my mental eyes, And hold communion with thee day by day, Though now we never meet, and haply never may.

[1] The Tweed, near Kelso.

THE GIPSY'S LULLABY.

SLEEP, baby, sleep! Though thy fond mother's breast, Where thy young head reclines, Is a stranger to rest; And oh! may soft slumber Descend on thine e'e, That the sorrow she feels May be shared not by thee. Sleep, baby, sleep!

Thy father has gone On his perilous track, And thy mother will weep, Till he safely comes back; But rest thee in peace, With soft sleep in thine e'e, Though the tear is in her's That is shared not by thee. Sleep, baby, sleep!

WOODLAND SONG.

WILL you go to the woodlands with me, with me, Will you go to the woodlands with me? When the sun's on the hill, and all nature is still, Save the sound of the far-dashing sea.

For I love to lie lone on the hill, the hill, I love to lie lone on the hill, When earth, sea, and sky, in loveliness vie, And all nature around me is still.

Then my fancy is ever awake, awake, My fancy is never asleep; Like a bird on the wing, like a swan on the lake, Like a ship far away on the deep.

And I love 'neath the green boughs to lie, to lie; I love 'neath the green boughs to lie; And see far above, like the smiling of love, A glimpse, now and then, of the sky.

When the hum of the forest I hear, I hear, When the hum of the forest I hear,-- 'Tis solitude's prayer, pure devotion is there, And its breathings I ever revere.--

I kneel myself down on the sod, the sod, I kneel myself down on the sod, 'Mong the flowers and wild heath, and an orison breathe In lowliness up to my God.

Then peace doth descend on my mind, my mind, Then peace doth descend on my mind; And I gain greater scope to my spirit and hope, For both then become more refined.

Oh! whatever my fate chance to be, to be, My spirit shall never repine, If a stroll on the hill, if a glimpse of the sea, If the hum of the forest be mine.

SONNET.

THE OCEAN.

OH! that the Ocean were my element! And I could dwell among its deepest waves, Like one whose home is in its gushing caves, Beneath the waters, whether tame or rent. Would I could roam down where the Mermaid laves Her half-formed limbs!--for Envy comes not there, Nor Pride nor Hatred, nor is Malice sent, Nor the deep sullenness of dark Despair. Would I were not of earth--but of the sea! And held communion with its creatures fair: Gentle in its gentleness, but whene'er A tempest shook it, and the winds were free, My bounding spirit would delight to soar, Float in its foam, and revel in its roar!

MOUNT HOREB. (5)

OH, Holy Mount! on every side Deserts are stretching far and wide, Where thou, uptowering to the sky, } Dost shoot thy double head on high, } Mount Horeb, and Mount Sinai; } And when the weary traveller stands, Alone amid the sterile sands, Seeking for water, vain pursuit, To quench his thirst, grown absolute, Groaning, as fainter grows his hope, For water!--water!--but a drop, His ever burning thirst t' appease; He through the sudden moonlight sees Thy dark and shadowy masses rise, A solace to his weary eyes; Then gladly on he wends, for he Becomes refreshed at sight of thee; For well he knows, that springs and fruit, Above, below, thy sides salute; For o'er the wastes of Rephidim, There is no spot of peace for him, Until he reach the rock, whence burst A well, to quench the raging thirst Of Israel, when they murmured there, For water, in their deep despair.

Thrice Sacred Mount! how oft hast thou, (Though none but pilgrims tread thee now,) Been hallowed as the blest abode Of the Most High! Jehovah! God! Whene'er in furthering his plan Of mercy and of love to man, He deigned to touch our earth, to hold Communion with his Seers of old, His presence consecrated thee, His temple and his throne to be. 'Twas on thy Mount that God, concealed Within the burning bush, revealed To Moses his command, to free His people from their slavery. There, from the midst of fire and flame, He did his perfect law proclaim: Then seemed God's presence in their sight, A great, a mighty burst of light Upon thy topmost mount, a fire Devouring, brighter, deeper, higher, Than e'er their eyes beheld, a crown Of glory on thy head, that down Through all the desert brightness past, Like wild flame from a holocaust: And gazing on thy glorious height, } Israel was dazzled by the sight } Of that intolerable light. }

Pursued by persecution's flame, Elijah to the desert came; And as he rested in thy cave, Which shelter and concealment gave, God spoke! he lay entranced in fear, "Elijah! speak! what dost thou here?" He answered,--"Jezabel abhorred Hath put the prophets to the sword, And I alone escaped, to be A prophet and a priest to thee." Then the Almighty gave command, "Go forth, and on the mountain stand!" But ere Elijah could reply, A great and mighty wind passed by, Which rent the mountains and the rocks In pieces, by resistless shocks: The desert sands uprose afar, Moving like giant forms in war; But, when the tempest ceased to rave, Elijah still within the cave, Remained unhurt, unmoved, alone-- A mighty earthquake's shock anon Shook to its base the Sacred Mount, And soon a fire, like a small fount, Came bursting from the highest spot, Increasing, but consuming not. The earthquake vanished as it came, And after it that holy flame; And hark! a still small voice was heard, Like sweetest music from a bird; A still small voice! that speaks to youth Of wisdom, piety, and truth: Elijah heard--with solemn pace, (His mantle covering his face,) He rose and stood without the cave, Relying on God's power to save: The hurricane had past away, And calm and bright the prospect lay; Far up the double mountain stood, Varied by water and by wood; He saw the herbage thickly grow, The bubbling springs, and far below He saw the semicircular fount, That like a bent bow skirts the mount; He saw the desert spread beneath, Like an extended vale of death; He saw the blue sky far above, Light up in one bright blaze of love; A burst, of sunshine fell on him, To which all other light was dim; He heard again that still small voice, Which made his inmost heart rejoice: It was the Lord! and power he gave Elijah, to anoint and save.

Thrice Blessed Mount! thou art a sign, A type of penitence divine; Whene'er in darkness and in fear, We wander in the desert drear Of sin, and doubt, the welcome light Of truth breaks sudden on our sight; The heart becomes a hallowed dome, Where holy feelings find a home; For there the law of God secure, Makes every thought and impulse pure: Repentance may be slow to bring Comfort and healing on its wing; The doubting sinner in despair, Asks, trembling, in a hurried prayer, If guilt like his, of foulest trace, Can hope for pardon and for grace: But, when such doubts are swept away, The still small voice of truth bears sway: For Jesus died and rose again, To free the world from guilt and pain: Jesus, the only Son of God, Like Moses, takes the gospel rod, And strikes the barren rock within, Hardened by wickedness and sin-- Whence springs a living well, to free The thirsty soul from misery. He, like Elijah from his cave, Came to the world with power to save; And Israel, trusting to his aid, Shall innocent and pure be made; Redeemed, shall reach the heavenly land, Supported by his mighty hand.

WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM,

_In a City Churchyard._

UNDER thy shadow how many recline, Who never knew rest 'neath the fig-tree or vine![2] They pass from the banquet, the mall and the mart, Here they meet, here they mingle, never to part.

Who comes from the porch, with colourless vest, And faded black coat, once the minister's best? The mattock and shovel support him like staves, As he totters familiarly over the graves.

'Tis the hoary old sexton, whose home has been here, Since the days of his boyhood--and now he is sere; These mounds are his world--he can name all the lairs, As a monarch his realms, or a merchant his wares.

Yet though he apportions a dwelling for all, And delights when he handles the mattock and pall; Though his thin hairs are gray, and though feeble his pace, He ne'er for himself yet has chosen a place.

Thou wert here when his sire did this office fulfil-- When the son too is gone, thou wilt blossom here still: How strange that the grass, and the trees, and the weeds, Flourish best on that spot whence corruption proceeds!

On thy trunk some rude sculptor has carved out his name-- Idle labour! for fleeting and false is such fame: Lo! wherever we look there is charactered stone, But to whom is the dust each commemorates known?

Oh! bury me not by the multitude's side, I would shun them in death, as in life I avoid; Where the loathsome newt creeps, 'neath the rank hemlock's shade, Is not where I would that my bones should be laid.

But bear me away to the limitless sea, And heave me afar 'mong its billows so free: Where my flesh may be wasted, but never shall rot-- Where man is not dust, and corruption is not.

Oh delight! to be tost from wild wave to wild wave-- I seek not for rest--it is found in the grave-- And my skeleton bleach on the foam it is cast-- A link of the future--a wreck of the past.

But alas! if the doom of my kind must be mine, If my bones in the land of decay must recline; Seek me out some lone glen, some wild Highland vale, Where the tempest's loud shriek shall my coronach wail.

A rude rugged land, with a wild heather sod, Where the sun never shone, where man's foot never trod; Where the gleam of the day falls with withering blight, And a desolate darkness comes with the night.

Where the waterfall roars like a storm o'er the heath, The scathed Pine above, and the hoar Elm beneath; 'Mongst the lone, and the mighty, the vast and the deep-- 'Tis there, as their own, that a Poet should sleep.

[2] Micah iv. 4.

THE WELLS O' WEARY.

DOWN in the valley lone, Far in the wild wood, Bubble forth springs, each one Weeping like childhood; Bright on their rushy banks, Like joys among sadness, Little flowers bloom in ranks-- Glimpses of gladness.

Sweet 'tis to wander forth, Like pilgrims at even; Lifting our souls from earth To fix them on Heaven; Then in our transport deep, This world forsaking: Sleeping as Angels sleep, Mortals awaking!

DRYBURGH ABBEY. (6)

BY Tweed's fair stream, in a secluded spot, Rises an ivy-crowned monastic pile; Beneath its shadow sleeps the WIZARD, SCOTT; A Ruin is his resting-place--no vile Unconsecrated grave-yard is the soil-- Few moulder there, but these the loved, the good, The honoured, and the famed--and sweet flowers smile Around the precincts of the Abbeyhood, While Cedar, Oak, and Yew adorn that solitude.

Hail, Dryburgh! to thy sylvan shades all hail!-- As to a shrine, from places far away, With awe-struck spirit, to thy classic vale Shall pilgrims come, to muse, perchance to pray; More hallowed now than in thy elder day, For sacred is the earth wherein is laid The Poet's dust; and still his mind, his lay, And his renown, shall flourish undecayed, Like his loved country's fame, that is not doomed to fade.

POEMS HERE FIRST COLLECTED.

COLLECTED POEMS.

GRACE.

COME, free-given grace! source of all lasting peace; My care-worn heart has wanted thee full long; The charms of earthly joys and pleasures cease, And fain I'd stray thy tranquil paths among, Where withered weeds and noxious odours strong Come not, as here I find them rankly meet; Give me thy pleasant ways and thy contentments sweet!

Contentments sweet are ever with thee still; In the lone valley, where the streamlet flows, On distant mountain, on the heath-clad hill, Where springs the daisy, or where blooms the rose, Even in the desert where no green thing grows; 'Mid trials of this world, whate'er they be, Still peace, and joy, and truth accompany with thee.

With thee there is no darkness; thou dost show The Sun of Glory shining in His might; With thee there is no sadness; thou dost go Into the grief-broke heart, and with the light Of heavenly love mak'st it serene and bright; Ah! who that can thy blessings call his own, Would deem himself, with thee, forsaken or alone?

Alone! no, never! Jesus still is near; Friendless we cannot be with Him our friend-- Our counsellor--although deserted here By all who to that cherished name pretend-- His friendship, like Himself, shall have no end; And for our solace freely is bestowed, Trusting in Him while here, the bounteous grace of God!

The grace of God softens the hardened heart. And makes it oft in gushing joy to sing; As rod of Moses caused the rock to part, And made the living waters forth to spring; The grace of God serenest pleasures bring, And leads the mind from carnal thoughts away Into retirements sweet, in solitude to pray.

To pray!--blest privilege! For evermore To pray and praise, and lift the soul above This sordid earth, and, as a lark doth soar, Ascend into the realms of truth and love, Whence once the Spirit came in form of dove! Thither, oh! thither would it wing its flight-- For ever "take its rest," there where there comes no night!

MATIN.