Chapter 24

What need of fields in some far clime Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, And all that fetched the flowing rhyme From genuine springs, Shall dwell together till old Time Folds up his wings?

Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven, Effaced for ever.

But why to Him confine the prayer, When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear On the frail heart the purest share With all that live?-- The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!

APPENDIX B.

'_The Waterfall_, _Cora Linn_.'--PAGE 36.

The following poem belongs to the series entitled _Memorials of a Tour in Scotland_, 1814. It is in a later, not better, manner than those of 1803. Prefixed to it in the later editions of the Poet's works are these words: 'I had seen this celebrated waterfall twice before. But the feelings to which it had given birth were not expressed till they recurred in presence of the object on this occasion.'

COMPOSED AT CORA LINN, IN SIGHT OF WALLACE'S TOWER.

'--How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, All over his dear Country; left the deeds Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts, To people the steep rocks and river banks, Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul Of independence and stern liberty.'--_MS_.

Lord of the vale! astounding Flood; The dullest leaf in this thick wood Quakes--conscious of thy power; The caves reply with hollow moan; And vibrates to its central stone, Yon time-cemented Tower!

And yet how fair the rural scene! For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been Beneficent as strong; Pleased in refreshing dews to steep The little trembling flowers that peep Thy shelving rocks among.

Hence all who love their country, love To look on thee--delight to rove Where they thy voice can hear; And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade, Lord of the vale! to Heroes laid In dust, that voice is dear!

Along thy banks, at dead of night, Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight; Or stands, in warlike vest, Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam, A Champion worthy of the stream, Yon grey tower's living crest!

But clouds and envious darkness hide A Form not doubtfully descried:-- Their transient mission o'er, O say to what blind region flee These Shapes of awful phantasy? To what untrodden shore?

Less than divine command they spurn; But this we from the mountains learn, And this the valleys show; That never will they deign to hold Communion where the heart is cold To human weal and woe.

The man of abject soul in vain Shall walk the Marathonian plain; Or thrill the shadowy gloom, That still invests the guardian Pass, Where stood, sublime, Leonidas Devoted to the tomb.

Nor deem that it can aught avail For such to glide with oar or sail Beneath the piny wood, Where Tell once drew, by Uri's lake, His vengeful shafts--prepared to slake Their thirst in Tyrants' blood.

APPENDIX C.

'_Poured out these verses_.'--PAGE 139.

ADDRESS TO KILCHURN CASTLE.

Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest Is come, and thou art silent in thy age; Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs. Oh! there is life that breathes not; Powers there are That touch each other to the quick in modes Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive, No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care Cast off--abandoned by thy rugged Sire, Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord, Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm;) Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims To reverence, suspends his own; submitting All that the God of Nature hath conferred, All that he holds in common with the stars, To the memorial majesty of Time Impersonated in thy calm decay! Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved! Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front, Do thou, in turn, be paramount; and rule Over the pomp and beauty of a scene Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite To pay thee homage; and with these are joined, In willing admiration and respect, Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called Youthful as Spring.--Shade of departed Power, Skeleton of unfleshed humanity, The chronicle were welcome that should call Into the compass of distinct regard The toils and struggles of thy infant years! Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice; Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye, Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile, To the perception of this Age, appear Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued And quieted in character--the strife, The pride, the fury uncontrollable, Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades!

'The first three lines were thrown off at the moment I first caught sight of the ruin from a small eminence by the wayside; the rest was added many years after.'--_Wordsworth's Life_.

APPENDIX D.

'_Loch Leven_.'--PAGE 165.

THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. A TALE TOLD BY THE FIRESIDE, AFTER RETURNING TO THE VALE OF GRASMERE.

'The story was told me by George Mackreth, for many years parish-clerk of Grasmere. He had been an eye-witness of the occurrence. The vessel in reality was a washing-tub, which the little fellow had met with on the shore of the loch.'

Now we are tired of boisterous joy, Have romped enough, my little Boy! Jane hangs her head upon my breast, And you shall bring your stool and rest This corner is your own.

There! take your seat, and let me see That you can listen quietly: And, as I promised, I will tell That strange adventure which befel A poor blind Highland Boy.

A _Highland_ Boy!--why call him so? Because, my Darlings, ye must know That, under hills which rise like towers, Far higher hills than these of ours! He from his birth had lived.

He ne'er had seen one earthly sight, The sun, the day; the stars, the night; Or tree, or butterfly, or flower, Or fish in stream, or bird in bower, Or woman, man, or child.

And yet he neither drooped nor pined, Nor had a melancholy mind; For God took pity on the Boy, And was his friend; and gave him joy Of which we nothing know.

His Mother, too, no doubt, above Her other children him did love: For, was she here, or was she there, She thought of him with constant care, And more than mother's love.

And proud she was of heart, when clad In crimson stockings, tartan plaid, And bonnet with a feather gay, To Kirk he on the sabbath day Went hand in hand with her.

A dog too, had he; not for need, But one to play with and to feed; Which would have led him, if bereft Of company or friends, and left Without a better guide.

And then the bagpipes he could blow-- And thus from house to house would go; And all were pleased to hear and see, For none made sweeter melody Than did the poor blind Boy.

Yet he had many a restless dream; Both when he heard the eagles scream, And when he heard the torrents roar, And heard the water beat the shore Near which their cottage stood.

Beside a lake their cottage stood, Not small like ours, a peaceful flood; But one of mighty size, and strange; That, rough or smooth, is full of change, And stirring in its bed.

For to this lake, by night and day, The great Sea-water finds its way Through long, long windings of the hills And drinks up all the pretty rills And rivers large and strong:

Then hurries back the road it came-- Returns, on errand still the same; This did it when the earth was new; And this for evermore will do, As long as earth shall last.

And, with the coming of the tide, Come boats and ships that safely ride Between the woods and lofty rocks; And to the shepherds with their flocks Bring tales of distant lands.

And of those tales, whate'er they were, The blind Boy always had his share; Whether of mighty towns, or vales With warmer suns and softer gales, Or wonders of the Deep.

Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred, When from the water-side he heard The shouting, and the jolly cheers; The bustle of the mariners In stillness or in storm.

But what do his desires avail? For He must never handle sail; Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat, Upon the rocking waves.

His Mother often thought, and said, What sin would be upon her head If she should suffer this: 'My Son, Whate'er you do, leave this undone; The danger is so great.'

Thus lived he by Loch-Leven's side Still sounding with the sounding tide, And heard the billows leap and dance, Without a shadow of mischance, Till he was ten years old.

When one day (and now mark me well, Ye soon shall know how this befel) He in a vessel of his own, On the swift flood is hurrying down, Down to the mighty Sea.

In such a vessel never more May human creature leave the shore! If this or that way he should stir, Woe to the poor blind Mariner! For death will be his doom.

But say what bears him?--Ye have seen The Indian's bow, his arrows keen, Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright; Gifts which, for wonder or delight, Are brought in ships from far.

Such gifts had those seafaring men Spread round that haven in the glen; Each hut, perchance, might have its own, And to the Boy they all were known-- He knew and prized them all.

The rarest was a Turtle-shell Which he, poor Child, had studied well; A shell of ample size, and light As the pearly car of Amphitrite, That sportive dolphins drew.

And, as a Coracle that braves On Vaga's breast the fretful waves, This shell upon the deep would swim, And gaily lift its fearless brim Above the tossing surge.

And this the little blind Boy knew: And he a story strange yet true Had heard, how in a shell like this An English Boy, O thought of bliss! Had stoutly launched from shore;

Launched from the margin of a bay Among the Indian isles, where lay His father's ship, and had sailed far-- To join that gallant ship of war, In his delightful shell.

Our Highland Boy oft visited The house that held this prize; and, led By choice or chance, did thither come One day when no one was at home, And found the door unbarred.

While there he sate, alone and blind, That story flashed upon his mind;-- A bold thought roused him, and he took The shell from out its secret nook, And bore it on his head.

He launched his vessel,--and in pride Of spirit, from Loch-Leven's side, Stepped into it--his thoughts all free As the light breezes that with glee Sang through the adventurer's hair.

A while he stood upon his feet; He felt the motion--took his seat; Still better pleased as more and more The tide retreated from the shore, And sucked, and sucked him in.

And there he is in face of Heaven. How rapidly the Child is driven! The fourth part of a mile, I ween, He thus had gone, ere he was seen By any human eye.

But when he was first seen, oh me, What shrieking and what misery! For many saw; among the rest His Mother, she who loved him best, She saw her poor blind Boy.

But for the child, the sightless Boy, It is the triumph of his joy! The bravest traveller in balloon, Mounting as if to reach the moon, Was never half so blessed.

And let him, let him go his way, Alone, and innocent, and gay! For, if good Angels love to wait On the forlorn unfortunate, This Child will take no harm.

But now the passionate lament, Which from the crowd on shore was sent, The cries which broke from old and young In Gaelic, or the English tongue, Are stifled--all is still.

And quickly with a silent crew, A boat is ready to pursue; And from the shore their course they take, And swiftly down the running lake They follow the blind Boy.

But soon they move with softer pace; So have ye seen the fowler chase On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast A youngling of the wild-duck's nest With deftly-lifted oar;

Or as the wily sailors crept To seize (while on the Deep it slept) The hapless creature which did dwell Erewhile within the dancing shell, They steal upon their prey.

With sound the least that can be made, They follow, more and more afraid, More cautious as they draw more near; But in his darkness he can hear, And guesses their intent.

'Lei-gha--Lei-gha'--he then cried out, 'Lei-gha--Lei-gha'--with eager shout; Thus did he cry, and thus did pray, And what he meant was, 'Keep away, And leave me to myself!'

Alas! and when he felt their hands-- You've often heard of magic wands, That with a motion overthrow A palace of the proudest show, Or melt it into air:

So all his dreams--that inward light With which his soul had shone so bright-- All vanished;--'twas a heart-felt cross To him, a heavy, bitter loss, As he had ever known.

But hark! a gratulating voice, With which the very hills rejoice: 'Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly Have watched the event, and now can see That he is safe at last.

And then, when he was brought to land, Full sure they were a happy band, Which, gathering round, did on the banks Of that great Water give God thanks, And welcomed the poor Child.

And in the general joy of heart The blind Boy's little dog took part; He leapt about, and oft did kiss His master's hands in sign of bliss, With sound like lamentation.

But most of all, his Mother dear, She who had fainted with her fear, Rejoiced when waking she espies The Child; when she can trust her eyes, And touches the blind Boy.

She led him home, and wept amain, When he was in the house again: Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes; She kissed him--how could she chastise? She was too happy far.

Thus, after he had fondly braved The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved; And, though his fancies had been wild, Yet he was pleased and reconciled To live in peace on shore.

And in the lonely Highland dell Still do they keep the Turtle-shell; And long the story will repeat Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat, And how he was preserved.

APPENDIX E.

'_Mirrors upon the ceiling and against the walls_.'--PAGE 210.

EFFUSION, IN THE PLEASURE-GROUND ON THE BANKS OF THE BRAN, NEAR DUNKELD.

What He--who, mid the kindred throng Of Heroes that inspired his song, Doth yet frequent the hill of storms, The stars dim-twinkling through their forms! What! Ossian here--a painted Thrall, Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall; To serve--an unsuspected screen For show that must not yet be seen; And, when the moment comes, to part And vanish by mysterious art; Head, harp, and body, split asunder, For ingress to a world of wonder; A gay saloon, with waters dancing Upon the sight wherever glancing; One loud cascade in front, and lo! A thousand like it, white as snow-- Streams on the walls, and torrent-foam As active round the hollow dome, Illusive cataracts! of their terrors Not stripped, nor voiceless in the mirrors, That catch the pageant from the flood Thundering adown a rocky wood. What pains to dazzle and confound! What strife of colour, shape, and sound In this quaint medley, that might seem Devised out of a sick man's dream! Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy As ever made a maniac dizzy, When disenchanted from the mood That loves on sullen thoughts to brood!

O Nature--in thy changeful visions, Through all thy most abrupt transitions, Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime-- Ever averse to pantomime, Thee neither do they know nor us Thy servants, who can trifle thus; Else verily the sober powers Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars, Exalted by congenial sway Of Spirits, and the undying Lay, And Names that moulder not away, Had wakened some redeeming thought More worthy of this favoured Spot; Recalled some feeling--to set free The Bard from such indignity!

The Effigies of a valiant Wight I once beheld, a Templar Knight; {295} Not prostrate, not like those that rest On tombs, with palms together prest, But sculptured out of living stone, And standing upright and alone, Both hands with rival energy Employed in setting his sword free From its dull sheath--stern sentinel Intent to guard St. Robert's cell; As if with memory of the affray Far distant, when, as legends say, The Monks of Fountain's thronged to force From its dear home the Hermit's corse, That in their keeping it might lie, To crown their abbey's sanctity. So had they rushed into the grot Of sense despised, a world forgot, And torn him from his loved retreat, Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seat Still hint that quiet best is found, Even by the _Living_, under ground; But a bold Knight, the selfish aim Defeating, put the Monks to shame, There where you see his Image stand Bare to the sky, with threatening brand Which lingering NID is proud to show Reflected in the pool below.

Thus, like the men of earliest days, Our sires set forth their grateful praise: Uncouth the workmanship, and rude! But, nursed in mountain solitude, Might some aspiring artist dare To seize whate'er, through misty air, A ghost, by glimpses, may present Of imitable lineament, And give the phantom an array That less should scorn the abandoned clay; Then let him hew with patient stroke An Ossian out of mural rock, And leave the figurative Man-- Upon thy margin, roaring Bran!-- Fixed like the Templar of the steep, An everlasting watch to keep; With local sanctities in trust, More precious than a hermit's dust; And virtues through the mass infused, Which old idolatry abused.

What though the Granite would deny All fervour to the sightless eye; And touch from rising suns in vain Solicit a Memnonian strain; Yet, in some fit of anger sharp, The wind might force the deep-grooved harp To utter melancholy moans Not unconnected with the tones Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones; While grove and river notes would lend, Less deeply sad, with these to blend!

Vain pleasures of luxurious life, For ever with yourselves at strife; Through town and country both deranged By affectations interchanged, And all the perishable gauds That heaven-deserted man applauds; When will your hapless patrons learn To watch and ponder--to discern The freshness, the everlasting youth, Of admiration sprung from truth; From beauty infinitely growing Upon a mind with love o'erflowing-- To sound the depths of every Art That seeks its wisdom through the heart?

Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced With baubles of theatric taste, O'erlooks the torrent breathing showers On motley bands of alien flowers In stiff confusion set or sown, Till Nature cannot find her own, Or keep a remnant of the sod Which Caledonian Heroes trod) I mused; and, thirsting for redress, Recoiled into the wilderness.

APPENDIX F.

'_Three or four times the size of Bowder Stone_.'--PAGE 225.

From the _Tour in Scotland_, 1814:--'The account of the Brownie's Cell and the Ruins was given me by a man we met with on the banks of Loch Lomond, a little above Tarbet, and in front of a huge mass of rock, by the side of which we were told preachings were often held in the open air. The place is quite a solitude, and the surrounding scenery quite striking.'

SUGGESTED BY A BEAUTIFUL RUIN UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS OF LOCH LOMOND, A PLACE CHOSEN FOR THE RETREAT OF A SOLITARY INDIVIDUAL, FROM WHOM THIS HABITATION ACQUIRED THE NAME OF

THE BROWNIE'S CELL.

I.

To barren heath, bleak moor, and quaking fen, Or depth of labyrinthine glen; Or into trackless forest set With trees, whose lofty umbrage met; World-wearied Men withdrew of yore; (Penance their trust, and prayer their store;) And in the wilderness were bound To such apartments as they found; Or with a new ambition raised; That God might suitably be praised.

II.

High lodged the Warrior, like a bird of prey; Or where broad waters round him lay: But this wild Ruin is no ghost Of his devices--buried, lost! Within this little lonely isle There stood a consecrated Pile; Where tapers burned, and mass was sung, For them whose timid Spirits clung To mortal succour, though the tomb Had fixed, for ever fixed, their doom!

III.

Upon those servants of another world, When madding Power her bolts had hurled, Their habitation shook;--it fell, And perished, save one narrow cell; Whither at length, a Wretch retired Who neither grovelled nor aspired: He, struggling in the net of pride, The future scorned, the past defied; Still tempering, from the unguilty forge Of vain conceit, an iron scourge!

IV.

Proud Remnant was he of a fearless Race, Who stood and flourished face to face With their perennial hills;--but Crime, Hastening the stern decrees of Time, Brought low a Power, which from its home Burst, when repose grew wearisome; And, taking impulse from the sword, And, mocking its own plighted word, Had found, in ravage widely dealt, Its warfare's bourn, its travel's belt!

V.

All, all were dispossessed, save him whose smile Shot lightning through this lonely Isle! No right had he but what he made To this small spot, his leafy shade; But the ground lay within that ring To which he only dared to cling; Renouncing here, as worse than dead, The craven few who bowed the head Beneath the change; who heard a claim How loud! yet lived in peace with shame.

VI.

From year to year this shaggy Mortal went (So seemed it) down a strange descent: Till they, who saw his outward frame, Fixed on him an unhallowed name; Him, free from all malicious taint, And guiding, like the Patmos Saint, A pen unwearied--to indite, In his lone Isle, the dreams of night; Impassioned dreams, that strove to span The faded glories of his Clan!

VII.

Suns that through blood their western harbour sought, And stars that in their courses fought; Towers rent, winds combating with woods, Lands deluged by unbridled floods; And beast and bird that from the spell Of sleep took import terrible;-- These types mysterious (if the show Of battle and the routed foe Had failed) would furnish an array Of matter for the dawning day!

VIII.

How disappeared He?--ask the newt and toad, Inheritors of his abode; The otter crouching undisturbed, In her dark cleft;--but be thou curbed, O froward Fancy! 'mid a scene Of aspect winning and serene; For those offensive creatures shun The inquisition of the sun! And in this region flowers delight, And all is lovely to the sight.

IX.