Part 2

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!