Part 6

Where the Lilies used to Spring.

When the place was green with the shaky grass, And the windy trees were high; When the leaflets told each other tales, And the stars were in the sky; When the silent crows hid their ebon beaks Beneath their ruffled wing— Then the fairies watered the glancing spot Where the lilies used to spring!

When the sun is high in the summer sky, And the lake is deep with clouds; When gadflies bite the prancing kine, And light the lark enshrouds— Then the butterfly, like a feather dropped From the tip of an angel’s wing, Floats wavering on to the glancing spot Where the lilies used to spring!

When the wheat is shorn and the burns run brown, And the moon shines clear at night; When wains are heaped with rustling corn, And the swallows take their flight; When the trees begin to cast their leaves, And the birds, new-feathered, sing— Then comes the bee to the glancing spot Where the lilies used to spring!

When the sky is grey and the trees are bare, And the grass is long and brown, And black moss clothes the soft damp thatch, And the rain comes weary down, And countless droplets on the pond Their widening orbits ring— Then bleak and cold is the silent spot Where the lilies used to spring!

Snow.

Flowers upon the summer lea, Daisies, kingcups, pale primroses— These are sung from sea to sea, As many a darling rhyme discloses. Tangled wood and hawthorn dale In many a songful snatch prevail; But never yet, as well I mind, In all their verses can I find A simple tune, with quiet flow, To match the falling of the snow.

O weary passed each winter day, And windily howled each winter night; O miry grew each village way, And mists enfolded every height; And ever on the window pane A froward gust blew down with rain, And day by day in tawny brown The Luggie stream came heaving down:— I could have fallen asleep and dreamed Until again spring sunshine gleamed.

And what! said I, is this the mode That Winter kings it now-a-days? The Robin keeps its own abode, And pipes his independent lays. I’ve seen the day on Merkland hill, That snow has fallen with a will, Even in November! Now, alas; The whole year round we see the grass:— Ah, winter now may come and go Without a single fall of snow.

It was the latest day but one Of winter, as I questioned thus; And sooth! an angry mood was on, As at a thing most scandalous;— When lo! some hailstones on the pane With sudden tinkle rang amain, Till in an ecstasy of joy I clapp’d and shouted like a boy— Oh, rain may come and rain may go, But what can match the falling snow!

It draped the naked sycamore On Foordcroft hill, above the well; The elms of Rosebank o’er and o’er Were silvered richly as it fell. The distant Campsie peaks were lost, And farthest Criftin with his host Of gloomy pine-trees disappeared, Nor even a lonely ridge upreared.— Oh, rain may come and rain may go, But what can match the falling snow!

Afar upon the Solsgirth moor, Each heather sprig of withered brown Is fringed with thread of silver pure As slow the soft flakes waver down; And on Glenconner’s lonely path, And Gartshore’s still and open strath, It falleth, quiet as the birth Of morning o’er the quickening earth.— Oh, rain may come and rain may go, But what can match the falling snow!

And all around our Merkland home Is laid a sheet of virgin lawn; On fairer, softer, ne’er did roam The nimble Oread or Faun. There is a wonder in the air, A living beauty everywhere; As if the whole had ne’er been planned, But touched by Merlin’s famous wand, Suddenly woke beneath his hand To potent bliss in fairy show— A mighty ravishment of snow!

October.

Sweet Muse and well-beloved, with my decline Declining, like a rose crushed unawares, Having too early knowledge of decay, Too subtle pleasure to behold the tree Shed its thin foliage on the sluggish stream,— What a sweet subject for thy silver sounds!

O for a quill pluck’d from the soaring wing Of an archangel, dipped in holy dew, To catch thy latest looks, thou loveliest October, o’er the many-coloured woods! October! vastlier disconsolate Than Saturn guiding melancholy spheres, Through ante-mundane silence and ripe death. Ere the last stack is housed, and woods are bare, And the vermilion fruitage of the brier Is soaked in mist, or shrivelled up with frost; Ere warm Spring nests are coldly to be seen Tenantless, but for rain and the cold snow, While yet there is a loveliness abroad,— The frail and indescribable loveliness Of a fair form Life with reluctance leaves, Being there only powerful,—while the earth Wears sackcloth in her great prophetic grief:—

Then the reflective melancholy soul,— Aimlessly wandering with slow falling foot The heath’ry solitude, in hope to assuage The cunning humour of his malady,— Loses his painful bitterness, and feels His own specific sorrows one by one Taken up in the huge dolour of all things.

O the sweet melancholy of the time When gently, ere the heart appeals, the year Shines in the fatal beauty of decay! When the sun sinks enlarged on Carronben, Nakedly visible without a cloud, And faintly from the faint eternal blue (That dim, sweet harebell-colour) comes the star Which evening wears;—when Luggie flows in mist, And in the cottage windows one by one, With sudden twinkle household lamps are lit, What noiseless falling of the faded leaf!

Sweet on a blossoming summer’s afternoon, When Fancy plays the wizard in the brain, Idly to saunter thro’ a lusty wood! But sweeter far—by how much sweeter, God Alone hath knowledge—in a pensive mood, Outstretched on green moss-velvet floss’d with thyme, To watch the fall o’ the leaf before the moon Shines out in sweet completion circular. For when the sunset hath withdrawn its gold And glimmering, like the surcease Of rich, low melody, erst inaudible streams Find voices in their still unwearied flow; And winds that have been much above the moors And mountains, have a deadly feel of cold, Forespeaking clear blue dawns and frosty chill.

The Roman Dyke.

Ah! frail memorial of a thousand years! Thou seem’st a stranger in a foreign land: No pitying hand thy fragments, fall’n, uprears, But useless, graceless, thou art left to stand. And yet, across this foggy, rain-slash’d wall, The savage tatoo’d Caledonians slew, With gory club, the high-nosed Romans, who With joy retreated at Antonius’ call. That stone which now I touch has handled been By brawny Romans, who, in Latin talked Of their fantastic foes, as, oft-times seen, With sacred tramp of liberty they stalked. And have they e’er been slaves? that dyke shall tell: The Romans, Saxons, Southrons, Swedes, they’ve braved, And, like proud eagles, scorned to be enslaved; As freemen now they stand—as freemen then they fell. On that side scorn the paths of slavery; Here—kiss the hallowed dust of Liberty!

Miscellaneous Sonnets.

Ezekiel.

Ezekiel, thus from the Lord God: Behold, Mount Seir, I am against thee! Desolate, Most desolate thy cloudy and dark fate. Between the lips of talkers bad and bold, Thy towns forsaken, and thy rivers rolled Thro’ silent wastes, are taken up, and great The joy at thy high glories ruinate. While all the earth is wanton, thou art cold, For thy most cruel lifting of the spear ’Gainst Israel in her time of consternation. Slain men shall fill thy mountains, O mount Seir! Sith thou hast blood pursued, fell tribulation Shall curse thy blessings, mock’d and undeplored:— As I live, thou shalt know I am the Lord!

The Mavis.

Sweet Mavis! at this cool delicious hour Of gloaming, with a pensive quietness Hushes the odorous air,—with what a power Of impulse unsubdued, thou dost express Thyself a spirit! While the silver dew Holy as manna on the meadow falls, Thy song’s impassioned clarity, trembling through This omnipresent stillness, disenthrals The soul to adoration. First I heard A low thick lubric gurgle, soft as love, Yet sad as memory, thro’ the silence poured Like starlight. But the mood intenser grows, Precipitate rapture quickens, move on move Lucidly linked together, till the close.

Despondency.

O Mystery of love and human grief, And hope, half-prophet ever prone to tears! My heart is lonely as a withered leaf Upon the winter tree. The passing years Are barren to me of all happiness, And, like a hoary anchorite, I feed Upon my past, and, _fetisch-like_, it dress With glory and clear jewels not its own. O Love, and Childhood! and those happy times When ignorance was patron to my need, When every hour was like a linnet flown In song, and beautiful in simple rhymes. Would that my feelings knew the quiet flow Of thy clear waters, Luggie! singing as they go!

The Moon.

I.

Come, light-foot Lady! from thy vaporous hall, And, with a silver-swim into the air, Shine down the starry cressets one and all From Pleiades to golden Jupiter! I see a growing tip of silver peep Above the full-fed cloud, and lo! with motion Of queenly stateliness, and smooth as sleep, She glides into the blue for my devotion. O sovran Beauty! standing here alone Under the insufferable infinite, I worship with dazed eyes and feeble moan Thy lucid persecution of delight. Come, cloudy dimness! Dip, fair dream, again! O God! I cannot gaze, for utter pain.

II.

With what a calm serenity she smooths Her way thro’ cloudless jasper sown with stars! Chaster than virtue, sweeter than sweet truths Of maidenhood, in Spenser’s knightly wars. For what is all Belphœbe’s golden hair, The chastity of Britomart, the love Of Florimel so faithful and so fair, To thee, thou Wonder! And yet far above Thy inoffensive beauty must I hold Dear Una, sighing for the Red-cross Knight Thro’ all her losses, crosses manifold. And when the lordly lion fell in fight, Who, who can paragon her tearful woe? Not thou, O Moon! didst ever passion so.

The Luggie.

I.

Long yearnings had my soul to gaze upon Fair Italy with atmosphere of fire; On tawny Spain; on th’ immemorial land Where Time has dallied with the Parthenon In beautiful affection and desire. But when last even, effluently bland, I saw sweet Luggie wind her amber waters Thro’ lawns of dew and glens of glimmering green, And saw the comeliness of Scotland’s daughters, Their speaking eyes and modest mountain mien,— I blest the Godhead over all presiding, Who placed me here, removed from human strife, Where Luggie, in her clear unwearied gliding, Is but the image of my inner life.

II.

The Avon is a famous rivulet, The mountain Duddon and the “bonnie Doon” Flow ever-shining in the sun of song, While plaintive Yarrow moaneth evermore. But there is one which I must halo yet With verse, as with a gleam of morning glory; Must set its woodland murmurings to tune, As through summer groves it steals along; Must gather inspiration from its love Of visible beauty and traditions hoary, And spiritual presences sublime. Dear Luggie! thou are mine by right of birth, And daily brotherhood and poet’s rhyme. O could I make thee famous o’er the earth!

III.

Pactolus singeth over golden sand; Scamander, old and blood-empurpled river, Rolls yet her stream divine; and Castaly Flows lucid in the light of ancient song; Whilst thou, sweet Luggie! fairest of this land, And fair as any of that famous throng, In pastoral, still loveliness, must be Bald as a marshy brooklet nameless ever! Nay, by the spirit of beauty and dear pleasure, Sure I shall sing thee as my first delight, Nurse of my soul, companion of my leisure! And if in aftertime thy waters roll More worthily, more spiritually bright, It will be sunshine to my perfect soul.

Thomas the Rhymer.

Listen, O spirit of that ancient bard! Thou weird Ezekiel of an age of lies And human fantasy! If ’neath the skies One being liveth, worthy to be heard, Whisper the awful _sesame_ that unstarr’d To thee the riddle of those mysteries, Dumb evermore to gazing of all eyes Mortal and uninspired! O thou that warr’d With man and custom, I do think of thee As something of a glory, something grand Beyond what ever satisfied this land With earnest of a strange divinity, Penn’d in thy passionately-breathing moods, Prophetic peopler of old solitudes!

The Lime-Tree.

A Lime-tree broad of bough and rough of trunk Deepens a shadow, as the evening cool, Over the Luggie gathering in deep pool Contemplative, its waters summer-shrunk; The Lammas floods have sucked away the mould About its roots, and now in bare sunshine Like knot of snakes they twine and intertwine Fantastic implication, fold in fold. Secure in covert, ’neath the fringing fern Lurks the bright-speckled trout, untroubled, save When boyhood with a glorious unconcern Eagerly plunges in the sleeping wave. Here the much-musing poet might recapture The inspiration flown, the vagrant rapture.

The Brooklet.

O deep unlovely brooklet, moaning slow Thro’ moorish fen in utter loneliness! The partridge cowers beside thy loamy flow In pulseful tremor, when with sudden press The huntsman flusters thro’ the rustled heather. In March thy sallow-buds from vermeil shells Break, satin-tinted, downy as the feather Of moss-chat that among the purplish bells Breasts into fresh new life her three unborn. The plover hovers o’er thee, uttering clear And mournful—strange, his human cry forlorn: While wearily, alone, and void of cheer Thou glid’st thy nameless waters from the fen, To sleep unsunned in an untrampled glen.

Maidenhood.

A sacred land, to common men unknown, A land of bowery glades and greenwoods hoary, Still waters where white stars reflected shone, And ancient castles in their ivied glory. Fair knights caparison’d in golden mail, And maidens whose enchantment was their beauty, Met but to whisper each the passion-tale, For love was all their pleasure and their duty. Here cedar bark, as with a moving will, Floated thro’ liquid silver, all untended; Here wrong and baseness ever came to ill, And virtue with delight was sweetly blended. This land, dear Spenser! was thy fair creation, Made thro’ fine glamour of imagination.

Sleep.

O precious Morphia! I sanctify The soothing power that in a painless swoon Laps my weak limbs, giving me strength to lie, Till sacred dawn increases unto noon: Then when, from highest meridional height, The sun devolves, and cooling breezes wake, It is a comfort and divine delight The weary bed exhausted to forsake, And bathe my temples in the blessed air. But when day wanes, and the wind-moaning night Deepens to darkness, then thy virtue rare, O dream-creative liquid! brings delight, Thy silver drops, diffusive, kindly steep The senses in the golden juice of sleep.

The Days of Old Mythology.

O for the days of old Mythology, When dripping Naiads taught their streams to glide! When, ’mid the greenery, one would oft-times spy An Oread tripping with her face aside. The dismal realms of Dis by Virgil sung, Whose shade led Dante, in his virtue bold, All the sad grief and agony among, O’er Acheron, that mournful river old, Ev’n to the Stygian tide of purple gloom! Pan in the forest making melody! And far away where hoariest billows boom, Old Neptune’s steeds with snorting nostrils high! These were the ancient days of sunny song; Their memory yet how dear to the poetic throng.

Discontentment.

O if we never knew the genial hour When Happiness sits by us like a god Dispensing treasures, we would never know The barren sadness of the common day, The weariness, and discontentment sour At human life—its ordinary load Of hopes deferred, and presences that flow Smilingly past us, syrens in the dream Of young imagination, fancy-fed. O I have seen such beauties with the gleam Of fairy sunshine on them, and I long Upon their bosoms this my life away To dally, like the lover in a song, And be a luting swain, Arcadian bred!

Snow.

But yestermorn the February snow Lay printless as the heaven upon this field, And, with a rapture in my bosom born, In sudden awe and reverence I kneeled Alone beneath the glory of the sky And omnipresent deity. To-day The spirit of the beautiful no more Over the wondering earth, in earnest glow Touches to beauty all the landscape grey,— Bringing a vision from her palace high To this sublunar planet. Now, forlorn As Ariadne on Cretan shore For many bitter-cold and weary days She knoweth not her old immortal ways.

The Thrush.

One Candlemas, a gentle day of Spring, I was abroad betimes while the red sun Rose large and stately with a purpled ring Of mist about him, and a mantle dun. Thro’ naked boughs he ominously glared, Till, soul-constrained, in sudden awe I stood, And with a Persian’s adoration stared. When lo! from a round beech-tree in the wood, The only tree to which the brown leaves clung, A mavis warbled forth his mellow lay; And ever as his ditty clear he sung The passion swelled his breast of downy grey. Dear bird! since then thy melody I know The boldest in intent, the fullest in its flow.

Stars.

O cold blue night, and deep the cloudless sky Gleams, sown with lucid keen and trembling stars;— A ravishment of glory shines on high, And the rapt soul yearns upward. Fiery Mars Shines with a baleful redness in the west; While mail’d Orion, frozenly severe, Stands like an armed skeleton opprest With centuries of sentinelship. Thro’ clear Smooth ether the keen-silvered Plough upheaves Its seven diamonds; and far away Poor Cassiopeia for her daughter grieves— Andromeda cold-touch’d by windy spray, While faintly watching with tear-misted eyne, Perseus flying shoreward o’er the gleaming brine.

My Epitaph.

_Below lies one whose name was traced in sand. He died, not knowing what it was to live: Died, while the first sweet consciousness of manhood And maiden thought electrified his soul, Faint beatings in the calyx of the rose. Bewildered reader! pass without a sigh, In a proud sorrow! There is life with God, In other kingdom of a sweeter air; In Eden every flower is blown:_ AMEN.

_DAVID GRAY._ _September 27, 1861._

Gray’s Monument.

At the inauguration of the Monument erected to the Poet’s Memory in the “Auld Aisle” Burying Ground, Kirkintilloch, July 29, 1865, Mr. Bell said:—