A small volume of poems, entitled "Poetical Aspirations," was published by me, my first adventure, in 1830, and was favourably received. That volume was dedicated to Mrs Robertson of Ednam House, Kelso, a lady whose many virtues are universally acknowledged wherever she is known, and whose kindness to me it will always be my pride to remember. A second edition, with additional poems, appeared in 1833. From the latter volume I have selected the following pieces, the remainder, bearing evident marks of inexperience and juvenility of taste, not being deemed worthy of further reprint.
POETICAL ASPIRATIONS. THE ALPINE HORN. (1) Sunset is streaming o'er the snow-clad crown Of the high Alps, while darkness settles down Through all their countless valleys and defiles, Mixing with shade, where sunlight never smiles: Ere from the topmost peak, its latest ray Has, with its wing of glory, sped away, The mountain shepherd's horn has sounded there, Like the Muezzin's evening call to prayer; "Praise God the Lord!" and hark! from all around A thousand voices answer to the sound: From every clift, and crag, and ledge, and linn, The notes of worship and of praise begin. "Praise God the Lord!" the echoes catch the strain, And far and near repeat the sound again; They wake it in the wild and in the wood, Through all the shades of that far solitude: Bearing it on, o'er valley and ravine, Where, till this hour, such sound has never been; Then, in the distance, fainter grown the lay, The lingering notes at length dissolve away. When all is silent, on the mountain sod The humble shepherds bend the knee to God; They kneel in darkness and in peace, to share The sweet and social intercourse of prayer: With gleams of manly thought, their prayers arise, Like incense from the altar, to the skies. Their temple is the mountain and the mist, And theirs the shrine where minister the blest; They kneel before the Spirit of the world, He who this universe of mountains hurled Together with a word, and chaos spread Mid majesty and grandeur, dark and dread. Prostrate in presence of the Great First Cause, They own his power, while they obey his laws: Their thoughts are deeper than th' abyss beneath, Yet while their humble orisons they breathe, Their souls are soaring far beyond each height On which the stars are clustering, with the night; And while they view, with soul-admiring glance, The world of fancy, nature, and romance, That circles round their native rocks, they deem The glories of the earth an empty dream. But hark! that horn again resounds aloud, Like sudden music bursting from a cloud: "Good night!" "Good night!" along the mountain breaks, "Good night!" "Good night!" again each echo wakes; And all the scene, below, around, above, Teems with "Good night!" the evening pledge of love. The eagle, soaring, waits upon the wing, Charmed with the notes the syren echoes sing; The startled chamois bounds along the hill, Yet, half-enraptured, turns to listen still; From mount to valley, and from wold to wild, The sounds are borne along, till, faint and mild, "Good night," shall linger in the echoes' song, When all to silence and to sleep belong.
REFLECTIONS ON DEATH. One day—the sunbeams danced along the glade As lovers dance upon their bridal eve— I wandered to the wood, where all was bloom; The earth breathed fresh with fragrance, and the trees Dropped, as it were, the dew of silent joy. I loved to listen to the song of birds, Whose music wild, yet sweet, came o'er the ear, Telling of ecstasy; and, more than all, I loved to view the flowers, those stars of earth, As stars are flowers of heaven, those glimpses bright Of a far higher, purer, lovelier world; Those day dreams of Creation, blooming wild, Scattered on earth, like angel-smiles in heaven. Oh! I was happy then, for all above, And all below, was fair, and pure, and bright; And then I thought that happier still I'd be If my freed soul could fleet, as dew from grass, When the glad morning sun is shining forth, Passing so silently away from earth; If that were all—if death itself were death— But after death comes life, more true than this. 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!
"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.
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.
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. 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.
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.
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.
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.
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