A REMINISCENCE OF BOYHOOD. By Delta. "Life is a dream, whose seeming truth Is moralized in age and youth; When all the comforts man can share As wandering as his fancies are: Till in a mist of dark decay The dreamer vanish quite away." Bishop King. I. 'Twas a blithe morning in the aureate monthOf July, when, in pride of summer power, The sun enliven'd nature: dew-besprent, A wilderness of flowers their scent exhaled Into the soft, warm zephyr; early a-foot, On public roads, and by each hedge-way path, From the far North, and from Hybernia's strand, With vestures many-hued, and ceaseless chat, The reapers to the coming harvest plied— Father and mother, stripling and young child, On back or shoulder borne. I trode again A scene of youth, bright in its natural lines Even to a stranger's eyes when first time seen, But sanctified to mine by many a fond And faithful recognition. O'er the Esk, Swoln by nocturnal showers, the hawthorn hung Its garland of green berries, and the bramble Trail'd 'mid the camomile its ripening fruit. Most lovely was the verdure of the hills— A rich luxuriant green, o'er which the sky Of blue, translucent, clear without a cloud, Outspread its arching amplitude serene. With many a gush of music, from each brake Sang forth the choral linnets; and the lark, Ascending from the clover field, by fits Soar'd as it sang, and dwindled from the sight. 'Mid the tall meadow grass the ox reclined, Or bent his knee, or from beneath the shade Of the broad beech, with ruminant mouth, gazed forth. Rustling with wealth, a tissue of fair fields, Outstretch'd to left and right in luxury; And the fir forests on the upland slopes Contrasted darkly with the golden grain. II. Pensively by the river's bank I stray'd— Now gazing on the corn-fields ripe and rich; Now listening to the carol of the birds From bush and brake, that with mellifluous notes Fill'd the wide air; and now in mournful thought— That yet was full of pleasure—running through The mazy past. I know not how it was, But from the sounds—the season—and the scene— Soften'd my heart; and, as the swallow wings In autumn back to softer sunnier climes— When summer, like a bright fallacious dream, So, from the turmoil of maturer years, In boyish thoughts my spirit sought relief. III. Embathed in beauty pass'd before my sight, Like blossoms that with sunlight shut and ope, The half-lost dreams of many a holiday, In boyhood spent on that blue river side With those whose names, even now, as alien sounds Ring in the ear, though then our cordial arms Enwreathed each other's necks, while on we roam'd, Singing or silent, pranksome, never at rest, As life were but a jocund pilgrimage, Whose pleasant wanderings found a goal in heaven. But when I reach'd a winding of the stream, By hazels overarch'd, whose swollen nuts Hung in rich clusters, from his marginal bank Of yellow sand, ribb'd by receding waves, I scared the ousel, that, like elfin sprite, Amid the water-lilies lithe and green, Zig-zagg'd from stone to stone; and, turning round The sudden jut, reveal'd before me stood, Silent, within that solitary place— In that green solitude so calm and deep— An aged angler, plying wistfully, Amid o'erhanging banks and shelvy rocks, Far from the bustle and the din of men, His sinless pastime. Silver were his locks, His figure lank; his dark eye, like a hawk's, Glisten'd beneath his hat of whitest straw, Lightsome of wear, with flies and gut begirt: The osier creel, athwart his shoulders slung, Became full well his coat of velveteen, Square-tail'd, four-pocket'd, and worn for years, As told by weather stains. His quarter-boots, Lash'd with stout leather thongs, and ankles bare, Spoke the adept—and of full many a day, Through many a changeable and checquer'd year, By mountain torrent, or smooth meadow stream, To that calm sport devoted. O'er him spread A tall, broad sycamore; and, at his feet, Amid the yellow ragwort, rough and high, An undisturbing spaniel lay, whose lids, Half-opening, told his master my approach. IV. I turn'd away, I could not bear to gaze On that grey angler with his rod and line; I turn'd away—for to my heart the sight Brought back, from out the twilight labyrinth Of bypast things, the memory of a day, So sever'd from the present by the lapse Of many a motley'd, life-destroying year, That on my thoughts the recognition came Faintly at first—as breaks the timid dawn Above the sea, or evening's earliest star Through the pavilion of the twilight dim— Faintly at first—then kindling to the glow Of that refulgent sunshine, only known To boyhood's careless and unclouded hours. V. Even yet I feel around my heart the flush Of that calm, windless morning, glorified With summer sunshine brilliant and intense! A tiny boy, scarcely ten summers old, Along blue Esk, under the whispering trees, And by the crumbling banks, daisy-o'ergrown, A cloudless, livelong day I trode with one Whose soul was in his pastime, and whose skill Upon its shores that day no equal saw:— O'er my small shoulders was the wicker creel Slung proudly, and the net whose meshes held The minnow, from the shallows deftly raised. Hour after hour augmenting our success, Turn'd what was pleasure first, to pleasant toil, Lent languor to my loitering steps, and gave Red to the cheek, and dew-damp to the brow: It was a day that cannot be forgot— A jubilee in childhood's calendar— A green hill-top seen o'er the billowy waste Of dim oblivion's flood:—and so it is, That on my morning couch—what time the sun Tinges the honeysuckle flowers with gold, That cluster round the porch—and in the calm Of evening meditation, when the past Spontaneously unfolds the treasuries Of half-forgotten and fragmental things, To memory's ceaseless roamings—it comes back, Fragrant and fresh, as if 'twere yesterday. From morn till noon, his light assiduous toil The angler plied; and when the mid-day sun Was high in heaven, under a spreading tree, (Methinks I hear the hum amid its leaves!) Upon a couch of wild-flowers, down we sat With healthful palates to our slight repast Of biscuits, and of cheese, and bottled milk; The sward our table, and the boughs our roof: And oh! in banquet hall, where richest cates Luxurious woo the pamper'd appetite, Never did viands proffer such delight, To Sybarite upon his silken couch, As did to us our simple fair that day. VI. Bright shone the afternoon, say rather burn'd, In floods of molten gold, with all its rich Array of blossoms by that river's side— Wild camomile, and lychnis in whose cups The bee delights to murmur, harebells blue, And violets breathing fragrance; nor remote The aureate furze, that to the west-winds sigh, Lent its peculiar perfume blandly soft. At times we near'd the wild-duck and her brood In the far angle of some dim-seen pool, Silent and sable, underneath the boughs Of low hung willow; and, at times, the bleat Of a stray lamb would bid us raise our eyes To where it stood above us on the rock, Enshrined in recollection—sleep those hours So brilliant and so beautiful—the scene So full of pastoral loveliness—the heart With pleasure overflowing—and the sky Pavilion'd over all, an arch of peace— God with his fair creation reconciled: And oh! to be forgotten only with The last fond thoughts of memory, I behold That grand and gorgeous evening, in whose blaze Homeward with laden paniers we return'd. Through the green woods outshot the level rays Of flooding sunlight, tinging the hoar bark Of the old pine-trees, and in crimson dyes Bathing the waste of flowers that sprang beneath; It was an hour of Paradise restored— Eden forth mirror'd to the view again, As yet ere Happiness forsook its bowers, Or sinless creatures own'd the sway of death. All was repose—and peace—and harmony; The flocks upon the soft knolls resting lay, Or straying nibbled at the pastures green; Up from its clovery lurking-place, the hare Arose; the pheasant from the coppice stray'd; The cony from its hole disporting leapt; The cattle in the bloomy meadows lay Ruminant; the shy foal scarcely swerved aside At our approach from under the tall tree Of his delight, shaking his forelocks long In wanton play; while, overhead, his hymn, As 'twere to herald the approach of night, With all her gathering stars, the blackbird sang Melodiously, mellifluously, and Earth Look'd up, reflecting back the smiles of Heaven! For Innocence, o'er hill and dale again Seem'd to have spread her mantle, and the voice Of all but joy in grove and glade was hush'd. VII. Thro' the deep glen of Roslin—where arise Proud castle and chapelle of high St Clair, And Scotland's prowess speaking—we had traced The mazy Esk by cavern'd Hawthornden, Perch'd like an eagle's nest upon the cliffs, And eloquent for aye with Drummond's song— Through Melville's flowery glades—and down the park Of fair Dalkeith, scaring the antler'd deer 'Neath the huge oaks of Morton and of Monk, Whispering, as stir their boughs the midnight winds. These left behind, with purpling evening, now We stood beside St Michael's holy fane, With its nine centuries of gravestones girt; And, from the slopes of Inveresk, gazed down Upon the Frith of Forth, whose waveless tide Glow'd like a plain of fire. In majesty, O'ercanopied with many-vestured clouds, The mighty sun, low in the farthest west, With orb dilated, o'er the Grampian chain, Mountain up-piled on mountain, huge and blue, Was shedding his last rays, adorn'd the shores And bathing Ben-Ean and Ben-Ledi's peaks In hues of amethyst. Ray after ray, From the twin Lomond's conic heights declined, And died away the glory; and, at length, As sank the last, low horizontal beams, And Twilight drew her azure curtains round, From out the south, twinkled the Evening star! VIII. Since then full often hath the snow-drop shown Its early flower—hath summer waved its corn— Hath autumn shed its leaves—and Arctic gales Brought wintry desolation on their wings! When Memory ponders on that boyish scene, Broken seems almost every tie that links That day to this—and to the child the man: The world is alter'd quite in all its thoughts— In all its works and ways—its sights and sounds— With the same name it is another sphere, And by another race inhabited. The old familiar dwellings, with their trees Coeval, mouldering wall, and dovecot rent— The old familiar faces from the streets, One after one, have now all disappear'd, And sober sires are they who then were sons, Giddy and gay:—a generation new Dwells where they dwelt—whose tongues are silent quite— Whose bodily forms are reminiscences Fading:—the leaden talisman of Truth Hath disenchanted of its rainbow hues The sky, and robb'd the fields of half their bloom. I start, to conjure from the gulf of death The myriads that have gone to come no more:— And where is he, the Angler, by whose side That livelong day delightedly I roam'd, While life to both a sunny pastime seem'd? Ask of the winds that from the Atlantic blow, When last they stirr'd the wild-flowers on his grave! |