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POEMS WRITTEN DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND

1. ROB ROY's GRAVE

The History of Rob Roy is sufficiently known; his Grave is near the head of Loch Ketterine, in one of those small Pin-fold-like Burial-grounds, of neglected and desolate appearance, which the Traveller meets with in the Highlands of Scotland

 
  A famous Man is Robin Hood,
  The English Ballad-singer's joy!
  And Scotland has a Thief as good,
  An Outlaw of as daring mood,
  She has her brave ROB ROY!
  Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,
  And let us chaunt a passing Stave
  In honour of that Hero brave!
 
 
  Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart,
  And wondrous length and strength of arm:
  Nor craved he more to quell his Foes,
  Or keep his Friends from harm.
 
 
  Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave;
  Forgive me if the phrase be strong; —
  Poet worthy of Rob Roy
  Must scorn a timid song.
 
 
  Say, then, that he was wise as brave;
  As wise in thought as bold in deed:
  For in the principles of things
  He sought his moral creed.
 
 
  Said generous Rob, "What need of Books?
  Burn all the Statutes and their shelves:
  They stir us up against our Kind;
  And worse, against Ourselves."
 
 
  "We have a passion, make a law,
  Too false to guide us or controul!
  And for the law itself we fight
  In bitterness of soul."
 
 
  "And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose
  Distinctions that are plain and few:
  These find I graven on my heart:
  That tells me what to do."
 
 
  "The Creatures see of flood and field,
  And those that travel on the wind!
  With them no strife can last; they live
  In peace, and peace of mind."
 
 
  "For why? – because the good old Rule
  Sufficeth them, the simple Plan,
  That they should take who have the power,
  And they should keep who can."
 
 
  "A lesson which is quickly learn'd,
  A signal this which all can see!
  Thus nothing here provokes the Strong
  To wanton cruelty."
 
 
  "All freakishness of mind is check'd;
  He tam'd, who foolishly aspires;
  While to the measure of his might
  Each fashions his desires."
 
 
  "All Kinds, and Creatures, stand and fall
  By strength of prowess or of wit:
  Tis God's appointment who must sway,
  And who is to submit."
 
 
  "Since then," said Robin, "right is plain,
  And longest life is but a day;
  To have my ends, maintain my rights,
  I'll take the shortest way."
 
 
  And thus among these rocks he liv'd,
  Through summer's heat and winter's snow:
  The Eagle, he was Lord above,
  And Rob was Lord below.
 
 
  So was it —would, at least, have been
  But through untowardness of fate:
  For Polity was then too strong;
  He came an age too late,
 
 
  Or shall we say an age too soon?
  For, were the bold Man living now,
  How might he flourish in his pride,
  With buds on every bough!
 
 
  Then rents and Factors, rights of chace,
  Sheriffs, and Lairds and their domains
  Would all have seem'd but paltry things,
  Not worth a moment's pains.
 
 
  Rob Roy had never linger'd here,
  To these few meagre Vales confin'd;
  But thought how wide the world, the times
  How fairly to his mind!
 
 
  And to his Sword he would have said,
  "Do Thou my sovereign will enact
  From land to land through half the earth!
  Judge thou of law and fact!"
 
 
  "Tis fit that we should do our part;
  Becoming, that mankind should learn
  That we are not to be surpass'd
  In fatherly concern."
 
 
  "Of old things all are over old,
  Of good things none are good enough: —
  We'll shew that we can help to frame
  A world of other stuff."
 
 
  "I, too, will have my Kings that take
  From me the sign of life and death:
  Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds,
  Obedient to my breath."
 
 
  And, if the word had been fulfill'd,
  As might have been, then, thought of joy!
  France would have had her present Boast;
  And we our brave Rob Roy!
 
 
  Oh! say not so; compare them not;
  I would not wrong thee, Champion brave!
  Would wrong thee no where; least of all
  Here standing by thy Grave.
 
 
  For Thou, although with some wild thoughts,
  Wild Chieftain of a Savage Clan!
  Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love
  The liberty of Man.
 
 
  And, had it been thy lot to live
  With us who now behold the light,
  Thou would'st have nobly stirr'd thyself,
  And battled for the Right.
 
 
  For Robin was the poor Man's stay
  The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand;
  And all the oppress'd, who wanted strength,
  Had Robin's to command.
 
 
  Bear witness many a pensive sigh
  Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays
  Alone upon Loch Veol's Heights,
  And by Loch Lomond's Braes!
 
 
  And, far and near, through vale and hill,
  Are faces that attest the same;
  And kindle, like a fire new stirr'd,
  At sound of ROB ROY's name. 1
 

2. THE SOLITARY REAPER

 
  Behold her, single in the field,
  Yon solitary Highland Lass!
  Reaping and singing by herself;
  Stop here, or gently pass!
  Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
  And sings a melancholy strain;
  O listen! for the Vale profound
  Is overflowing with the sound.
 
 
  No Nightingale did ever chaunt
  So sweetly to reposing bands
  Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
  Among Arabian Sands:
  No sweeter voice was ever heard
  In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
  Breaking the silence of the seas
  Among the farthest Hebrides.
 
 
  Will no one tell me what she sings?
  Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
  For old, unhappy, far-off things,
  And battles long ago:
  Or is it some more humble lay,
  Familiar matter of today?
  Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
  That has been, and may be again!
 
 
  Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sung
  As if her song could have no ending;
  I saw her singing at her work,
  And o'er the sickle bending;
  I listen'd till I had my fill;
  And, as I mounted up the hill,
  The music in my heart I bore,
  Long after it was heard no more.
 

3. STEPPING WESTWARD

While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sun-set, in our road to a Hut where in the course of our Tour we had been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, "What you are stepping westward?"

 
  "What you are stepping westward?" – "Yea."
  – 'Twould be a wildish destiny,
  If we, who thus together roam
  In a strange Land, and far from home,
  Were in this place the guests of Chance:
  Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,
  Though home or shelter he had none,
  With such a Sky to lead him on?
 
 
  The dewy ground was dark and cold;
  Behind, all gloomy to behold;
  And stepping westward seem'd to be
  A kind of heavenly destiny;
  I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound
  Of something without place or bound;
  And seem'd to give me spiritual right
  To travel through that region bright.
 
 
  The voice was soft, and she who spake
  Was walking by her native Lake:
  The salutation had to me
  The very sound of courtesy:
  It's power was felt; and while my eye
  Was fixed upon the glowing sky,
  The echo of the voice enwrought
  A human sweetness with the thought
  Of travelling through the world that lay
  Before me in my endless way.
 

4. GLEN-ALMAIN
or the NARROW GLEN

 
  In this still place, remote from men,
  Sleeps Ossian, in the NARROW GLEN;
  In this still place, where murmurs on
  But one meek Streamlet, only one:
  He sang of battles, and the breath
  Of stormy war, and violent death;
  And should, methinks, when all was past,
  Have rightfully been laid at last
  Where rocks were sudely heap'd, and rent
  As by a spirit turbulent;
  Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
  And every thing unreconciled;
  In some complaining, dim retreat,
  For fear and melancholy meet;
  But this is calm; there cannot be
  A more entire tranquillity.
 
 
  Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?
  Or is it but a groundless creed?
  What matters it? I blame them not
  Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot
  Was moved; and in this way express'd
  Their notion of it's perfect rest.
  A Convent, even a hermit's Cell
  Would break the silence of this Dell:
  It is not quiet, is not ease;
  But something deeper far than these:
  The separation that is here
  Is of the grave; and of austere
  And happy feelings of the dead:
  And, therefore, was it rightly said
  That Ossian, last of all his race!
  Lies buried in this lonely place.
 

5. THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH AND HER HUSBAND

At Jedborough we went into private Lodgings for a few days; and the following Verses were called forth by the character, and domestic situation, of our Hostess

 
  Age! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers!
  And call a train of laughing Hours;
  And bid them dance, and bid them sing;
  And Thou, too, mingle in the Ring!
  Take to thy heart a new delight;
  If not, make merry in despite!
  For there is one who scorns thy power.
  – But dance! for under Jedborough Tower
  There liveth in the prime of glee,
  A Woman, whose years are seventy-three,
  And She will dance and sing with thee!
 
 
  Nay! start not at that Figure – there!
  Him who is rooted to his chair!
  Look at him – look again! for He
  Hath long been of thy Family.
  With legs that move not, if they can,
  And useless arms, a Trunk of Man,
  He sits, and with a vacant eye;
  A Sight to make a Stranger sigh!
  Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom:
  His world is in this single room:
  Is this a place for mirth and cheer?
  Can merry-making enter here?
 
 
  The joyous Woman is the Mate
  Of Him in that forlorn estate!
  He breathes a subterraneous damp,
  But bright as Vesper shines her lamp:
  He is as mute as Jedborough Tower;
  She jocund as it was of yore,
  With all it's bravery on; in times,
  When, all alive with merry chimes,
  Upon a sun-bright morn of May,
  It rouz'd the Vale to Holiday.
 
 
  I praise thee, Matron! and thy due
  Is praise; heroic praise, and true!
  With admiration I behold
  Thy gladness unsubdued and bold:
  Thy looks, thy gestures, all present
  The picture of a life well-spent:
  This do I see; and something more;
  A strength unthought of heretofore!
  Delighted am I for thy sake;
  And yet a higher joy partake.
  Our Human-nature throws away
  It's second Twilight, and looks gay:
  A Land of promise and of pride
  Unfolding, wide as life is wide.
 
 
  Ah! see her helpless Charge! enclos'd
  Within himself, as seems; compos'd;
  To fear of loss, and hope of gain,
  The strife of happiness and pain,
  Utterly dead! yet, in the guise
  Of little Infants, when their eyes
  Begin to follow to and fro
  The persons that before them go,
  He tracks her motions, quick or slow.
  Her buoyant Spirit can prevail
  Where common cheerfulness would fail:
  She strikes upon him with the heat
  Of July Suns; he feels it sweet;
  An animal delight though dim!
  'Tis all that now remains for him!
 
 
  I look'd, I scann'd her o'er and o'er;
  The more I look'd I wonder'd more:
  When suddenly I seem'd to espy
  A trouble in her strong black eye;
  A remnant of uneasy light,
  A flash of something over-bright!
  And soon she made this matter plain;
  And told me, in a thoughtful strain,
  That she had borne a heavy yoke,
  Been stricken by a twofold stroke;
  Ill health of body; and had pin'd
  Beneath worse ailments of the mind.
 
 
  So be it! but let praise ascend
  To Him who is our Lord and Friend!
  Who from disease and suffering
  Hath call'd for thee a second Spring;
  Repaid thee for that sore distress
  By no untimely joyousness;
  Which makes of thine a blissful state;
  And cheers thy melancholy Mate!
 

6. TO A HIGHLAND GIRL

(At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond.)

 
  Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
  Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
  Twice seven consenting years have shed
  Their utmost bounty on thy head:
  And these gray Rocks; this household Lawn;
  These Trees, a veil just half withdrawn;
  This fall of water, that doth make
  A murmur near the silent Lake;
  This little Bay, a quiet Road
  That holds in shelter thy Abode;
  In truth together ye do seem
  Like something fashion'd in a dream;
 
 
  Such Forms as from their covert peep
  When earthly cares are laid asleep!
  Yet, dream and vision as thou art,
  I bless thee with a human heart:
  God shield thee to thy latest years!
  I neither know thee nor thy peers;
  And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.
 
 
  With earnest feeling I shall pray
  For thee when I am far away:
  For never saw I mien, or face,
  In which more plainly I could trace
  Benignity and home-bred sense
  Ripening in perfect innocence.
  Here, scatter'd like a random seed,
  Remote from men, Thou dost not need
  The embarrass'd look of shy distress,
  And maidenly shamefacedness:
 
 
  Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
  The freedom of a Mountaineer.
  A face with gladness overspread!
  Sweet looks, by human kindness bred!
  And seemliness complete, that sways
  Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
  With no restraint, but such as springs
  From quick and eager visitings
  Of thoughts, that lie beyond the reach
  Of thy few words of English speech:
  A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife
  That gives thy gestures grace and life!
  So have I, not unmov'd in mind,
  Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,
  Thus beating up against the wind.
 
 
  What hand but would a garland cull
  For thee who art so beautiful?
  O happy pleasure! here to dwell
  Beside thee in some heathy dell;
  Adopt your homely ways and dress,
  A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess!
  But I could frame a wish for thee
  More like a grave reality:
  Thou art to me but as a wave
  Of the wild sea; and I would have
  Some claim upon thee, if I could,
  Though but of common neighbourhood.
  What joy to hear thee, and to see!
  Thy elder Brother I would be,
  Thy Father, any thing to thee!
 
 
  Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
  Hath led me to this lonely place.
  Joy have I had; and going hence
  I bear away my recompence.
  In spots like these it is we prize
  Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
  Then, why should I be loth to stir?
  I feel this place was made for her;
  To give new pleasure like the past,
  Continued long as life shall last.
  Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
  Sweet Highland Girl! from Thee to part;
  For I, methinks, till I grow old,
  As fair before me shall behold,
  As I do now, the Cabin small,
  The Lake, the Bay, the Waterfall;
  And Thee, the Spirit of them all!
 

7. SONNET

(Composed at – Castle.)

 
  Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord!
  Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,
  And love of havoc (for with such disease
  Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word
  To level with the dust a noble horde,
  A brotherhood of venerable Trees,
  Leaving an ancient Dome, and Towers like these,
  Beggared and outraged! – Many hearts deplor'd
  The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain
  The Traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze
  On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
  For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks and bays,
  And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
  And the green silent pastures, yet remain.
 

8. ADDRESS TO THE SONS OF BURNS

after visiting their Father's Grave (August 14th, 1803.)

 
  Ye now are panting up life's hill!
  'Tis twilight time of good and ill,
  And more than common strength and skill
            Must ye display
  If ye would give the better will
            Its lawful sway.
 
 
  Strong bodied if ye be to bear
  Intemperance with less harm, beware!
  But if your Father's wit ye share,
            Then, then indeed,
  Ye Sons of Burns! for watchful care
            There will be need.
 
 
  For honest men delight will take
  To shew you favor for his sake,
  Will flatter you; and Fool and Rake
            Your steps pursue:
  And of your Father's name will make
            A snare for you.
 
 
  Let no mean hope your souls enslave;
  Be independent, generous, brave!
  Your Father such example gave,
            And such revere!
  But be admonish'd by his Grave,
            And think, and fear!
 

9. YARROW UNVISITED

(See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the

Banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad

of Hamilton, beginning:

"Busk ye, busk ye my bonny, bonny Bride,

Busk ye, busk ye my winsome Marrow!" – )

 
  From Stirling Castle we had seen
  The mazy Forth unravell'd;
  Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
  And with the Tweed had travell'd;
  And, when we came to Clovenford,
  Then said my 'winsome Marrow',
  "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
  And see the Braes of Yarrow."
 
 
  "Let Yarrow Folk, frae Selkirk Town,
  Who have been buying, selling,
  Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
  Each Maiden to her Dwelling!
  On Yarrow's Banks let herons feed,
  Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
  But we will downwards with the Tweed,
  Nor turn aside to Yarrow."
 
 
  "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
  Both lying right before us;
  And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
  The Lintwhites sing in chorus;
  There's pleasant Tiviot Dale, a land
  Made blithe with plough and harrow;
  Why throw away a needful day
  To go in search of Yarrow?"
 
 
  "What's Yarrow but a River bare
  That glides the dark hills under?
  There are a thousand such elsewhere
  As worthy of your wonder."
  – Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;
  My True-love sigh'd for sorrow;
  And look'd me in the face, to think
  I thus could speak of Yarrow!
 
 
  "Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's Holms,
  And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
  Fair hangs the apple frae the rock¹,
  But we will leave it growing.
  O'er hilly path, and open Strath,
  We'll wander Scotland thorough;
  But, though so near, we will not turn
  Into the Dale of Yarrow."
 
 
  "Let Beeves and home-bred Kine partake
  The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
  The Swan on still St. Mary's Lake
  Float double, Swan and Shadow!
  We will not see them; will not go,
  Today, nor yet tomorrow;
  Enough if in our hearts we know,
  There's such a place as Yarrow."
 
 
  "Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown!
  It must, or we shall rue it:
  We have a vision of our own;
  Ah! why should we undo it?
  The treasured dreams of times long past
  We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
  For when we're there although 'tis fair
  'Twill be another Yarrow!"
 
 
  "If Care with freezing years should come,
  And wandering seem but folly,
  Should we be loth to stir from home,
  And yet be melancholy;
  Should life be dull, and spirits low,
  'Twill soothe us in our sorrow
  That earth has something yet to show,
  The bonny Holms of Yarrow!"
 

MOODS OF MY OWN MIND

1. TO A BUTTERFLY

 
  Stay near me – do not take thy flight!
  A little longer stay in sight!
  Much converse do I find in Thee,
  Historian of my Infancy!
  Float near me; do not yet depart!
  Dead times revive in thee:
  Thou bring'st, gay Creature as thou art!
  A solemn image to my heart,
  My Father's Family!
 
 
  Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
  The time, when in our childish plays
  My sister Emmeline and I
  Together chaced the Butterfly!
  A very hunter did I rush
  Upon the prey: – with leaps and springs
  I follow'd on from brake to bush;
  But She, God love her! feared to brush
  The dust from off its wings.
 

2

 
  The Sun has long been set:
  The Stars are out by twos and threes;
  The little Birds are piping yet
  Among the bushes and trees;
  There's a Cuckoo, and one or two thrushes;
  And a noise of wind that rushes,
  With a noise of water that gushes;
  And the Cuckoo's sovereign cry
  Fills all the hollow of the sky!
 
 
  Who would go "parading"
  In London, and "masquerading,"
  On such a night of June?
  With that beautiful soft half-moon,
  And all these innocent blisses,
  On such a night as this is!
 

3

 
  O Nightingale! thou surely art
  A Creature of a fiery heart —
  These notes of thine they pierce, and pierce;
  Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
  Thou sing'st as if the God of wine
  Had help'd thee to a Valentine;
  A song in mockery and despite
  Of shades, and dews, and silent Night,
  And steady bliss, and all the Loves
  Now sleeping in these peaceful groves!
 
 
  I heard a Stockdove sing or say
  His homely tale, this very day.
  His voice was buried among trees,
  Yet to be come at by the breeze:
  He did not cease; but coo'd – and coo'd;
  And somewhat pensively he woo'd:
  He sang of love with quiet blending,
  Slow to begin, and never ending;
  Of serious faith, and inward glee;
  That was the Song, the Song for me!
 

4

 
  My heart leaps up when I behold
        A Rainbow in the sky:
  So was it when my life began;
  So is it now I am a Man;
  So be it when I shall grow old,
        Or let me die!
  The Child is Father of the Man;
  And I could wish my days to be
  Bound each to each by natural piety.
 

5. WRITTEN IN MARCH,

While resting on the Bridge at the Foot of Brother's Water

 
      The cook is crowing,
      The stream is flowing,
      The small birds twitter,
      The lake doth glitter,
  The green field sleeps in the sun;
      The oldest and youngest
      Are at work with the strongest;
      The cattle are grazing,
      Their heads never raising;
  There are forty feeding like one!
      Like an army defeated
      The Snow hath retreated,
      And now doth fare ill
      On the top of the bare hill;
  The Plough-boy is whooping – anon – anon:
      There's joy in the mountains;
      There's life in the fountains;
      Small clouds are sailing,
      Blue sky prevailing;
  The rain is over and gone!
 

6. THE SMALL CELANDINE

Common Pilewort

 
  There is a Flower, the Lesser Celandine,
  That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain;
  And, the first moment that the sun may shine,
  Bright as the sun itself, 'tis out again!
 
 
  When hailstones have been falling swarm on swarm,
  Or blasts the green field and the trees distress'd,
  Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm,
  In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest.
 
 
  But lately, one rough day, this Flower I pass'd,
  And recognized it, though an alter'd Form,
  Now standing forth an offering to the Blast,
  And buffetted at will by Rain and Storm,
 
 
  I stopp'd, and said with inly muttered voice,
  "It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold:
  This neither is it's courage nor it's choice,
  But it's necessity in being old."
 
 
  The sunshine may not bless it, nor the dew;
  It cannot help itself in it's decay;
  Stiff in it's members, wither'd, changed of hue.
  And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey.
 
 
  To be a Prodigal's Favorite – then, worse truth,
  A Miser's Pensioner – behold our lot!
  O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth
  Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
 

7

 
  I wandered lonely as a Cloud
  That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,
  When all at once I saw a crowd
  A host of dancing Daffodills;
  Along the Lake, beneath the trees,
  Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.
 
 
  The waves beside them danced, but they
  Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: —
  A Poet could not but be gay
  In such a laughing company:
  I gaz'd – and gaz'd – but little thought
  What wealth the shew to me had brought:
 
 
  For oft when on my couch I lie
  In vacant or in pensive mood,
  They flash upon that inward eye
  Which is the bliss of solitude,
  And then my heart with pleasure fills,
  And dances with the Daffodils.
 

8

 
  Who fancied what a pretty sight
  This Rock would be if edged around
  With living Snowdrops? circlet bright!
  How glorious to this Orchard ground!
  Who loved the little Rock, and set
  Upon its Head this Coronet?
 
 
  Was it the humour of a Child?
  Or rather of some love-sick Maid,
  Whose brows, the day that she was styled
  The Shepherd Queen, were thus arrayed?
  Of Man mature, or Matron sage?
  Or old Man toying with his age?
 
 
  I ask'd – 'twas whisper'd, The device
  To each or all might well belong.
  It is the Spirit of Paradise
  That prompts such work, a Spirit strong,
  That gives to all the self-same bent
  Where life is wise and innocent.
 

9. THE SPARROW'S NEST

 
  Look, five blue eggs are gleaming there!
  Few visions have I seen more fair,
  Nor many prospects of delight
  More pleasing than that simple sight!
  I started seeming to espy
  The home and shelter'd bed,
  The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by
  My Father's House, in wet or dry,
  My Sister Emmeline and I
        Together visited.
 
 
  She look'd at it as if she fear'd it;
  Still wishing, dreading to be near it:
  Such heart was in her, being then
  A little Prattler among men.
  The Blessing of my later years
  Was with me when a Boy;
  She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
  And humble cares, and delicate fears;
  A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
        And love, and thought, and joy.
 

10. GIPSIES

 
  Yet are they here? – the same unbroken knot
  Of human Beings, in the self-same spot!
      Men, Women, Children, yea the frame
      Of the whole Spectacle the same!
  Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light:
  Now deep and red, the colouring of night;
      That on their Gipsy-faces falls,
      Their bed of straw and blanket-walls.
  – Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone while I
  Have been a Traveller under open sky,
      Much witnessing of change and chear,
      Yet as I left I find them here!
 
 
  The weary Sun betook himself to rest.
  – Then issued Vesper from the fulgent West,
      Outshining like a visible God
      The glorious path in which he trod.
  And now, ascending, after one dark hour,
  And one night's diminution of her power,
      Behold the mighty Moon! this way
      She looks as if at them – but they
  Regard not her: – oh better wrong and strife,
  Better vain deeds or evil than such life!
      The silent Heavens have goings on;
      The stars have tasks – but these have none.
 

11. TO THE CUCKOO

 
  O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
  I hear thee and rejoice:
  O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
  Or but a wandering Voice?
 
 
  While I am lying on the grass,
  I hear thy restless shout:
  From hill to hill it seems to pass,
  About, and all about!
 
 
  To me, no Babbler with a tale
  Of sunshine and of flowers,
  Thou tellest, Cuckoo! in the vale
  Of visionary hours.
 
 
  Thrice welcome, Darling of the Spring!
  Even yet thou art to me
  No Bird; but an invisible Thing,
  A voice, a mystery.
 
 
  The same whom in my School-boy days
  I listen'd to; that Cry
  Which made me look a thousand ways;
  In bush, and tree, and sky.
 
 
  To seek thee did I often rove
  Through woods and on the green;
  And thou wert still a hope, a love;
  Still long'd for, never seen!
 
 
  And I can listen to thee yet;
  Can lie upon the plain.
  And listen, till I do beget
  That golden time again.
 
 
  O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
  Again appears to be
  An unsubstantial, faery place;
  That is fit home for Thee!
 

12. TO A BUTTERFLY

 
  I've watch'd you now a full half hour,
  Self-pois'd upon that yellow flower;
  And, little Butterfly! indeed
  I know not if you sleep, or feed.
  How motionless! not frozen seas
  More motionless! and then
  What joy awaits you, when the breeze
  Hath found you out among the trees,
      And calls you forth again!
 
 
  This plot of Orchard-ground is ours;
  My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
  Stop here whenever you are weary,
  And rest as in a sanctuary!
  Come often to us, fear no wrong;
  Sit near us on the bough!
  We'll talk of sunshine and of song;
  And summer days, when we were young,
  Sweet childish days, that were as long
      As twenty days are now!
 

13

 
  It is no Spirit who from Heaven hath flown,
  And is descending on his embassy;
  Nor Traveller gone from Earth the Heavens to espy!
  'Tis Hesperus – there he stands with glittering crown,
  First admonition that the sun is down!
  For yet it is broad day-light: clouds pass by;
  A few are near him still – and now the sky,
  He hath it to himself – 'tis all his own.
  O most ambitious Star! an inquest wrought
  Within me when I recognised thy light;
  A moment I was startled at the sight:
  And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought
  That I might step beyond my natural race
  As thou seem'st now to do; might one day trace
  Some ground not mine; and, strong her strength above,
  My Soul, an Apparition in the place,
  Tread there, with steps that no one shall reprove!
 

THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY; WITH OTHER POEMS

THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY

(A Tale told by the Fire-side.)

 
  Now we are tired of boisterous joy,
  We've romp'd 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,
  In land where many a mountain towers,
  Far higher hills than these of ours!
        He from his birth had liv'd.
 
 
  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 pleas'd 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 sweetly 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 stirr'd,
  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 Levin'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,
  You soon shall know how this befel)
  He's in a vessel of his own,
  On the swift water hurrying down
        Towards the mighty Sea.
 
 
  In such a vessel ne'er before
  Did 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.
 
 
  Strong is the current; but be mild,
  Ye waves, and spare the helpless Child!
  If ye in anger fret or chafe,
  A Bee-hive would be ship as safe
      As that in which he sails.
 
 
  But say, what was it? Thought of fear!
  Well may ye tremble when ye hear!
  – A Household Tub, like one of those
  Which women use to wash their clothes,
      This carried the blind Boy.
 
 
  Close to the water he had found
  This Vessel, push'd it from dry ground,
  Went into it; and, without dread,
  Following the fancies in his head,
        He paddled up and down.
 
 
  A while he stood upon his feet;
  He felt the motion – took his seat;
  And dallied thus, till from the shore
  The tide retreating more and more
        Had suck'd, and suck'd 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 bless'd.
 
 
  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.
 
 
  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" – then did he cry
  "Lei-gha – Lei-gha" – most eagerly;
  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 shew,
        Or melt it into air.
 
 
  So all his dreams, that inward light
  With which his soul had shone so bright,
  All vanish'd; – 'twas a heartfelt 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
  Had watch'd 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 welcom'd 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 flow'd in torrents from her eyes,
  She could not blame him, or 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.
 

THE GREEN LINNET

 
  The May is come again: – how sweet
  To sit upon my Orchard-seat!
  And Birds and Flowers once more to greet,
        My last year's Friends together:
  My thoughts they all by turns employ;
  A whispering Leaf is now my joy,
  And then a Bird will be the toy
        That doth my fancy tether.
 
 
  One have I mark'd, the happiest Guest
  In all this covert of the blest:
  Hail to Thee, far above the rest
        In joy of voice and pinion,
  Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
  Presiding Spirit here to-day,
  Dost lead the revels of the May,
        And this is thy dominion.
 
 
  While Birds, and Butterflies, and Flowers
  Make all one Band of Paramours,
  Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
        Art sole in thy employment;
  A Life, a Presence like the Air,
  Scattering thy gladness without care,
  Too bless'd with any one to pair,
        Thyself thy own enjoyment.
 
 
  Upon yon tuft of hazel trees,
  That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
  Behold him perch'd in ecstasies,
        Yet seeming still to hover;
  There! where the flutter of his wings
  Upon his back and body flings
  Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
        That cover him all over.
 
 
  While thus before my eyes he gleams,
  A Brother of the Leaves he seems;
  When in a moment forth he teems
        His little song in gushes:
  As if it pleas'd him to disdain
  And mock the Form which he did feign,
  While he was dancing with the train
        Of Leaves among the bushes.
 

TO A YOUNG LADY,

Who had been reproached for taking long Walks in the Country

 
  Dear Child of Nature, let them rail!
  – There is a nest in a green dale,
  A harbour and a hold,
  Where thou a Wife and Friend, shalt see
  Thy own delightful days, and be
  A light to young and old.
 
 
  There, healthy as a Shepherd-boy,
  As if thy heritage were joy,
  And pleasure were thy trade,
  Thou, while thy Babes around thee cling,
  Shalt shew us how divine a thing
  A Woman may be made.
 
 
  Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,
  Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh,
  A melancholy slave
  But an old age, alive and bright,
  And lovely as a Lapland night,
  Shall lead thee to thy grave.
  " —Pleasure is spread through the earth  In stray gifts to be claim'd by whoever shall find."
 

* * * * *

 
      By their floating Mill,
      Which lies dead and still,
  Behold yon Prisoners three!
  The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames;
  The Platform is small, but there's room for them all;
  And they're dancing merrily.
 
 
      From the shore come the notes
      To their Mill where it floats,
  To their House and their Mill tether'd fast;
  To the small wooden isle where their work to beguile
  They from morning to even take whatever is given; —
  And many a blithe day they have past.
 
 
        In sight of the Spires
        All alive with the fires
  Of the Sun going down to his rest,
  In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
  They dance, – there are three, as jocund as free,
  While they dance on the calm river's breast.
 
 
        Man and Maidens wheel,
        They themselves make the Reel,
  And their Music's a prey which they seize;
  It plays not for them, – what matter! 'tis their's;
  And if they had care it has scattered their cares,
  While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please!"
 
 
        They dance not for me,
        Yet mine is their glee!
  Thus pleasure is spread through the earth
  In stray gifts to be claim'd by whoever shall find;
  Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,
  Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.
 
 
      The Showers of the Spring
      Rouze the Birds and they sing;
  If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight,
  Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss,
  Each Wave, one and t'other, speeds after his Brother;
  They are happy, for that is their right!
 

STAR GAZERS

 
  What crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by;
  A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky:
  Long is it as a Barber's Poll, or Mast of little Boat,
  Some little Pleasure-Skiff, that doth on Thames's waters float.
 
 
  The Show-man chuses well his place, 'tis Leicester's busy Square;
  And he's as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair;
  Calm, though impatient is the Crowd; Each is ready with the fee,
  And envies him that's looking – what an insight must it be!
 
 
  Yet, Show-man, where can lie the cause? Shall thy Implement have
           blame,
  A Boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame?
  Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault?
  Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is this resplendent Vault?
 
 
  Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here?
  Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear?
  The silver Moon with all her Vales, and Hills of mightiest fame,
  Do they betray us when they're seen? and are they but a name?
 
 
  Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong,
  And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong?
  Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had,
  And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad?
 
 
  Or must we be constrain'd to think that these Spectators rude,
  Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude,
  Have souls which never yet have ris'n, and therefore prostrate lie?
  No, no, this cannot be – Men thirst for power and majesty!
 
 
  Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employ
  Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy,
  That doth reject all shew of pride, admits no outward sign,
  Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!
 
 
  Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry & pore
  Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before:
  One after One they take their turns, nor have I one espied
  That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.
 

POWER OF MUSIC

 
  An Orpheus! An Orpheus! – yes, Faith may grow bold,
  And take to herself all the wonders of old; —
  Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same,
  In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name.
 
 
  His station is there; – and he works on the crowd,
  He sways them with harmony merry and loud;
  He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim —
  Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him!
 
 
  What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!
  The weary have life and the hungry have bliss;
  The mourner is cheared, and the anxious have rest;
  And the guilt-burthened Soul is no longer opprest.
 
 
  As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,
  So he where he stands is a center of light;
  It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-faced Jack,
  And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back.
 
 
  That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste —
  What matter! he's caught – and his time runs to waste —
  The News-man is stopped, though he stops on the fret,
  And the half-breathless Lamp-lighter he's in the net!
 
 
  The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore;
  The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store; —
  If a Thief could be here he might pilfer at ease;
  She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees!
 
 
  He stands, back'd by the Wall; – he abates not his din;
  His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in,
  From the Old and the Young, from the Poorest; and there!
  The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare.
 
 
  O blest are the Hearers and proud be the Hand
  Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a Band;
  I am glad for him, blind as he is! – all the while
  If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.
 
 
  That tall Man, a Giant in bulk and in height,
  Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
  Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he!
  The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.
 
 
  There's a Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a Tower
  That long has lean'd forward, leans hour after hour! —
  Mother, whose Spirit in fetters is bound,
  While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound.
 
 
  Now, Coaches and Chariots, roar on like a stream;
  Here are twenty souls happy as Souls in a dream:
  They are deaf to your murmurs – they care not for you,
  Nor what ye are flying, or what ye pursue!
 

TO THE DAISY

The two following Poems were overflowings of the mind in composing the one which stands first in the first Volume

 
  With little here to do or see
  Of things that in the great world be,
  Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee,
      For thou art worthy,
  Thou unassuming Common-place
  Of Nature, with that homely face,
  And yet with something of a grace,
      Which Love makes for thee!
 
 
  Oft do I sit by thee at ease,
  And weave a web of similies,
  Loose types of Things through all degrees,
      Thoughts of thy raising:
  And many a fond and idle name
  I give to thee, for praise or blame,
  As is the humour of the game,
      While I am gazing.
 
 
  A Nun demure of lowly port,
  Or sprightly Maiden of Love's Court,
  In thy simplicity the sport
      Of all temptations;
  A Queen in crown of rubies drest,
  A Starveling in a scanty vest,
  Are all, as seem to suit thee best,
      Thy appellations.
 
 
  A little Cyclops, with one eye
  Staring to threaten and defy,
  That thought comes next – and instantly
      The freak is over,
  The shape will vanish, and behold!
  A silver Shield with boss of gold,
  That spreads itself, some Faery bold
      In fight to cover.
 
 
  I see thee glittering from afar; —
  And then thou art a pretty Star,
  Not quite so fair as many are
      In heaven above thee!
  Yet, like a star, with glittering crest,
  Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; —
  May peace come never to his nest,
      Who shall reprove thee!
 
 
  Sweet Flower! for by that name at last,
  When all my reveries are past,
  I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
      Sweet silent Creature!
  That breath'st with me in sun and air,
  Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
  My heart with gladness, and a share
      Of thy meek nature!
 

TO THE SAME FLOWER

 
  Bright Flower, whose home is every where!
  A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care,
  And all the long year through the heir
        Of joy or sorrow,
  Methinks that there abides in thee
  Some concord with humanity,
  Given to no other Flower I see
        The forest thorough!
 
 
  Is it that Man is soon deprest?
  A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest,
  Does little on his memory rest,
        Or on his reason,
  And Thou would'st teach him how to find
  A shelter under every wind.
  A hope for times that are unkind
        And every season?
 
 
  Thou wander'st the wide world about,
  Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt,
  With friends to greet thee, or without,
        Yet pleased and willing;
  Meek, yielding to the occasion's call,
  And all things suffering from all,
  Thy function apostolical
        In peace fulfilling.
 

INCIDENT,

Characteristic of a favourite Dog, which belonged to a Friend of the Author

 
  On his morning rounds the Master
  Goes to learn how all things fare;
  Searches pasture after pasture,
  Sheep and Cattle eyes with care;
  And, for silence or for talk,
  He hath Comrades in his walk;
  Four Dogs, each pair of different breed,
  Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed.
 
 
  See, a Hare before him started!
  – Off they fly in earnest chace;
  Every Dog is eager-hearted,
  All the four are in the race!
  And the Hare whom they pursue
  Hath an instinct what to do;
  Her hope is near: no turn she makes;
  But, like an arrow, to the River takes.
 
 
  Deep the River was, and crusted
  Thinly by a one night's frost;
  But the nimble Hare hath trusted
  To the ice, and safely crost;
  She hath crost, and without heed
  All are following at full speed,
  When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread,
  Breaks – and the Greyhound, DART, is over head!
 
 
  Better fate have PRINCE and SWALLOW —
  See them cleaving to the sport!
  Music has no heart to follow,
  Little Music, she stops short.
  She hath neither wish nor heart.
  Her's is now another part:
  A loving Creature she, and brave!
  And doth her best her struggling Friend to save.
 
 
  From the brink her paws she stretches,
  Very hands as you would say!
  And afflicting moans she fetches,
  As he breaks the ice away.
  For herself she hath no fears,
  Him alone she sees and hears,
  Makes efforts and complainings; nor gives o'er
  Until her Fellow sunk, and reappear'd no more.