Chapter III: Preface: To the (2)

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.

POESY.

ITS sweetest song the cygnet sings
As a soft prelude to its death,
And in that song expends its breath;--
What boots it that the Poet flings
His wildest notes on high,
Or strikes with truest hand the strings,
If all his strains must die?
And why should he his notes prolong,
If no one listens to his song?

Yet can the Poet ne'er resign
The lyre he loves, for it alone
Consoles him, when all else is gone;
Its spirit, like the breath divine,
That stirred the water's face,
Pervades ev'n to the farthest line
Of universal space;
And music through the whole is flung,
As when the morning angels sung.

An echo lingers on each peak,
In every vale, on every hill--
Should men not listen, angels will;
For Poesy shall never speak,
Shall never sing in vain;
In solitude the breeze shall seek
And still repeat her strain,
Where'er, like an aërial tone,
Her spirit and her voice have gone.

She moves o'er flowers--her handmaid fair,
Bright Summer, in a joyous dance
Doth still before her path advance,
Sweet blossoms strewing every where,
Which, falling, grow divine;
Fresh incense crowds upon the air,
And floats above her shrine,
Like beauty, when her welcome voice
Makes the whole universe rejoice.

Why then should her adorer fear,
Or why her votary despond?--
Partaker of a bliss beyond
All feelings, all enjoyments here,
His impulses sublime
Soar, ev'n in this contracted sphere,
O'er nature and o'er time;
And her undying triumphs spread
A glow like glory round his head.

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.

[1] The Tweed, near Kelso.

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.

WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM,

_In a City Churchyard._

UNDER thy shadow how many recline,
Who never knew rest 'neath the fig-tree or vine![2]
They pass from the banquet, the mall and the mart,
Here they meet, here they mingle, never to part.

Who comes from the porch, with colourless vest,
And faded black coat, once the minister's best?
The mattock and shovel support him like staves,
As he totters familiarly over the graves.

'Tis the hoary old sexton, whose home has been here,
Since the days of his boyhood--and now he is sere;
These mounds are his world--he can name all the lairs,
As a monarch his realms, or a merchant his wares.

Yet though he apportions a dwelling for all,
And delights when he handles the mattock and pall;
Though his thin hairs are gray, and though feeble his pace,
He ne'er for himself yet has chosen a place.

Thou wert here when his sire did this office fulfil--
When the son too is gone, thou wilt blossom here still:
How strange that the grass, and the trees, and the weeds,
Flourish best on that spot whence corruption proceeds!

On thy trunk some rude sculptor has carved out his name--
Idle labour! for fleeting and false is such fame:
Lo! wherever we look there is charactered stone,
But to whom is the dust each commemorates known?

Oh! bury me not by the multitude's side,
I would shun them in death, as in life I avoid;
Where the loathsome newt creeps, 'neath the rank hemlock's shade,
Is not where I would that my bones should be laid.

But bear me away to the limitless sea,
And heave me afar 'mong its billows so free:
Where my flesh may be wasted, but never shall rot--
Where man is not dust, and corruption is not.

Oh delight! to be tost from wild wave to wild wave--
I seek not for rest--it is found in the grave--
And my skeleton bleach on the foam it is cast--
A link of the future--a wreck of the past.

But alas! if the doom of my kind must be mine,
If my bones in the land of decay must recline;
Seek me out some lone glen, some wild Highland vale,
Where the tempest's loud shriek shall my coronach wail.

A rude rugged land, with a wild heather sod,
Where the sun never shone, where man's foot never trod;
Where the gleam of the day falls with withering blight,
And a desolate darkness comes with the night.

Where the waterfall roars like a storm o'er the heath,
The scathed Pine above, and the hoar Elm beneath;
'Mongst the lone, and the mighty, the vast and the deep--
'Tis there, as their own, that a Poet should sleep.

[2] Micah iv. 4.

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.

POEMS HERE FIRST COLLECTED.

COLLECTED POEMS.

GRACE.

COME, free-given grace! source of all lasting peace;
My care-worn heart has wanted thee full long;
The charms of earthly joys and pleasures cease,
And fain I'd stray thy tranquil paths among,
Where withered weeds and noxious odours strong
Come not, as here I find them rankly meet;
Give me thy pleasant ways and thy contentments sweet!

Contentments sweet are ever with thee still;
In the lone valley, where the streamlet flows,
On distant mountain, on the heath-clad hill,
Where springs the daisy, or where blooms the rose,
Even in the desert where no green thing grows;
'Mid trials of this world, whate'er they be,
Still peace, and joy, and truth accompany with thee.

With thee there is no darkness; thou dost show
The Sun of Glory shining in His might;
With thee there is no sadness; thou dost go
Into the grief-broke heart, and with the light
Of heavenly love mak'st it serene and bright;
Ah! who that can thy blessings call his own,
Would deem himself, with thee, forsaken or alone?

Alone! no, never! Jesus still is near;
Friendless we cannot be with Him our friend--
Our counsellor--although deserted here
By all who to that cherished name pretend--
His friendship, like Himself, shall have no end;
And for our solace freely is bestowed,
Trusting in Him while here, the bounteous grace of God!

The grace of God softens the hardened heart.
And makes it oft in gushing joy to sing;
As rod of Moses caused the rock to part,
And made the living waters forth to spring;
The grace of God serenest pleasures bring,
And leads the mind from carnal thoughts away
Into retirements sweet, in solitude to pray.

To pray!--blest privilege! For evermore
To pray and praise, and lift the soul above
This sordid earth, and, as a lark doth soar,
Ascend into the realms of truth and love,
Whence once the Spirit came in form of dove!
Thither, oh! thither would it wing its flight--
For ever "take its rest," there where there comes no night!

MATIN.

THE gleam of light that passes o'er
The world ere dawn of day;
That, faintly flashing, shines before
The darkness is away:

Is not the smile of morn, in bright
And deeply glorious lines;
'Tis the first presage of its light,
The morning star that shines.

IMMORTALITY.

[The following verses were suggested by the striking reply of a Protestant minister, who was about to proceed to Ireland, to labour among the deluded and ignorant Popish peasantry, and who, on being warned by a friend of the personal danger he thereby incurred, nobly answered, "I am immortal, till my work is done!"]

WHAT nerves the soldier in the field,
When foes are raging nigh?
What makes him proudly scorn to yield,
Though numbers round him die?
The faith that Heaven directs each ball,
And course that it shall run;--
'Tis, that he knows he will not fall,
Until his work be done!

What makes the sailor on the wreck,
When storms are frowning near,
Bear up, with heart and form erect
His bosom free from fear?--
'Tis that he feels that God is by,
To shield him like a son;--
'Tis, that he knows he will not die,
Until his work be done!

God holds the winds as by a rein,
Which still they must obey;
The ocean fierce he doth restrain,
By his all-guiding sway:
The hand that bears the planets high.
Upholds the fulgent sun,
Has fixed the hour that all must die,
When their set work is done!

What arms the martyr 'midst his fires,
To smile serene at death;
And his whole heart and soul inspires
With never-changing faith?--
Until the victor's crown is gained,
The laurel wreath is won;
Th' oppressor's fury is restrained--
His work must first be done!

What leads Christ's servant still to dare
All dangers for his sake,
And with unshaken firmness bear,
Ills that the boldest shake?
The trust that God is ever nigh,
To prosper what's begun;
To send a blessing from on high,
Upon his work when done!

And when the good fight he has fought,
His earthly struggles o'er,
He finds the recompense he sought,
Where grief is felt no more:
'Tis then he gains th' appointed prize,
His triumph is begun;--
He lives immortal in the skies,
When all his work is done!

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF JOHN SINCLAIR, ESQ.,

_7th April 1844._

WHEN from its prison-house of clay
The spirit is unbound,
When one we love is borne away
To the lone narrow mound:
We feel as if the charm were gone
That renders life so dear,
And as a darkening cloud were thrown
O'er all our prospects here.

And when _he_ died, we mourned for him
As only they could mourn
Who felt as if a precious limb
Were from the body torn.
Gentle and kind, and always true,
Revered wherever known;
No guile his bosom ever knew,
'Twas friendship's sacred throne.

From painful days, without relief,
Death brought at last release;
The change that gave to us but grief
To him was lasting peace.
We bore him to his hill-side grave,[3]
To sleep, but not alone;
To kindred dust his dust we gave,
To mingle with his own.

To teach us that our home is not
Here, where we seek to live,
But that we have a happier lot
Than aught this world can give,
Death comes,--and when right understood
His lesson sure is blest.--
Thus one by one, the loved, the good,
Are gathered to their rest!

[3] He was interred in the family burying-place, New
Calton Burying-ground, Edinburgh.

WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD.

Jeremiah xxii. 10.

OH! weep not for the dead; they are at rest--
No more shall earthly cares their minds molest;
Waste not a thought on them, nor yet bemoan
Who to the grave's cold heritage have gone.

No sorrow know they in their narrow bed;
They sin no more who slumber with the dead;
They are at rest, from earth-born troubles free,--
Fixed is their doom, as lies the stricken tree.

Weep for yourself--for those who linger here,
In pain and sadness, through the varying year;
Still looking through life's vista to the close,
When faith in Christ alone can bring repose.

And weep for those who go to other climes,
With toil and hoarding to gain gold betimes--
From friends and country parted, as if nought
But this world's fleeting wealth were worth their thought!

Weep for the dead in sin--the guilty soul
That might, but yet refuses, to be whole--
For him who never heard the Saviour's name,
For him who, having heard, rejects the same.

Oh! weep not for the dead, nor those who go
Into mortality's dread depths below;
But weep for those who mourn and suffer here,
The slaves of sin, and all its guilty fear!

IDOLS.

"What have I to do any more with Idols?"--Hos. xiv. 8.

WHERE'ER the light of gospel truth
Has shed its glorious rays,
The heart casts off all shapes uncouth,
And shuns the wonted ways.

The hills assume a brighter mould,
The flowers a fairer hue,
We quit the fading and the old,
And seek the fresh and new.

The dark and dismal thoughts that brood
Within the carnal mind,
Are straightway changed to bright and good,
When there the truth hath shined:

As metals in the earth deep set,
Though worthless in its womb,
Refined by skilful art, do yet
Precious and rich become.

But man, degenerate from his birth,
Headlong in guilt is driven,
Still does his spirit cling to earth,
When it should rise to heaven.

To vile and perverse courses prone,--
The viler more his boast,
Rejects all guidance save his own,
And sunk in sin, is lost.

Like dark and savage men, that dwell
In soul-benighted lands,
That blindly worship things of hell,
The work of their own hands.

For hideous shapes, instead of dread,
They fierce devotion feel,
And the more hideous they are made,
The greater is their zeal.

Ye sinners that to Idols bow,
Let light illume your heart,
Leave earth-born things to earth below,
And seek the better part.

Come to the fountain free to all,
Drink of the living spring;
Before the cross of Jesus fall,
And own Him for your King.

Come from your dark unwholesome holes,
With hateful things within,
Come and seek comfort to your souls,
And walk no more in sin.

If self still claims the foremost place,
Where Christ should reign alone,
Self is the Idol that, through grace,
Must quite be overthrown.

The lust and vanity of life,
All pomp and pride of mind,
Are but the source of grief and strife,
And leave no joy behind:

Jesus alone is Sovereign King,
In Earth and Heaven above;
And why should we to Idols cling,
When we have Him to love?

TRUTH.

IT is not in the heart of thought,
Nor in the breast of care;
That truth its dwelling-place has sought,
For all is sterile there:

Nor is it in the mind, where gay
Delusive visions throng,
That chastening truth can find a way
Its glittering dreams among:

Yet as within the desert far,
There are reflections given
Of light, so in the heart there are
Remembrances of Heaven.

SABBATH MORN.

ON Sabbath morn, one feels
Exalted 'bove the world, and longs to go
Forth to the house of God; and, as the slow
And solemn church-chime on him steals,

He seems to tread the height
Of Heaven, rise with his risen Lord, and there
Pour out his soul in never-ceasing prayer,
And worship with the saints in light.

And peace, and joy, and faith
Are his, and all things that the earth contains,
And all above, through the Redeemer's pains,
And groans, and victory o'er death!

Glory to Him who willed
That man should live, not die! to Him who made
The Sabbath for our comfort, and who said
The soul on Christ its hopes should build!

SABBATH EVE.

ON Sabbath eve, how sad,
Yet sweet, the thoughts that come into the mind,
Unbid, but not unwelcome, and which find
Communion there, and to its solace add.

The world seems bright no more;
Its witching charms are gone, its voice is dumb:
Vainly its pleasures to the soul say "Come!"
The wish for their enjoyment now is o'er.

Thoughts of the dead are they
Which then we feel, low whispering to the heart,
Telling that we, like them, must soon depart,
And, with them, go to dull and cold decay.

How strange it is, in sooth,
That Sabbath morn and eve should, to the breast,
Weary with cares of life, bring thoughts of REST--
Strong proof of its great purpose and its truth!

DREAMS OF THE LIVING.

NO golden dreams, near quiet streams,
On swelling slopes, no high-reached hopes;
These of themselves are mute:
The spirit wakes, the fancies shoot
Where Nature points, but she
Thought curbs, not renders free,
Unless her portals wide she opes,
And gives of Truth the fruit.

And man, a dreamer from his youth,
Ne'er knoweth, nor can know, the truth,
Save when Religion with its light
Shines on his mind, to guide his sight.
From every day that dawns, he claims
New thoughts, new fancies, and new aims,
That lead to nothing, nothing leave,
But vague ideas that deceive!

Boyhood is dreaming, when it quits
Substantial joys for counterfeits;
Courts pleasure as a lasting thing,
Nor deems it bears a hidden sting;
And yields all feeling and all sense,
For hopes that bring no recompense.
Well, when its follies it forsakes,
And from its feverish dreams awakes!

The loveliness of woman gives
More cause for dreams than aught that lives;
And youth, when it aspires to find
Gladness in beauty, wanting mind,
Like guileless child, is ever dreaming
Of joy and brightness only seeming;
And knows not, till the dream is past,
What spells around the heart are cast.

And manhood dreams,--when o'er the soul
Ambition has secured control,--
Of power, and wealth, and worldly state,
And all the splendours of the great:
Builds monuments, to which decay
Clings as a resting-place and prey,
Nor thinks how weak are all his pains,
When nothing at the last remains.

And age, that ought to know the best,
Is but a dreamer like the rest;
O'erlooking, in its downward pace,
The landmarks of its upward race;
No wisdom from the past it earns,
And from the present only learns
To dread the future; and its staff
Writes its own weary epitaph.

What dream they of? Earth, with its feelings cold,
Its passions withered, tales that have been told,
And generations dead--the same dull tone
That from the chambers of the past hath gone,
Is echoed now; but, as before, its strain,
For warning, or for teaching, is in vain!

And hearts on which has come the early blight,
And hopes that never knew aught here but slight,
And scattered flowers, and blossoms tossed and shaken,
And promises foregone, and trusts forsaken,
Still show men's visions false, but still they cherish
Dreams of the earth, which only lure to perish.

No glow of life, no ante-taste of heaven,
From sordid earth-born thoughts like theirs is given;
But disappointment, with its lagging train
Of blighted prospects, tells that all is vain;
Yet to this earth's allurements fixed, the heart,
Like a wrecked vessel, drifts, without a chart.
Truth teaches higher hopes, and better things,
And o'er the mind a lasting solace brings.

Oh! that the soul on Heaven were ever bent,
And all its feelings thitherward were sent!
Then would our visions from the world arise,
Clear as the sun, and radiant as the skies:
Visions of light and love that ne'er decay,
No strifes to scare, no terrors to dismay;
But peace, unchanging as the Christian's faith--
Peace in our life, untroubled hope in death!

LINES.

MAN knows he is immortal: there's within
A principle that tells him that his soul,
Which in himself exists, shall never die,
Although his outward tenement becomes,
By the slow-wasting chemistry of death,
Forgotten, undistinguishable dust.
His mind, his heart, his impulses, are all
Subservient to his soul, his noblest part,
That came from God, returns to God again.
If he his passions could o'ercome and sway,
Place Prudence as a wary sentinel
On all his words and purposes, that trip
He might in neither, he were great indeed!
But sense and selfishness his judgment warp,
And so debase his nature, that, having not
Of his own mind the moral mastery,
His thoughts, affections, powers, and faculties,
Are under the dominion of a yoke
More galling than a tyrant's. Slave of Sin!

SONNETS.

_Written on viewing the Picture of "The Deluge," painted by
F. Danby, Esq., A.R.A._

WE gaze in awe upon the solemn scene,
With sense and soul absorbed, as if the sight
Were tranced in that o'erpowering vengeful light
Which shrouds the setting sun; and what has been
A world is now a waste of waters, higher
And darker swells the flood, like one vast pall
Thrown o'er the guilty ones of earth, Heaven's ire
Who braved ere-while.--How fearful, how sublime,
How terrible the sight!--widely they climb,
To rock and mountain top to 'scape their doom,
While rushing torrents, dome and palace hall,
The work of man with man himself, consume;
Nor these alone! Rock, cliff, and mountain grey,
God's handiwork, become with man, their prey!

How vast the guilt that thus could doom a world
So beautiful as ours was ere man sinned,--
The waters sweeping, like a mighty wind,
To whelm the earth, from its foundations hurled;
All nature stood aghast, its course was changed--
A comet threw afar its lurid gleam,
Up-broke the fountains of the ocean stream,
While a fierce earthquake thro' the centre ranged,
Shattering the mountains in its might.--How vain
Was then the strength of man, as poor his pride,
To stem the onsweep of that ceaseless tide,
Which desolation spread o'er mount and plain!
Anguish and terror, madness and despair,
Took hold on all, before they perished there!

A towering rock, whose shadow in past days
Was hailed by weary ones a place of rest,
Affords brief shelter on its shelving breast
To struggling sufferers crowding from all ways,
Trampling their fellows down for life, sweet life!
Alas! the JUDGMENT'S on them, they as well
Might build their hopes on sand, as stay the swell
Of the full flood and elemental strife.
Yet has not God forgotten all his love
To sinful men, the ARM they madly brave
"Though strong to smite is also strong to save"--
The ark floats high a buried world above!
While o'er a lifeless pair, to Heaven still dear,
A kneeling Angel drops a pitying tear! (7)

THOUGHT.

LIKE one who on a mountain stands,
When morning into day expands,
And, as a glory, views from Heaven
The plenteousness of brightness given;
Even so is he, who marks remote
The early cheering dawn of thought
Advancing o'er th' awakened mind,
Till truth, within the soul defined,
Spreads light and knowledge in the breast,
And sets all doubts and fears at rest.

LINES.

WRITTEN ON THE ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION OF THE QUEEN.

_20th July 1840._

FAIR as the summer in its joyous prime,
Free from all thoughts of guile, all dread of ill,
Unconscious that a traitor could exist
Within her wide dominions, forth she came,
Young, happy, unattended, save by him,
The husband she had chosen from the world;
All hearts her own--no other guard she wished--
When ambushed treason aimed its coward blow,
Which Heaven ordained should harmless pass her by,
In mercy to the realms that own her sway.

Ah! had the public foe, in hostile league,
Come openly against her life and crown,
The chivalry of England, not yet dead,
Had promptly flown to arms, and formed
Around her then a shield impenetrable,
Her sacred person to defend, or die.
From out of England's millions, only one
Was found, so void of all the feelings of a man,
As point a deadly weapon at the breast
Of England's pride--a woman and a Queen!
Then the high bravery of her race was shown;
She blenched not, quivered not, but sat erect;
While, with the lion courage of the Saxon,
Which both their hearts inspired, her consort threw
Himself at once between her and the danger,
To shield the life so dear to him and us.

The loyal heart of Britain beat with joy
At their escape--the young, the loved, the true!
Many and fervent were the prayers breathed
To Heaven, that they might live extended years,
And each year, as it came, their happiness
Increase, and ours! Thus let the traitor's hopes
For ever end, thus fruitless be his aims--
His snares recoil upon himself alone!

How beautiful the trait of filial love,
Of reverence daughterly, was then evinced,
When, freed from danger from th' assassin's arm,
She promptly to her mother hastes, herself
To be the foremost bearer of the tidings,
And, in her own particular person, bring
The proof and the assurance of her safety,
Ere Rumour's tongue had magnified details!
Ah! worthy of her people's love, is she
Who thus could show the veneration due,
At such a time, to her who gave her being!

The ways of men are in the hands of One
Who cannot err; the destinies of all
On earth, peasants as well as potentates,
Are under His sole guardianship and guidance.
A truism this; yet there are men who doubt,
Nay, worse, deny it; even though instances,
Occurring daily, show the constant care
Of Providence o'er thoughtless, sinful men.

How oft does evil o'er our head impend,
And we not know it, till the danger's past!
How oft, when evil comes, provided is
A remedy, we know not how or whence!
Ah! blind, and worse than blind, are they who doubt.
The brutish beasts that roam the fields and woods,
And never heard of God, or gospel truth,
Of Christ and his salvation, better are,
And wiser, than the Atheist and Sceptic.

High is the sovereign's power, and great the sway
Which kings possess; but, higher, greater still
Is His, the King of Kings, who overrules
All things for good to them who love his laws.

Tyrants have had avengers, but the good
Need fear no peril, dread no coming ill;
Their trust in One who fails not, cannot fail;
In whose hand is the breath of princes held,
As much as meaner men's. To Him thy way commit.

I'M NAEBODY NOO.

_The complaint of an old man reduced in the world. Contributed
to the Book of Scottish Song._

I'M naebody noo, though in days that are gane,
Whan I'd hooses, and lands, and gear o' my ain,
There war' mony to flatter, and mony to praise,
And wha but mysel' was sae prood in those days!

Ah! then roun' my table wad visitors thrang,
Wha laughed at my joke, and applauded my sang,
Though the tane had nae point, and the tither nae glee;
But of coorse they war' grand when comin' frae me!

Whan I'd plenty to gie, o' my cheer and my crack,
There war' plenty to come, and wi' joy to partak';
But whanever the water grew scant at the well,
I was welcome to drink all alane by mysel'.

Sae lang as my bottle was ready and free,
Friends in dozens I had wha then crooded to prie,
They sat ower the toddy until they war' fou,--
Noo I drink by mysel', for I'm naebody noo.

Whan I'd nae need o' aid, there were plenty to proffer,
And noo whan I want it, I ne'er get the offer;
I could greet whan I think hoo my siller decreast,
In the feasting o' those who came only to feast.

The fulsome respec' to my gowd they did gie,
I thought a' the time was intended for me,
But whanever the end o' my money they saw,
Their friendship, like it, also flickered awa'.

My advice ance was sought for by folks far and near,
Sic great wisdom I had ere I tint a' my gear,
I'm as weel able yet to gie counsel, that's true,
But I may jist haud my wheesht, for I'm naebody noo.

SONG.

_Contributed to the Book of Scottish Song._

THERE'S plenty come to woo me,
And ca' me sweet and fair,
There's plenty say they lo'e me,
But they never venture mair:
They never say they'll marry,
Though love is all their tune,
From June to Janu-a-ry,
From January to June.

I canna keep frae smilin',
At their flatteries and art;
Wi' a' their fond beguilin',
They'll ne'er beguile my heart.
For nought can fix a maiden
Whase heart is warm and true,
But vows wi' marriage laden,
Though mony come to woo.

That a's no gowd that glitters
I've either heard or read,
And marriage has its bitters,
As well as sweets, is said.
But though it gets the blame o'
Some things that winna' tell,
The fau't that folks complain o'
Lies often wi' themsel'.

The year, as on it ranges,
Within its twelvemonths' fa',
Shows many sudden changes,
And's lightsome wi' them a';
Though winter's tempests thicken,
Spring comes wi' cheerful face;
And summer smiles to quicken
A' nature wi' its grace.

The year of life is marriage,
And we canna wed too sune,
Whan twa divide the carriage,
The wark is cheerily dune.
If one true heart wad hae me,
For better and for worse,
Wi' him I'd gladly share aye
The blessing and the curse.

THE STOUT OLD BRITISH SHIP.

HURRAH! for the stout old British ship,
The monarch of the sea!
That bounds like a greyhound from the slip,
When the sails are loosened free!
That, spite of the storm and deadly gun,
Ne'er yet its course gave o'er;
And never knew what 'twas to run
A hostile flag before!
It long has the bulwark been of our rights,
Of our freedom still the stay;
Then give to the brave old British ship,
Three British cheers--hurrah!

When Nelson trode its quarter-deck,
Its glory was in its prime;
Victory he had at his finger-beck,
As proved in every clime:
Then England was honoured and feared by all,
And nations sung her praise;
But that is a tale we may not recall
In these degenerate days:
For the stout old ship lies idly ashore,
Laid up like a useless tree;
Its battles and cruises now are o'er,
Though it still is fit for sea!

The vaunting foreigner long has felt
Its thunders on the main,
And he smiles when he thinks the blows it dealt
Shall ne'er be dealt again.
But the spirit of Nelson is not dead,
It bounds in a hundred hearts,
And his story of fame is remembered and read,
And studied with our charts!
For cherished with care is the glory it won,
The meed of a thousand years;
And its foes will fly as they often have done,
When the stout old ship appears!

When the brave old ship, as bright as morn,
Hoists high its well-known flag;
The flag that has still been unsullied borne,
Since the days of Drake and Sprague.
Let's see who'll dare dispute its right,
To the empire of the main,
'Twill prove its title clear and bright,
Against the world again!
Then give to the stout old British ship,
Of our freedom still the stay,
That long has the bulwark been of our rights,
Three British cheers--hurrah!

LINES,

ON THE INFANT SON AND DAUGHTER OF THE HON. COL. MONTAGUE.