Clashing in fury as they hurry by;
They mingle fiercely, and in rude commotion,
As if a hurricane swept o'er the sky.
Now, let the soul rely on her devotion,
Now, let the prayer to HIM be lifted high,
Who stills the storm, and calms the mighty wave,
"And strong to smite, is also strong to save."
See! yon poor wretch dashed from the vessel's prow--
He catches at the spar that hurries past,
'Tis vain! the waves are mightier still--and now,
Beneath their force his strength gives way at last:
Onward we drift--but, lo! o'er heaven's brow
The moon her welcome light, at length, has cast,
Like hope o'er madness, but it tends to show
The life that smiles above, the death that yawns below.
"LAZARUS, COME FORTH."
THUS Jesus spoke--the earth dismayed
Opened its womb;
The dead man heard, his Lord obeyed;
He left his tomb:
And thousands, unbelievers, saw
The power of God;
Then they believed his holy law,
And word, that burst the sod.
Thus when he frees the wicked heart
From earth's control,
Sin and ungodliness depart
From the waked soul.
He cleans it by his blood and death--
To it is given
To know, all peace, all hope, all faith,
All ante-taste of heaven.
SONNET.
ON THE APPROACH OF SUMMER.
SUMMER approaches, filling earth with flowers,
The skies with beauty, and the woods with song,
While April, like a coy bride, wends along
In tearful smiles, half-wooed by the gay hours.
All nature breathes a welcome to young May,
Summer's bright harbinger, who bears her smile
Through every land, with blooming health the while,
And all are blest who feel her gladd'ning ray.
How pleasant 'tis beneath the summer noon,
When the soft wind hath lulled itself asleep,
On some fair hill a festival to keep,
While fancy on the wing revisits soon
Th' o'erarching world, the true, the pure, the fair,
Gath'ring with bliss all inspiration there.
BEAUTY.
OH! brighter than the brightest star,
That glimmers through the haze of night,
When the blue vault of heaven afar,
Is studded o'er with silver light;
And brighter than that brilliant sky,
May be the glance of woman's eye.
Oh! lovely as the golden ray
Of sunshine sleeping on the glade,
When morning brightens into day,
And in its radiance melts the shade;
And lovelier than that gorgeous sun,
May be the smile from woman won.
But beauty does not deign to shine,
In brightness from a woman's eye;
Nor does she in a smile recline,
Blooming, as flowerets do, to die;
All earth-born charms shall fade in death:
Nor change nor ruin beauty hath.
She dwells but in the pious mind,
Apart for ever from decay;
Where lives the light of heavenly kind,
That shines "unto the perfect day;"
Where Faith and Hope their joy impart--
Her home is in the virtuous heart.
TO M. J. R.
IS there within my heart a spot
Where thy bright image liveth not,
In its most joyful guise?
Ah, no! though all may be forgot,
Save sorrow, care, and pain,
Yet it securely lies
Within my bosom's secret bowers;
Like dew, descending from above,
On Autumn's seared and withered flowers,
Reviving it again
To happiness and love.
SONNET.
A CONTRAST.
THE flowers that, unrefreshed with rain or dew,
Pine 'neath the scorching summer's sun away,
Are but the emblems--purer still than they--
Of hearts that ne'er the blight of sorrow knew,
To contrast with their gladness--for the breast
That welcomes joy back to its shrine again,
After a weary interval of pain,
Enjoys the feeling with a warmer zest:
And when at length the dew-drop lingers o'er
The flowers that sickened with its long delay,
How sweetly do they own its former sway,
And bloom again more lovely than before.
Who would not, for a while then, cherish grief,
To taste the bliss, the rapture of relief?
SONNET.
ROSLIN.
ROSLIN! thy scattered beauties, rich and wild,
Lie like a garden-map before me spread;
In all thy fairy scenes I gladly tread,
Where sleeps the sun-smile--and the breeze so mild
Enamoured sighs, as to thy presence wed.
Down through thy vale--so lovely and so sweet,
Yet so retiring, like some blushing maid
Apprized of her own beauty--oft I meet,
Two pensive lovers whispering their vows.
Thy woods and thy ravines, thy rocks and caves,
Contain the gleams of grandeur, o'er the brows
Of thy dark crags, the heath-flower freely waves.
Here Drummond sung, sweetly and well, for he
In thy retreats became inspired by thee.
ON THE BIRTH OF A NIECE.
E. W. G.
_11th August, 1828._
THE evening sun had o'er the heavens rolled
His brilliant robe of glory and of gold;
The angels round the throne had just begun
Their vesper hymn of praise--the sweetest one;
The stars were trimming then their lamps of light,
Like watchers, ready for the coming night;
The earth rejoiced through all her numerous fields,
Blest with the crop that generous autumn yields:
The meadow streams subduing music stole,
Like dreams of rapture, to the fainting soul,--
When thou sprung into being, like the ray
Of early morn, the gleam of dawning day.
Stranger! so bright, so innocent, so fair,
We give thee welcome to our world of care;
Come to partake our sorrow--thou hast known
The pang already, by that stifled moan--
When rosy pleasure shall her smiles renew,
Come with thy kindred heart, and share them too.
We bless thee, babe! for we have need to bless
A fellow-pilgrim in a world like this,
Where mirth is mockery, and joy a dream,
And we are never happy--though we seem.
Oh! may'st thou never know the ills that we
Have known, and shall know, ere we cease to be:
Be thou thy mother's comfort! thou wert blest
Wert thou, like her, the purest and the best.
ON HER DEATH,
_At the Age of Two Years and Two Months._
NOT long beside us did the cherub stay:
God's will be done! He gave and took away;
It seemed as if blest memories of heaven,
From whence she came, were to her visions given,
And, tiring soon of earth, whose breath was pain,
Longed to return, and be at rest again.
Too pure for earth, too innocent for grief,
Sweet was her promise, as her sojourn brief.
SONNET.
TO HAPPINESS.
OH! I do hail thee, Happiness, when thou
Dost shine athwart my path with light and love,
Dispensing joy, like Heaven's aërial bow,
When gathering clouds lour darkly from above.
Oh! I do hail thee, Happiness--the aim
And promise of my being live in thee;
I pine for thee as poets pine for fame,
Or slaves and captives for their liberty;
But fleeting art thou in this vale of strife,
A meteor gleaming o'er a desert heath--
So seldom comes thy smile to cheer our life,
We learn to hope 'twill visit us in death;
In what bright bower, supremest blessing, may
A mortal find thy never-dying ray?
THOUGHTS.
IN sooth 'tis pleasant on a summer morn,
When the bright sun ascends the orient sky,
And on the mountain zephyr health is borne,
While we inhale it as it murmurs by;
On some lone hill in musing mood to lie,
Then as we watch the day's advancing light,
We learn from it that we but live to die.
The sun will set though shining e'er so bright,
A few short fleeting hours, and all again is night.
Yet sunshine seldom cheers the lot of life,
'Tis all a scene of ling'ring pain and woe,
A pilgrimage of fruitless care and strife,
A tide of sorrow that doth ceaseless flow;
Yet some have thought they felt a joy below,
Which to their darker hours did solace prove,
Making their hearts with blissful feelings glow;
And not of earth it seems, but from above
It comes to cheer mankind, and mortals call it love.
That thought is vain as love's own happiness,
For soon love's sweet illusion is no more;
Then fly those hopes that promised lasting bliss--
And when the dream of ecstasy is o'er,
We wake, to life, far sadder than before.
It shoots athwart our visions, like the gleam
Of flitting sunshine o'er a desert shore,
Making the wilderness more dreary seem--
Oh! love is all too like the visions of a dream.
It boots not now to ponder o'er the past,
Joy blasted oft will mar life's fairest scene;
The beauty of the sky is overcast,
Dark clouds now brood where brightness late hath been;
And thorns appear where once sweet flowers were seen.
Yet hope beams on my soul her soothing light,
Like the first dawning of the morn serene,
Tinging my darkened soul with hues more bright--
Love ever sorrow brings, as twilight brings the night.
'Tis piety alone that can impart
A peace of mind that ne'er will fade away,
A bliss that calms the passions of the heart,
A hope that soothes us even in decay,
Inspires the thought and elevates the lay;
'Tis this that gives a glory to that hour,
When death relentless seizes on his prey;
Then yet may pleasure dwell in earthly bower,
Though man buds, blooms, and withers, like a summer flower.
LOCH AWE. (3)
OH LAKE! how gentle and how fair art thou,
Above thee and around thee, mountains rise
E'en like a diadem on queenly brow;
Crested in light the snow in masses lies
On Cruachan's cleft head--the eagle flies
In circles o'er thee, and his eyrie makes
Afar upon its summit, from the eyes
Of man removed, for his wild fledgelings' sakes.--
Sinless and still thou art, most beautiful of lakes!
Four fairy isles,--like smiles in woman's eye,
Or gems upon her bosom--rise beside
Thy spreading waters, dreamy as the sky,
Whose glories are reflected in thy tide;
While shrubs and flowers are growing in their pride,
And ancient trees, where'er our eyes we turn--
And, like a melody, thy echoes glide
Within the memory--while grey and stern
Stands, like a spirit of the past, lone old Kilchurn.
Changeless as Heaven, thoughtful as the stars,
Whose light thou mak'st thy lover, ever true;
Sweet are thy glades and glens; no discord mars
Their quiet now--as when the Bruce o'erthrew
The men of Lorn, and gained his crown anew--
Save when sweeps by the spirit of the storm;
Fearful and wonderful is then thy hue,
And terrible thy wailings, as thy form,
While Cruachan's wild shriek is heard to far Cairngorm.
Home of the hunter! birth-place of the Gael!
Why do my musings still return to thee?
Why does the hymn of holy Innis-hail,
Like rhyme of childhood, haunt my memory?
My boy-years have departed, since to me
Thy wildness, solitude, and grandeur brought
Sources of inspiration, ne'er to be
Forgotten or forborne--my mind has sought
Relief from homely scenes, recurring to remote.
THE WOLF. (4)
_A Fragment._
'TIS evening,--one of those rich eves in June,
That look as bright, and feel as warm as noon;
The setting sun its parting ray has thrown
Italia's smiling groves and bowers upon:
Amid the balm of meadow, vale, and hill,
Where all is beautiful, and all is still;
A bard would deem, 'neath such a tranquil sky,
He heard the stream of time while rushing by:
'Tis the soft hour, to love that doth belong,
To village pastime, and to village song:
But why do happy peasants meet no more?
The village song, the village dance is o'er:
Why is the tabor silent on the plain?
Why does the mountain-pipe refuse its strain?
Where is the lover fond, the trusting maid?
They shun each other, and desert the shade.
Is _this_ Italia's sky, so calm, so fair?
Where are its joyous sons, its laughing daughters where?
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
Hark! 'tis a wild, a solitary cry,
Unheard till now beneath Italia's sky;
And well Italia's sons may shrink to hear
A cry, that fills all who have heard with fear,--
It is the Alpine wolf's terrific bay,
Roaming abroad ferocious for its prey:
Soon as the sun of earth its farewell takes,
The Alpine wolf his solitude forsakes,
And, like a demon, rushing to the plain,
Scatters the flock, and panic-strikes the swain.
One summer eve, a monster of the kind,
Hungry for prey, had left his troop behind;
Ranging alone, he spread dismay where'er
His bay was heard, as if a host were there:
Beneath his tusk of steel, his breath of flame,
Italia's bowers a wilderness became:
Grain for a while and sheep he stole away,
But, quitting these, he sought a nobler prey,--
The tender babe, even in its mother's view,
He bore to crags, where no one dared pursue:
Until the province, late the happiest one
That brightens 'neath Italia's gorgeous sun,
Became, throughout, all desolate and lone,
For there the fell destroyer forth had gone.
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
Lo! like a pageant, slowly up the vale,
A band advances, clad in glittering mail;
While, in the front, a knight of noble mien,
And lofty plume, above the rest is seen:
The peasants from their huts look forth with fear,
But dare not quit them, lest the wolf be near;
And then the chief, advancing from the rest,
At sound of trump, the peasants thus addressed,--
"A purse of gold, and his own diamond ring,
As a reward, are offered by the king,
To him who slays the wolf!" The trumpet's blast
Re-echoed loud, as that gay pageant passed.
Meanwhile, each swain, in hope to gain the prize,
Shouldering his gun, to kill the monster tries;
But home returning oft without his prey,
All left the task to Giulio to essay,--
For Giulio was the best, the bravest youth
Within the province, or the realm, in sooth:
Kind to his mates, and to his mistress true,
Foremost in pastime and in peril too;
Whene'er the river overflowed its bounds,
And the wild flood o'erswept the pleasant grounds,
Bearing away, in its retiring course,
The helpless flocks, too feeble for its force,
Giulio was first among the village brave,
To stretch the hand to succour and to save;
He was a marksman too, and well could hit
The target's eye, when all fell wide of it:
Him, therefore, did they fix upon to be
Their champion--their meadows rich to free
From the destroyer--each resigned his claim
To the reward,--Let Giulio win the same!
And Giulio ranged afar from morn till eve,
But still no wolf could Giulio perceive;
He searched each wood, explored each copse and cave,
As a fierce gnome invades the quiet grave;
Still did he hear his roar, his ravage see.
But, still unseen himself, the wolf continued free.
Three days had sped, and Giulio had not traced
The monster out, although he tracked his waste;
And standing on a mountain's rugged brow,
Giulio, despairing, breathed to Heaven a vow,
That he would bring the wolf in triumph slain,
Or never see his native home again,
And Giulio's vow was kept--the monster fell,
But not by him--a sadder tale I tell!
One eve--it was the fourth--he threw him down,
Fatigued and foot-sore, on the mountain brown;
No wolf as yet had crossed his anxious way,
Although, where'er he roamed, he heard his bay;
Loth to return until the wolf he slew,
Yet, ah! his heart, to love, to feeling, true,
Led him to where his lover's hut arose,
As if her vicinage could soothe his woes.
There for awhile he lingered, and he wept
The tear of fond remembrance--slumber crept
Upon his eyes, for he was overspent,
Wasted for want of needful nourishment:
Before him in the moonlight rolled a stream,
Whose murmur lulled him to a blissful dream:
A dream of love, of happiness and pride,--
He thought he slew the wolf, and won his blushing bride.
Beyond the river, to its very edge
Along the bank, there grew a bushy hedge,
Where oft alone, beneath the twilight dim,
The lovely maid would steal to think of him;--
A stir!--a motion!--it was not the breeze
That shook the hedge,--for why waved not the trees?
He started and awoke--again it shook,--
His gun was in his hand--one hurried look,
One rapid touch--the fatal ball was sped,--
A long wild shriek was heard, and Giulio's dream was read.
In triumph now, he thought of home again,--
The prize was his, the wolf at length was slain--
Swift as the ball that from his rifle flew,
He reached the river, and swam gaily through:
The corpse lay there before him in the light!--
Why breaks that mournful shriek upon the night?
Why motionless stands Giulio gazing there,
A form of stone, a statue of despair?
At length he spoke--"Is _this_ the wolf I've sought
In glen, and mount, and precipice remote?
Its skin is soft, its eyes are bright and fair,
And still they smile on me,--the wolf's should glare;
But sweet though sad, still do they charm my view,
Like my fair bride's, the beautiful, the blue--
The wolf!--ah, horror! 'tis herself I've slain!
I feel it, like a fire within my brain,
And on my heart--no tear is in mine eye--
For her alone I lived,--with her I die."
The stream is near, he lifts her as a child,
While from his o'erpressed heart there bursts a wild
And fiendish laugh,--the peasants wondering hear,
And in a crowd assemble, half in fear:
In the broad moonlight then, as in a dream,
A figure rushed before them to the stream;
That form did bear another--on the brink
He pauses not--one plunge--they sink! they sink!
'Twas Giulio and his bride!--they rise no more,--
And onward rolls the stream as smoothly as before.
THE APRIL CLOUD.
FAIR as the feather of a dove
That has in gloom been dipt;
Like to a smile, that, flung from love,
Its banishment hath wept;
See yonder little cloud swims by,
As if it sprung to birth,
Mid summer sunshine of the sky,
And winter storms of earth.
Alas! there ne'er was angel yet
Who from her heaven took wing,
But when the air of earth she met
Became a fallen thing:
And thus yon cloud, that seems so dim,
When near our earth 'tis driven,
Would look all light, if it would skim
Far upward nearer Heaven.
SPRING.
CAN aught be more magnificent than Spring?
Mountain and mead, and foliage and flower,
Assume a bridal look, as if the Sun
Had solemnized his nuptials with the Earth.
A green and growing grandeur consecrates
The general land, like an anointed Queen;
The soil begins to quicken with the birth,
And bounteously proseminates its gifts;
A glory reigns supreme o'er all, a Balm
That moves, like Inspiration, in the soul,
And gives a motive to each quiet thought,
Stirring, in transport, like a little bird.
Creation seems a path to brighter worlds--
A track to better homes. A permeant good
Pervades the Universe, and all is joy.
The river runs, like one of nimble foot,
And smiling aspect, to embrace the sea,
Henceforth incorporate; even as the youth,
Of fervent spirit and of sanguine hope,
Comes from his home obscure, and wanders forth
To mingle with the world, and there is lost.
The ruminating Ocean is at peace,
And its faint murmur--for its voice is ne'er
All silent--like a half forgotten tone
Seems but the echo of a broken chime,
As if a part of memory, pilgrim-like,
Had gone in quest of all, and died away
Amid the distant traces of the past.
The gentle breeze comes from its groves of spice,
And fragrance bears throughout the Virgin air;
And hark! the woodland music--warblings soft
Steal on the gladdened ear--from every hedge,
From every forest dim, a voice proceeds
Of deep-felt rapture, praise and gratitude.
The swan disports upon the quiet lake,
And shares the cheerfulness that all enjoy;
While thoughts, without a voice, of Heaven remote
In the still waters mirrored, stir its breast.--
All circumstance of language is too faint
The beautiful of Nature to pourtray;
The eloquent sense, the feeling sensitive,
Alone holds free communion with her charms:
While thought awakes, like day-dawn, and goes forth
To gather stores of knowledge;--like a draught
Of the pure fountain to the unrefreshed,
The bloom of Spring exhilarates the mind,
And gives a tone to virtue--its approach
Is as the coming of sweet health to one
Long time afflicted, for its bloom is blest.
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.