Pactolus singeth over golden sand;
Scamander, old and blood-empurpled river,
Rolls yet her stream divine; and Castaly
Flows lucid in the light of ancient song;
Whilst thou, sweet Luggie! fairest of this land,
And fair as any of that famous throng,
In pastoral, still loveliness, must be
Bald as a marshy brooklet nameless ever!
Nay, by the spirit of beauty and dear pleasure,
Sure I shall sing thee as my first delight,
Nurse of my soul, companion of my leisure!
And if in aftertime thy waters roll
More worthily, more spiritually bright,
It will be sunshine to my perfect soul.
Thomas the Rhymer.
Listen, O spirit of that ancient bard!
Thou weird Ezekiel of an age of lies
And human fantasy! If ’neath the skies
One being liveth, worthy to be heard,
Whisper the awful _sesame_ that unstarr’d
To thee the riddle of those mysteries,
Dumb evermore to gazing of all eyes
Mortal and uninspired! O thou that warr’d
With man and custom, I do think of thee
As something of a glory, something grand
Beyond what ever satisfied this land
With earnest of a strange divinity,
Penn’d in thy passionately-breathing moods,
Prophetic peopler of old solitudes!
The Lime-Tree.
A Lime-tree broad of bough and rough of trunk
Deepens a shadow, as the evening cool,
Over the Luggie gathering in deep pool
Contemplative, its waters summer-shrunk;
The Lammas floods have sucked away the mould
About its roots, and now in bare sunshine
Like knot of snakes they twine and intertwine
Fantastic implication, fold in fold.
Secure in covert, ’neath the fringing fern
Lurks the bright-speckled trout, untroubled, save
When boyhood with a glorious unconcern
Eagerly plunges in the sleeping wave.
Here the much-musing poet might recapture
The inspiration flown, the vagrant rapture.
The Brooklet.
O deep unlovely brooklet, moaning slow
Thro’ moorish fen in utter loneliness!
The partridge cowers beside thy loamy flow
In pulseful tremor, when with sudden press
The huntsman flusters thro’ the rustled heather.
In March thy sallow-buds from vermeil shells
Break, satin-tinted, downy as the feather
Of moss-chat that among the purplish bells
Breasts into fresh new life her three unborn.
The plover hovers o’er thee, uttering clear
And mournful—strange, his human cry forlorn:
While wearily, alone, and void of cheer
Thou glid’st thy nameless waters from the fen,
To sleep unsunned in an untrampled glen.
Maidenhood.
A sacred land, to common men unknown,
A land of bowery glades and greenwoods hoary,
Still waters where white stars reflected shone,
And ancient castles in their ivied glory.
Fair knights caparison’d in golden mail,
And maidens whose enchantment was their beauty,
Met but to whisper each the passion-tale,
For love was all their pleasure and their duty.
Here cedar bark, as with a moving will,
Floated thro’ liquid silver, all untended;
Here wrong and baseness ever came to ill,
And virtue with delight was sweetly blended.
This land, dear Spenser! was thy fair creation,
Made thro’ fine glamour of imagination.
Sleep.
O precious Morphia! I sanctify
The soothing power that in a painless swoon
Laps my weak limbs, giving me strength to lie,
Till sacred dawn increases unto noon:
Then when, from highest meridional height,
The sun devolves, and cooling breezes wake,
It is a comfort and divine delight
The weary bed exhausted to forsake,
And bathe my temples in the blessed air.
But when day wanes, and the wind-moaning night
Deepens to darkness, then thy virtue rare,
O dream-creative liquid! brings delight,
Thy silver drops, diffusive, kindly steep
The senses in the golden juice of sleep.
The Days of Old Mythology.
O for the days of old Mythology,
When dripping Naiads taught their streams to glide!
When, ’mid the greenery, one would oft-times spy
An Oread tripping with her face aside.
The dismal realms of Dis by Virgil sung,
Whose shade led Dante, in his virtue bold,
All the sad grief and agony among,
O’er Acheron, that mournful river old,
Ev’n to the Stygian tide of purple gloom!
Pan in the forest making melody!
And far away where hoariest billows boom,
Old Neptune’s steeds with snorting nostrils high!
These were the ancient days of sunny song;
Their memory yet how dear to the poetic throng.
Discontentment.
O if we never knew the genial hour
When Happiness sits by us like a god
Dispensing treasures, we would never know
The barren sadness of the common day,
The weariness, and discontentment sour
At human life—its ordinary load
Of hopes deferred, and presences that flow
Smilingly past us, syrens in the dream
Of young imagination, fancy-fed.
O I have seen such beauties with the gleam
Of fairy sunshine on them, and I long
Upon their bosoms this my life away
To dally, like the lover in a song,
And be a luting swain, Arcadian bred!
Snow.
But yestermorn the February snow
Lay printless as the heaven upon this field,
And, with a rapture in my bosom born,
In sudden awe and reverence I kneeled
Alone beneath the glory of the sky
And omnipresent deity. To-day
The spirit of the beautiful no more
Over the wondering earth, in earnest glow
Touches to beauty all the landscape grey,—
Bringing a vision from her palace high
To this sublunar planet. Now, forlorn
As Ariadne on Cretan shore
For many bitter-cold and weary days
She knoweth not her old immortal ways.
The Thrush.
One Candlemas, a gentle day of Spring,
I was abroad betimes while the red sun
Rose large and stately with a purpled ring
Of mist about him, and a mantle dun.
Thro’ naked boughs he ominously glared,
Till, soul-constrained, in sudden awe I stood,
And with a Persian’s adoration stared.
When lo! from a round beech-tree in the wood,
The only tree to which the brown leaves clung,
A mavis warbled forth his mellow lay;
And ever as his ditty clear he sung
The passion swelled his breast of downy grey.
Dear bird! since then thy melody I know
The boldest in intent, the fullest in its flow.
Stars.
O cold blue night, and deep the cloudless sky
Gleams, sown with lucid keen and trembling stars;—
A ravishment of glory shines on high,
And the rapt soul yearns upward. Fiery Mars
Shines with a baleful redness in the west;
While mail’d Orion, frozenly severe,
Stands like an armed skeleton opprest
With centuries of sentinelship. Thro’ clear
Smooth ether the keen-silvered Plough upheaves
Its seven diamonds; and far away
Poor Cassiopeia for her daughter grieves—
Andromeda cold-touch’d by windy spray,
While faintly watching with tear-misted eyne,
Perseus flying shoreward o’er the gleaming brine.
My Epitaph.
_Below lies one whose name was traced in sand.
He died, not knowing what it was to live:
Died, while the first sweet consciousness of manhood
And maiden thought electrified his soul,
Faint beatings in the calyx of the rose.
Bewildered reader! pass without a sigh,
In a proud sorrow! There is life with God,
In other kingdom of a sweeter air;
In Eden every flower is blown:_ AMEN.
_DAVID GRAY._
_September 27, 1861._
Gray’s Monument.
At the inauguration of the Monument erected to the Poet’s Memory in the
“Auld Aisle” Burying Ground, Kirkintilloch, July 29, 1865, Mr. Bell
said:—
David Gray, was born on the 29th January, 1838, and reared in his
father’s house here at Merkland till he reached his fourteenth year.
His parents, seeing as they did his disposition and his genius, thought
they might find means to bring up their son for the Church. With that
view he was sent into Glasgow, and as he required funds to aid him
in the prosecution of his studies, at that very early age he became
a pupil-teacher in the city. He contrived also to attend the famous
University there for four successive sessions. But during all that time
his mind was brimming over with poetry, which rose like a rising tide
above his Latin, above his Greek, above his theological studies. He had
a very ardent and ambitious fancy; he had high aspirations; he had an
earnest belief that he was born to be a poet, and to attain fame. In
one so young it might have been thought that this was an overweening
conception of his own powers. But in reality it was not. A poet is
also a _vates_ or prophet, and there is no reason why he should not
be permitted sometimes to prophesy of himself. David Gray prophesied
of himself that his name would yet be known to his fellow-countrymen
as a poet and a teacher, for every true poet is a true teacher. In
May, 1860, when he had so far completed his studies in Glasgow, and
had arrived at the age of nearly 22, he started alone for London.
He had read of the great literary world of the metropolis, and he
was fired with an ambition to mingle in it and to make himself, if
possible, known to some of the men there. He was fortunate in forming
the acquaintance, very soon after going to London, of Mr. Monckton
Milnes, now Lord Houghton, who at once formed a correct appreciation
of the poet’s character and genius. Lord Houghton has himself put it
upon record that he found in David Gray what appeared to him to be the
making of a great man. He has also recorded of him that upon first
seeing him he was strongly reminded of the poet Shelley. Gray had a
light, well-built form; he had a full brow and an out-looking eye;
and he had a sensitive, melancholy mouth. So Lord Houghton speaks of
him. He formed also in London other acquaintances of value, including
Mr. Oliphant, then Private Secretary to Lord Elgin, now member for the
Stirling Burghs. As to Sydney Dobell, the poet, I do not know that he
actually formed the personal acquaintance of that gentleman; but he had
frequent correspondence with Mr. Dobell, and received from him valuable
letters, and suggestions, and assistance. He formed the acquaintance
of a very estimable woman—Miss Marian James—herself an authoress of
great reputation. Nearer at home he had already attained the friendly
companionship of some whom he valued much. I am delighted to see two of
those gentlemen present to-night—Mr. W. Freeland, David Gray’s early
and attached friend, now of the _Herald_ Office, Glasgow, and Mr.
James Hedderwick, himself a poet and an editor of great reputation. He
had not, however, been long in London till he was seized with a cold
which rapidly assumed the character of consumption. Lord Houghton and
others, feeling deeply interested in him, got him sent to the South of
England for a time; but the disease making rapid progress, David Gray
was seized with an irresistible home-sickness, and notwithstanding
all the kindness, and all the attention of his friends in the South,
in January, 1861, he made his re-appearance at his father’s house
down there in Merkland. He lived there from January, 1861, to the 3d
December of the same year, when he died. That is the brief record of
this young poet’s life—almost all the incidents in it, all the events
connected with it. But who can record, or who shall attempt to record
the thousand thoughts and emotions that passed through his mind, that
illuminated his fancy, and that kindled his genius? Who shall say how
these familiar woods, and fields, and glens, and streams were to him
dearer, a thousand times dearer and more romantic, than any woods,
or fields, or glens, or streams in any other part of the world. No
man but a true poet has that warm affection for home scenes, for his
country, for his native land, for the friends of his youth; no man but
a true poet has those sentiments in their height and in their depth;
and if ever a man entertained them, the poetical remains of David
Gray prove that he had them in a deep, pathetic, and most earnest
manner. Upon his death-bed, within three days of his death, he received
what appears to me to be a particularly beautiful letter from Marian
James, breathing that _alma gentile_ which none but a refined and pure
woman possesses. I never saw David Gray, but I have seen to-night the
humble room in which he was born; I have seen the home in which he
was afterwards reared—a simple, rural house, belonging to a simple,
honest, and upright family, such a family as Scotland is always proud
of—and of such families I am proud to know that Scotland possesses her
thousands and tens of thousands. I saw his mother to-night, and was
deeply impressed with the apparent simplicity and earnestness of her
character. I owe her my gratitude and my thanks for her presenting
me with a book which belonged to her son, and which contains many
of his private markings. I shall always retain it as a valuable and
most esteemed possession. David Gray’s poetical susceptibility was of
the most conspicuous description. He had a most refined perception
of the beautiful; he had a perception of an interminable vista of
beauty and truth. He had noble and pure thoughts, and he has been
enabled to express those noble and pure thoughts in very noble and
pure language. “The Luggie” is a most remarkable poem, containing
many very fine passages, inspired partially, no doubt, by a careful
perusal of Thomson’s “Seasons” and Wordsworth’s “Excursion,” and not,
therefore, so entirely original as some of the author’s subsequent
poems; but with passages breaking out in it every now and then which
neither Thomson nor Wordsworth suggested, and which are entirely the
conceptions of David Gray’s own genius. “The Luggie,” as has been well
said, “may not possess in itself much to attract the painter’s eye,
but it has sufficed for a poet’s love.” The series of sonnets entitled
“In the Shadows”—written by the poet during his last illness—many of
them bearing relation to his own condition, his own life, and his
own prospects—appear to me to possess a solemn beauty not surpassed
by many of the finest passages in Tennyson’s “In Memoriam,” totally
distinct and unlike the “In Memoriam,” but as genuine, as sincere,
as heart-stirring, and often as poetical. In the author’s own words,
they admit you “to the chancel of a dying poet’s mind;” you feel when
you are reading these sonnets that they are written in the sure and
immediate prospect of death; but they contain thoughts about life,
about the past, and about the future, most powerful and most beautiful.
I am not going to ask you to take all this for granted. I think,
upon an occasion like this, we ought to show some little reason for
the faith that is in us; and, if it will not fatigue you too much, I
propose in a few minutes to read two or three of those passages and
those sonnets which strike me as worthy of all admiration. I feel
confident that these works are destined to take their place amongst
standard poetical works in the library of every man of literary taste.
We are here, as you have said, upon the occasion of the erection of
a monument to David Gray—a monument erected on the spot where he is
buried, in a beautiful old churchyard, standing upon the brow of a
hill, from which a fine and extensive view of the surrounding valley
and hills is commanded. It is a granite monument, and will last, I
hope, for centuries. I am sure that in this neighbourhood it will
often be visited by persons who feel something like kindred emotions
with David Gray, and they will be proud of this neighbourhood that
it gave birth in that humble cottage to a man who has added so much
charm to its natural scenery. It was felt at the same time, I believe,
by the gentlemen in Glasgow who took the principal charge of it,
that a great or imposing monument was not the thing that was wanted.
A plain, simple, enduring record of respect and esteem was what was
wished. Therefore, although the fund I know could have been trebled,
quadrupled, with ease, it was thought that when a certain moderate
sum was obtained that was enough, and by the aid of the genius of
our townsman, Mr. Mossman, I venture to say that an appropriate and
suitable monument has now been erected on that spot. I may mention
that I find the names in the list of subscribers very varied. Among
the Glasgow subscribers I find the name of Mrs. Nichol, widow of the
late Professor of Astronomy in our University, who I know took a great
interest in David Gray from first to last, and who, I know also,
with her usual benevolence, aided in smoothing his dying pillow. I
find the name of William Logan, one of the most earnest and attached
friends that David Gray ever had; I find Lord Houghton; I find Mr.
Bailie Cochrane; I find Mr. Stirling of Keir, the Hon. Julia Fane, the
Dowager Duchess of Sutherland, Mr. Macmillan, Mr. MacLehose, Mr. J.
A. Campbell, Mr. Hutton, editor of the London _Spectator_, and many
other names. Now Lord Houghton was requested to write an appropriate
inscription for this monument. I know it was a labour of love with
him, and I know he was anxious to write such an epitaph as would be
thought suitable both here and elsewhere; and I venture to say, and I
hope you will agree with me, that he has admirably succeeded in the
simplicity and truth of that epitaph which has now been engraved on the
monument. Such is the young man whose fame we shall not willingly let
die, because they who read his works aright derive moral improvement
and intellectual benefit from them—because, young as he was when he
died, he cherished pure and noble thoughts, and because he has left
those pure and noble thoughts as a record to us of his life, and as an
incentive to us to endeavour to cherish similar thoughts. Therefore,
we owe him a debt of gratitude; and, therefore, without attempting to
raise him upon a pinnacle too high—for his life was cut short before
the highest aims of his ambition were attained—let it go forth that no
true poet in this land, be his position in life what it may, be his
birth humble or great—no true poet, no great teacher of the hearts of
men, will ever find an ungrateful country in Scotland, as long as it
remembers its great poets—as long as it knows that it is the land
of Burns. In “The Luggie,” which you are aware is a descriptive and
pastoral poem, there are varied moods of thought. There is a good deal
of mere description of beautiful scenery, but that, whilst exquisitely
done, is also intermingled with many thoughts and feelings which add a
richness to the charm of the poet’s description. No mere description
of external and lifeless nature, unless brought home to the heart by
allusions to human emotion, can ever produce a very strong effect. But
David Gray seems to have understood admirably how to combine those
two qualities in his descriptive picture, and whilst he describes
beautiful external nature, he always takes care at the same time to
attract and touch the feelings. I am happy to know that David Gray
died in true Christian faith, and amity with all men. I know from the
esteemed clergyman who attended him weekly for many a day, that he had
those true Christian sentiments which become a man, and most of all
become a great man, upon his death-bed. I have had the very greatest
satisfaction in being present to-night. I felt it to be an honour to
be requested to come here and express my sentiments on such a subject.
It is an honour which I feel, and it is a pleasure which I feel still
more, for when a man has passed through this world now for a good
many years, as I have done, there can be nothing dearer to his heart
than expressing sympathy with the great and good, and feeling those
expressions of sympathy reflected from the hearts and the eyes of a
sympathising audience.