Still do they keep the Turtle-shell;
And long the story will repeat
Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat,
And how he was preserved.
APPENDIX E.
'_Mirrors upon the ceiling and against the walls_.'--PAGE 210.
EFFUSION,
IN THE PLEASURE-GROUND ON THE BANKS OF THE BRAN, NEAR DUNKELD.
What He--who, mid the kindred throng
Of Heroes that inspired his song,
Doth yet frequent the hill of storms,
The stars dim-twinkling through their forms!
What! Ossian here--a painted Thrall,
Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall;
To serve--an unsuspected screen
For show that must not yet be seen;
And, when the moment comes, to part
And vanish by mysterious art;
Head, harp, and body, split asunder,
For ingress to a world of wonder;
A gay saloon, with waters dancing
Upon the sight wherever glancing;
One loud cascade in front, and lo!
A thousand like it, white as snow--
Streams on the walls, and torrent-foam
As active round the hollow dome,
Illusive cataracts! of their terrors
Not stripped, nor voiceless in the mirrors,
That catch the pageant from the flood
Thundering adown a rocky wood.
What pains to dazzle and confound!
What strife of colour, shape, and sound
In this quaint medley, that might seem
Devised out of a sick man's dream!
Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy
As ever made a maniac dizzy,
When disenchanted from the mood
That loves on sullen thoughts to brood!
O Nature--in thy changeful visions,
Through all thy most abrupt transitions,
Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime--
Ever averse to pantomime,
Thee neither do they know nor us
Thy servants, who can trifle thus;
Else verily the sober powers
Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars,
Exalted by congenial sway
Of Spirits, and the undying Lay,
And Names that moulder not away,
Had wakened some redeeming thought
More worthy of this favoured Spot;
Recalled some feeling--to set free
The Bard from such indignity!
The Effigies of a valiant Wight
I once beheld, a Templar Knight; {295}
Not prostrate, not like those that rest
On tombs, with palms together prest,
But sculptured out of living stone,
And standing upright and alone,
Both hands with rival energy
Employed in setting his sword free
From its dull sheath--stern sentinel
Intent to guard St. Robert's cell;
As if with memory of the affray
Far distant, when, as legends say,
The Monks of Fountain's thronged to force
From its dear home the Hermit's corse,
That in their keeping it might lie,
To crown their abbey's sanctity.
So had they rushed into the grot
Of sense despised, a world forgot,
And torn him from his loved retreat,
Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seat
Still hint that quiet best is found,
Even by the _Living_, under ground;
But a bold Knight, the selfish aim
Defeating, put the Monks to shame,
There where you see his Image stand
Bare to the sky, with threatening brand
Which lingering NID is proud to show
Reflected in the pool below.
Thus, like the men of earliest days,
Our sires set forth their grateful praise:
Uncouth the workmanship, and rude!
But, nursed in mountain solitude,
Might some aspiring artist dare
To seize whate'er, through misty air,
A ghost, by glimpses, may present
Of imitable lineament,
And give the phantom an array
That less should scorn the abandoned clay;
Then let him hew with patient stroke
An Ossian out of mural rock,
And leave the figurative Man--
Upon thy margin, roaring Bran!--
Fixed like the Templar of the steep,
An everlasting watch to keep;
With local sanctities in trust,
More precious than a hermit's dust;
And virtues through the mass infused,
Which old idolatry abused.
What though the Granite would deny
All fervour to the sightless eye;
And touch from rising suns in vain
Solicit a Memnonian strain;
Yet, in some fit of anger sharp,
The wind might force the deep-grooved harp
To utter melancholy moans
Not unconnected with the tones
Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones;
While grove and river notes would lend,
Less deeply sad, with these to blend!
Vain pleasures of luxurious life,
For ever with yourselves at strife;
Through town and country both deranged
By affectations interchanged,
And all the perishable gauds
That heaven-deserted man applauds;
When will your hapless patrons learn
To watch and ponder--to discern
The freshness, the everlasting youth,
Of admiration sprung from truth;
From beauty infinitely growing
Upon a mind with love o'erflowing--
To sound the depths of every Art
That seeks its wisdom through the heart?
Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced
With baubles of theatric taste,
O'erlooks the torrent breathing showers
On motley bands of alien flowers
In stiff confusion set or sown,
Till Nature cannot find her own,
Or keep a remnant of the sod
Which Caledonian Heroes trod)
I mused; and, thirsting for redress,
Recoiled into the wilderness.
APPENDIX F.
'_Three or four times the size of Bowder Stone_.'--PAGE 225.
From the _Tour in Scotland_, 1814:--'The account of the Brownie's Cell
and the Ruins was given me by a man we met with on the banks of Loch
Lomond, a little above Tarbet, and in front of a huge mass of rock, by
the side of which we were told preachings were often held in the open
air. The place is quite a solitude, and the surrounding scenery quite
striking.'
SUGGESTED BY A BEAUTIFUL RUIN UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS OF LOCH LOMOND, A
PLACE CHOSEN FOR THE RETREAT OF A SOLITARY INDIVIDUAL, FROM WHOM THIS
HABITATION ACQUIRED THE NAME OF
THE BROWNIE'S CELL.
I.
To barren heath, bleak moor, and quaking fen,
Or depth of labyrinthine glen;
Or into trackless forest set
With trees, whose lofty umbrage met;
World-wearied Men withdrew of yore;
(Penance their trust, and prayer their store;)
And in the wilderness were bound
To such apartments as they found;
Or with a new ambition raised;
That God might suitably be praised.
II.
High lodged the Warrior, like a bird of prey;
Or where broad waters round him lay:
But this wild Ruin is no ghost
Of his devices--buried, lost!
Within this little lonely isle
There stood a consecrated Pile;
Where tapers burned, and mass was sung,
For them whose timid Spirits clung
To mortal succour, though the tomb
Had fixed, for ever fixed, their doom!
III.
Upon those servants of another world,
When madding Power her bolts had hurled,
Their habitation shook;--it fell,
And perished, save one narrow cell;
Whither at length, a Wretch retired
Who neither grovelled nor aspired:
He, struggling in the net of pride,
The future scorned, the past defied;
Still tempering, from the unguilty forge
Of vain conceit, an iron scourge!
IV.
Proud Remnant was he of a fearless Race,
Who stood and flourished face to face
With their perennial hills;--but Crime,
Hastening the stern decrees of Time,
Brought low a Power, which from its home
Burst, when repose grew wearisome;
And, taking impulse from the sword,
And, mocking its own plighted word,
Had found, in ravage widely dealt,
Its warfare's bourn, its travel's belt!
V.
All, all were dispossessed, save him whose smile
Shot lightning through this lonely Isle!
No right had he but what he made
To this small spot, his leafy shade;
But the ground lay within that ring
To which he only dared to cling;
Renouncing here, as worse than dead,
The craven few who bowed the head
Beneath the change; who heard a claim
How loud! yet lived in peace with shame.
VI.
From year to year this shaggy Mortal went
(So seemed it) down a strange descent:
Till they, who saw his outward frame,
Fixed on him an unhallowed name;
Him, free from all malicious taint,
And guiding, like the Patmos Saint,
A pen unwearied--to indite,
In his lone Isle, the dreams of night;
Impassioned dreams, that strove to span
The faded glories of his Clan!
VII.
Suns that through blood their western harbour sought,
And stars that in their courses fought;
Towers rent, winds combating with woods,
Lands deluged by unbridled floods;
And beast and bird that from the spell
Of sleep took import terrible;--
These types mysterious (if the show
Of battle and the routed foe
Had failed) would furnish an array
Of matter for the dawning day!
VIII.
How disappeared He?--ask the newt and toad,
Inheritors of his abode;
The otter crouching undisturbed,
In her dark cleft;--but be thou curbed,
O froward Fancy! 'mid a scene
Of aspect winning and serene;
For those offensive creatures shun
The inquisition of the sun!
And in this region flowers delight,
And all is lovely to the sight.
IX.
Spring finds not here a melancholy breast,
When she applies her annual test
To dead and living; when her breath
Quickens, as now, the withered heath;--
Nor flaunting Summer--when he throws
His soul into the briar-rose;
Or calls the lily from her sleep
Prolonged beneath the bordering deep;
Nor Autumn, when the viewless wren
Is warbling near the BROWNIE'S Den.
X.
Wild Relique! beauteous as the chosen spot
In Nysa's isle, the embellished grot;
Whither, by care of Libyan Jove,
(High Servant of paternal Love)
Young Bacchus was conveyed--to lie
Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye;
Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed,
Close-crowding round the infant god;
All colours,--and the liveliest streak
A foil to his celestial cheek!
APPENDIX G.
'_The bonny Holms of Yarrow_.'--PAGE 254.
In the _Tour in Scotland_, 1814, the Poet writes:--'I seldom read or
think of this Poem without regretting that my dear sister was not of the
party, as she would have had so much delight in recalling the time when
travelling together in Scotland we declined going in search of this
celebrated stream.'
YARROW VISITED,
SEPTEMBER 1814.
And is this--Yarrow?--_This_ the Stream
Of which my fancy cherished,
So faithfully, a waking dream?
An image that hath perished!
O that some Minstrel's harp were near,
To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air,
That fills my heart with sadness!
Yet why?--a silvery current flows
With uncontrolled meanderings;
Nor have these eyes by greener hills
Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
And, through her depths, St. Mary's Lake
Is visibly delighted;
For not a feature of those hills
Is in the mirror slighted.
A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale,
Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused
A tender hazy brightness;
Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
All profitless dejection;
Though not unwilling here to admit
A pensive recollection.
Where was it that the famous Flower
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding:
And haply from this crystal pool,
Now peaceful as the morning,
The Water-wraith ascended thrice--
And gave his doleful warning.
Delicious is the Lay that sings
The haunts of happy Lovers,
The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers:
And Pity sanctifies the Verse
That paints, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love;
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
But thou, that didst appear so fair
To fond imagination,
Dost rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation:
Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
A softness still and holy;
The grace of forest charms decayed,
And pastoral melancholy.
That region left, the vale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature;
And, rising from those lofty groves,
Behold a Ruin hoary!
The shattered front of Newark's Towers,
Renowned in Border story.
Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
For sportive youth to stray in;
For manhood to enjoy his strength;
And age to wear away in!
Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
A covert for protection
Of tender thoughts, that nestle there--
The brood of chaste affection.
How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild-wood fruits to gather,
And on my True-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I enwreathed my own!
'Twere no offence to reason;
The sober Hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.
I see--but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
A ray of fancy still survives--
Her sunshine plays upon thee!
Thy ever-youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure;
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
Accordant to the measure.
The vapours linger round the Heights,
They melt, and soon must vanish;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine--
Sad thoughts, which I would banish,
But that I know, where'er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
Will dwell with me--to heighten joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow.
It may interest many to read Wordsworth's own comment on the two
following poems. 'On Tuesday morning,' he says, 'Sir Walter Scott
accompanied us and most of the party to Newark Castle, on the Yarrow.
When we alighted from the carriages he walked pretty stoutly, and had
great pleasure in revisiting there his favourite haunts. Of that
excursion the verses "Yarrow Revisited" are a memorial. Notwithstanding
the romance that pervades Sir Walter's works, and attaches to many of his
habits, there is too much pressure of fact for these verses to harmonize,
as much as I could wish, with the two preceding poems. On our return in
the afternoon, we had to cross the Tweed, directly opposite Abbotsford.
The wheels of our carriage grated upon the pebbles in the bed of the
stream, that there flows somewhat rapidly. A rich but sad light, of
rather a purple than a golden hue, was spread over the Eildon Hills at
that moment; and thinking it probable that it might be the last time Sir
Walter would cross the stream, I was not a little moved, and expressed
some of my feelings in the sonnet beginning
"A trouble not of clouds," etc.
At noon on Thursday we left Abbotsford, and on the morning of that day
Sir Walter and I had a serious conversation, _tete-a-tete_, when he spoke
with gratitude of the happy life which, upon the whole, he had led.
* * * * *
'In this interview also it was, that, upon my expressing a hope of his
health being benefited by the climate of the country to which he was
going, and by the interest he would take in the classic remembrances of
Italy, he made use of the quotation from "Yarrow Unvisited," as recorded
by me in the "Musings near Aquapendente," six years afterwards. . . .
Both the "Yarrow Revisited" and the "Sonnet" were sent him before his
departure from England.'
YARROW REVISITED.
The gallant Youth, who may have gained,
Or seeks, a 'winsome Marrow,'
Was but an Infant in the lap
When first I looked on Yarrow;
Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate
Long left without a warder,
I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee,
Great Minstrel of the Border!
Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day,
Their dignity installing
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves
Were on the bough, or falling;
But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed--
The forest to embolden;
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot
Transparence through the golden.
For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on
In foamy agitation;
And slept in many a crystal pool
For quiet contemplation:
No public and no private care
The freeborn mind enthralling,
We made a day of happy hours,
Our happy days recalling.
Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth,
With freaks of graceful folly,--
Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve,
Her Night not melancholy;
Past, present, future, all appeared
In harmony united,
Like guests that meet, and some from far,
By cordial love invited.
And if, as Yarrow, through the woods
And down the meadow ranging,
Did meet us with unaltered face,
Though we were changed and changing;
If, _then_, some natural shadows spread,
Our inward prospect over,
The soul's deep valley was not slow
Its brightness to recover.
Eternal blessings on the Muse,
And her divine employment!
The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons
For hope and calm enjoyment;
Albeit sickness, lingering yet,
Has o'er their pillow brooded;
And Care waylays their steps--a Sprite
Not easily eluded.
For thee, O SCOTT! compelled to change
Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot
For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes;
And leave thy Tweed and Teviot
For mild Sorento's breezy waves;
May classic Fancy, linking
With native Fancy her fresh aid,
Preserve thy heart from sinking!
O! while they minister to thee,
Each vying with the other,
May Health return to mellow Age,
With Strength, her venturous brother;
And Tiber, and each brook and rill
Renowned in song and story,
With unimagined beauty shine,
Nor lose one ray of glory!
For Thou, upon a hundred streams,
By tales of love and sorrow,
Of faithful love, undaunted truth
Hast shed the power of Yarrow;
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen,
Wherever they invite Thee,
At parent Nature's grateful call,
With gladness must requite Thee.
A gracious welcome shall be thine,
Such looks of love and honour
As thy own Yarrow gave to me
When first I gazed upon her;
Beheld what I had feared to see,
Unwilling to surrender
Dreams treasured up from early days,
The holy and the tender.
And what, for this frail world, were all,
That mortals do or suffer,
Did no responsive harp, no pen,
Memorial tribute offer?
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self?
Her features, could they win us,
Unhelped by the poetic voice
That hourly speaks within us?
Nor deem that localised Romance
Plays false with our affections;
Unsanctifies our tears--made sport
For fanciful dejections:
Ah, no! the visions of the past
Sustain the heart in feeling
Life as she is--our changeful Life,
With friends and kindred dealing.
Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day
In Yarrow's groves were centred;
Who through the silent portal arch
Of mouldering Newark enter'd;
And clomb the winding stair that once
Too timidly was mounted
By the 'last Minstrel,' (not the last!)
Ere he his Tale recounted.
Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream!
Fulfil thy pensive duty,
Well pleased that future Bards should chant
For simple hearts thy beauty;
To dream-light dear while yet unseen,
Dear to the common sunshine,
And dearer still, as now I feel,
To memory's shadowy moonshine!
ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM
ABBOTSFORD FOR NAPLES.
A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height:
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might
Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes;
Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue
Than sceptered king or laurelled conqueror knows,
Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true,
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!
THE TROSSACHS.
[Compare with this Sonnet the poem composed about thirty years earlier on
nearly the same spot of ground, 'What! you are stepping westward?' (See
p. 221.) This earlier poem, one of the most truly ethereal and ideal
Wordsworth ever wrote, is filled with the overflowing spirit of life and
hope. In every line of it we feel the exulting pulse of the
'traveller through the world that lay
Before him on his endless way.'
The later one is stilled down to perfect autumnal quiet. There is in it
the chastened pensiveness of one to whom all things now
'do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.'
But the sadness has at the heart of it peaceful hope. This is
Wordsworth's own comment:--'As recorded in my sister's Journal, I had
first seen the Trossachs in her and Coleridge's company. The sentiment
that runs through this sonnet was natural to the season in which I again
visited this beautiful spot; but this and some other sonnets that follow
were coloured by the remembrance of my recent visit to Sir Walter Scott,
and the melancholy errand on which he was going.']
There's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
But were an apt confessional for One
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October's workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!
NOTES.
{2} NOTE 1.--'_Hatfield was condemned_.'--PAGE 2.
James Hatfield, indicted for having, in the Lake district, under the
assumed name of Hon. Alexander Augustus Hope, brother of the Earl of
Hopetoun, forged certain bills of exchange. He was condemned to death at
Carlisle on August 16, 1803. His atrocious treatment of a beautiful
girl, known in the district as 'Mary of Buttermere,' had drawn more than
usual attention to the criminal.
{5} NOTE 2.--'_In Captain Wordsworth's ship_.'--PAGES xxx, 3.
The 'Brother John' here alluded to was a sailor. He was about two years
and eight months younger than the poet, who found in him quite a
congenial spirit. He perished, with nearly all his crew, in the 'Earl of
Abergavenny,' East-Indiaman, which he commanded, and which, owing to the
incompetency of a pilot, was in his last outward voyage wrecked on the
Shambles of the Bill of Portland on the night of Friday, February 5,
1805. His brother William speaks of him in verse, as 'a silent poet,'
and in prose describes him as 'meek, affectionate, silently enthusiastic,
loving all quiet things, and a poet in everything but words.' Allusions
to this sailor-brother occur in several of the poems, as in those lines
beginning 'When to the attractions of the busy world,' to be found among
the 'Poems on the Naming of Places,' also in the 'Elegiac Stanzas
suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm,' and in other poems.
{3} NOTE 3.--'_There is no stone to mark the spot_.'--PAGE 5.
'The body of Burns was not allowed to remain long in this place. To suit
the plan of a rather showy mausoleum, his remains were removed into a
more commodious spot of the same kirkyard on the 5th July 1815. The
coffin was partly dissolved away; but the dark curling locks of the poet
were as glossy, and seemed as fresh, as on the day of his death.'--_Life
of Burns_, by Allan Cunningham.
{19} NOTE 4.--'They had a large library.'--PAGE 19.
The following account of this library is taken from Dr. John Brown's
delightful tract, _The Enterkin_. The author will excuse wholesale
appropriation to illustrate a journal which, I believe, will be dear to
him, and to all who feel as he does:--
'The miners at Leadhills are a reading, a hard-reading people; and to
any one looking into the catalogue of their "Reading Society,"
selected by the men themselves for their own uses and tastes, this
will be manifest. We have no small gratification in holding their
diploma of honorary membership--signed by the preses and clerk, and
having the official seal, significant of the craft of the place--of
this, we venture to say, one of the oldest and best village-libraries
in the kingdom, having been founded in 1741, when the worthy miners
of that day, headed by James Wells and clerked by William Wright,
did, on the 23d November, "condescend upon certain articles and
laws"--as grave and thorough as if they were the constitution of a
commonwealth, and as sturdily independent as if no Earl were their
superior and master. "It is hereby declared that no right is hereby
given, nor shall at any time be given, to the said Earl of Hopetoun,
or his aforesaids, or to any person or persons whatever, of disposing
of any books or other effects whatever belonging to the Society, nor
of taking any concern with the Society's affairs," etc. As an
indication of the wild region and the distances travelled, one of the
rules is, "that every member not residing in Leadhills shall be
provided with a bag sufficient to keep out the rain." Here is the
stiff, covenanting dignity cropping out--"Every member shall (at the
annual meeting) deliver what he hath to say to the preses; and if two
or more members attempt to speak at a time, the preses shall
determine who shall speak first;" and "members guilty of indecency,
or unruly, obstinate behaviour" are to be punished "by fine,
suspension, or exclusion, according to the nature of the
transgression." The Westminster Divines could not have made a
tighter job.'
{31b} NOTE 5.--'_The first view of the Clyde_.'--PAGE 31.