Yarrow Revisited, and Other Poems Read Online

Of church, or sabbath ties,

No vestige now remains; yet thither creep

Bereft Ones, and in lowly anguish weep

Their prayers out to the wind and naked skies.

Proud tomb is none; but rudely-sculptured knights,

By humble choice of plain old times, are seen

Level with earth, among the hillocks green:

Union not sad, when sunny daybreak smites

The spangled turf, and neighbouring thickets ring

With jubilate from the choirs of spring!

IV

On the Sight of a Manse in the South of Scotland

Say, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills –

Among the happiest-looking homes of men

Scattered all Britain over, through deep glen,

On airy upland, and by forest rills,

And o'er wide plains cheered by the lark that trills

His sky-born warblings – does aught meet your ken

More fit to animate the Poet's pen,

Aught that more surely by its aspect fills

Pure minds with sinless envy, than the Abode

Of the good Priest: who, faithful through all hours

To his high charge, and truly serving God,

Has yet a heart and hand for trees and flowers,

Enjoys the walks his predecessors trod,

Nor covets lineal rights in lands and towers.

V

Composed in Roslin Chapel, During a Storm

The wind is now thy organist; – a clank

(We know not whence) ministers for a bell

To mark some change of service. As the swell

Of music reached its height, and even when sank

The notes, in prelude, ROSLIN! to a blank

Of silence, how it thrilled thy sumptuous roof,

Pillars, and arches, – not in vain time-proof,

Though Christian rites be wanting! From what bank

Came those live herbs? by what hand were they sown

Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem unknown?

Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche

Share with their sculptured fellows, that, green-grown,

Copy their beauty more and more, and preach,

Though mute, of all things blending into one.

VI

The Trosachs

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,

Rooks, 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!

VII

The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute;

The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy

Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy;

The target mouldering like ungathered fruit;

The smoking steam-boat eager in pursuit,

As eagerly pursued; the umbrella spread

To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's head –

All speak of manners withering to the root,

And of old honours, too, and passions high:

Then may we ask, though pleased that thought should range

Among the conquests of civility,

Survives imagination – to the change

Superior? Help to virtue does she give?

If not, O Mortals, better cease to live!

VIII

Composed in the Glen of Loch Etive

»This Land of Rainbows spanning glens whose walls,

Rock-built, are hung with rainbow-coloured mists –

Of far-stretched Meres whose salt flood never rests –

Of tuneful Caves and playful Waterfalls –

Of Mountains varying momently their crests –

Proud be this Land! whose poorest huts are halls

Where Fancy entertains becoming guests;

While native song the heroic Past recals.«

Thus, in the net of her own wishes caught,

The Muse exclaimed; but Story now must hide

Her trophies, Fancy crouch; the course of pride

Has been diverted, other lessons taught,

That make the Patriot-spirit bow her head

Where the all-conquering Roman feared to tread.

IX

Eagles

Composed at Dunollie Castle in the bay of Oban.

Dishonoured Rock and Ruin! that, by law

Tyrannic, keep the Bird of Jove embarred

Like a lone criminal whose life is spared.

Vexed is he, and screams loud. The last I saw

Was on the wing; stooping, he struck with awe

Man, bird, and beast; then, with a consort paired,

From a bold headland, their loved aery's guard,

Flew high above Atlantic waves, to draw

Light from the fountain of the setting sun.

Such was this Prisoner once; and when his plumes

The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes on,

Then, for a moment, he, in spirit, resumes

His rank 'mong freeborn creatures that live free,

His power, his beauty, and his majesty.

X

In the Sound of Mull

Tradition, be thou mute! Oblivion, throw

Thy veil in mercy o'er the records, hung

Round strath and mountain, stamped by the ancient tongue

On rock and ruin darkening as we go, –

Spots where a word, ghost-like, survives to show

What crimes from hate, or desperate love, have sprung;

From honour misconceived, or fancied wrong,

What feuds, not quenched but fed by mutual woe.

Yet, though a wild vindictive Race, untamed

By civil arts and labours of the pen,

Could gentleness be scorned by those fierce Men,

Who, to spread wide the reverence they claimed

For patriarchal occupations, named

Yon towering Peaks, »Shepherds of Etive Glen?«1

1 In Gaelic, Buachaill Eite.

XI

Suggested at Tyndrum in a Storm

Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook,

And all that Greece and Italy have sung

Of Swains reposing myrtle groves among!

Ours couch on naked rocks, – will cross a brook

Swoln with chill rains, nor ever cast a look

This way or that, or give it even a thought

More than by smoothest pathway may be brought

Into a vacant mind. Can written book

Teach what they learn? Up, hardy Mountaineer!

And guide the Bard, ambitious to be One

Of Nature's privy council, as thou art,

On cloud-sequestered heights, that see and hear

To what dread Powers He delegates his part

On Earth, who works in the heaven of heavens, alone.

XII

The Earl of Breadalbane's Ruined Mansion, and Family Burial-Place, Near Killin

Well sang the Bard who called the grave, in strains

Thoughtful and sad, the ›narrow house.‹ No style

Of fond sepulchral flattery can beguile

Grief of her sting; nor cheat, where he detains

The sleeping dust, stern Death. How reconcile

With truth, or with each other, decked remains

Of a once warm Abode, and that new Pile,

For the departed, built with curious pains

And mausolean pomp? Yet here they stand

Together, – 'mid trim walks and artful bowers,

To be looked down upon by ancient hills,

That, for the living and the dead, demand

And prompt a harmony of genuine powers;

Concord that elevates the mind, and stills.

XIII

»Rest and be Thankful«

At the Head of Glencroe.

Doubling and doubling with laborious walk,

Who, that has gained at length the wished-for Height,

This brief this simple wayside Call can slight,

And rests not thankful? Whether cheered by talk

With some loved friend, or by the unseen hawk

Whistling to clouds and sky-born streams, that shine

At the sun's outbreak, as with light divine,

Ere they descend to nourish root and stalk

Of valley flowers. Nor, while the limbs repose,

Will we forget that, as the fowl can keep

Absolute stillness, poised aloft in air,

And fishes front, unmoved, the torrent's sweep, –

So may the Soul, through powers that Faith bestows,

Win rest, and ease, and peace, with bliss that Angels share.

XIV

Highland Hut

See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot,

Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may,

Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray

Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot.

The limpid mountain-rill avoids it not;

And why shouldst thou? – If rightly trained and bred,

Humanity is humble, finds no spot

Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread.

The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof,

Undressed the pathway leading to the door;

But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor;

Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof,

Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials fewer,

Belike less happy. – Stand no more aloof!

XV

The Highland Broach

The exact resemblance which the old Broach (still in use, though rarely met with, among the Highlanders) bears to the Roman Fibula must strike everyone, and concurs with the plaid and kilt to recall to mind the communication which the ancient Romans had with this remote country.

If to Tradition faith be due,

And echoes from old verse speak true,

Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore

Glad tidings to Iona's shore,

No common light of nature blessed

The mountain region of the west,

A land where gentle manners ruled

O'er men in dauntless virtues schooled,

That raised, for centuries, a bar

Impervious to the tide of war:

Yet peaceful Arts did entrance gain

Where haughty Force had striven in vain;

And, 'mid the works of skilful hands,

By wanderers brought from foreign lands

And various climes, was not unknown

The clasp that fixed the Roman Gown;

The Fibula, whose shape, I ween,

Still in the Highland Broach is seen,

The silver Broach of massy frame,

Worn at the breast of some grave Dame

On road or path, or at the door

Of fern-thatched hut on heathy moor:

But delicate of yore its mould,

And the material finest gold;

As might beseem the fairest Fair,

Whether she graced a royal chair,

Or shed, within a vaulted hall,

No fancied lustre on the wall

Where shields of mighty heroes hung,

While Fingal heard what Ossian sung.

The heroic Age expired – it slept

Deep in its tomb: – the bramble crept

O'er Fingal's hearth; the grassy sod

Grew on the floors his sons had trod:

Malvina! where art thou? Their state

The noblest-born must abdicate;

The fairest, while with fire and sword

Come Spoilers – horde impelling horde,

Must walk the sorrowing mountains, drest

By ruder hands in homelier vest.

Yet still the female bosom lent,

And loved to borrow, ornament;

Still was its inner world a place

Reached by the dews of heavenly grace;

Still pity to this last retreat

Clove fondly; to his favourite seat

Love wound his way by soft approach,

Beneath a massier Highland Broach.

When alternations came of rage

Yet fiercer, in a darker age;

And feuds, where, clan encountering clan,

The weaker perished to a man;

For maid and mother, when despair

Might else have triumphed, baffling prayer,

One small possession lacked not power,

Provided in a calmer hour,

To meet such need as might befal –

Roof, raiment, bread, or burial:

For woman, even of tears bereft,

The hidden silver Broach was left.

As generations come and go,

Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow;

Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away,

And feeble, of themselves, decay;

What poor abodes the heir-loom hide,

In which the castle once took pride!

Tokens, once kept as boasted wealth,

If saved at all, are saved by stealth.

Lo! ships, from seas by nature barred,

Mount along ways by man prepared;

And in far-stretching vales, whose streams

Seek other seas, their canvass gleams.

Lo! busy towns spring up, on coasts

Thronged yesterday by airy ghosts;

Soon, like a lingering star forlorn

Among the novelties of morn,

While young delights on old encroach,

Will vanish the last Highland Broach.

But when, from out their viewless bed,

Like vapours, years have rolled and spread;

And this poor verse, and worthier lays,

Shall yield no light of love or praise;

Then, by the spade, or cleaving plough,

Or torrent from the mountain's brow,

Or whirlwind, reckless what his might

Entombs, or forces into light;

Blind Chance, a volunteer ally,

That oft befriends Antiquity,

And clears Oblivion from reproach,

May render back the Highland Broach.1

1 How much the Broach is sometimes prized by persons in humble stations may be gathered from an occurrence mentioned to me by a female friend. She had had an opportunity of benefiting a poor old woman in her own hut, who, wishing to make a return, said to her daughter in Erse, in a tone of plaintive earnestness, »I would give anything I have, but I hope she does not wish for my Broach!« and, uttering these words, she put her hand upon the Broach which fastened her kerchief, and which, she imagined, had attracted the eye of her benefactress.

XVI

The Brownie

Upon a small island, not far from the head of Loch Lomond, are some remains of an ancient building, which was for several years the abode of a solitary Individual, one of the last survivors of the clan of Macfarlane, once powerful in that neighbourhood. Passing along the shore opposite this island in the year 1814, the Author learned these particulars, and that this person then living there had acquired the appellation of »The Brownie.« See »The Brownie's Cell,« to which the following is a sequel.

»How disappeared he?« Ask the newt and toad;

Ask of his fellow-men, and they will tell

How he was found, cold as an icicle,

Under an arch of that forlorn abode;

Where he, unpropp'd, and by the gathering flood

Of years hemm'd round, had dwelt, prepared to try

Privation's worst extremities, and die

With no one near save the omnipresent God.

Verily so to live was an awful choice –

A choice that wears the aspect of a doom;

But in the mould of mercy all is cast

For Souls familiar with the eternal Voice;

And this forgotten Taper to the last

Drove from itself, we trust, all frightful gloom.

XVII

To the Planet Venus, an Evening Star

Though joy attend Thee orient at the birth

Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most

To watch thy course when Day-light, fled from earth,

In the grey sky hath left his lingering Ghost,

Perplexed as if between a splendour lost

And splendour slowly mustering. Since the Sun,

The absolute, the world-absorbing One,

Relinquished half his empire to the host

Emboldened by thy guidance, holy Star,

Holy as princely, who that looks on thee

Touching, as now, in thy humility

The mountain-borders of this seat of care,

Can question that thy countenance is bright,

Celestial Power, as much with love as light?

XVIII

Bothwell Castle

(Passed unseen, on account of stormy weather.)

Immured in Bothwell's towers, at times the Brave

(So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn

The liberty they lost at Bannockburn.

Once on those steeps I roamed at large, and have

In mind the landscape, as if still in sight;

The river glides, the woods before me wave;

Then why repine that now in vain I crave

Needless renewal of an old delight?

Better to thank a dear and long-past day

For joy its sunny hours were free to give

Than blame the present, that our wish hath crost.

Memory, like sleep, hath powers which dreams obey,

Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive;

How little that she cherishes is lost!

XIX

Picture of Daniel in the Lions' Den, at Hamilton Palace

Amid a fertile region green with wood

And fresh with rivers, well did it become

The ducal Owner, in his palace-home

To naturalise this tawny Lion brood;

Children of Art, that claim strange brotherhood

(Couched in their den) with those that roam at large

Over the burning wilderness, and charge

The wind with terror while they roar for food.

Satiate are these; and stilled to eye and ear;

Hence, while we gaze, a more enduring fear!

Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave

Daunt him – if his Companions, now bedrowsed

Outstretched and listless, were by hunger roused:

Man placed him here, and God, he knows, can save.

XX

The Avon

(A feeder of the Annan.)

Avon – a precious, an immortal name!

Yet is it one that other rivulets bear

Like this unheard-of, and their channels wear

Like this contented, though unknown to Fame:

For great and sacred is the modest claim

Of Streams to Nature's love, where'er they flow;

And ne'er did Genius slight them, as they go,

Tree, flower, and green herb, feeding without blame.

But Praise can waste her voice on work of tears,

Anguish, and death: full oft where innocent blood

Has mixed its current with the limpid flood,

Her heaven-offending trophies Glory rears:

Never for like distinction may the good

Shrink from thy name, pure Rill, with unpleased ears.

XXI

Suggested by a View from an Eminence in Inglewood Forest

The forest huge of ancient Caledon

Is but a name, no more is Inglewood,

That swept from hill to hill, from flood to flood:

On her last thorn the nightly moon has shone;

Yet still, though unappropriate Wild be none,

Fair parks spread wide where Adam Bell might deign

With Clym o' the Clough, were they alive again,

To kill for merry feast their venison.

Nor wants the holy Abbot's gliding Shade

His church with monumental wreck bestrown;

The feudal Warrior-chief, a Ghost unlaid,

Hath still his castle, though a skeleton,

That he may watch by night, and lessons con

Of power that perishes, and rights that fade.

XXII

Hart's-Horn Tree, Near Penrith

Here stood an Oak, that long had borne affixed

To his huge trunk, or, with more subtle art,

Among its withering topmost branches mixed,

The palmy antlers of a hunted Hart,

Whom the Dog Hercules pursued – his part

Each desperately sustaining, till at last

Both sank and died, the life-veins of the chased

And chaser bursting here with one dire smart.

Mutual the victory, mutual the defeat!

High was the trophy hung with pitiless pride;

Say, rather, with that generous sympathy

That wants not, even in rudest breasts, a seat;

And, for this feeling's sake, let no one chide

Verse that would guard thy memory, HART'S-HORN TREE!

XXIII

Fancy and Tradition

The Lovers took within this ancient grove

Their last embrace; beside those crystal springs

The Hermit saw the Angel spread his wings

For instant flight; the Sage in yon alcove

Sate musing; on that hill the Bard would rove,

Not mute, where now the linnet only sings:

Thus everywhere to truth Tradition clings,

Or Fancy localises Powers we love.

Were only History licensed to take note

Of things gone by, her meagre monuments

Would ill suffice for persons and events:

There is an ampler page for man to quote,

A readier book of manifold contents,

Studied alike in palace and in cot.

XXIV

Countess' Pillar

On the roadside between Penrith and Appleby, there stands a pillar with the following inscription: –

»This pillar was erected, in the year 1656, by Anne Countess Dowager of Pembroke, etc. for a memorial of her last parting with her pious mother, Margaret Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d of April, 1616; in memory whereof she hath left an annuity of £4 to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every 2d day of April for ever, upon the stone table placed hard by. Laus Deo!«

While the Poor gather round, till the end of time

May this bright flower of Charity display

Its bloom, unfolding at the appointed day;

Flower than the loveliest of the vernal prime

Lovelier – transplanted from heaven's purest clime!

›Charity never faileth:‹ on that creed,

More than on written testament or deed,

The pious Lady built with hope sublime.

Alms on this stone to be dealt out, for ever!

»LAUS DEO.« Many a Stranger passing by

Has with that Parting mixed a filial sigh,

Blest its humane Memorial's fond endeavour;

And, fastening on those lines an eye tear-glazed,

Has ended, though no Clerk, with »God be praised!«

XXV

Roman Antiquities

(From the Roman Station at Old Penrith.)

How profitless the relics that we cull,

Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome,

Unless they chasten fancies that presume

Too high, or idle agitations lull!

Of the world's flatteries if the brain be full,

To have no seat for thought were better doom,

Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull

Of him who gloried in its nodding plume.

Heaven out of view, our wishes what are they?

Our fond regrets tenacious in their grasp?

The Sage's theory? the Poet's lay? –

Mere Fibulæ without a robe to clasp;

Obsolete lamps, whose light no time recals;

Urns without ashes, tearless lacrymals!

XXVI

Apology

For the Foregoing Poems

No more: the end is sudden and abrupt,

Abrupt – as without preconceived design

Was the beginning; yet the several Lays

Have moved in order, to each other bound

By a continuous and acknowledged tie

Though unapparent – like those Shapes distinct

That yet survive ensculptured on the walls

Of palaces, or temples, 'mid the wreck

Of famed Persepolis; each following each,

As might beseem a stately embassy,

In set array; these bearing in their hands

Ensign of civil power, weapon of war,

Or gift to be presented at the throne

Of the Great King; and others, as they go

In priestly vest, with holy offerings charged,

Or leading victims drest for sacrifice.

Nor will the Power we serve, that sacred Power,

The Spirit of humanity, disdain

A ministration humble but sincere,

That from a threshold loved by every Muse

Its impulse took – that sorrow-stricken door,

Whence, as a current from its fountain-head,

Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings flowed,

Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength

From kindred sources; while around us sighed

(Life's three first seasons having passed away)

Leaf-scattering winds; and hoar-frost sprinklings fell

(Foretaste of winter) on the moorland heights;

And every day brought with it tidings new

Of rash change, ominous for the public weal.

Hence, if dejection has too oft encroached

Upon that sweet and tender melancholy

Which may itself be cherished and caressed

More than enough; a fault so natural

(Even with the young, the hopeful, or the gay)

For prompt foregiveness will not sue in vain.