Buch lesen: «Poems in Two Volumes, Volume 2»

POEMS WRITTEN DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND

1. ROB ROY's GRAVE

The History of Rob Roy is sufficiently known; his Grave is near the head of Loch Ketterine, in one of those small Pin-fold-like Burial-grounds, of neglected and desolate appearance, which the Traveller meets with in the Highlands of Scotland

 
  A famous Man is Robin Hood,
  The English Ballad-singer's joy!
  And Scotland has a Thief as good,
  An Outlaw of as daring mood,
  She has her brave ROB ROY!
  Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,
  And let us chaunt a passing Stave
  In honour of that Hero brave!
 
 
  Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart,
  And wondrous length and strength of arm:
  Nor craved he more to quell his Foes,
  Or keep his Friends from harm.
 
 
  Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave;
  Forgive me if the phrase be strong; —
  Poet worthy of Rob Roy
  Must scorn a timid song.
 
 
  Say, then, that he was wise as brave;
  As wise in thought as bold in deed:
  For in the principles of things
  He sought his moral creed.
 
 
  Said generous Rob, "What need of Books?
  Burn all the Statutes and their shelves:
  They stir us up against our Kind;
  And worse, against Ourselves."
 
 
  "We have a passion, make a law,
  Too false to guide us or controul!
  And for the law itself we fight
  In bitterness of soul."
 
 
  "And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose
  Distinctions that are plain and few:
  These find I graven on my heart:
  That tells me what to do."
 
 
  "The Creatures see of flood and field,
  And those that travel on the wind!
  With them no strife can last; they live
  In peace, and peace of mind."
 
 
  "For why? – because the good old Rule
  Sufficeth them, the simple Plan,
  That they should take who have the power,
  And they should keep who can."
 
 
  "A lesson which is quickly learn'd,
  A signal this which all can see!
  Thus nothing here provokes the Strong
  To wanton cruelty."
 
 
  "All freakishness of mind is check'd;
  He tam'd, who foolishly aspires;
  While to the measure of his might
  Each fashions his desires."
 
 
  "All Kinds, and Creatures, stand and fall
  By strength of prowess or of wit:
  Tis God's appointment who must sway,
  And who is to submit."
 
 
  "Since then," said Robin, "right is plain,
  And longest life is but a day;
  To have my ends, maintain my rights,
  I'll take the shortest way."
 
 
  And thus among these rocks he liv'd,
  Through summer's heat and winter's snow:
  The Eagle, he was Lord above,
  And Rob was Lord below.
 
 
  So was it —would, at least, have been
  But through untowardness of fate:
  For Polity was then too strong;
  He came an age too late,
 
 
  Or shall we say an age too soon?
  For, were the bold Man living now,
  How might he flourish in his pride,
  With buds on every bough!
 
 
  Then rents and Factors, rights of chace,
  Sheriffs, and Lairds and their domains
  Would all have seem'd but paltry things,
  Not worth a moment's pains.
 
 
  Rob Roy had never linger'd here,
  To these few meagre Vales confin'd;
  But thought how wide the world, the times
  How fairly to his mind!
 
 
  And to his Sword he would have said,
  "Do Thou my sovereign will enact
  From land to land through half the earth!
  Judge thou of law and fact!"
 
 
  "Tis fit that we should do our part;
  Becoming, that mankind should learn
  That we are not to be surpass'd
  In fatherly concern."
 
 
  "Of old things all are over old,
  Of good things none are good enough: —
  We'll shew that we can help to frame
  A world of other stuff."
 
 
  "I, too, will have my Kings that take
  From me the sign of life and death:
  Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds,
  Obedient to my breath."
 
 
  And, if the word had been fulfill'd,
  As might have been, then, thought of joy!
  France would have had her present Boast;
  And we our brave Rob Roy!
 
 
  Oh! say not so; compare them not;
  I would not wrong thee, Champion brave!
  Would wrong thee no where; least of all
  Here standing by thy Grave.
 
 
  For Thou, although with some wild thoughts,
  Wild Chieftain of a Savage Clan!
  Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love
  The liberty of Man.
 
 
  And, had it been thy lot to live
  With us who now behold the light,
  Thou would'st have nobly stirr'd thyself,
  And battled for the Right.
 
 
  For Robin was the poor Man's stay
  The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand;
  And all the oppress'd, who wanted strength,
  Had Robin's to command.
 
 
  Bear witness many a pensive sigh
  Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays
  Alone upon Loch Veol's Heights,
  And by Loch Lomond's Braes!
 
 
  And, far and near, through vale and hill,
  Are faces that attest the same;
  And kindle, like a fire new stirr'd,
  At sound of ROB ROY's name. 1
 

2. THE SOLITARY REAPER

 
  Behold her, single in the field,
  Yon solitary Highland Lass!
  Reaping and singing by herself;
  Stop here, or gently pass!
  Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
  And sings a melancholy strain;
  O listen! for the Vale profound
  Is overflowing with the sound.
 
 
  No Nightingale did ever chaunt
  So sweetly to reposing bands
  Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
  Among Arabian Sands:
  No sweeter voice was ever heard
  In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
  Breaking the silence of the seas
  Among the farthest Hebrides.
 
 
  Will no one tell me what she sings?
  Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
  For old, unhappy, far-off things,
  And battles long ago:
  Or is it some more humble lay,
  Familiar matter of today?
  Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
  That has been, and may be again!
 
 
  Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sung
  As if her song could have no ending;
  I saw her singing at her work,
  And o'er the sickle bending;
  I listen'd till I had my fill;
  And, as I mounted up the hill,
  The music in my heart I bore,
  Long after it was heard no more.
 

3. STEPPING WESTWARD

While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sun-set, in our road to a Hut where in the course of our Tour we had been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, "What you are stepping westward?"

 
  "What you are stepping westward?" – "Yea."
  – 'Twould be a wildish destiny,
  If we, who thus together roam
  In a strange Land, and far from home,
  Were in this place the guests of Chance:
  Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,
  Though home or shelter he had none,
  With such a Sky to lead him on?
 
 
  The dewy ground was dark and cold;
  Behind, all gloomy to behold;
  And stepping westward seem'd to be
  A kind of heavenly destiny;
  I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound
  Of something without place or bound;
  And seem'd to give me spiritual right
  To travel through that region bright.
 
 
  The voice was soft, and she who spake
  Was walking by her native Lake:
  The salutation had to me
  The very sound of courtesy:
  It's power was felt; and while my eye
  Was fixed upon the glowing sky,
  The echo of the voice enwrought
  A human sweetness with the thought
  Of travelling through the world that lay
  Before me in my endless way.
 

4. GLEN-ALMAIN
or the NARROW GLEN

 
  In this still place, remote from men,
  Sleeps Ossian, in the NARROW GLEN;
  In this still place, where murmurs on
  But one meek Streamlet, only one:
  He sang of battles, and the breath
  Of stormy war, and violent death;
  And should, methinks, when all was past,
  Have rightfully been laid at last
  Where rocks were sudely heap'd, and rent
  As by a spirit turbulent;
  Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
  And every thing unreconciled;
  In some complaining, dim retreat,
  For fear and melancholy meet;
  But this is calm; there cannot be
  A more entire tranquillity.
 
 
  Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?
  Or is it but a groundless creed?
  What matters it? I blame them not
  Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot
  Was moved; and in this way express'd
  Their notion of it's perfect rest.
  A Convent, even a hermit's Cell
  Would break the silence of this Dell:
  It is not quiet, is not ease;
  But something deeper far than these:
  The separation that is here
  Is of the grave; and of austere
  And happy feelings of the dead:
  And, therefore, was it rightly said
  That Ossian, last of all his race!
  Lies buried in this lonely place.
 

5. THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH AND HER HUSBAND

At Jedborough we went into private Lodgings for a few days; and the following Verses were called forth by the character, and domestic situation, of our Hostess

 
  Age! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers!
  And call a train of laughing Hours;
  And bid them dance, and bid them sing;
  And Thou, too, mingle in the Ring!
  Take to thy heart a new delight;
  If not, make merry in despite!
  For there is one who scorns thy power.
  – But dance! for under Jedborough Tower
  There liveth in the prime of glee,
  A Woman, whose years are seventy-three,
  And She will dance and sing with thee!
 
 
  Nay! start not at that Figure – there!
  Him who is rooted to his chair!
  Look at him – look again! for He
  Hath long been of thy Family.
  With legs that move not, if they can,
  And useless arms, a Trunk of Man,
  He sits, and with a vacant eye;
  A Sight to make a Stranger sigh!
  Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom:
  His world is in this single room:
  Is this a place for mirth and cheer?
  Can merry-making enter here?
 
 
  The joyous Woman is the Mate
  Of Him in that forlorn estate!
  He breathes a subterraneous damp,
  But bright as Vesper shines her lamp:
  He is as mute as Jedborough Tower;
  She jocund as it was of yore,
  With all it's bravery on; in times,
  When, all alive with merry chimes,
  Upon a sun-bright morn of May,
  It rouz'd the Vale to Holiday.
 
 
  I praise thee, Matron! and thy due
  Is praise; heroic praise, and true!
  With admiration I behold
  Thy gladness unsubdued and bold:
  Thy looks, thy gestures, all present
  The picture of a life well-spent:
  This do I see; and something more;
  A strength unthought of heretofore!
  Delighted am I for thy sake;
  And yet a higher joy partake.
  Our Human-nature throws away
  It's second Twilight, and looks gay:
  A Land of promise and of pride
  Unfolding, wide as life is wide.
 
 
  Ah! see her helpless Charge! enclos'd
  Within himself, as seems; compos'd;
  To fear of loss, and hope of gain,
  The strife of happiness and pain,
  Utterly dead! yet, in the guise
  Of little Infants, when their eyes
  Begin to follow to and fro
  The persons that before them go,
  He tracks her motions, quick or slow.
  Her buoyant Spirit can prevail
  Where common cheerfulness would fail:
  She strikes upon him with the heat
  Of July Suns; he feels it sweet;
  An animal delight though dim!
  'Tis all that now remains for him!
 
 
  I look'd, I scann'd her o'er and o'er;
  The more I look'd I wonder'd more:
  When suddenly I seem'd to espy
  A trouble in her strong black eye;
  A remnant of uneasy light,
  A flash of something over-bright!
  And soon she made this matter plain;
  And told me, in a thoughtful strain,
  That she had borne a heavy yoke,
  Been stricken by a twofold stroke;
  Ill health of body; and had pin'd
  Beneath worse ailments of the mind.
 
 
  So be it! but let praise ascend
  To Him who is our Lord and Friend!
  Who from disease and suffering
  Hath call'd for thee a second Spring;
  Repaid thee for that sore distress
  By no untimely joyousness;
  Which makes of thine a blissful state;
  And cheers thy melancholy Mate!