FROM the Pier's head, musing—and with increase
Of wonder, long I watched this sea-side Town,
Under the white cliff's battlemented crown,
Hushed to a depth of more than Sabbath peace.
How strange, methought, this orderly releash
From social noise-quiet elsewhere unknown!
A Spirit whispered, "Doth not Ocean drown
Trivial in solemn sounds? Let wonder cease.
His overpowering murmurs have set free
Thy sense from pressure of life's common din ;
As the dread voice that speaks from out the sea
Of God's eternal Word, the voice of Time
Deadens-the shocks of tumult, shrieks of crime,
The shouts of fully, and the groans of sin."
Composed or suggested during a Tour in Scotland, &c., 1831.
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 sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows,
Follow this wondrous Potentate.
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!
A PLACE OF BURIAL IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND.
PART fenced by man, part by a rugged steep
That curbs a foaming brook, a Grave-yard lies ;
The hare's best couching-place for fearless sleep ;
Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous eyes,
Enter in dance. 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!
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
Scatter'd all Britain over, through deep glen,
On airy upland, and by forest rills,
And o'er wide plains whereon the sky distils
Her lark's loved 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.
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 scein 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.
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