I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
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 rudely heaped, and rent
As by a spirit turbulent.
Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
And everything 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 expressed -
Their notion of its 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.
AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS, 1803.
SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH.
(For illustration see My Sister's Journal.")
I SHIVER, spirit fierce and bold,
At thought of what I now behold:
As vapours breathed from dungeons cold
Strike pleasure dead,
So sadness comes from out the mould
Where Burns is laid.
And have I, then, thy bones so near,
And thou forbidden to appear?
As if it were thyself that's here
I shrink with pain;
And both my wishes and my fear
Alike are vain.
Off, weight-nor press on weight! Away
Dark thoughts!-they came, but not to stay;
With chastened feelings would I pay
To him, and aught that hides his clay
From mortal view.
Fresh as the flower whose modest worth
He sang, his genius "glinted" forth,
Rose like a star that touching earth,
For so it seems,
Doth glorify its humble birth
With matchless beams.
The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow,
The struggling heart, where be they now?
Full soon the aspirant of the plough,
The prompt, the brave,
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low
And silent grave.
I mourned with thousands, but as one
Whose light I hailed when first it shone,
More deeply grieved, for he was gone
And showed my youth
How verse may build a princely throne
On humble truth.
Alas! where'er the current tends,
Regret pursues and with it blends-
Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends
By Skiddaw seen :
Neighbours we were, and loving friends
We might have been;
True friends though diversely inclined;
But heart with heart and mind with mind,
Where the main fibres are entwined,
Through Nature's skill,
May even by contraries be joined
More closely still.
The tear will start, and let it flow;
Thou "poor inhabitant below,
At this dread moment-even so-
Might we together
Have sat and talked where gowans blow,
Or on wild heather.
What treasures would have then been placed
Within my reach; of knowledge graced
By fancy what a rich repast!
Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,
His grave grass-grown.
There, too, a son, his joy and pride
(Not three weeks past the stripling died),
Lies gathered to his father's side,
Soul-moving sight!
Yet one to which is not denied
Some sad delight:
For he is safe, a quiet bed
Hath early found among the dead,
Harboured where none can be misled,
Wronged or distrest;
And surely here it may be said
That such are blest.
And oh for thee, by pitying grace
Checked ofttimes in a devious race,
May He who halloweth the place
Where man is laid
Receive thy spirit in the embrace
For which it prayed!
Sighing, I turned away; but ere
Night fell, I heard, or seemed to hear,
Music that sorrow comes not near-
suggested THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS OF NITH, NEAR THE POET'S RESIDENCE.
Too frail to keep the lofty vow
That must have followed when his brow
Was wreathed-" The Vision" tells us how-
With holly spray,
He faltered, drifted to and fro,
And passed away.
Well might such thoughts, dear sister, throng
Our minds when, lingering all too long,
Over the grave of Burns we hung
In social grief
Indulged as if it were a wrong
To seek relief.
But, leaving each unquiet theme
Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,
And prompt to welcome every gleam
Of good and fair,
Let us beside this limpid stream
Breathe hopeful air.
Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight:
Think rather of those moments bright
When to the consciousness of right
His course was true,
When wisdom prospered in his sight
And virtue grew.
Yes, freely let our hearts expand,
Freely as in youth's season bland,
When side by side, his book in hand,
We wont to stray,
Our pleasure varying at command
Of each sweet lay.
How oft inspired must he have trod
These path-ways, yon far-stretching road!
There lurks his home; in that abode,
With mirth elate,
Or in his nobly pensive mood,
The rustic sate.
Proud thoughts that image overawes,
Before it humbly let us pause,
And ask of Nature from what cause
And by what rules
She trained her Burns to win applause
That shames the schools.
Through busiest street and loneliest glen
Are felt the flashes of his pen :
He rules 'mid winter snows, and when
Bees fill their hives;
Deep in the general heart of men
His power survives.
What need of fields in some far clime
Where heroes, sages, bards sublime,
And all that fetched the flowing rhyme
From genuine springs,
Shall dwell together till old Time
Folds up his wings?
Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven
This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven;
The rueful conflict, the heart riven
With vain endeavour,
And memory of earth's bitter leaven
Effaced forever.
But why to him confine the prayer,
When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear
On the frail heart the purest share
With all that live?
The best of what we do and are,
Just God, forgive!
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