The mist, retreating, gems the leaves with dew,Soft blows the breeze along the fragrant meads,A little brawling burn runs through the reedsAnd ripples away under the cloudless blue.I never saw the world so fair to view,For Spring has riven old Winter's funeral weedsAnd given new sap and vigour to the seedsThat lay inanimate the cold months through.Old man! with jaded limbs and wrinkled brow,That walkest feebly in this lenient sunLike a day-dream, thy life is winter now.But life and death in ceaseless cycles run,And tireless Time and Heaven have in storeFor thee a myriad resurrections more.
The mist, retreating, gems the leaves with dew,Soft blows the breeze along the fragrant meads,A little brawling burn runs through the reedsAnd ripples away under the cloudless blue.I never saw the world so fair to view,For Spring has riven old Winter's funeral weedsAnd given new sap and vigour to the seedsThat lay inanimate the cold months through.Old man! with jaded limbs and wrinkled brow,That walkest feebly in this lenient sunLike a day-dream, thy life is winter now.But life and death in ceaseless cycles run,And tireless Time and Heaven have in storeFor thee a myriad resurrections more.
The mist, retreating, gems the leaves with dew,Soft blows the breeze along the fragrant meads,A little brawling burn runs through the reedsAnd ripples away under the cloudless blue.I never saw the world so fair to view,For Spring has riven old Winter's funeral weedsAnd given new sap and vigour to the seedsThat lay inanimate the cold months through.Old man! with jaded limbs and wrinkled brow,That walkest feebly in this lenient sunLike a day-dream, thy life is winter now.But life and death in ceaseless cycles run,And tireless Time and Heaven have in storeFor thee a myriad resurrections more.
Houses are fewer here than milestones are:We stand a thousand feet aloft in airUpon a bouldered hillside stern and bare,Down which the roadway serpentines afar.There are no clouds in the wide blue to marThe passage of the sun's imperial glareOver a dreary-stretching landscape, whereRough winds hold riot all the calendar.Who that has footed o'er these firm-knit pathsBut lauds the men whose strenuous axe and spadeDrove roads through the wild glens and hilly strathsUnder the generalship of tireless Wade!On the safe tracks behind them, commerce cameThe unruly spirit of the Celt to tame.
Houses are fewer here than milestones are:We stand a thousand feet aloft in airUpon a bouldered hillside stern and bare,Down which the roadway serpentines afar.There are no clouds in the wide blue to marThe passage of the sun's imperial glareOver a dreary-stretching landscape, whereRough winds hold riot all the calendar.Who that has footed o'er these firm-knit pathsBut lauds the men whose strenuous axe and spadeDrove roads through the wild glens and hilly strathsUnder the generalship of tireless Wade!On the safe tracks behind them, commerce cameThe unruly spirit of the Celt to tame.
Houses are fewer here than milestones are:We stand a thousand feet aloft in airUpon a bouldered hillside stern and bare,Down which the roadway serpentines afar.There are no clouds in the wide blue to marThe passage of the sun's imperial glareOver a dreary-stretching landscape, whereRough winds hold riot all the calendar.Who that has footed o'er these firm-knit pathsBut lauds the men whose strenuous axe and spadeDrove roads through the wild glens and hilly strathsUnder the generalship of tireless Wade!On the safe tracks behind them, commerce cameThe unruly spirit of the Celt to tame.
A snowy gust is whirling down the strait,Raasay is gleaming ghostly to the sight,And, robed in lawn, from sea to topmost heightSkye and her lordly mountains stand in state.Ever from heaven falls the silent weightOf wavering flakes that dim the stars of night.Our gallant little boat with all the mightOf the wild-hissing surges holds debate,Plunging and struggling, till at last we seeA spacious haven, sudden and sereneAnd, high aloft, the twinkle of Portree.At once the winds are hushed, the moon is seenTo free her face from cloudy drift, and fillWith silver light the clefts of Essie Hill.
A snowy gust is whirling down the strait,Raasay is gleaming ghostly to the sight,And, robed in lawn, from sea to topmost heightSkye and her lordly mountains stand in state.Ever from heaven falls the silent weightOf wavering flakes that dim the stars of night.Our gallant little boat with all the mightOf the wild-hissing surges holds debate,Plunging and struggling, till at last we seeA spacious haven, sudden and sereneAnd, high aloft, the twinkle of Portree.At once the winds are hushed, the moon is seenTo free her face from cloudy drift, and fillWith silver light the clefts of Essie Hill.
A snowy gust is whirling down the strait,Raasay is gleaming ghostly to the sight,And, robed in lawn, from sea to topmost heightSkye and her lordly mountains stand in state.Ever from heaven falls the silent weightOf wavering flakes that dim the stars of night.Our gallant little boat with all the mightOf the wild-hissing surges holds debate,Plunging and struggling, till at last we seeA spacious haven, sudden and sereneAnd, high aloft, the twinkle of Portree.At once the winds are hushed, the moon is seenTo free her face from cloudy drift, and fillWith silver light the clefts of Essie Hill.
I.Where is Macfee, that valiant preacher,Gifted with voice, so harsh and loud,Aye, louder and harsher than any screecherOf birds that sail on the black storm-cloud?And his beadle John, with back so bowed,Where ishethat had never a peer?Is he too rolled in his mortal shroud?But where are the snows of yester-year?II.Donald the Gay, that steered his steamerMany a year through the Sound of Mull,He that was never a Celtic dreamer,But a captain of captains masterful:O Death, thou madest the world more dullWhen you nailedhimdown in his narrow bier,And sent his ghost into Charon's hull;But where are the snows of yester-year?III.Duncan, the bard of rocky Staffin,Away in the north of rainy Skye:Hashegiven over his rimes and daffin',In the mould of the bleak kirkyard to lie?His cot was built where the sea-gulls fly,And his misty isle to his soul was dear;Ere his song is finished, the bard must die;But where are the snows of yester-year?IV.And Dougal, who carried King Edward's mailsEvery day o'er the moor and heather,Scorning the chill of the winter gales,And the ten-mile walk in the sultry weather:Hashetoo come to the end of his tetherAnd gone to the ghosts with all his gear,His whistle, his satchel and strap of leather?But where are the snows of yester-year?V.Prince, they have gone from the regions that knew them,Gone at the summons that none can resist,Praise and every honour be to them,They did their best and they will be missed.We, too, shall soon be erased from the listOf workers below in this mortal sphere,And be no more to those that existThan the vanished snows of yester-year.
Where is Macfee, that valiant preacher,Gifted with voice, so harsh and loud,Aye, louder and harsher than any screecherOf birds that sail on the black storm-cloud?And his beadle John, with back so bowed,Where ishethat had never a peer?Is he too rolled in his mortal shroud?But where are the snows of yester-year?
Where is Macfee, that valiant preacher,Gifted with voice, so harsh and loud,Aye, louder and harsher than any screecherOf birds that sail on the black storm-cloud?And his beadle John, with back so bowed,Where ishethat had never a peer?Is he too rolled in his mortal shroud?But where are the snows of yester-year?
Donald the Gay, that steered his steamerMany a year through the Sound of Mull,He that was never a Celtic dreamer,But a captain of captains masterful:O Death, thou madest the world more dullWhen you nailedhimdown in his narrow bier,And sent his ghost into Charon's hull;But where are the snows of yester-year?
Donald the Gay, that steered his steamerMany a year through the Sound of Mull,He that was never a Celtic dreamer,But a captain of captains masterful:O Death, thou madest the world more dullWhen you nailedhimdown in his narrow bier,And sent his ghost into Charon's hull;But where are the snows of yester-year?
Duncan, the bard of rocky Staffin,Away in the north of rainy Skye:Hashegiven over his rimes and daffin',In the mould of the bleak kirkyard to lie?His cot was built where the sea-gulls fly,And his misty isle to his soul was dear;Ere his song is finished, the bard must die;But where are the snows of yester-year?
Duncan, the bard of rocky Staffin,Away in the north of rainy Skye:Hashegiven over his rimes and daffin',In the mould of the bleak kirkyard to lie?His cot was built where the sea-gulls fly,And his misty isle to his soul was dear;Ere his song is finished, the bard must die;But where are the snows of yester-year?
And Dougal, who carried King Edward's mailsEvery day o'er the moor and heather,Scorning the chill of the winter gales,And the ten-mile walk in the sultry weather:Hashetoo come to the end of his tetherAnd gone to the ghosts with all his gear,His whistle, his satchel and strap of leather?But where are the snows of yester-year?
And Dougal, who carried King Edward's mailsEvery day o'er the moor and heather,Scorning the chill of the winter gales,And the ten-mile walk in the sultry weather:Hashetoo come to the end of his tetherAnd gone to the ghosts with all his gear,His whistle, his satchel and strap of leather?But where are the snows of yester-year?
Prince, they have gone from the regions that knew them,Gone at the summons that none can resist,Praise and every honour be to them,They did their best and they will be missed.We, too, shall soon be erased from the listOf workers below in this mortal sphere,And be no more to those that existThan the vanished snows of yester-year.
Prince, they have gone from the regions that knew them,Gone at the summons that none can resist,Praise and every honour be to them,They did their best and they will be missed.We, too, shall soon be erased from the listOf workers below in this mortal sphere,And be no more to those that existThan the vanished snows of yester-year.
A fairyland of trees and leafy bowersWhere one may sit and dream the hours away,Or 'mid the devious walks and alleys stray,While perfume rises from a world of flowers,The girdling river, swollen with upland showers,Sends rippling round to every creek and bayThe vagrant branches of his water-way;Then gathering up his current's parted powers,Swiftly-majestic in a broadening bed,He glistens on by many a chiming spire,And past the castle's pennoned turrets red,Till he attain the goal of his desire,And into the salt sea exulting throwsHis subsidy of rains and melted snows.
A fairyland of trees and leafy bowersWhere one may sit and dream the hours away,Or 'mid the devious walks and alleys stray,While perfume rises from a world of flowers,The girdling river, swollen with upland showers,Sends rippling round to every creek and bayThe vagrant branches of his water-way;Then gathering up his current's parted powers,Swiftly-majestic in a broadening bed,He glistens on by many a chiming spire,And past the castle's pennoned turrets red,Till he attain the goal of his desire,And into the salt sea exulting throwsHis subsidy of rains and melted snows.
A fairyland of trees and leafy bowersWhere one may sit and dream the hours away,Or 'mid the devious walks and alleys stray,While perfume rises from a world of flowers,The girdling river, swollen with upland showers,Sends rippling round to every creek and bayThe vagrant branches of his water-way;Then gathering up his current's parted powers,Swiftly-majestic in a broadening bed,He glistens on by many a chiming spire,And past the castle's pennoned turrets red,Till he attain the goal of his desire,And into the salt sea exulting throwsHis subsidy of rains and melted snows.
If I had wealth like VanderbiltOr some such millionaire,I'd live in Scotland, don a kilt,Andpay to provemy forbears spiltTheir blood in forays there.I'd buy a picturesque estateBeside the ocean's flow,With knolls of heather at my gate,And pine-clad hills to dominate,The ferny dells below.I'd be a father to the folkThat laboured on the soil,With old and young I'd crack my joke,Drink with them in their thirst, and smokeThe pipe that lightens toil.For hens I'd have a special run,For ducks a special pool,My calves should frolic in the sun,My sheep should be surpassed by noneWhose backs are clothed with wool.Although I'm not a Walton quite,Betweenwhiles I should tryTo lure the finny tribe to bite(At the right time, in the right light,)My simulated fly.When winter heaped his rattling hailHigh on the window sill,With pipe and wassail, rime and tale,I'd never miss the nightingaleOr cuckoo on the hill.Nay, musing by the ingle-loweWith summer in my brain,I'd cloth with leaves the frozen boughAnd all the ice-bound brooks endowWith tinkling life again.[37]
If I had wealth like VanderbiltOr some such millionaire,I'd live in Scotland, don a kilt,Andpay to provemy forbears spiltTheir blood in forays there.I'd buy a picturesque estateBeside the ocean's flow,With knolls of heather at my gate,And pine-clad hills to dominate,The ferny dells below.I'd be a father to the folkThat laboured on the soil,With old and young I'd crack my joke,Drink with them in their thirst, and smokeThe pipe that lightens toil.For hens I'd have a special run,For ducks a special pool,My calves should frolic in the sun,My sheep should be surpassed by noneWhose backs are clothed with wool.Although I'm not a Walton quite,Betweenwhiles I should tryTo lure the finny tribe to bite(At the right time, in the right light,)My simulated fly.When winter heaped his rattling hailHigh on the window sill,With pipe and wassail, rime and tale,I'd never miss the nightingaleOr cuckoo on the hill.Nay, musing by the ingle-loweWith summer in my brain,I'd cloth with leaves the frozen boughAnd all the ice-bound brooks endowWith tinkling life again.[37]
If I had wealth like VanderbiltOr some such millionaire,I'd live in Scotland, don a kilt,Andpay to provemy forbears spiltTheir blood in forays there.
I'd buy a picturesque estateBeside the ocean's flow,With knolls of heather at my gate,And pine-clad hills to dominate,The ferny dells below.
I'd be a father to the folkThat laboured on the soil,With old and young I'd crack my joke,Drink with them in their thirst, and smokeThe pipe that lightens toil.
For hens I'd have a special run,For ducks a special pool,My calves should frolic in the sun,My sheep should be surpassed by noneWhose backs are clothed with wool.
Although I'm not a Walton quite,Betweenwhiles I should tryTo lure the finny tribe to bite(At the right time, in the right light,)My simulated fly.
When winter heaped his rattling hailHigh on the window sill,With pipe and wassail, rime and tale,I'd never miss the nightingaleOr cuckoo on the hill.
Nay, musing by the ingle-loweWith summer in my brain,I'd cloth with leaves the frozen boughAnd all the ice-bound brooks endowWith tinkling life again.[37]
The afternoon is cool and calm,Near by flashes the mighty sea,Inland rise green, dewy hills,Crowned with eye-bewitching trees.Suddenly the eye is amazed and terrified,A hideous procession sordid and grimyOf men and boys, slaves of the coal-pit,Is seen on the road, shaming the daylight.All the day long they work in the darkness,Far from the songs of the birds and the sunshine,Now they return to their sordid villages,Ill-smelling rows of comfortless cottages.The rich and dainty ladies of fashionStand aloof from these swart coal-hewers,Are ready to swoon as the air is poisonedWith odours of subterranean foulness.Coarse of look, and of speech far coarser!Laughter loud with no merriment in it!No more soul than the beasts that perish!These are the men despised for their toiling.
The afternoon is cool and calm,Near by flashes the mighty sea,Inland rise green, dewy hills,Crowned with eye-bewitching trees.Suddenly the eye is amazed and terrified,A hideous procession sordid and grimyOf men and boys, slaves of the coal-pit,Is seen on the road, shaming the daylight.All the day long they work in the darkness,Far from the songs of the birds and the sunshine,Now they return to their sordid villages,Ill-smelling rows of comfortless cottages.The rich and dainty ladies of fashionStand aloof from these swart coal-hewers,Are ready to swoon as the air is poisonedWith odours of subterranean foulness.Coarse of look, and of speech far coarser!Laughter loud with no merriment in it!No more soul than the beasts that perish!These are the men despised for their toiling.
The afternoon is cool and calm,Near by flashes the mighty sea,Inland rise green, dewy hills,Crowned with eye-bewitching trees.
Suddenly the eye is amazed and terrified,A hideous procession sordid and grimyOf men and boys, slaves of the coal-pit,Is seen on the road, shaming the daylight.
All the day long they work in the darkness,Far from the songs of the birds and the sunshine,Now they return to their sordid villages,Ill-smelling rows of comfortless cottages.
The rich and dainty ladies of fashionStand aloof from these swart coal-hewers,Are ready to swoon as the air is poisonedWith odours of subterranean foulness.
Coarse of look, and of speech far coarser!Laughter loud with no merriment in it!No more soul than the beasts that perish!These are the men despised for their toiling.
Man dreads the tomb, but dreads oblivion more;He fears, when death has loosed the load of years,His name shall cease to sound in mortal ears,And, in the dusty darkness, all be o'er.Some o'er the scrolls of ample science pore,Tome after tome the nimble authors write,And gain a meed of glory: soon the nightComes: the author with his laurel disappears,The painting fades, the marble busts decay,The kingly structures fall in ruin down,Devouring Time consumes the artist's prize,The centuries like lightning pass away,Or hurrying billows: emperor and clownSink with the myriads in impartial clay.
Man dreads the tomb, but dreads oblivion more;He fears, when death has loosed the load of years,His name shall cease to sound in mortal ears,And, in the dusty darkness, all be o'er.Some o'er the scrolls of ample science pore,Tome after tome the nimble authors write,And gain a meed of glory: soon the nightComes: the author with his laurel disappears,The painting fades, the marble busts decay,The kingly structures fall in ruin down,Devouring Time consumes the artist's prize,The centuries like lightning pass away,Or hurrying billows: emperor and clownSink with the myriads in impartial clay.
Man dreads the tomb, but dreads oblivion more;He fears, when death has loosed the load of years,His name shall cease to sound in mortal ears,And, in the dusty darkness, all be o'er.Some o'er the scrolls of ample science pore,Tome after tome the nimble authors write,And gain a meed of glory: soon the nightComes: the author with his laurel disappears,The painting fades, the marble busts decay,The kingly structures fall in ruin down,Devouring Time consumes the artist's prize,The centuries like lightning pass away,Or hurrying billows: emperor and clownSink with the myriads in impartial clay.
Where'er these wandering footsteps lead me to,Peak-dominated glen, hill where the sheepGraze in the sun, mountains that ever keepA solemn guard o'er lakes profound and blue,Or undulating tracts of treeless view;No matter if the rain and whirlwind sweepThe landscape, or the gladdening sunshine peepThrough muffled vapours that the winds undo;Let it be night speckled with myriad fires,Clear dawn, hot noon, or cool of dying day;Be it in cities with their chiming spires,Or country fields with fragrant ricks of hay;Ever the voices of my hearth I hear,And muse on those to me for ever dear.
Where'er these wandering footsteps lead me to,Peak-dominated glen, hill where the sheepGraze in the sun, mountains that ever keepA solemn guard o'er lakes profound and blue,Or undulating tracts of treeless view;No matter if the rain and whirlwind sweepThe landscape, or the gladdening sunshine peepThrough muffled vapours that the winds undo;Let it be night speckled with myriad fires,Clear dawn, hot noon, or cool of dying day;Be it in cities with their chiming spires,Or country fields with fragrant ricks of hay;Ever the voices of my hearth I hear,And muse on those to me for ever dear.
Where'er these wandering footsteps lead me to,Peak-dominated glen, hill where the sheepGraze in the sun, mountains that ever keepA solemn guard o'er lakes profound and blue,Or undulating tracts of treeless view;No matter if the rain and whirlwind sweepThe landscape, or the gladdening sunshine peepThrough muffled vapours that the winds undo;Let it be night speckled with myriad fires,Clear dawn, hot noon, or cool of dying day;Be it in cities with their chiming spires,Or country fields with fragrant ricks of hay;Ever the voices of my hearth I hear,And muse on those to me for ever dear.