Friday,September23d.—Before breakfast, walked with Mr. Scott along a high road for about two miles, up a bare hill. Hawick is a small town. From the top of the hill we had an extensive view over the moors of Liddisdale, and saw the Cheviot Hills. We wished we could have gone with Mr. Scott into some of the remote dales of this country, where in almost every house he can find a home and a hearty welcome. But after breakfast we were obliged to part with him, which we did with great regret: he would gladly have gone with us to Langholm, eighteen miles further. Our way was through the vale of Teviot, near the banks of the river.
Passed Branxholm Hall, one of the mansions belonging to the Duke of Buccleuch, which we looked at with particular interest for the sake of the Lay of the Last Minstrel. Only a very small part of the original building remains: it is a large strong house, old, but not ancient in its appearance—stands very near the river-side; the banks covered with plantations.
A little further on, met the Edinburgh coach with several passengers, the only stage-coach that had passed us in Scotland. Coleridge had come home by thatconveyance only a few days before. The quantity of arable land gradually diminishes, and the plantations become fewer, till at last the river flows open to the sun, mostly through unfenced and untilled grounds, a soft pastoral district, both the hills and the valley being scattered over with sheep: here and there was a single farm-house, or cluster of houses, and near them a portion of land covered with ripe corn.
Near the head of the vale of Teviot, where that stream is but a small rivulet, we descended towards another valley, by another small rivulet. Hereabouts Mr. Scott had directed us to look about for some old stumps of trees, said to be the place where Johnny Armstrong was hanged; but we could not find them out. The valley into which we were descending, though, for aught I know, it is unnamed in song, was to us more interesting than the Teviot itself. Not a spot of tilled ground was there to break in upon its pastoral simplicity; the same soft yellow green spread from the bed of the streamlet to the hill-tops on each side, and sheep were feeding everywhere. It was more close and simple than the upper end of the vale of Teviot, the valley being much narrower, and the hills equally high and not broken into parts, but on each side a long range. The grass, as we had first seen near Crawfordjohn, had been mown in the different places of the open ground, where it might chance to be best; but there was no part of the surface that looked perfectly barren, as in those tracts.
We saw a single stone house a long way before us, which we conjectured to be, as it proved, Moss Paul, the inn where we were to bait. The scene, with this single dwelling, was melancholy and wild, but not dreary, though there was no tree nor shrub; the small streamlet glittered, the hills were populous with sheep; but the gentlebending of the valley, and the correspondent softness in the forms of the hills, were of themselves enough to delight the eye. At Moss Paul we fed our horse;—several travellers were drinking whisky. We neither ate nor drank, for we had, with our usual foresight and frugality in travelling, saved the cheese-cakes and sandwiches which had been given us by our countrywoman at Jedburgh the day before. After Moss Paul, we ascended considerably, then went down other reaches of the valley, much less interesting, stony and barren. The country afterwards not peculiar, I should think, for I scarcely remember it.
Arrived at Langholm at about five o’clock. The town, as we approached, from a hill, looked very pretty, the houses being roofed with blue slates, and standing close to the river Esk, here a large river, that scattered its waters wide over a stony channel. The inn neat and comfortable—exceedingly clean: I could hardly believe we were still in Scotland.
After tea walked out; crossed a bridge, and saw, at a little distance up the valley, Langholm House, a villa of the Duke of Buccleuch: it stands upon a level between the river and a steep hill, which is planted with wood. Walked a considerable way up the river, but could not go close to it on account of the Duke’s plantations, which are locked up. When they ended, the vale became less cultivated; the view through the vale towards the hills very pleasing, though bare and cold.
Saturday,September24th.—Rose very early and travelled about nine miles to Longtown, before breakfast, along the banks of the Esk. About half a mile from Langholm crossed a bridge. At this part of the vale, which is narrow,the steeps are covered with old oaks and every variety of trees. Our road for some time through the wood, then came to a more open country, exceedingly rich and populous; the banks of the river frequently rocky, and hung with wood; many gentlemen’s houses. There was the same rich variety while the river continued to flow through Scottish grounds; but not long after we had passed through the last turnpike gate in Scotland and the first in England—but a few yards asunder—the vale widens, and its aspect was cold, and even dreary, though Sir James Graham’s plantations are very extensive. His house, a large building, stands in this open part of the vale. Longtown was before us, and ere long we saw the well-remembered guide-post, where the circuit of our six weeks’ travels had begun, and now was ended.
We did not look along the white line of the road to Solway Moss without some melancholy emotion, though we had the fair prospect of the Cumberland mountains full in view, with the certainty, barring accidents, of reaching our own dear home the next day. Breakfasted at the Graham’s Arms. The weather had been very fine from the time of our arrival at Jedburgh, and this was a very pleasant day. The sun ‘shone fair on Carlisle walls’ when we first saw them from the top of the opposite hill. Stopped to look at the place on the sand near the bridge where Hatfield had been executed. Put up at the same inn as before, and were recognised by the woman who had waited on us. Everybody spoke of Hatfield as an injured man. After dinner went to a village six miles further, where we slept.
Sunday,September25th, 1803.—A beautiful autumnalday. Breakfasted at a public-house by the road-side; dined at Threlkeld; arrived at home between eight and nine o’clock, where we found Mary in perfect health, Joanna Hutchinson with her, and little John asleep in the clothes-basket by the fire.
COMPOSED BETWEEN DALSTON AND GRASMERE,SEPTEMBER 25th, 1803.
Fly, some kind spirit, fly to Grasmere Vale!Say that we come, and come by this day’s lightGlad tidings!—spread them over field and height,But, chiefly, let one Cottage hear the tale!There let a mystery of joy prevail,The kitten frolic with unruly might,And Rover whine as at a second sightOf near-approaching good, that will not fail:And from that Infant’s face let joy appear;Yea, let our Mary’s one companion child,That hath her six weeks’ solitude beguiledWith intimations manifold and dear,While we have wander’d over wood and wild—Smile on its Mother now with bolder cheer!
‘And think and fear.’—Page11.
The entire Poem as given in the works of the Poet stands thus:—
‘The Poet’s grave is in a corner of the churchyard. We looked at it with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses—“Is there a man whose judgment clear,” etc.’Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Traveller.
‘The Poet’s grave is in a corner of the churchyard. We looked at it with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses—
“Is there a man whose judgment clear,” etc.’
Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Traveller.
’Mid crowded obelisks and urnsI sought the untimely grave of Burns;Sons of the Bard, my heart still mournsWith sorrow true;And more would grieve, but that it turnsTrembling to you!
Through twilight shades of good and illYe now are panting up life’s hill,And more than common strength and skillMust ye display;If ye would give the better willIts lawful sway.
Hath Nature strung your nerves to bearIntemperance with less harm, beware!But if the Poet’s wit ye share,Like him can speedThe social hour—of tenfold careThere will be need;
For honest men delight will takeTo spare your failings for his sake,Will flatter you,—and fool and rakeYour steps pursue;And of your Father’s name will makeA snare for you.
Far from their noisy haunts retire,And add your voices to the quireThat sanctify the cottage fireWith service meet;There seek the genius of your Sire,His spirit greet;
Or where, ’mid ‘lonely heights and hows,’He paid to Nature tuneful vows;Or wiped his honourable browsBedewed with toil,While reapers strove, or busy ploughsUpturned the soil;
His judgment with benignant rayShall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;But ne’er to a seductive layLet faith be given;Nor deem that ‘light which leads astray,Is light from Heaven.’
Let no mean hope your souls enslave;Be independent, generous, brave;Your Father such example gave,And such revere;But be admonished by his grave,And think, and fear!
Two other Poems on the same subject may fitly be inserted in this place, though, as appears from the Poet’s notes, one of them at least belongs to a later date.
I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold,At thoughts of what I now behold:As vapours breathed from dungeons coldStrike pleasure dead,So sadness comes from out the mouldWhere 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 fearAlike are vain.
Off weight—nor press on weight!—awayDark thoughts!—they came, but not to stay;With chastened feelings would I payThe tribute dueTo him, and aught that hides his clayFrom mortal view.
Fresh as the flower, whose modest worthHe sang, his genius ‘glinted’ forth,Rose like a star that touching earth,For so it seems,Doth glorify its humble birthWith 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 lowAnd silent grave.
I mourned with thousands, but as oneMore deeply grieved, for He was goneWhose light I hailed when first it shone,And showed my youthHow Verse may build a princely throneOn humble truth.
Alas! where’er the current tends,Regret pursues and with it blends,—Huge Criffel’s hoary top ascendsBy Skiddaw seen,Neighbours we were, and loving friendsWe 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 joinedMore closely still.
The tear will start, and let it flow;Thou ‘poor Inhabitant below,’At this dread moment—even so—Might we togetherHave sate and talked where gowans blow,Or on wild heather.
What treasures would have then been placedWithin my reach; of knowledge gracedBy fancy what a rich repast!But why go on?—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 deniedSome sad delight.
Forheis safe, a quiet bedHath early found among the dead,Harboured where none can be misled,Wronged, or distrest;And surely here it may be saidThat such are blest.
And oh for Thee, by pitying graceChecked oft-times in a devious race.May He who halloweth the placeWhere Man is laid,Receive thy Spirit in the embraceFor which it prayed!
Sighing I turned away; but ereNight fell I heard, or seemed to hear,Music that sorrow comes not near,A ritual hymn,Chanted in love that casts out fearBy Seraphim.
From the notes appended to the latest editions of Wordsworth’s works, it appears that the preceding poem, ‘thoughfeltat the time, was not composed till many years afterwards.’
Too frail to keep the lofty vowThat must have followed when his browWas wreathed—‘The Vision’ tells us how—With holly spray,He faultered, drifted to and fro,And passed away.
Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throngOur minds when, lingering all too long,Over the grave of Burns we hungIn social grief—Indulged as if it were a wrongTo seek relief.
But, leaving each unquiet themeWhere gentlest judgments may misdeem,And prompt to welcome every gleamOf good and fair,Let us beside this limpid StreamBreathe hopeful air.
Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight;Think rather of those moments brightWhen to the consciousness of rightHis 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 commandOf each sweet Lay.
How oft inspired must he have trodThese pathways, 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 rulesShe trained her Burns to win applauseThat shames the Schools.
Through busiest street and loneliest glenAre felt the flashes of his pen;He rules ’mid winter snows, and whenBees fill their hives;Deep in the general heart of menHis power survives.
What need of fields in some far climeWhere Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime,And all that fetched the flowing rhymeFrom genuine springs,Shall dwell together till old TimeFolds up his wings?
Sweet Mercy! to the gates of HeavenThis Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven;The rueful conflict, the heart rivenWith vain endeavour,And memory of Earth’s bitter leaven,Effaced for ever.
But why to Him confine the prayer,When kindred thoughts and yearnings bearOn the frail heart the purest shareWith all that live?—The best of what we do and are,Just God, forgive!
‘The Waterfall,Cora Linn.’—Page36.
The following poem belongs to the series entitledMemorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1814. It is in a later, not better, manner than those of 1803. Prefixed to it in the later editions of the Poet’s works are these words: ‘I had seen this celebrated waterfall twice before. But the feelings to which it had given birth were not expressed till they recurred in presence of the object on this occasion.’
‘—How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the nameOf Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,All over his dear Country; left the deedsOf Wallace, like a family of ghosts,To people the steep rocks and river banks,Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soulOf independence and stern liberty.’—MS.
‘—How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the nameOf Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,All over his dear Country; left the deedsOf Wallace, like a family of ghosts,To people the steep rocks and river banks,Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soulOf independence and stern liberty.’—MS.
Lord of the vale! astounding Flood;The dullest leaf in this thick woodQuakes—conscious of thy power;The caves reply with hollow moan;And vibrates to its central stone,Yon time-cemented Tower!
And yet how fair the rural scene!For thou, O Clyde, hast ever beenBeneficent as strong;Pleased in refreshing dews to steepThe little trembling flowers that peepThy shelving rocks among.
Hence all who love their country, loveTo look on thee—delight to roveWhere they thy voice can hear;And, to the patriot-warrior’s Shade,Lord of the vale! to Heroes laidIn dust, that voice is dear!
Along thy banks, at dead of night,Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight;Or stands, in warlike vest,Aloft, beneath the moon’s pale beam,A Champion worthy of the stream,Yon grey tower’s living crest!
But clouds and envious darkness hideA Form not doubtfully descried:—Their transient mission o’er,O say to what blind region fleeThese Shapes of awful phantasy?To what untrodden shore?
Less than divine command they spurn;But this we from the mountains learn,And this the valleys show;That never will they deign to holdCommunion where the heart is coldTo human weal and woe.
The man of abject soul in vainShall walk the Marathonian plain;Or thrill the shadowy gloom,That still invests the guardian Pass,Where stood, sublime, LeonidasDevoted to the tomb.
Nor deem that it can aught availFor such to glide with oar or sailBeneath the piny wood,Where Tell once drew, by Uri’s lake,His vengeful shafts—prepared to slakeTheir thirst in Tyrants’ blood.
‘Poured out these verses.’—Page139.
Child of loud-throated War! the mountain StreamRoars in thy hearing; but thy hour of restIs come, and thou art silent in thy age;Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caughtAmbiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs.Oh! there is life that breathes not; Powers there areThat touch each other to the quick in modesWhich the gross world no sense hath to perceive,No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from careCast off—abandoned by thy rugged Sire,Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in placeAnd in dimension, such that thou might’st seemBut a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord,Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hillsMight crush, nor know that it had suffered harm;)Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claimsTo reverence, suspends his own; submittingAll that the God of Nature hath conferred,All that he holds in common with the stars,To the memorial majesty of TimeImpersonated in thy calm decay!Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved!Now, while a farewell gleam of evening lightIs fondly lingering on thy shattered front,Do thou, in turn, be paramount; and ruleOver the pomp and beauty of a sceneWhose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, uniteTo pay thee homage; and with these are joined,In willing admiration and respect,Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be calledYouthful as Spring.—Shade of departed Power,Skeleton of unfleshed humanity,The chronicle were welcome that should callInto the compass of distinct regardThe toils and struggles of thy infant years!Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile,To the perception of this Age, appearThy fierce beginnings, softened and subduedAnd quieted in character—the strife,The pride, the fury uncontrollable,Lost on the aërial heights of the Crusades!
‘The first three lines were thrown off at the moment I first caught sight of the ruin from a small eminence by the wayside; the rest was added many years after.’—Wordsworth’s Life.
‘Loch Leven.’—Page165.
‘The story was told me by George Mackreth, for many years parish-clerk of Grasmere. He had been an eye-witness of the occurrence. The vessel in reality was a washing-tub, which the little fellow had met with on the shore of the loch.’
Now we are tired of boisterous joy,Have romped enough, my little Boy!Jane hangs her head upon my breast,And you shall bring your stool and restThis corner is your own.
There! take your seat, and let me seeThat you can listen quietly:And, as I promised, I will tellThat strange adventure which befelA poor blind Highland Boy.
AHighlandBoy!—why call him so?Because, my Darlings, ye must knowThat, under hills which rise like towers,Far higher hills than these of ours!He from his birth had lived.
He ne’er had seen one earthly sight,The sun, the day; the stars, the night;Or tree, or butterfly, or flower,Or fish in stream, or bird in bower,Or woman, man, or child.
And yet he neither drooped nor pined,Nor had a melancholy mind;For God took pity on the Boy,And was his friend; and gave him joyOf which we nothing know.
His Mother, too, no doubt, aboveHer other children him did love:For, was she here, or was she there,She thought of him with constant care,And more than mother’s love.
And proud she was of heart, when cladIn crimson stockings, tartan plaid,And bonnet with a feather gay,To Kirk he on the sabbath dayWent hand in hand with her.
A dog too, had he; not for need,But one to play with and to feed;Which would have led him, if bereftOf company or friends, and leftWithout a better guide.
And then the bagpipes he could blow—And thus from house to house would go;And all were pleased to hear and see,For none made sweeter melodyThan did the poor blind Boy.
Yet he had many a restless dream;Both when he heard the eagles scream,And when he heard the torrents roar,And heard the water beat the shoreNear which their cottage stood.
Beside a lake their cottage stood,Not small like ours, a peaceful flood;But one of mighty size, and strange;That, rough or smooth, is full of change,And stirring in its bed.
For to this lake, by night and day,The great Sea-water finds its wayThrough long, long windings of the hillsAnd drinks up all the pretty rillsAnd rivers large and strong:
Then hurries back the road it came—Returns, on errand still the same;This did it when the earth was new;And this for evermore will do,As long as earth shall last.
And, with the coming of the tide,Come boats and ships that safely rideBetween the woods and lofty rocks;And to the shepherds with their flocksBring tales of distant lands.
And of those tales, whate’er they were,The blind Boy always had his share;Whether of mighty towns, or valesWith warmer suns and softer gales,Or wonders of the Deep.
Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred,When from the water-side he heardThe shouting, and the jolly cheers;The bustle of the marinersIn stillness or in storm.
But what do his desires avail?For He must never handle sail;Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor floatIn sailor’s ship, or fisher’s boat,Upon the rocking waves.
His Mother often thought, and said,What sin would be upon her headIf she should suffer this: ‘My Son,Whate’er you do, leave this undone;The danger is so great.’
Thus lived he by Loch-Leven’s sideStill sounding with the sounding tide,And heard the billows leap and dance,Without a shadow of mischance,Till he was ten years old.
When one day (and now mark me well,Ye soon shall know how this befel)He in a vessel of his own,On the swift flood is hurrying down,Down to the mighty Sea.
In such a vessel never moreMay human creature leave the shore!If this or that way he should stir,Woe to the poor blind Mariner!For death will be his doom.
But say what bears him?—Ye have seenThe Indian’s bow, his arrows keen,Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright;Gifts which, for wonder or delight,Are brought in ships from far.
Such gifts had those seafaring menSpread round that haven in the glen;Each hut, perchance, might have its own,And to the Boy they all were known—He knew and prized them all.
The rarest was a Turtle-shellWhich he, poor Child, had studied well;A shell of ample size, and lightAs the pearly car of Amphitrite,That sportive dolphins drew.
And, as a Coracle that bravesOn Vaga’s breast the fretful waves,This shell upon the deep would swim,And gaily lift its fearless brimAbove the tossing surge.
And this the little blind Boy knew:And he a story strange yet trueHad heard, how in a shell like thisAn English Boy, O thought of bliss!Had stoutly launched from shore;
Launched from the margin of a bayAmong the Indian isles, where layHis father’s ship, and had sailed far—To join that gallant ship of war,In his delightful shell.
Our Highland Boy oft visitedThe house that held this prize; and, ledBy choice or chance, did thither comeOne day when no one was at home,And found the door unbarred.
While there he sate, alone and blind,That story flashed upon his mind;—A bold thought roused him, and he tookThe shell from out its secret nook,And bore it on his head.
He launched his vessel,—and in prideOf spirit, from Loch-Leven’s side,Stepped into it—his thoughts all freeAs the light breezes that with gleeSang through the adventurer’s hair.
A while he stood upon his feet;He felt the motion—took his seat;Still better pleased as more and moreThe tide retreated from the shore,And sucked, and sucked him in.
And there he is in face of Heaven.How rapidly the Child is driven!The fourth part of a mile, I ween,He thus had gone, ere he was seenBy any human eye.
But when he was first seen, oh me,What shrieking and what misery!For many saw; among the restHis Mother, she who loved him best,She saw her poor blind Boy.
But for the child, the sightless Boy,It is the triumph of his joy!The bravest traveller in balloon,Mounting as if to reach the moon,Was never half so blessed.
And let him, let him go his way,Alone, and innocent, and gay!For, if good Angels love to waitOn the forlorn unfortunate,This Child will take no harm.
But now the passionate lament,Which from the crowd on shore was sent,The cries which broke from old and youngIn Gaelic, or the English tongue,Are stifled—all is still.
And quickly with a silent crew,A boat is ready to pursue;And from the shore their course they take,And swiftly down the running lakeThey follow the blind Boy.
But soon they move with softer pace;So have ye seen the fowler chaseOn Grasmere’s clear unruffled breastA youngling of the wild-duck’s nestWith deftly-lifted oar;
Or as the wily sailors creptTo seize (while on the Deep it slept)The hapless creature which did dwellErewhile within the dancing shell,They steal upon their prey.
With sound the least that can be made,They follow, more and more afraid,More cautious as they draw more near;But in his darkness he can hear,And guesses their intent.
‘Lei-gha—Lei-gha’—he then cried out,‘Lei-gha—Lei-gha’—with eager shout;Thus did he cry, and thus did pray,And what he meant was, ‘Keep away,And leave me to myself!’
Alas! and when he felt their hands—You’ve often heard of magic wands,That with a motion overthrowA palace of the proudest show,Or melt it into air:
So all his dreams—that inward lightWith which his soul had shone so bright—All vanished;—’twas a heart-felt crossTo him, a heavy, bitter loss,As he had ever known.
But hark! a gratulating voice,With which the very hills rejoice:’Tis from the crowd, who tremblinglyHave watched the event, and now can seeThat he is safe at last.
And then, when he was brought to land,Full sure they were a happy band,Which, gathering round, did on the banksOf that great Water give God thanks,And welcomed the poor Child.
And in the general joy of heartThe blind Boy’s little dog took part;He leapt about, and oft did kissHis master’s hands in sign of bliss,With sound like lamentation.
But most of all, his Mother dear,She who had fainted with her fear,Rejoiced when waking she espiesThe Child; when she can trust her eyes,And touches the blind Boy.
She led him home, and wept amain,When he was in the house again:Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes;She kissed him—how could she chastise?She was too happy far.
Thus, after he had fondly bravedThe perilous Deep, the Boy was saved;And, though his fancies had been wild,Yet he was pleased and reconciledTo live in peace on shore.
And in the lonely Highland dellStill do they keep the Turtle-shell;And long the story will repeatOf the blind Boy’s adventurous feat,And how he was preserved.
‘Mirrors upon the ceiling and against the walls.’—Page210.
What He—who, mid the kindred throngOf Heroes that inspired his song,Doth yet frequent the hill of storms,The stars dim-twinkling through their forms!What! Ossian here—a painted Thrall,Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall;To serve—an unsuspected screenFor show that must not yet be seen;And, when the moment comes, to partAnd vanish by mysterious art;Head, harp, and body, split asunder,For ingress to a world of wonder;A gay saloon, with waters dancingUpon the sight wherever glancing;One loud cascade in front, and lo!A thousand like it, white as snow—Streams on the walls, and torrent-foamAs active round the hollow dome,Illusive cataracts! of their terrorsNot stripped, nor voiceless in the mirrors,That catch the pageant from the floodThundering adown a rocky wood.What pains to dazzle and confound!What strife of colour, shape, and soundIn this quaint medley, that might seemDevised out of a sick man’s dream!Strange scene, fantastic and uneasyAs ever made a maniac dizzy,When disenchanted from the moodThat loves on sullen thoughts to brood!
O Nature—in thy changeful visions,Through all thy most abrupt transitions,Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime—Ever averse to pantomime,Thee neither do they know nor usThy servants, who can trifle thus;Else verily the sober powersOf rock that frowns, and stream that roars,Exalted by congenial swayOf Spirits, and the undying Lay,And Names that moulder not away,Had wakened some redeeming thoughtMore worthy of this favoured Spot;Recalled some feeling—to set freeThe Bard from such indignity!
The Effigies of a valiant WightI once beheld, a Templar Knight;[295]Not prostrate, not like those that restOn tombs, with palms together prest,But sculptured out of living stone,And standing upright and alone,Both hands with rival energyEmployed in setting his sword freeFrom its dull sheath—stern sentinelIntent to guard St. Robert’s cell;As if with memory of the affrayFar distant, when, as legends say,The Monks of Fountain’s thronged to forceFrom its dear home the Hermit’s corse,That in their keeping it might lie,To crown their abbey’s sanctity.So had they rushed into the grotOf sense despised, a world forgot,And torn him from his loved retreat,Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seatStill hint that quiet best is found,Even by theLiving, under ground;But a bold Knight, the selfish aimDefeating, put the Monks to shame,There where you see his Image standBare to the sky, with threatening brandWhich lingeringNidis proud to showReflected in the pool below.
Thus, like the men of earliest days,Our sires set forth their grateful praise:Uncouth the workmanship, and rude!But, nursed in mountain solitude,Might some aspiring artist dareTo seize whate’er, through misty air,A ghost, by glimpses, may presentOf imitable lineament,And give the phantom an arrayThat less should scorn the abandoned clay;Then let him hew with patient strokeAn Ossian out of mural rock,And leave the figurative Man—Upon thy margin, roaring Bran!—Fixed like the Templar of the steep,An everlasting watch to keep;With local sanctities in trust,More precious than a hermit’s dust;And virtues through the mass infused,Which old idolatry abused.
What though the Granite would denyAll fervour to the sightless eye;And touch from rising suns in vainSolicit a Memnonian strain;Yet, in some fit of anger sharp,The wind might force the deep-grooved harpTo utter melancholy moansNot unconnected with the tonesOf soul-sick flesh and weary bones;While grove and river notes would lend,Less deeply sad, with these to blend!
Vain pleasures of luxurious life,For ever with yourselves at strife;Through town and country both derangedBy affectations interchanged,And all the perishable gaudsThat heaven-deserted man applauds;When will your hapless patrons learnTo watch and ponder—to discernThe freshness, the everlasting youth,Of admiration sprung from truth;From beauty infinitely growingUpon a mind with love o’erflowing—To sound the depths of every ArtThat seeks its wisdom through the heart?
Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-gracedWith baubles of theatric taste,O’erlooks the torrent breathing showersOn motley bands of alien flowersIn stiff confusion set or sown,Till Nature cannot find her own,Or keep a remnant of the sodWhich Caledonian Heroes trod)I mused; and, thirsting for redress,Recoiled into the wilderness.
‘Three or four times the size of Bowder Stone.’—Page225.
From theTour in Scotland, 1814:—‘The account of the Brownie’s Cell and the Ruins was given me by a man we met with on the banks of Loch Lomond, a little above Tarbet, and in front of a huge mass of rock, by the side of which we were told preachings were often held in the open air. The place is quite a solitude, and the surrounding scenery quite striking.’
suggested by a beautiful ruin upon one of the islands of loch lomond,a place chosen for the retreat of a solitary individual,from whom this habitation acquired the name of
To barren heath, bleak moor, and quaking fen,Or depth of labyrinthine glen;Or into trackless forest setWith trees, whose lofty umbrage met;World-wearied Men withdrew of yore;(Penance their trust, and prayer their store;)And in the wilderness were boundTo such apartments as they found;Or with a new ambition raised;That God might suitably be praised.
High lodged the Warrior, like a bird of prey;Or where broad waters round him lay:But this wild Ruin is no ghostOf his devices—buried, lost!Within this little lonely isleThere stood a consecrated Pile;Where tapers burned, and mass was sung,For them whose timid Spirits clungTo mortal succour, though the tombHad fixed, for ever fixed, their doom!
Upon those servants of another world,When madding Power her bolts had hurled,Their habitation shook;—it fell,And perished, save one narrow cell;Whither at length, a Wretch retiredWho neither grovelled nor aspired:He, struggling in the net of pride,The future scorned, the past defied;Still tempering, from the unguilty forgeOf vain conceit, an iron scourge!
Proud Remnant was he of a fearless Race,Who stood and flourished face to faceWith their perennial hills;—but Crime,Hastening the stern decrees of Time,Brought low a Power, which from its homeBurst, when repose grew wearisome;And, taking impulse from the sword,And, mocking its own plighted word,Had found, in ravage widely dealt,Its warfare’s bourn, its travel’s belt!
All, all were dispossessed, save him whose smileShot lightning through this lonely Isle!No right had he but what he madeTo this small spot, his leafy shade;But the ground lay within that ringTo which he only dared to cling;Renouncing here, as worse than dead,The craven few who bowed the headBeneath the change; who heard a claimHow loud! yet lived in peace with shame.
From year to year this shaggy Mortal went(So seemed it) down a strange descent:Till they, who saw his outward frame,Fixed on him an unhallowed name;Him, free from all malicious taint,And guiding, like the Patmos Saint,A pen unwearied—to indite,In his lone Isle, the dreams of night;Impassioned dreams, that strove to spanThe faded glories of his Clan!
Suns that through blood their western harbour sought,And stars that in their courses fought;Towers rent, winds combating with woods,Lands deluged by unbridled floods;And beast and bird that from the spellOf sleep took import terrible;—These types mysterious (if the showOf battle and the routed foeHad failed) would furnish an arrayOf matter for the dawning day!
How disappeared He?—ask the newt and toad,Inheritors of his abode;The otter crouching undisturbed,In her dark cleft;—but be thou curbed,O froward Fancy! ’mid a sceneOf aspect winning and serene;For those offensive creatures shunThe inquisition of the sun!And in this region flowers delight,And all is lovely to the sight.
Spring finds not here a melancholy breast,When she applies her annual testTo dead and living; when her breathQuickens, as now, the withered heath;—Nor flaunting Summer—when he throwsHis soul into the briar-rose;Or calls the lily from her sleepProlonged beneath the bordering deep;Nor Autumn, when the viewless wrenIs warbling near theBrownie’sDen.
Wild Relique! beauteous as the chosen spotIn Nysa’s isle, the embellished grot;Whither, by care of Libyan Jove,(High Servant of paternal Love)Young Bacchus was conveyed—to lieSafe from his step-dame Rhea’s eye;Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed,Close-crowding round the infant god;All colours,—and the liveliest streakA foil to his celestial cheek!
‘The bonny Holms of Yarrow.’—Page254.
In theTour in Scotland, 1814, the Poet writes:—‘I seldom read or think of this Poem without regretting that my dear sister was not of the party, as she would have had so much delight in recalling the time when travelling together in Scotland we declined going in search of this celebrated stream.’
And is this—Yarrow?—Thisthe StreamOf which my fancy cherished,So faithfully, a waking dream?An image that hath perished!O that some Minstrel’s harp were near,To utter notes of gladness,And chase this silence from the air,That fills my heart with sadness!
Yet why?—a silvery current flowsWith uncontrolled meanderings;Nor have these eyes by greener hillsBeen soothed, in all my wanderings.And, through her depths, St. Mary’s LakeIs visibly delighted;For not a feature of those hillsIs in the mirror slighted.
A blue sky bends o’er Yarrow vale,Save where that pearly whitenessIs round the rising sun diffusedA tender hazy brightness;Mild dawn of promise! that excludesAll profitless dejection;Though not unwilling here to admitA pensive recollection.
Where was it that the famous FlowerOf Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?His bed perchance was yon smooth moundOn which the herd is feeding:And haply from this crystal pool,Now peaceful as the morning,The Water-wraith ascended thrice—And gave his doleful warning.
Delicious is the Lay that singsThe haunts of happy Lovers,The path that leads them to the grove,The leafy grove that covers:And Pity sanctifies the VerseThat paints, by strength of sorrow,The unconquerable strength of love;Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
But thou, that didst appear so fairTo fond imagination,Dost rival in the light of dayHer delicate creation:Meek loveliness is round thee spread,A softness still and holy;The grace of forest charms decayed,And pastoral melancholy.
That region left, the vale unfoldsRich groves of lofty stature,With Yarrow winding through the pompOf cultivated nature;And, rising from those lofty groves,Behold a Ruin hoary!The shattered front of Newark’s Towers,Renowned in Border story.
Fair scenes for childhood’s opening bloom,For sportive youth to stray in;For manhood to enjoy his strength;And age to wear away in!Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,A covert for protectionOf tender thoughts, that nestle there—The brood of chaste affection.
How sweet, on this autumnal day,The wild-wood fruits to gather,And on my True-love’s forehead plantA crest of blooming heather!And what if I enwreathed my own!’Twere no offence to reason;The sober Hills thus deck their browsTo meet the wintry season.
I see—but not by sight alone,Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;A ray of fancy still survives—Her sunshine plays upon thee!Thy ever-youthful waters keepA course of lively pleasure;And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,Accordant to the measure.
The vapours linger round the Heights,They melt, and soon must vanish;One hour is theirs, nor more is mine—Sad thoughts, which I would banish,But that I know, where’er I go,Thy genuine image, Yarrow!Will dwell with me—to heighten joy,And cheer my mind in sorrow.
It may interest many to read Wordsworth’s own comment on the two following poems. ‘On Tuesday morning,’ he says, ‘Sir Walter Scott accompanied us and most of the party to Newark Castle, on the Yarrow. When we alighted from the carriages he walked pretty stoutly, and had great pleasure in revisiting there his favourite haunts. Of that excursion the verses “Yarrow Revisited” are a memorial. Notwithstanding the romance that pervades Sir Walter’s works, and attaches to many of his habits, there is too much pressure of fact for these verses to harmonize, as much as I could wish, with the two preceding poems. On our return in the afternoon, we had to cross the Tweed, directly opposite Abbotsford. The wheels of our carriage grated upon the pebbles in the bed of the stream, that there flows somewhat rapidly. A rich but sad light, of rather a purple than a golden hue, was spread over the Eildon Hills at that moment; and thinking it probable that it might be the last time Sir Walter would cross the stream, I was not a little moved, and expressed some of my feelings in the sonnet beginning
“A trouble not of clouds,” etc.
At noon on Thursday we left Abbotsford, and on the morning of that day Sir Walter and I had a serious conversation,tête-à-tête, when he spoke with gratitude of the happy life which, upon the whole, he had led.