Sylph-like, and with a graceful pride,I saw the wild Louisa glideAlong the dance's glittering row,With footsteps soft as falling snow.On all around her smiles she pour'd,And though by all admired, adored,She seem'd to hold the homage light,And careless claim'd it as her right.With syren voice the Lady sung:Love on her tones enraptured hung,While timid awe and fond desireCame blended from her witching lyre.While thus, with unresisted art,The Enchantress melted every heart,Amid the glance, the sigh, the smile,Herself, unmoved and cold the while,With inward pity eyed the scene,Where all were subjects—she a Queen!Again, I saw that Lady fair:Oh! what a beauteous change was there!In a sweet cottage of her ownShe sat, and she was all alone,Save a young child she sung to restOn its soft bed, her fragrant breast.With happy smiles and happy sighs,She kiss'd the infant's closing eyes,Then, o'er him in the cradle laid,Moved her dear lips as if she pray'd.She bless'd him in his father's name:Lo! to her side that father came,And, in a voice subdued and mild,He bless'd the mother and her child!I thought upon the proud saloon,And that Enchantress Queen; but soon,Far-off Art's fading pageant stole,And Nature fill'd my thoughtful soul!
Sylph-like, and with a graceful pride,I saw the wild Louisa glideAlong the dance's glittering row,With footsteps soft as falling snow.On all around her smiles she pour'd,And though by all admired, adored,She seem'd to hold the homage light,And careless claim'd it as her right.With syren voice the Lady sung:Love on her tones enraptured hung,While timid awe and fond desireCame blended from her witching lyre.While thus, with unresisted art,The Enchantress melted every heart,Amid the glance, the sigh, the smile,Herself, unmoved and cold the while,With inward pity eyed the scene,Where all were subjects—she a Queen!
Again, I saw that Lady fair:Oh! what a beauteous change was there!In a sweet cottage of her ownShe sat, and she was all alone,Save a young child she sung to restOn its soft bed, her fragrant breast.With happy smiles and happy sighs,She kiss'd the infant's closing eyes,Then, o'er him in the cradle laid,Moved her dear lips as if she pray'd.She bless'd him in his father's name:Lo! to her side that father came,And, in a voice subdued and mild,He bless'd the mother and her child!I thought upon the proud saloon,And that Enchantress Queen; but soon,Far-off Art's fading pageant stole,And Nature fill'd my thoughtful soul!
There is a lake hid far among the hills,That raves around the throne of solitude,Not fed by gentle streams, or playful rills,But headlong cataract and rushing flood.There, gleam no lovely hues of hanging wood,No spot of sunshine lights her sullen side;For horror shaped the wild in wrathful mood,And o'er the tempest heaved the mountain's pride.If thou art one, in dark presumption blind,Who vainly deem'st no spirit like to thine,That lofty genius deifies thy mind,Fall prostrate here at Nature's stormy shrine,And as the thunderous scene disturbs thy heart,Lift thy changed eye, and own how low thou art.
There is a lake hid far among the hills,That raves around the throne of solitude,Not fed by gentle streams, or playful rills,But headlong cataract and rushing flood.There, gleam no lovely hues of hanging wood,No spot of sunshine lights her sullen side;For horror shaped the wild in wrathful mood,And o'er the tempest heaved the mountain's pride.If thou art one, in dark presumption blind,Who vainly deem'st no spirit like to thine,That lofty genius deifies thy mind,Fall prostrate here at Nature's stormy shrine,And as the thunderous scene disturbs thy heart,Lift thy changed eye, and own how low thou art.
Is this the Lake, the cradle of the storms,Where silence never tames the mountain-roar,Where poets fear their self-created forms,Or, sunk in trance severe, their God adore?Is this the Lake, for ever dark and loudWith wave and tempest, cataract and cloud?Wondrous, O Nature! is thy sovereign power,That gives to horror hours of peaceful mirth:For here might beauty build her summer-bower!Lo! where you rainbow spans the smiling earth,And, clothed in glory, through a silent showerThe mighty Sun comes forth, a godlike birth;While, 'neath his loving eye, the gentle LakeLies like a sleeping child too blest to wake!
Is this the Lake, the cradle of the storms,Where silence never tames the mountain-roar,Where poets fear their self-created forms,Or, sunk in trance severe, their God adore?Is this the Lake, for ever dark and loudWith wave and tempest, cataract and cloud?Wondrous, O Nature! is thy sovereign power,That gives to horror hours of peaceful mirth:For here might beauty build her summer-bower!Lo! where you rainbow spans the smiling earth,And, clothed in glory, through a silent showerThe mighty Sun comes forth, a godlike birth;While, 'neath his loving eye, the gentle LakeLies like a sleeping child too blest to wake!
Go up among the mountains, when the stormOf midnight howls, but go in that wild mood,When the soul loves tumultuous solitude,And through the haunted air, each giant formOf swinging pine, black rock, or ghostly cloud,That veils some fearful cataract tumbling loud,Seems to thy breathless heart with life embued.'Mid those gaunt, shapeless things thou art alone!The mind exists, thinks, trembles through the ear,The memory of the human world is gone,And time and space seem living onlyhere.Oh! worship thou the visions then made known,While sable glooms round Nature's temple roll,And her dread anthem peals into thy soul.
Go up among the mountains, when the stormOf midnight howls, but go in that wild mood,When the soul loves tumultuous solitude,And through the haunted air, each giant formOf swinging pine, black rock, or ghostly cloud,That veils some fearful cataract tumbling loud,Seems to thy breathless heart with life embued.'Mid those gaunt, shapeless things thou art alone!The mind exists, thinks, trembles through the ear,The memory of the human world is gone,And time and space seem living onlyhere.Oh! worship thou the visions then made known,While sable glooms round Nature's temple roll,And her dread anthem peals into thy soul.
List! while I tell what forms the mountain's voice!—The storms are up; and from you sable cloudDown rush the rains; while 'mid the thunder loudThe viewless eagles in wild screams rejoice.The echoes answer to the unearthly noiseOf hurling rocks, that, plunged into the Lake,Send up a sullen groan: from clefts and caves,As of half-murder'd wretch, hark! yells awake,Or red-eyed phrensy as in chains he raves.These form the mountain's voice; these, heard at night,Distant from human being's known abode,To earth some spirits bow in cold affright,But some they lift to glory and to God.
List! while I tell what forms the mountain's voice!—The storms are up; and from you sable cloudDown rush the rains; while 'mid the thunder loudThe viewless eagles in wild screams rejoice.The echoes answer to the unearthly noiseOf hurling rocks, that, plunged into the Lake,Send up a sullen groan: from clefts and caves,As of half-murder'd wretch, hark! yells awake,Or red-eyed phrensy as in chains he raves.These form the mountain's voice; these, heard at night,Distant from human being's known abode,To earth some spirits bow in cold affright,But some they lift to glory and to God.
A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun,A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow:Long had I watched the glory moving onO'er the still radiance of the Lake below.Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow!Even in its very motion, there was rest:While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West.Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given;And by the breath of mercy made to rollRight onwards to the golden gates of Heaven,Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies,And tells to man his glorious destinies.
A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun,A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow:Long had I watched the glory moving onO'er the still radiance of the Lake below.Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow!Even in its very motion, there was rest:While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West.Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given;And by the breath of mercy made to rollRight onwards to the golden gates of Heaven,Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies,And tells to man his glorious destinies.
When by God's inward light, a happy child,I walk'd in joy, as in the open air,It seem'd to my young thought the Sabbath smiledWith glory and with love. So still, so fair,The Heavens look'd ever on that hallow'd morn,That, without aid of memory, something thereHad surely told me of its glad return.How did my little heart at evening burn,When, fondly seated on my father's knee,Taught by the lip of love, I breathed the prayer,Warm from the fount of infant piety!Much is my spirit changed; for years have broughtIntenser feeling and expanded thought;—Yet, must I envy every child I see!
When by God's inward light, a happy child,I walk'd in joy, as in the open air,It seem'd to my young thought the Sabbath smiledWith glory and with love. So still, so fair,The Heavens look'd ever on that hallow'd morn,That, without aid of memory, something thereHad surely told me of its glad return.How did my little heart at evening burn,When, fondly seated on my father's knee,Taught by the lip of love, I breathed the prayer,Warm from the fount of infant piety!Much is my spirit changed; for years have broughtIntenser feeling and expanded thought;—Yet, must I envy every child I see!
It was a dreadful day, when late I pass'dO'er thy dim vastness,Skiddaw!—Mist and cloudEach subject Fell obscured, and rushing blastTo thee made darling music, wild and loud,Thou Mountain-Monarch! Rain in torrents play'd,As when at sea a wave is borne to Heaven,A watery spire, then on the crew dismay'dOf reeling ship with downward wrath is driven.I could have thought that every living formHad fled, or perished in that savage storm,So desolate the day. To me were givenPeace, calmness, joy: then, to myself I said,Can grief, time, chance, or elements controulMan's charter'd pride, the Liberty of Soul?
It was a dreadful day, when late I pass'dO'er thy dim vastness,Skiddaw!—Mist and cloudEach subject Fell obscured, and rushing blastTo thee made darling music, wild and loud,Thou Mountain-Monarch! Rain in torrents play'd,As when at sea a wave is borne to Heaven,A watery spire, then on the crew dismay'dOf reeling ship with downward wrath is driven.I could have thought that every living formHad fled, or perished in that savage storm,So desolate the day. To me were givenPeace, calmness, joy: then, to myself I said,Can grief, time, chance, or elements controulMan's charter'd pride, the Liberty of Soul?
I wander'd lonely, like a pilgrim sad,O'er mountains known but to the eagle's gaze;Yet, my hush'd heart, with Nature's beauty glad,Slept in the shade, or gloried in the blaze.Romantic vales stole winding to my eyeIn gradual loveliness, like rising dreams;Fair, nameless tarns, that seem to blend with skyRocks of wild majesty, and elfin streams.How strange, methought, I should have lived so near,Nor ever worshipp'd Nature's altar here!Strange! say not so—hid from the world and thee,Though in the midst of life their spirits move,Thousands enjoy in holy libertyThe silent Eden of unenvied Love!
I wander'd lonely, like a pilgrim sad,O'er mountains known but to the eagle's gaze;Yet, my hush'd heart, with Nature's beauty glad,Slept in the shade, or gloried in the blaze.Romantic vales stole winding to my eyeIn gradual loveliness, like rising dreams;Fair, nameless tarns, that seem to blend with skyRocks of wild majesty, and elfin streams.How strange, methought, I should have lived so near,Nor ever worshipp'd Nature's altar here!Strange! say not so—hid from the world and thee,Though in the midst of life their spirits move,Thousands enjoy in holy libertyThe silent Eden of unenvied Love!
A golden cloud came floating o'er my head,With kindred glories round the sun to blend!Though fair the scene, my dreams were of the dead;—Since dawn of morning I had lost a friend.I felt as if my sorrow ne'er could end:A cold, pale phantom on a breathless bed,The beauty of the crimson west subdued,And sighs that seem'd my very life to rend,The silent happiness of eve renew'd.Grief, fear, regret, a self-tormenting broodDwelt on my spirit, like a ceaseless noise;But, oh! what tranquil holiness ensued,When, from that cloud, exclaimed a well-known voice,—God sent me here, to bid my friend rejoice!
A golden cloud came floating o'er my head,With kindred glories round the sun to blend!Though fair the scene, my dreams were of the dead;—Since dawn of morning I had lost a friend.I felt as if my sorrow ne'er could end:A cold, pale phantom on a breathless bed,The beauty of the crimson west subdued,And sighs that seem'd my very life to rend,The silent happiness of eve renew'd.Grief, fear, regret, a self-tormenting broodDwelt on my spirit, like a ceaseless noise;But, oh! what tranquil holiness ensued,When, from that cloud, exclaimed a well-known voice,—God sent me here, to bid my friend rejoice!
Two Editions of this little Poem have been already published; and its reception among those whom the author most wished to please, has induced him to include it in this volume.
With tearless eyes and undisturbed heart,O Bard! of sinless life and holiest song,I muse upon thy death-bed and thy grave;Though round that grave the trodden grass still liesBesmeared with clay; for many feet were there,Fast-rooted to the spot, when slowly sankThy coffin,Grahame! into the quiet cell.Yet, well I loved thee, even as one might loveAn elder brother, imaged in the soulWith solemn features, half-creating awe,But smiling still with gentleness and peace.Tears have I shed when thy most mournful voiceDid tremblingly breathe forth that touching air,By Scottish shepherd haply framed of old,Amid the silence of his pastoral hills,Weeping the flowers on Flodden-field that died.Wept, too, have I, when thou didst simply readFrom thine own lays so simply beautifulSome short pathetic tale of human grief,Or orison or hymn of deeper love,That might have won the sceptic's sullen heartTo gradual adoration, and beliefOf Him who died for us upon the cross.Yea! oft when thou wert well, and in the calmOf thy most Christian spirit blessing allWho look'd upon thee, with those gentlest smilesThat never lay on human face but thine;Even when thy serious eyes were lighted upWith kindling mirth, and from thy lips distill'dWords soft as dew, and cheerful as the dawn,Then, too, I could have wept, for on thy face,Eye, voice, and smile, nor less thy bending frame,By other cause impair'd than length of years,Lay something that still turn'd the thoughtful heartTo melancholy dreams, dreams of decay,Of death and burial, and the silent tomb.And of the tomb thou art an inmate now!Methinks I see thy name upon the stonePlaced at thy head, and yet my cheeks are dry.Tears could I give thee, when thou wert alive,The mournful tears of deep foreboding loveThat might not be restrain'd; but now they seemMost idle all! thy worldly course is o'er,And leaves such sweet remembrance in my soulAs some delightful music heard in youth,Sad, but not painful, even more spirit-likeThan when it murmur'd through the shades of earth.Short time wert thou allow'd to guide thy flockThrough the green pastures, where in quiet glidesThe Siloah of the soul! Scarce was thy voiceFamiliar to their hearts, who felt that heavenDid therein speak, when suddenly it fellMute, and for ever! Empty now and stillThe holy house which thou didst meekly grace,When with uplifted hand, and eye devout,Thy soul was breathed to Jesus, or explainedThe words that lead unto eternal life.From infancy thy heart was vow'd to God:And aye the hope that one day thou might'st keepA little fold, from all the storms of sinSafe-shelter'd, and by reason of thy prayersWarm'd by the sunshine of approving Heaven,Upheld thy spirit, destined for a whileTo walk far other paths, and with the crowdOf worldly men to mingle. Yet even then,Thy life was ever such as well becameOne whose pure soul was fixed upon the cross!And when with simple fervent eloquence,Grahamepled the poor man's cause, the listner oftThought how becoming would his visage smileAcross the house of God, how beauteouslyThat man would teach the saving words of Heaven!How well he taught them, many a one will feelUnto their dying day; and when they lieOn the grave's brink, unfearing and composed,Their speechless souls will bless the holy manWhose voice exhorted, and whose footsteps ledUnto the paths of life; nor sweeter hope,Next to the gracious look of Christ, have theyThan to behold his face who saved their souls.But closed on earth thy blessed ministry!And while thy native Scotland mourns her sonUntimely reft from her maternal breast,Weeps the fair sister-land, with whom ere whileThe stranger sojourn'd, stranger but in birth,For well she loved thee, as thou wert her own.On a most clear and noiseless Sabbath-nightI heard that thou wert gone, from the soft voiceOf one who knew thee not, but deeply lovedThy spirit meekly shining in thy song.At such an hour the death of one like theeGave no rude shock, nor by a sudden griefDestroy'd the visions from the starry skyThen settling in my soul. The moonlight sleptWith a diviner sadness on the air;The tender dimness of the night appearedDarkening to deeper sorrow, and the voiceOf the far torrent from the silent hillsFlow'd, as I listen'd, like a funeral strainBreath'd by some mourning solitary thing.Yet Nature in her pensiveness still woreA blissful smile, as if she sympathizedWith those who grieved that her own Bard was dead,And yet was happy that his spirit dweltAt last within her holiest sanctuary,'Mid long expecting angels.And if e'erFaith, fearless faith, in the eternal blissOf a departed brother, may be heldBy beings blind as we, that faith should dryAll eyes that weep forGrahame; or through their tearsShew where he sits august and beautifulOn the right hand of Jesus, 'mid the saintsWhose glory he on earth so sweetly sang.No fears have we when some delightful childFalls from its innocence into the grave!Soon as we know its little breath is gone,We see it lying in its Saviour's breast,A heavenly flower there fed with heavenly dew.Childlike in all that makes a child so dearTo God and man, and ever consecratesIts cradle and its grave, myGrahame, wert thou!And had'st thou died upon thy mother's breastEre thou could'st lisp her name, more fit for heavenThou scarce had'st been, than when thy honour'd headWas laid into the dust, and Scotland weptO'er hill and valley for her darling Bard.How beautiful is genius when combinedWith holiness! Oh, how divinely sweetThe tones of earthly harp, whose chords are touch'dBy the soft hand of Piety, and hungUpon Religion's shrine, there vibratingWith solemn music in the ear of God.And must the Bard from sacred themes refrain?Sweet were the hymns in patriarchal days,That, kneeling in the silence of his tent,Or on some moonlight hill, the shepherd pour'dUnto his heavenly Father. Strains surviveErst chaunted to the lyre of Israel,More touching far than ever poet breathedAmid the Grecian isles, or later timesHave heard in Albion, land of every lay.Why therefore are ye silent, ye who knowThe trance of adoration, and beholdUpon your bended knees the throne of Heaven,And him who sits thereon? Believe it not,That Poetry, in purer days the nurse,Yea! parent oft of blissful piety,Should silent keep from service of her God,Nor with her summons, loud but silver-toned,Startle the guilty dreamer from his sleep,Bidding him gaze with rapture or with dreadOn regions where the sky for ever liesBright as the sun himself, and trembling allWith ravishing music, or where darkness broodsO'er ghastly shapes, and sounds not to be borne.Such glory,Grahame! is thine: Thou didst despiseTo win the ear of this degenerate ageBy gorgeous epithets, all idly heap'dOn theme of earthly state, or, idler still,By tinkling measures and unchasten'd lays,Warbled to pleasure and her syren-train,Profaning the best name of poesy.With loftier aspirations, and an aimMore worthy man's immortal nature, ThouThat holiest spirit that still loves to dwellIn the upright heart and pure, at noon of nightDidst fervently invoke, and, led by herAbove the Aonian mount, send from the starsOf heaven such soul-subduing melodyAs Bethlehem-shepherds heard when Christ was born.It is the Sabbath-day: Creation sleepsCradled within the arms of heavenly love!The mystic day, when from the vanquish'd graveThe world's Redeemer rose, and hail'd the lightOf God's forgiving smile. Obscured and paleWere then the plumes of prostrate seraphim,Then hush'd the universe her sphere-born strain,When from his throne, Paternal DeityDeclared the Saviour not in vain had shedHis martyr'd glory round the accursed cross,That fallen man might sit in Paradise,And earth to heaven ascend in jubilee.O blessed day, by God and man beloved!With more surpassing glory breaks thy dawnUpon my soul, remembering the sweet hymnsThat he, whom nations evermore shall nameThe Sabbath-Bard, in gratulation highBreathed forth to thee, as from the golden urnThat holds the incense of immortal song.That Poem, so divinely melancholyThroughout its reigning spirit, yet withalBathing in hues of winning gentlenessThe pure religion that alone can save,Full many a wanderer to the paths of peaceEre now hath made return, and he who framedIts hallow'd numbers, in the realms of blissHath met and known the smiles of seraph-souls,By his delightful genius saved from death.Oft when the soul is lost in thoughtless guilt,And seeming deaf unto the still small voiceOf conscience and of God, some simple phraseOf beauty or sublimity will breakThe spell that link'd us to the bands of sin,And all at once, as waking from a dream,We shudder at the past, and bless the lightThat breaks upon us like the new-born day.Even so it fares with them, who to this worldHave yielded up their spirits, and, impureIn thought and act, have lived without a senseOf God, who counts the beatings of their hearts.But men there are of a sublimer mould,Who dedicate with no unworthy zealTo human Science, up the toilsome steepWhere she in darkness dwells, with pilgrim-feetBy night and day unwearied strive to climb,Pride their conductor, glory their reward.Too oft, alas! even in the search of truthThey pass her on the way, although she speakWith loving voice, and cast on them her eyesSo beautifully innocent and pure.To such, OGrahame! thy voice cries from the tomb!Thy worth they loved, thy talents they admired,And when they think how peaceful was thy life,Thy death far more than peaceful, though thou sought'st,Above all other knowledge, that of GodAnd his redeeming Son; when o'er the pageWhere thy mild soul for ever sits enshrined,They hang with soften'd hearts, faith may descendUpon them as they muse, or hope that leadsThe way to faith, even as the morning-starShines brightly, heralding approaching day.But happier visions still now bless my soul.While lonely wandering o'er the hills and dalesOf my dear native country, with such loveAs they may guess, who, from their father's homeSojourning long and far, fall down and kissThe grass and flowers of Scotland, in I go,Not doubting a warm welcome from the eyesOf woman, man, and child, into a cotUpon a green hill-side, and almost touch'dBy its own nameless stream that bathes the rootsOf the old ash tree swinging o'er the roof.Most pleasant,Grahame! unto thine eye and heartSuch humble home! there often hast thou sat'Mid the glad family listening to thy voiceSo silently, the ear might then have caughtWithout the rustle of the falling leaf.And who so sweetly ever sang as thou,The joys and sorrows of the poor man's life.Not fancifully drawn, that one might weep,Or smile, he knew not why, but with the huesOf truth all brightly glistening, to the heartCheering, as earth's soft verdure to the eye,Yet still and mournful as the evening light.More powerful in the sanctity of death,There reigns thy spirit over those it loved!Some chosen books by pious men composed,Kept from the dust, in every cottage lieThrough the wild loneliness of Scotia's vales,Beside the Bible, by whose well-known truthsAll human thoughts are by the peasant tried.O blessed privilege of Nature's Bard!To cheer the house of virtuous poverty,With gleams of light more beautiful than oftPlay o'er the splendours of the palace wall.Methinks I see a fair and lovely childSitting composed upon his mother's knee,And reading with a low and lisping voiceSome passage from the Sabbath, while the tearsStand in his little eyes so softly blue,Till, quite o'ercome with pity, his white armsHe twines around her neck, and hides his sighsMost infantine, within her gladden'd breast,Like a sweet lamb, half sportive, half afraid,Nestling one moment 'neath its bleating dam.And now the happy mother kisses oftThe tender-hearted child, lays down the book,And asks him if he doth remember stillThe stranger who once gave him, long ago,A parting kiss, and blest his laughing eyes!His sobs speak fond remembrance, and he weepsTo think so kind and good a man should die.Though dead on earth, yet he from heaven looks downOn thee, sweet child! and others pure like thee!Made happier, though an angel, by the sightOf happiness, and virtue by himselfCreated or preserved; and oft his soulLeaves for a while her amaranthine bowers,And dimly hears the choral symphoniesOf spirits singing round the Saviour's throne,Delighted with a glimpse of Scotland's valesWinding round hills where once his pious hymnsWere meditated in his silent heart,Or with those human beings here beloved,Whether they smile, as virtue ever smiles,With sunny countenance gentle and benign.Or a slight shade of sadness seems to say,That they are thinking of the sainted soulThat looks from heaven on them!—A holy creedIt is, and most delightful unto allWho feel how deeply human sympathiesBlend with our hopes of heaven, which holds that deathDivideth not, as by a roaring sea,Departed spirits from this lower sphere.How could the virtuous even in heaven be blest,Unless they saw the lovers and the friends,Whom soon they hope to greet! A placid lakeBetween Time floateth and Eternity,Across whose sleeping waters murmur oftThe voices of the immortal, hither broughtSoft as the thought of music in the soul.Deep, deep the love we bear unto the dead!The adoring reverence that we humbly payTo one who is a spirit, still partakesOf that affectionate tenderness we own'dTowards a being, once, perhaps, as frailAnd human as ourselves, and in the shapeCelestial, and angelic lineaments,Shines a fair likeness of the form and faceThat won in former days our earthly love.OGrahame! even I in midnight dreams beholdThy placid aspect, more serenely fairThan the sweet moon that calms the autumnal heaven.Thy voice steals, 'mid the pauses of the wind,Unto my listening soul more touchinglyThan the pathetic tones of airy harpThat sound at evening like a spirit's song.Yet, many are there dearer to thy shade,Yea, dearer far than I; and when their tearsThey dry at last (and wisdom bids them weep,If long and oft, O sure not bitterly)Then wilt thou stand before their raptured eyesAs beautiful as kneeling saint e'er deem'dIn his bright cell Messiah's vision'd form.I may not think upon her blissful dreamsWho bears thy name on earth, and in it feelsA Christian glory and a pious pride,That must illume the widow's lonely pathWith never dying sunshine.—To her soulSoft sound the strains now flowing fast from mine!And in those tranquil hours when she withdrawsFrom loftier consolations, may the tears,(For tears will fall, most idle though they be,)Now shed by me to her but little known,Yield comfort to her, as a certain pledgeThat many a one, though silent and unseen,Thinks of her and the children at her knees,Blest for the father's and the husband's sake.
With tearless eyes and undisturbed heart,O Bard! of sinless life and holiest song,I muse upon thy death-bed and thy grave;Though round that grave the trodden grass still liesBesmeared with clay; for many feet were there,Fast-rooted to the spot, when slowly sankThy coffin,Grahame! into the quiet cell.Yet, well I loved thee, even as one might loveAn elder brother, imaged in the soulWith solemn features, half-creating awe,But smiling still with gentleness and peace.Tears have I shed when thy most mournful voiceDid tremblingly breathe forth that touching air,By Scottish shepherd haply framed of old,Amid the silence of his pastoral hills,Weeping the flowers on Flodden-field that died.Wept, too, have I, when thou didst simply readFrom thine own lays so simply beautifulSome short pathetic tale of human grief,Or orison or hymn of deeper love,That might have won the sceptic's sullen heartTo gradual adoration, and beliefOf Him who died for us upon the cross.Yea! oft when thou wert well, and in the calmOf thy most Christian spirit blessing allWho look'd upon thee, with those gentlest smilesThat never lay on human face but thine;Even when thy serious eyes were lighted upWith kindling mirth, and from thy lips distill'dWords soft as dew, and cheerful as the dawn,Then, too, I could have wept, for on thy face,Eye, voice, and smile, nor less thy bending frame,By other cause impair'd than length of years,Lay something that still turn'd the thoughtful heartTo melancholy dreams, dreams of decay,Of death and burial, and the silent tomb.
And of the tomb thou art an inmate now!Methinks I see thy name upon the stonePlaced at thy head, and yet my cheeks are dry.Tears could I give thee, when thou wert alive,The mournful tears of deep foreboding loveThat might not be restrain'd; but now they seemMost idle all! thy worldly course is o'er,And leaves such sweet remembrance in my soulAs some delightful music heard in youth,Sad, but not painful, even more spirit-likeThan when it murmur'd through the shades of earth.
Short time wert thou allow'd to guide thy flockThrough the green pastures, where in quiet glidesThe Siloah of the soul! Scarce was thy voiceFamiliar to their hearts, who felt that heavenDid therein speak, when suddenly it fellMute, and for ever! Empty now and stillThe holy house which thou didst meekly grace,When with uplifted hand, and eye devout,Thy soul was breathed to Jesus, or explainedThe words that lead unto eternal life.From infancy thy heart was vow'd to God:And aye the hope that one day thou might'st keepA little fold, from all the storms of sinSafe-shelter'd, and by reason of thy prayersWarm'd by the sunshine of approving Heaven,Upheld thy spirit, destined for a whileTo walk far other paths, and with the crowdOf worldly men to mingle. Yet even then,Thy life was ever such as well becameOne whose pure soul was fixed upon the cross!And when with simple fervent eloquence,Grahamepled the poor man's cause, the listner oftThought how becoming would his visage smileAcross the house of God, how beauteouslyThat man would teach the saving words of Heaven!
How well he taught them, many a one will feelUnto their dying day; and when they lieOn the grave's brink, unfearing and composed,Their speechless souls will bless the holy manWhose voice exhorted, and whose footsteps ledUnto the paths of life; nor sweeter hope,Next to the gracious look of Christ, have theyThan to behold his face who saved their souls.
But closed on earth thy blessed ministry!And while thy native Scotland mourns her sonUntimely reft from her maternal breast,Weeps the fair sister-land, with whom ere whileThe stranger sojourn'd, stranger but in birth,For well she loved thee, as thou wert her own.
On a most clear and noiseless Sabbath-nightI heard that thou wert gone, from the soft voiceOf one who knew thee not, but deeply lovedThy spirit meekly shining in thy song.At such an hour the death of one like theeGave no rude shock, nor by a sudden griefDestroy'd the visions from the starry skyThen settling in my soul. The moonlight sleptWith a diviner sadness on the air;The tender dimness of the night appearedDarkening to deeper sorrow, and the voiceOf the far torrent from the silent hillsFlow'd, as I listen'd, like a funeral strainBreath'd by some mourning solitary thing.Yet Nature in her pensiveness still woreA blissful smile, as if she sympathizedWith those who grieved that her own Bard was dead,And yet was happy that his spirit dweltAt last within her holiest sanctuary,'Mid long expecting angels.
And if e'erFaith, fearless faith, in the eternal blissOf a departed brother, may be heldBy beings blind as we, that faith should dryAll eyes that weep forGrahame; or through their tearsShew where he sits august and beautifulOn the right hand of Jesus, 'mid the saintsWhose glory he on earth so sweetly sang.No fears have we when some delightful childFalls from its innocence into the grave!Soon as we know its little breath is gone,We see it lying in its Saviour's breast,A heavenly flower there fed with heavenly dew.Childlike in all that makes a child so dearTo God and man, and ever consecratesIts cradle and its grave, myGrahame, wert thou!And had'st thou died upon thy mother's breastEre thou could'st lisp her name, more fit for heavenThou scarce had'st been, than when thy honour'd headWas laid into the dust, and Scotland weptO'er hill and valley for her darling Bard.
How beautiful is genius when combinedWith holiness! Oh, how divinely sweetThe tones of earthly harp, whose chords are touch'dBy the soft hand of Piety, and hungUpon Religion's shrine, there vibratingWith solemn music in the ear of God.And must the Bard from sacred themes refrain?Sweet were the hymns in patriarchal days,That, kneeling in the silence of his tent,Or on some moonlight hill, the shepherd pour'dUnto his heavenly Father. Strains surviveErst chaunted to the lyre of Israel,More touching far than ever poet breathedAmid the Grecian isles, or later timesHave heard in Albion, land of every lay.Why therefore are ye silent, ye who knowThe trance of adoration, and beholdUpon your bended knees the throne of Heaven,And him who sits thereon? Believe it not,That Poetry, in purer days the nurse,Yea! parent oft of blissful piety,Should silent keep from service of her God,Nor with her summons, loud but silver-toned,Startle the guilty dreamer from his sleep,Bidding him gaze with rapture or with dreadOn regions where the sky for ever liesBright as the sun himself, and trembling allWith ravishing music, or where darkness broodsO'er ghastly shapes, and sounds not to be borne.
Such glory,Grahame! is thine: Thou didst despiseTo win the ear of this degenerate ageBy gorgeous epithets, all idly heap'dOn theme of earthly state, or, idler still,By tinkling measures and unchasten'd lays,Warbled to pleasure and her syren-train,Profaning the best name of poesy.With loftier aspirations, and an aimMore worthy man's immortal nature, ThouThat holiest spirit that still loves to dwellIn the upright heart and pure, at noon of nightDidst fervently invoke, and, led by herAbove the Aonian mount, send from the starsOf heaven such soul-subduing melodyAs Bethlehem-shepherds heard when Christ was born.
It is the Sabbath-day: Creation sleepsCradled within the arms of heavenly love!The mystic day, when from the vanquish'd graveThe world's Redeemer rose, and hail'd the lightOf God's forgiving smile. Obscured and paleWere then the plumes of prostrate seraphim,Then hush'd the universe her sphere-born strain,When from his throne, Paternal DeityDeclared the Saviour not in vain had shedHis martyr'd glory round the accursed cross,That fallen man might sit in Paradise,And earth to heaven ascend in jubilee.O blessed day, by God and man beloved!With more surpassing glory breaks thy dawnUpon my soul, remembering the sweet hymnsThat he, whom nations evermore shall nameThe Sabbath-Bard, in gratulation highBreathed forth to thee, as from the golden urnThat holds the incense of immortal song.
That Poem, so divinely melancholyThroughout its reigning spirit, yet withalBathing in hues of winning gentlenessThe pure religion that alone can save,Full many a wanderer to the paths of peaceEre now hath made return, and he who framedIts hallow'd numbers, in the realms of blissHath met and known the smiles of seraph-souls,By his delightful genius saved from death.Oft when the soul is lost in thoughtless guilt,And seeming deaf unto the still small voiceOf conscience and of God, some simple phraseOf beauty or sublimity will breakThe spell that link'd us to the bands of sin,And all at once, as waking from a dream,We shudder at the past, and bless the lightThat breaks upon us like the new-born day.Even so it fares with them, who to this worldHave yielded up their spirits, and, impureIn thought and act, have lived without a senseOf God, who counts the beatings of their hearts.But men there are of a sublimer mould,Who dedicate with no unworthy zealTo human Science, up the toilsome steepWhere she in darkness dwells, with pilgrim-feetBy night and day unwearied strive to climb,Pride their conductor, glory their reward.Too oft, alas! even in the search of truthThey pass her on the way, although she speakWith loving voice, and cast on them her eyesSo beautifully innocent and pure.To such, OGrahame! thy voice cries from the tomb!Thy worth they loved, thy talents they admired,And when they think how peaceful was thy life,Thy death far more than peaceful, though thou sought'st,Above all other knowledge, that of GodAnd his redeeming Son; when o'er the pageWhere thy mild soul for ever sits enshrined,They hang with soften'd hearts, faith may descendUpon them as they muse, or hope that leadsThe way to faith, even as the morning-starShines brightly, heralding approaching day.
But happier visions still now bless my soul.While lonely wandering o'er the hills and dalesOf my dear native country, with such loveAs they may guess, who, from their father's homeSojourning long and far, fall down and kissThe grass and flowers of Scotland, in I go,Not doubting a warm welcome from the eyesOf woman, man, and child, into a cotUpon a green hill-side, and almost touch'dBy its own nameless stream that bathes the rootsOf the old ash tree swinging o'er the roof.Most pleasant,Grahame! unto thine eye and heartSuch humble home! there often hast thou sat'Mid the glad family listening to thy voiceSo silently, the ear might then have caughtWithout the rustle of the falling leaf.And who so sweetly ever sang as thou,The joys and sorrows of the poor man's life.Not fancifully drawn, that one might weep,Or smile, he knew not why, but with the huesOf truth all brightly glistening, to the heartCheering, as earth's soft verdure to the eye,Yet still and mournful as the evening light.More powerful in the sanctity of death,There reigns thy spirit over those it loved!Some chosen books by pious men composed,Kept from the dust, in every cottage lieThrough the wild loneliness of Scotia's vales,Beside the Bible, by whose well-known truthsAll human thoughts are by the peasant tried.O blessed privilege of Nature's Bard!To cheer the house of virtuous poverty,With gleams of light more beautiful than oftPlay o'er the splendours of the palace wall.Methinks I see a fair and lovely childSitting composed upon his mother's knee,And reading with a low and lisping voiceSome passage from the Sabbath, while the tearsStand in his little eyes so softly blue,Till, quite o'ercome with pity, his white armsHe twines around her neck, and hides his sighsMost infantine, within her gladden'd breast,Like a sweet lamb, half sportive, half afraid,Nestling one moment 'neath its bleating dam.And now the happy mother kisses oftThe tender-hearted child, lays down the book,And asks him if he doth remember stillThe stranger who once gave him, long ago,A parting kiss, and blest his laughing eyes!His sobs speak fond remembrance, and he weepsTo think so kind and good a man should die.
Though dead on earth, yet he from heaven looks downOn thee, sweet child! and others pure like thee!Made happier, though an angel, by the sightOf happiness, and virtue by himselfCreated or preserved; and oft his soulLeaves for a while her amaranthine bowers,And dimly hears the choral symphoniesOf spirits singing round the Saviour's throne,Delighted with a glimpse of Scotland's valesWinding round hills where once his pious hymnsWere meditated in his silent heart,Or with those human beings here beloved,Whether they smile, as virtue ever smiles,With sunny countenance gentle and benign.Or a slight shade of sadness seems to say,That they are thinking of the sainted soulThat looks from heaven on them!—
A holy creedIt is, and most delightful unto allWho feel how deeply human sympathiesBlend with our hopes of heaven, which holds that deathDivideth not, as by a roaring sea,Departed spirits from this lower sphere.How could the virtuous even in heaven be blest,Unless they saw the lovers and the friends,Whom soon they hope to greet! A placid lakeBetween Time floateth and Eternity,Across whose sleeping waters murmur oftThe voices of the immortal, hither broughtSoft as the thought of music in the soul.Deep, deep the love we bear unto the dead!The adoring reverence that we humbly payTo one who is a spirit, still partakesOf that affectionate tenderness we own'dTowards a being, once, perhaps, as frailAnd human as ourselves, and in the shapeCelestial, and angelic lineaments,Shines a fair likeness of the form and faceThat won in former days our earthly love.
OGrahame! even I in midnight dreams beholdThy placid aspect, more serenely fairThan the sweet moon that calms the autumnal heaven.Thy voice steals, 'mid the pauses of the wind,Unto my listening soul more touchinglyThan the pathetic tones of airy harpThat sound at evening like a spirit's song.Yet, many are there dearer to thy shade,Yea, dearer far than I; and when their tearsThey dry at last (and wisdom bids them weep,If long and oft, O sure not bitterly)Then wilt thou stand before their raptured eyesAs beautiful as kneeling saint e'er deem'dIn his bright cell Messiah's vision'd form.I may not think upon her blissful dreamsWho bears thy name on earth, and in it feelsA Christian glory and a pious pride,That must illume the widow's lonely pathWith never dying sunshine.—To her soulSoft sound the strains now flowing fast from mine!And in those tranquil hours when she withdrawsFrom loftier consolations, may the tears,(For tears will fall, most idle though they be,)Now shed by me to her but little known,Yield comfort to her, as a certain pledgeThat many a one, though silent and unseen,Thinks of her and the children at her knees,Blest for the father's and the husband's sake.
Edinburgh:
Printed by James Ballantyne and Co.