Poems

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BY

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The Wraith

Seemed so familiar! and how far away The village, hidden by the winding gorge, When peal and bolt were in the homeward path! But near at hand a covert lay, well known: Two rocks, together leaning, made a cave, Where oft, by storm surprised, the sportsman sat, Or herdsmen harboured thro' a day of rain. Thither the maidens sped, and nestled down A fluttering covey, while the tempest broke; The lightning from its rolling darkness slid, The thunders leapt from its continuous roar; A roar of struggling winds and clouds above,— Of rushing rains upon the further peaks,— Of waters maddened at their secret source,— And of what other powers unknown to man, Nature in these her inmost haunts may work When the hour of strength is on her. But awhile And the great tumult dwindled: weak and few The flashes fell, the tempest lifted up

His skirts from off the shoulders of the hills, And muttering hied him westward—rain he left, And tattered clouds, but bore his terrors far. And now the tongues were loosed again, and made A swift and merry music thro' the cave. Light thoughts flew downward to the valley-home, And led up many a theme for careless talk Of work and play, of little joys and cares, Of coming christ'nings, marriages, or wakes. At last blithe Agnes spake, the frankest she, And, though the eldest, gayest of the group. "Come, we are here, four maidens and fast friends, With none at hand to catch our secrets up Except the straggling sheep or lonely crow; So let us each to each confess the name We hold the dearest and would make our own." There was a silence; Agnes urged again: Then little Barbara lifted up her face— A blushing face, as child-like as 't was sweet, And whispered, "Nay then, Agnes, 'tis for thee

To speak the first." And Agnes laughed anew, And full on Barbara fixed her merry eyes. "And whose then should I choose? need ye to ask? Search all the village through, whom will ye find To match young Duncan, bonnie Duncan Roy? Whom should I choose but Duncan?" Barbara's word Shot like a swallow's wing athwart her speech— "He does not love thee."—"Does he not, in sooth? And wherefore no? How was it that I wore Those dappled pinks last week? and who was that But yester-evening hanging on our gate?" "O, Agnes, this is cruel!" Barbara cried, With tears in eye and voice, "you that can tell So many wooers! there's not one, I know, But would be blithe to win you if he might, And now you steal my only one, my own, He that has sworn he loves me. Go your ways, Can you not go your ways, and leave me him?" Then Agnes laughed more gaily than before,

But Lois, whose grey eyes were calm and clear As the early summer morning, and her voice As mellow as a church-bell touched by chance, Turned round the pleading face to meet her own. "Nay, sister mine," she said, "and would you keep A heart that cannot hold its faith except Another choose to let it be? Nay fie! This Duncan woeswoos? whoever lists to hear: Me once he told, if I were only kind, There 's not a face in all the valley round That he would care to look on." Barbara's eyes Grew large with wonder, Agnes still laughed on: "Well, be it so, he is a town-bred youth, And we must judge him tenderly; he learnt These fashions ere he came among our hills." But Lois said, "Nor town, nor country, breed, Perforce, a cold heart and a double tongue; This man has both; I saw it in his eyes When first I met them."

Barbara hung her head, Shamefaced and daunted like a chidden child, But careless Agnes bent her bow again, This time at Marian aiming her light shafts. Now Marian was the fairest of them all, A wealth of beauty with her years had grown, So that the passing stranger, whensoe'er He met the dark, sweet eyes, and perfect face, Looked back, and wished her valley was his home. Leaning against the rocky wall she sat, Her plaid about her drawn, and Agnes stopped Her ready jest midway, for all the three Were suddenly aware how Marian's face Against the dusky stone looked wild and white, And ringed with purple, ghastly broad her eyes. They looked in silence, pitying and amazed; But ere the troubled sense could frame a word, A flash of lightning, like a springing snake, Shot thro' the cave, and drank its twilight up,

The sunshine glinting on the burnished heads, While round the naked feet, from many a pool, And many a swelling tuft of coloured moss, The glittering spray flew up. Yet low of cheer, These figures, clad with outward brightness, moved. Agnes and Barbara first. In under tones They spoke together, with compunctious hearts, And fearing, what, they knew not. "How we talked! How foolishly, how idly," whispered one: "Alas, what ails poor Marian! didst thou know She loved him, Agnes? how much more than we!" And Agnes said, "O do not talk of love, We never loved him! what I said but now Was all a jest, or, if you will, a lie, A wicked lie; I never loved but one, My own true sailor Alick, and the rest Was only sport to while the weary time.

Pray Heaven that I be wiser from to-day!" More slowly came the second pair. Her arm Round Marian's waist had silent Lois wound, And the firm hand that clasped her side could feel. The wild, unequal fluttering heart within.

Between the village and the mountain-path A turf-grown ledge, smooth as a garden-lawn, Lay, governed by one solitary Pine, And, whether o'er the eastward heights he peered, Or slanted through the golden westward vale, Its solemn purple frowned against the sun, And threw a wedge of shadow o'er the grass; And whether north or south the wandering wind Came through the gorge, among its muffling boughs They stopped imprisoned, leaving all below In breathless calm, and filling, night and day, Those gloomy labyrinths with unquiet sound.

Through years untold, yet vigorous to his core, This sentry of the mountain-path had stood, Honoured of all the dwellers in the vale, And seen by many a sailor in his dreams, And many a pale mechanic, when in sleep He trod again his childhood's pastoral haunts. How strange the sight then, as the maidens turned The pathway's sudden curve, which. met their eyes! For, parted at his crest, the giant now Trailed earthwards on each side his sky-nurst plumes, The splinters in the sun stared ghastly bright, And downwards coiling from that cloven top The death-stripe coursed the stem. It coursed the stem, And where it should have sheathed in senseless earth Its sated blade, a figure lay—a face

Turned blankly to the sky;—the shadow this, Or this the substance, of that form and face That fleeted by the mountain-cave erewhile? Oh, Marian knows! and with a shriek that sends A thousand frantic echoes down the gorge, Falls senseless at its side. Adown the vale With sobs and cries the maidens fly aghast, Save Lois; by the guilty dead she sits, And props with tender care against her knee The wretched mourner, lifting up meantime Through the dark boughs her limpid eyes to Heaven, Between whose brightness and their trustful look No cloud has ever come; so Lois stays, And seems an angel lighted down beneath Those dreadful shades for pitying ministry, Fearless, because so pure. But voices now Come up the path, now crowds are gathering round, Silenced with awe. They lift her helpless charge,

And to its age-long heritage thenceforth, Of haunting horror, the lone spot is left.

But Lois leaves not Marian's side throughout That woeful night; while all the neighbours slept, She with the aged mother watched her bed; They only knew the misery to its depth, As life ebbed out, and carried with itself Into the pitying silence of the grave Another life, on whose unconscious shame No morning ever dawned. Now all is done, Smoothed for the sepulchre the lovely clay. And now the mother in the ingle nook Sits rocking in her chair, and pours her wail, But low, beneath her breath, as if she feared A thousand ears in the still creeping dawn. "My bairn! my winsome bairn! my ruined bairn! O, would that bonnie face had been less sweet, And would those lovesome eyes had been less bright,

For thou hadst still been fair enough for me. And, Lois! O but she was good at heart, Though sair misled—she was a gentle lamb! O Lois, woman! say ye think her saved. She cried upon her Saviour all the night: Ye heard her, how she cried and blamed herself. Wae 's me, how many a time this summer past She took her Bible ben, and read and sobbed; Wae 's me, and then my heart was glad and proud: I thought she was a vessel full of grace!" And Lois answered, "Christ is pitiful; He knew the snare, He saw the bitter grief: Vessels there are of mercy, as of grace." But morning grew, and now the kirk-bell's tone Swelled down the street, and many feet went by. Then Lois, moving to the window, saw Her sister pass with Agnes, hand in hand. She watched them as with downcast eyes they came,

ppoem| start=follow| Like two scared pigeons, pressing side to side, Nut just escaped the ruthless falcon's swoop. She watched them through the porch, and casting up One look of joy amid her falling tears, Turned to the aged woman's chair again. There still she rocked, and murmured o'er and o'er, "She cried upon her Saviour all the night."

{sm}Oct. 8. 1854.

The Hall and the Cottage

This turret fronts the glowing west, It stands from household noise removed, Its peace, its view of sylvan rest, The Maiden of the mansion loved.

Here many a happy hour had sped With books, with pencils—in fair dreams— In secret works of hand or head— Youth's bashful, yet ambitious schemes.

Sweet hours! but oft by adverse call Disturbed, and therefore held more dear; For she, the fairest light of all, Must 'mid the radiant guests appear.

The boat is ready on the lake, The bows are strung—the palfreys prance; Her slender hand the harp must wake, Her fairy foot must lead the dance.

ppoem| start=stanza| Gay was she, and such scenes could please,

But, with a fervent mind endued,

She turned in truer love from these

Back to her graceful solitude.

At first she turned in joy serene,

Then hopes delicious there were nurst;

At last she turned that there, unseen,

The storms of agony might burst.

Then, doleful room, what plaintive calls,

What outstretched arms that grasped the air,

Were witnessed by thy silent walls!

Ah, woe! when youth must learn despair.

{sc}<>Part II.

What time she met this utter blight.

It was mid Summer on the earth,

And cruel seemed the golden light,

And full of scorn the thrush's mirth.

|end=stanza

Even twilight was too calm, too sweet; She could not bear the soft wind's touch; She paced the floor with aimless feet; She hid her face upon the couch.

But storms have no continuous life; The tumult of despair must die; A calm succeeds the fruitless strife, The settling of dead misery.

When now the earlier twilights gloomed, And Autumn touched the reddening bower, Nature had o'er her reassumed An altered phase of former power.

The breathless mist, the leaf afloat, The sad, cold yellow in the west, Faint snatches from the robin's throat, Were not unanswered in her breast.

Her weary spirit was allowed A sense of freedom undefined; It drifted with the drifting cloud, It wandered with the evening wind.

And in the shadowy, whispering air It seemed another voice to know, And of a presence was aware That with its own had leave to flow.

So from her window would she lean Day after day, as twilight grew, And soon the cottage walls between The failing foliage came to view.

And as in dreamy mood she gazed, She marked how oft, her work in hand, Though blithe within the firelight blazed, A maiden at the porch would stand;

And sauntered down the garden walk; And how a youth was at the stile; She seemed to hear the murmured talk, To see the blush, the happy smile!

Her wasted love that burned within Rose up in bitter strength at first; Ah, count it not an envious sin, The sudden pang, the plaintive burst!

It passed, and though a quiet grief Would often dim her gazing eyes, A gradual fountain of relief Seemed from that daily sight to rise.

Her lonely heart a tissue wove Of tender wishes round the twain. She blessed them in their humble love, She prayed they ne'er might know her pain.

ppoem| start=stanza| When she took up her evening watch,

Ah, little dreamt the cottage maid,

What eyes were bent with her's to catch

The figure issuing from the shade.

Ah, little,—as the lovers stood,

That window reddening to the west,

And marked its flash in idle mood,—

The blessing murmured thence was guessed!

{sc}<>Part III.

By this the Winter air blew keen,

And rime had touched the naked trees;

She cannot from her window lean,

She shrinks before the chilling breeze.

What marvel? when that faded cheek,

That languid eye and motion, show

In course how slackened and how weak

The springs of life within her flow.

|end=stanza

Too sad, too common in its truth,— Ah, briefly be the tale passed o'er,— The slow decay of health in youth When youthful joy has fled before.

Be from her weary pillow brought This single record, sad and sweet, How oft she visited in thought That pair as she had seen them meet.

How, when she heard the North-wind rave, Or watched the slowly freezing mist, She wondered if their love was brave To hold through this the wonted tryst:—

"Or, haply now, that need is o'er; The joy that crowns their own dear hearth Flings music on the tempest's roar, And gives a summer to the earth.

"But what," she pondered, "if they prove Such wasted hopes as I have known? If. poverty and pride our love In one adversity have thrown?

"O then be mine no barren grief! My hand the seed of joy shall cast, Whose boughs shall spread with flower and leaf When I and all my woes are past."

And soon strange tidings of their friend Came to the pair who worked and loved, And hoped some day a happy end Might crown affection duly proved.

And soon do other walls beside The maiden's dwelling rise to view;— There shall the lover lead his bride, While yet the coming Spring is new.

ppoem| start=stanza| {sc}<>Part IV.

The Spring comes smiling on betimes,

As blithe the happy day to crown;

Red swells the bud upon the limes,

The willow wears her yellow down.

The thrush takes up her evening strain,

O'er ringing fallows mounts the lark,

The primrose stars the village lane

And knolls and hollows of the park.

But sweeter than the sweet Spring air,

And calmer than the calm blue skies,

The hopes that stir the happy Pair,

The light that fills the Lady's eyes.

Within those lucid depths no more

The trembling mist of tears collects;

The fever of that heart is o'er

That soon a full repose expects.

|end=stanza

She views the tract of woe behind, As travellers dream of once-seen lands, The undying love within her mind Calm as a marble statue stands.

But in this hush, a single thought That holds of earth has leave to stir; 'Tis with the coming bridal fraught, The humble bliss built up by her.

The wedding-day draws on apace, The span of lingering life is brief,— She turns to those her pleading eyes Who tend her in remorseful grief;

And prays, whate'er befall meantime, That still that joy have no delay— "O let," she cried, "their wedding-chime Ring, if so be, my soul away!

ppoem| start=stanza| "Or let it, as I fain would choose,

Take up the echoes of my knell,

That ere my grave be closed, the news

May o'er the listening churchyard swell."

{sc}<>Part V.

The Hall is crowded as of yore,

From other lips is heard the song,

Bright faces come and go before

The window whence she gazed so long.

Whatever silent memories last,

The clouds she watched, the withered leaf,

Seem not more swept into the past

Than that short phase of life and grief.

Yet traces are there which survive:

There is a hearth, a household band,

Where sweet affections grow and thrive,

The fairer for the planter's hand.

|end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| And in the churchyard lies a mound

Thick with the violets of the Spring,

Wherein a holier sleep is found,

And whence shall spread a brighter wing;

Because, although one early blow

Its tender fibres could destroy,

The heart within could make its woe

The well-spring of another's joy.

{sm}Nov. 23. 1850.

The Poet's Adventure

Then much I marvelled who or what were they From the unused echoes drew so sweet reply; Whether a troop of dames and gallants gay Anon should in their painted barge glide by, Or whether gifted shepherd at his leisure Piped on his reeds a quaint and mournful measure.

But soon I was aware that never rose From voice or hollow flute so wild a strain, Nor yet from chords—or saving only those That utter to the wind their wayward pain. Like them I heard this music swell and languish, And shudder with a strange harmonious anguish.

Now with the winding stream it wound along, The air was all with one calm murmur filled; Lo! now upshot the treble fierce and strong, And through the forest like sharp arrows thrilled;

Now drop by drop fell, aimless, without power, The weary notes, like chimes from an old tower.

Quick throbbings took my heart: entranced I lay In passive wonder and in sad delight; While to mine eyes unconscious tears made way And dimmed them: so that moving shape, snow-white, Which up the river they ere long discovered, Seemed like a cloud that o'er its bosom hovered.

But it drew onwards, slowly it drew on, Between the woods, midway upon the stream, "Self-gathered," conscious,calm;—a radiant swan, Her music floating with her like a dream:— She passed, the shades with her white presence cleaving, And in her wake a silver ripple leaving.

A deer that on the sedgy margin stood, Leaning to drink, drew backwards solemnly;

A dove that had been murmuring to her brood Some cradle-music, hushed the lullaby: Such reverence as men pay to things of heaven Wag by these creatures to her passing given.

But as a spell the marvel seemed to strike My senses, and all movement to restrain Till she was gone: then up I rose, and, like A mourner following in her funeral train, Moved after: she, meantime, unconscious gliding, To groves and waters her sad news confiding.

And in my heart I said, "O thou, Death-dowered, Death-taught! what impulse makes this music's soul? What sharp regrets in those quick notes are showered? What pangs or triumphs through that loud torrent roll? What passions in thy smooth white bosom riot Which seems a dedicated shrine of quiet?

"O art thou in thy song a mockery "To thy sad self, while yet the spell must flow? Or art thou with thy doom content to buy This gift of glory? or dost thou bestow A grateful offering, choicest of her treasures, On listening Nature, whence thou drew'st thy pleasures?

"What sense within thee rose? what voice came to thee Whilst thou wast with thy milk-white peers at play? What mandate with a lightning strength shot through thee, Bidding thee from their joyaunce drop away?" So, as I gently followed, did I ponder On the sadness, and the sweetness, and the wonder.

But now the woods were left, and forth we came Where the bright gorse exhaled its dainty breath;

Between two pointed hills the sunset's flame Had leave to dwell, and slanted o'er the heath, A tender crimson flushed the river's bosom, Oft starred by image of the golden blossom.

Here wreathed the quiet music through the air, And hung upon it like a Summer mist;— But now the plain gave way to meadows fair, And now the stream by willow sprays was kissed; The chequered banks revealed the hand of tillage, And shone, not far, the casements of a village.

Now broke the sound of instrument and song On that sad creature's dirge; but she serene Still kept her way, and came upon a throng Of youths and maidens dancing o'er a green; Not lambs, not swallows mad with whirling pleasure Than these more gleesome in their giddy measure.

When they beheld that vision, suddenly The music paused, and broke the startled ring,

Scattered in gazing groups till it went by. But to those hearts the sober mood could cling Not long; soon turned they to their sports and laughter, One deep-eyed maid alone looked sadly after.

Her eyes awhile, but still my constant feet, Pursued my pale enchantress; while the strain That had been floating forth serenely sweet, Now rushed on ringing notes of rage or pain, As though that dying heart was stung to madness By glimpse of life, and love, and youthful gladness.

And ere again had sunk her passion's blast, Fields were behind us left, and haunts of men; By holt, and heath, and bare green hill we passed Into sad shadows of a rocky glen. The stream foreknew the battle yet untasted, And like a courser to the onset hasted.

And now it rushed between its narrow banks, Whirled in black eddies, fell in foaming sheet; The oak and birch clomb down the slimy flanks Of the echoing rocks, midway in air to meet; A heavy odour hung among their bowers, Like the drenched forests after August showers.

As one who leaning from a sea-girt rock To watch the storm-vext bark upon her way, Now sliding down smooth gulphs, now in the shock Of meeting breakers caught, and hid in spray, Holds at each plunge his breath suspended, fearing To see no more the white sail re-appearing,—

So hung I o'er the waters which tossed on That failing life with foam and fierce rebound, While from the whirlpools ever and anon A sharp note pierced their hoarse eternal sound; So shoots a cry, the sullen tempest rending, From the lost bark, through cloven seas descending.

But she, unharmed and undisturbed, came forth To calmer regions: now in shallows wide The torrent spread, outwearied with its wrath, The smooth red steep receded on each side, And fragments, by some ancient tempest shattered, Lay in the dimpling waters idly scattered.

By this, the moon bent her pale brow in heaven, And wavered over head the Milky Zone, Westward, a faint light hung, where Day had striven Long with encroaching Night, and lay o'erthrown; And swelling on the wind's uncertain motion, Was heard the murmur of the distant Ocean.

More solemn and more sweet the music grew, And laid a deeper spell on heart and ear; A vague distress through all my senses flew, My pulses quickened with a nameless fear;— Now oft by pause and sob the strain was broken, My pausing heart kept measure with each token.

And now the path ran through untrodden brakes, Old stems before me leant, and herbage rank Perplexed me—burdocks, and lithe briars like snakes, While crumbled underneath the treacherous bank. Strange were all things about me,—strange and dreary, And I by strange fears vexed, amazed and weary.

And then I was aware of Nature's law: How from bold eyes her mysteries are hidden,— How by this toilsome pathway, and this awe Had she, displeased, my prying steps forbidden, Veiling the secret of her stricken daughter From all but midnight and the plaintive water.

I turned, rebuked, and as in distance died The enchanting sounds, I mused upon the end;— If she, washed down upon the ebbing tide, Gave her last cadence with its voice to blend,

ppoem| start=follow| Then like a fair weed, prone upon the surges, Was tossed, unconscious of their rude, hoarse dirges.

But rather I believed, ere yet those seas

Were reached, for her the curving margin gave

A peaceful cove, where drooped the willow trees,

And round the lily's leaf the weltering wave

Lisped of repose; there did one low note sever The tremulous chord—there anchored she for ever.

{sm}March 14. 1850.

The Garden of Reverie

No gleam did e'er its shades rejoice From silken robe or brilliant flowers, It echoed not to Pleasure's voice, Nor took gay gifts from Summer hours: Yet royal eyes, with nicest choice, Had ordered all its walks and bowers, Had grouped the laurels, taught the pine And ilex where to strike their root, Where arbutus should dimly shine With clustered mockeries of fruit, And where the savine's spicy fan Upon the velvet turf should sweep; Had traced the pathway's mazy plan, Which round the jutting shrubberies ran To nooks of shade, as caverns deep,— Chilly and damp as cavern air, The cedar closing with the yew; Nor sunshine ever slanted there, Nor ever noon could dry the dew. And lawn, and path, and dim retreat Were strange to all exploring feet,

Save of one dreamy, musing man, Who, high in birth, and rich in mind, Born to control and lead his kind, To lesser men the work resigned. His phantasy this shrine had wrought These dedicated haunts of Thought, Where he might bathe his soul at ease In the still mist of reveries; And all that through the outer sense, The unconscious mind might influence In brooding shade and mossy lawn, And odours from the shrubberies drawn, Whose warm wealth steeped the atmosphere, As ministers were gathered here.

Within the lawn a narrow well, With waters cold, and clear, and black, Did in perpetual shadow dwell,— It gave the sky no pictures back;

No golden fish therein did swim, Nor sportive beetles wheel and glide, Nor bubbles bead the lowest brim Of the stone steps that clove its side. All down the garden's circling steep The ivy hung her folds of green, And little springs essayed to creep, Half stifled, through the matted screen; And cheerless, lacking power to cheer, Grew here and there the pallid flowers, Sown thinly, and with choice severe, Meek strangers in the breezeless bowers. There only might the cistus frail Her sad imploring eye lift up, The azalea faint perfumes exhale, The bleached petunia drop her cup.

Far, far away arose the lark, Nor oft the cuckoo here would sing, Because the laurels stiff and dark Could tell but little of his Spring;

And here the prince at pleasure nursed His colourless philosophies, That never into blossom burst, So much they lacked the air and skies,— The air and skies of common life, Its seasonable work and play, He deemed the elements of strife, Coarse food which turned the soul to clay.

But while he walks in dreaming mood, What meets his wandering eye between The lighter background of the wood And the dark ivy's sunless green? A flash—a smile—a radiant face, With glowing cheek and auburn hair, Hangs o'er the brink of the lone place As tho' new-lighted from the air! One moment thro' the gazer sent The conquering thrill of those bright eyes, As o'er the verdant depths she bent A careless look of gay surprise.

She rose,—a maiden-figure fair, A comely form of buoyant ease; The sunshine struck her burnished hair, Her gay robe fluttered on the breeze. From one round arm a basket hung, A sheaf of tools the other bore, A bugle at her waist was slung, A bunch of flowers her bosom wore.

"Stay, stay!" he cried, "descend, bright maid! "Teach rapture to this peaceful shade!" But while he spoke, she turned away, Between the stems he saw her wind, And as she went, her bounding lay Left its clear syllables behind:—

"Who follows me has health and hope, Who wins me, joy, and fame, and power; His orb shall gain a broader scope, And like a star benign, shall shower

Glad influence o'er the earth abroad, And climb to heaven the noblest road."

It ceased; the ancient slumbrous spell Again upon the garden pressed; But not so soon the sudden swell Subsided in the Prince's breast, That thro' its width and depth was stirred, Obedient as the freshening bay, When from the open seas is heard The travelling wind upon its way.

The beauteous face no more appeared; But sometimes in the evening hush, Along the bank the lover heard A light, determined footstep brush; Or when, at noon, the breathless spell Did deepest on the garden brood, Her carol, like a silver bell, Would ring from out the upper wood,—

And livelier breezes woke the copse, And twinkled in the aspens' tops, And even the garden's heavy scent Was with a fresher current blent. What marvel if such lures constrained The lover to new feats at last? Scaled was the tangled rock, and gained The winding track by which she passed; The stems grew fewer where it ran, And soon the dwindling shade revealed The trimmer works of busy man, In fold and fence and furrowed field, Beyond lay stretched an ample plain With work and motion all alive; With men, and barge, and loaded wain; All rich in forage for the hive:— The windmill on that breezy mound Spreads its grey arms to woo the air, The dripping axle plunges round In seething foam and thunder, there;

The greedy foundry rears beneath The ore-veined hills its blackened mole, And slowly sends its purple breath Along their dim blue sides to roll: There, runs the brick-kiln's modest thatch, And there the quarry glistens white; There, lines of roof and window catch The westering sun in darts of light.