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6. TO A HIGHLAND GIRL

(At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond.)

 
  Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
  Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
  Twice seven consenting years have shed
  Their utmost bounty on thy head:
  And these gray Rocks; this household Lawn;
  These Trees, a veil just half withdrawn;
  This fall of water, that doth make
  A murmur near the silent Lake;
  This little Bay, a quiet Road
  That holds in shelter thy Abode;
  In truth together ye do seem
  Like something fashion'd in a dream;
 
 
  Such Forms as from their covert peep
  When earthly cares are laid asleep!
  Yet, dream and vision as thou art,
  I bless thee with a human heart:
  God shield thee to thy latest years!
  I neither know thee nor thy peers;
  And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.
 
 
  With earnest feeling I shall pray
  For thee when I am far away:
  For never saw I mien, or face,
  In which more plainly I could trace
  Benignity and home-bred sense
  Ripening in perfect innocence.
  Here, scatter'd like a random seed,
  Remote from men, Thou dost not need
  The embarrass'd look of shy distress,
  And maidenly shamefacedness:
 
 
  Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
  The freedom of a Mountaineer.
  A face with gladness overspread!
  Sweet looks, by human kindness bred!
  And seemliness complete, that sways
  Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
  With no restraint, but such as springs
  From quick and eager visitings
  Of thoughts, that lie beyond the reach
  Of thy few words of English speech:
  A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife
  That gives thy gestures grace and life!
  So have I, not unmov'd in mind,
  Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,
  Thus beating up against the wind.
 
 
  What hand but would a garland cull
  For thee who art so beautiful?
  O happy pleasure! here to dwell
  Beside thee in some heathy dell;
  Adopt your homely ways and dress,
  A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess!
  But I could frame a wish for thee
  More like a grave reality:
  Thou art to me but as a wave
  Of the wild sea; and I would have
  Some claim upon thee, if I could,
  Though but of common neighbourhood.
  What joy to hear thee, and to see!
  Thy elder Brother I would be,
  Thy Father, any thing to thee!
 
 
  Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
  Hath led me to this lonely place.
  Joy have I had; and going hence
  I bear away my recompence.
  In spots like these it is we prize
  Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
  Then, why should I be loth to stir?
  I feel this place was made for her;
  To give new pleasure like the past,
  Continued long as life shall last.
  Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
  Sweet Highland Girl! from Thee to part;
  For I, methinks, till I grow old,
  As fair before me shall behold,
  As I do now, the Cabin small,
  The Lake, the Bay, the Waterfall;
  And Thee, the Spirit of them all!
 

7. SONNET

(Composed at – Castle.)

 
  Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord!
  Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,
  And love of havoc (for with such disease
  Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word
  To level with the dust a noble horde,
  A brotherhood of venerable Trees,
  Leaving an ancient Dome, and Towers like these,
  Beggared and outraged! – Many hearts deplor'd
  The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain
  The Traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze
  On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
  For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks and bays,
  And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
  And the green silent pastures, yet remain.
 

8. ADDRESS TO THE SONS OF BURNS

after visiting their Father's Grave (August 14th, 1803.)

 
  Ye now are panting up life's hill!
  'Tis twilight time of good and ill,
  And more than common strength and skill
            Must ye display
  If ye would give the better will
            Its lawful sway.
 
 
  Strong bodied if ye be to bear
  Intemperance with less harm, beware!
  But if your Father's wit ye share,
            Then, then indeed,
  Ye Sons of Burns! for watchful care
            There will be need.
 
 
  For honest men delight will take
  To shew you favor for his sake,
  Will flatter you; and Fool and Rake
            Your steps pursue:
  And of your Father's name will make
            A snare for you.
 
 
  Let no mean hope your souls enslave;
  Be independent, generous, brave!
  Your Father such example gave,
            And such revere!
  But be admonish'd by his Grave,
            And think, and fear!
 

9. YARROW UNVISITED

(See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the

Banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad

of Hamilton, beginning:

"Busk ye, busk ye my bonny, bonny Bride,

Busk ye, busk ye my winsome Marrow!" – )

 
  From Stirling Castle we had seen
  The mazy Forth unravell'd;
  Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
  And with the Tweed had travell'd;
  And, when we came to Clovenford,
  Then said my 'winsome Marrow',
  "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
  And see the Braes of Yarrow."
 
 
  "Let Yarrow Folk, frae Selkirk Town,
  Who have been buying, selling,
  Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
  Each Maiden to her Dwelling!
  On Yarrow's Banks let herons feed,
  Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
  But we will downwards with the Tweed,
  Nor turn aside to Yarrow."
 
 
  "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
  Both lying right before us;
  And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
  The Lintwhites sing in chorus;
  There's pleasant Tiviot Dale, a land
  Made blithe with plough and harrow;
  Why throw away a needful day
  To go in search of Yarrow?"
 
 
  "What's Yarrow but a River bare
  That glides the dark hills under?
  There are a thousand such elsewhere
  As worthy of your wonder."
  – Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;
  My True-love sigh'd for sorrow;
  And look'd me in the face, to think
  I thus could speak of Yarrow!
 
 
  "Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's Holms,
  And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
  Fair hangs the apple frae the rock¹,
  But we will leave it growing.
  O'er hilly path, and open Strath,
  We'll wander Scotland thorough;
  But, though so near, we will not turn
  Into the Dale of Yarrow."
 
 
  "Let Beeves and home-bred Kine partake
  The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
  The Swan on still St. Mary's Lake
  Float double, Swan and Shadow!
  We will not see them; will not go,
  Today, nor yet tomorrow;
  Enough if in our hearts we know,
  There's such a place as Yarrow."
 
 
  "Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown!
  It must, or we shall rue it:
  We have a vision of our own;
  Ah! why should we undo it?
  The treasured dreams of times long past
  We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
  For when we're there although 'tis fair
  'Twill be another Yarrow!"
 
 
  "If Care with freezing years should come,
  And wandering seem but folly,
  Should we be loth to stir from home,
  And yet be melancholy;
  Should life be dull, and spirits low,
  'Twill soothe us in our sorrow
  That earth has something yet to show,
  The bonny Holms of Yarrow!"
 

MOODS OF MY OWN MIND

1. TO A BUTTERFLY

 
  Stay near me – do not take thy flight!
  A little longer stay in sight!
  Much converse do I find in Thee,
  Historian of my Infancy!
  Float near me; do not yet depart!
  Dead times revive in thee:
  Thou bring'st, gay Creature as thou art!
  A solemn image to my heart,
  My Father's Family!
 
 
  Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
  The time, when in our childish plays
  My sister Emmeline and I
  Together chaced the Butterfly!
  A very hunter did I rush
  Upon the prey: – with leaps and springs
  I follow'd on from brake to bush;
  But She, God love her! feared to brush
  The dust from off its wings.
 

2

 
  The Sun has long been set:
  The Stars are out by twos and threes;
  The little Birds are piping yet
  Among the bushes and trees;
  There's a Cuckoo, and one or two thrushes;
  And a noise of wind that rushes,
  With a noise of water that gushes;
  And the Cuckoo's sovereign cry
  Fills all the hollow of the sky!
 
 
  Who would go "parading"
  In London, and "masquerading,"
  On such a night of June?
  With that beautiful soft half-moon,
  And all these innocent blisses,
  On such a night as this is!
 

3

 
  O Nightingale! thou surely art
  A Creature of a fiery heart —
  These notes of thine they pierce, and pierce;
  Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
  Thou sing'st as if the God of wine
  Had help'd thee to a Valentine;
  A song in mockery and despite
  Of shades, and dews, and silent Night,
  And steady bliss, and all the Loves
  Now sleeping in these peaceful groves!
 
 
  I heard a Stockdove sing or say
  His homely tale, this very day.
  His voice was buried among trees,
  Yet to be come at by the breeze:
  He did not cease; but coo'd – and coo'd;
  And somewhat pensively he woo'd:
  He sang of love with quiet blending,
  Slow to begin, and never ending;
  Of serious faith, and inward glee;
  That was the Song, the Song for me!
 

4

 
  My heart leaps up when I behold
        A Rainbow in the sky:
  So was it when my life began;
  So is it now I am a Man;
  So be it when I shall grow old,
        Or let me die!
  The Child is Father of the Man;
  And I could wish my days to be
  Bound each to each by natural piety.
 

5. WRITTEN IN MARCH,

While resting on the Bridge at the Foot of Brother's Water

 
      The cook is crowing,
      The stream is flowing,
      The small birds twitter,
      The lake doth glitter,
  The green field sleeps in the sun;
      The oldest and youngest
      Are at work with the strongest;
      The cattle are grazing,
      Their heads never raising;
  There are forty feeding like one!
      Like an army defeated
      The Snow hath retreated,
      And now doth fare ill
      On the top of the bare hill;
  The Plough-boy is whooping – anon – anon:
      There's joy in the mountains;
      There's life in the fountains;
      Small clouds are sailing,
      Blue sky prevailing;
  The rain is over and gone!
 

6. THE SMALL CELANDINE

Common Pilewort

 
  There is a Flower, the Lesser Celandine,
  That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain;
  And, the first moment that the sun may shine,
  Bright as the sun itself, 'tis out again!
 
 
  When hailstones have been falling swarm on swarm,
  Or blasts the green field and the trees distress'd,
  Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm,
  In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest.
 
 
  But lately, one rough day, this Flower I pass'd,
  And recognized it, though an alter'd Form,
  Now standing forth an offering to the Blast,
  And buffetted at will by Rain and Storm,
 
 
  I stopp'd, and said with inly muttered voice,
  "It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold:
  This neither is it's courage nor it's choice,
  But it's necessity in being old."
 
 
  The sunshine may not bless it, nor the dew;
  It cannot help itself in it's decay;
  Stiff in it's members, wither'd, changed of hue.
  And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey.
 
 
  To be a Prodigal's Favorite – then, worse truth,
  A Miser's Pensioner – behold our lot!
  O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth
  Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
 

7

 
  I wandered lonely as a Cloud
  That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,
  When all at once I saw a crowd
  A host of dancing Daffodills;
  Along the Lake, beneath the trees,
  Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.
 
 
  The waves beside them danced, but they
  Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: —
  A Poet could not but be gay
  In such a laughing company:
  I gaz'd – and gaz'd – but little thought
  What wealth the shew to me had brought:
 
 
  For oft when on my couch I lie
  In vacant or in pensive mood,
  They flash upon that inward eye
  Which is the bliss of solitude,
  And then my heart with pleasure fills,
  And dances with the Daffodils.
 

8

 
  Who fancied what a pretty sight
  This Rock would be if edged around
  With living Snowdrops? circlet bright!
  How glorious to this Orchard ground!
  Who loved the little Rock, and set
  Upon its Head this Coronet?
 
 
  Was it the humour of a Child?
  Or rather of some love-sick Maid,
  Whose brows, the day that she was styled
  The Shepherd Queen, were thus arrayed?
  Of Man mature, or Matron sage?
  Or old Man toying with his age?
 
 
  I ask'd – 'twas whisper'd, The device
  To each or all might well belong.
  It is the Spirit of Paradise
  That prompts such work, a Spirit strong,
  That gives to all the self-same bent
  Where life is wise and innocent.